The Chemickal Marriage (6 page)

‘I heard you rise. Are you well?’

She nodded.

‘Aren’t you cold?’

‘I had a dream.’ Miss Temple exhaled with more emotion than she cared for. ‘Of Elöise. She was dead.’

Svenson sighed and sat near her in a chair, his hair across his eyes.

‘In mine she lives. Small consolation, for I wake to sorrow. Yet my memory retains Elöise Dujong in this world – her smile, her scent, her care. She is that much preserved.’

‘Did you love her?’ Her back was to the stove, her dress bundled forward so it would not singe.

‘Perhaps. The thought is a torment. She did not love me, I know that.’

Miss Temple shook her head. ‘But … she told me …’

‘Celeste, I beg you. She made her feelings clear.’

Miss Temple said nothing. The thick stone walls cloaked them in silence.

‘You were with Chang?’ the Doctor asked. ‘At the end?’

Miss Temple nodded.

‘The night was chaos. I remember very little after the ridiculous duel –’

‘It was not ridiculous,’ said Miss Temple. ‘It was very brave.’

‘I heard you call and guessed something had happened to Chang. I did not know until this night it was the Contessa. Nor that she killed Elöise.’

Svenson had changed, as if the blue of his eyes had been run through a sieve. Again she wondered at his wound – how raw the scar, how long, imagining the blade slicing across the Doctor’s nipple –

She whimpered under her breath. Svenson half rose from his seat but she kept him back with a shake of her head and a half-hearted smile. The Doctor watched her with concern.

‘I have been quite out of the world,’ he said softly. ‘You had best tell me what you can.’

Her story poured out, everything that had taken place from the clearing where Elöise had died to Albermap Crescent – Pfaff, the vanishing of Ropp and Jaxon, the red envelopes, the Comte’s painting, the scrap of inscribed glass. She said nothing of her own distress, the books roiling inside, her deracinating hunger. She said nothing of Chang. Yet, as she spoke, she found her attention catching on the Doctor’s features, the efficient movement of his hands as he smoked, even the new rasp to his voice. She found
herself guessing his age – a decade older than she, surely no more than that – his German manners aged him next to a man like Chang, but if one only looked at his face –

Miss Temple started, deep in her own mind. Svenson had stepped closer to the stove and rubbed his hands.

‘I am growing cold after all.’

‘It
is
cold,’ replied Miss Temple, holding out her hands as well. ‘Winter is the guest who never leaves – who one finds lurking behind the beer barrel in the kitchen.’

Svenson chuckled, and shook his head. ‘To keep your humour, Celeste, after all you’ve seen.’

‘I’m sure I have no humour at all. Speaking one’s mind is not wit.’

‘My dear, that is wit exactly.’

Miss Temple reddened. When it was clear she had no intention of replying, the Doctor knelt and scooped more coal into the stove.

‘Mr Cunsher has not come. He may be hiding, or in pursuit – or taken, in which case we cannot remain here.’

‘How will we know which? If we leave, how will we find him?’

‘He will find us, do not fear …’

‘I do not like Mr Cunsher.’

‘Upon such men we must rely. How long did it take until you trusted Chang?’

‘No time at all. I saw him on the train. I
knew
.’

Svenson met her determined expression, then shrugged. ‘Harschmort is too perilous until we know more. Our struggle has become a chess match. We cannot strike at king or queen, but must fence with pawns and hope to force a path. Your Mr Pfaff –’

‘Went to a glassworks by the river, which led him somewhere else.’

‘And Mr Ramper went to Raaxfall. Phelps and I have hopes to waylay Mr Harcourt as he leaves the Ministry –’

‘We should go back to the Boniface,’ Miss Temple said. ‘As it is watched, my arrival may provoke one of these pawns to action – which you and Mr Phelps can observe. I will be safe with Brine, and with any luck Mr Pfaff will have returned.’

‘Spelt out like that, I cannot disagree.’

She smiled. ‘Why should you want to?’

Breakfast was quick and cold, well before dawn. Fog clung to the stones. The streets on the far side of the tower were of a piece with the tents on the common they had passed in the night – even at this hour crowded with faces from other lands, tiny shops, carts, mere squares of carpet piled with copper, beadwork, spices, embroidery. Miss Temple found herself next to Mr Phelps. Unable to shed her distrust, yet feeling obliged because of the Doctor’s alliance, she did her best to strike up a conversation.

‘How strange it must be, Mr Phelps, to be so uprooted from your life.’

The pale man’s expression remained wary. ‘In truth, I scarcely note it.’

‘But your family, your home – are you not missed?’

‘The only ones to miss me are already dead.’

Miss Temple felt an impulse to apologize, but repressed it. Behind them Svenson listened to Mr Brine describe his service abroad, apparently spurred on by the dark faces around them.

‘When you say “dead”, Mr Phelps, do you refer to your former allies – Mrs Marchmoor, Colonel Aspiche and the others?’

Phelps’s lips were a thin, whitened line. He gestured at the market stalls. ‘Have you spent all your hours in that hotel? Do you not see how we are stared at?’

‘I am not unaccustomed to dark faces, Mr Phelps, nor their attention.’

‘Have you not perceived the disorder in the streets?’

‘Of course I have
perceived
it,’ said Miss Temple. ‘But disorder and unrest have always been the lot of the unfortunate.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ Phelps replied under his breath, angry but not wanting to draw attention. ‘Everything you see – the fear amongst these colonials, the anger of the displaced workers, the outrage with the banks, our paralysed industry – all of this comes directly from my misguided efforts. And your virtuous ones.’

‘I do not understand.’

Phelps exhaled, a chuff of clouded air. She saw the strain in his eyes, a vibration of guilt. He did not like her, she knew, but, more, Phelps did not
like himself. She gave the man credit for his awareness of the latter dislike colouring the former – thus the sigh, and an attempt at explanation.

‘Those you name as “the Cabal” insinuated themselves into the highest levels of every ministry, the Palace, Admiralty, Army and Privy Council. Even more importantly, through the subversion of men of industry like Robert Vandaariff and Henry Xonck, they influenced mills, banks, shipping lines, railways, a gridwork of influence and power – all of it suborned through their
Process
, and all, on their departure in that dirigible, left awaiting instructions, free will expunged.’

‘And I have worked
against
them –’

‘Yes, and unintentionally, through your success, delivered the nation from one dilemma to another. When the Cabal’s mission to Macklenburg failed and its leaders were undone, this gridwork I describe was left without command, even without sense. Various minions attempted to take the reins – out of ambition, I make no bones, for I was of their number – Mrs Marchmoor and the Colonel, but there were others too with a scrambling knowledge of what plans had been in place. This second crop was defeated at Parchfeldt, as we deserved – but that victory has only allowed the nation’s sickness to deepen.’

‘What sickness?’

Phelps shook his head. ‘The sickness of rule. The Cabal has hollowed out the
rule
of this land like a melon – and what remains? What remains of the
nation
? In governance there is ever but a narrow margin between acceptance and revolt. Quite simply, Miss Temple, that margin is gone.’

‘But why should you care?’

Phelps stammered, aghast. ‘Because I am guilty. Because others have died without the chance to repent.’

Miss Temple sniffed. ‘What does repentance do, save ease a villain’s conscience?’

Phelps turned down a lane of smithies, where the air rang with hammers and the breeze was warm. He spoke abruptly, his voice unpleasantly crisp.‘We went back to Parchfeldt. While Cunsher spied out the factory. Did the Doctor tell you? No. It had been weeks – cold, rain – the
wild
. We went back for
her
. We took the body to her uncle’s on a cart. Dug a grave in the garden.’ He twisted his mouth to a grimace. ‘Who’ll do that for you or me?’

When Miss Temple spoke her voice was small.

‘Did you look for Chang?’

‘We did.’ Mr Phelps took her hand to cross the busy road. ‘Without success.’

Mr Spanning, the assistant manager, was just unlocking the hotel’s front door as Miss Temple and Mr Brine arrived. Mr Phelps and the Doctor had gone to secure a carriage and would meet them outside.

‘Early morning?’ Spanning offered, eyes flitting across their rumpled clothes.

Miss Temple had not forgotten Spanning’s willingness to accept the Cabal’s money, nor her own threat to set his over-oiled hair aflame. He smoothly preceded them to the desk.

‘No messages. So sorry.’

Mr Brine leant over the lip of the desk to look for himself, but Miss Temple was already walking to the stairs.

‘Will you want tea?’ called Spanning with arch solicitude. ‘Brandy?’

By the time Miss Temple reached her own floor the revolver was in her hand. Mr Brine pressed ahead of her with his cudgel. The door was locked as they had left it.

Inside, nothing had been touched. Miss Temple sent Mr Brine downstairs to wake Marie. While he was gone, she retrieved the two red envelopes and their original contents, tucking them carefully into one of her aunt’s serial novels (
Susannah, White Ranee of Kaipoor
) to protect the glass. Her eyes caught her old ankle boots. The bold green leather had been chosen out of spite, of course, at the disapproval of Roger Bascombe’s cousin. She disliked the memory.

Miss Temple waited for Mr Brine in her parlour, a growing tension in her hips. Why was she alone? Why was she
always
alone?

She shifted and felt the seam of her silk pants pull between her legs. How long before Mr Brine came back? With one hand she bunched up her dress and petticoats so she might slip the other beneath. How close had she come to depravity in the barracks bunk, pleasuring herself in plain view of the Doctor, the noise waking every man in the room? Did she not risk the exact
same mortification now, if Brine were to enter with Marie and find her red-faced and gasping? She worked her thumb through the gap in her silk pants and grunted at the spark of contact. And if it was not them entering, but Svenson? She imagined his shock at her brazen need. Was the rest of his skin so pale? She grunted again and shut her eyes, then with a sudden stab of anger pulled her damp hand free.

Was she such an animal?

Anything was possible – it was a lesson her blue glass memories made clear – but because a thing was possible did not mean she ought to want it. She had opened her heart to Chang. It did not signify that he was dead (or that she had only been able to do so
because
he was dead). She exhaled through her nose and rose to wash her hand.

They met the carriage in front of the hotel.

‘No word from Mr Pfaff,’ Miss Temple said, and handed her aunt’s novel to Doctor Svenson, who opened it to reveal the red envelopes. ‘You all ought to look into the glass, in case you recognize the building it shows.’

Phelps studied the newspaper clipping. ‘Is it worth a stop at the
Herald
? The complete text might tell us where to find the painting, and thus the man.’ He saw the glass in Svenson’s lap and swallowed with discomfort. ‘I will never see that shade of blue without a headache. Are you sure it is safe?’

‘Of course I am.’

Svenson looked up from the glass and blinked. ‘I have no idea what this is.’ He offered the envelope to Mr Brine. ‘Just look into it; do not let the experience surprise you.’

‘You seemed so sure they are watching us,’ said Miss Temple. ‘Still, we remain unmolested. Can it be they do not
care
?’

‘Perhaps they know where we will go,’ offered Svenson.

‘But how?’ asked Phelps. ‘Do we?’

‘If they have captured Cunsher or Mr Pfaff, they may know enough. Or’ – Svenson flicked a fingernail against the red envelope in his hand – ‘they have laid an irresistible path for us to follow.’

Phelps sighed. ‘Like visiting the
Herald
.’

Miss Temple turned to Mr Brine, lost in the blue card, and gently tapped his shoulder. Brine started and the envelope slipped off his knees, deftly caught by Doctor Svenson. Brine at once began to apologize.

‘There is no harm,’ Miss Temple said quickly. ‘The blue glass is
immersive
. Did you recognize anything?’

Brine shook his head. Miss Temple wished he might say something clever, feeling that his dull presence reflected on her. Mr Phelps steadied himself to enter the glass. He came out of it moments later with a sneeze – again the Doctor saving the glass from breakage – eyes watering and his nose gone red. Phelps dug for a handkerchief and mopped his face.

‘My constitution has been spoilt. Dreadful stuff.’ He blew his nose. ‘But, no, I’ve no idea of the place, save to say it looks
large
.’

‘Could it be a portion of Harschmort?’ asked Miss Temple.

‘It could be anything.’

‘
Anything
can be anything.’ Miss Temple slumped back in her seat, taking in the passing street. ‘Why are we riding to the Ministries?’

‘We’re not,’ Phelps protested, ‘not
strictly
– yet I had thought, perhaps, if we did waylay Harcourt –’

‘Ridiculous,’ said Miss Temple. ‘I did not spend a miserable night in hiding to deliver myself to Ministry guards. By your own logic, we are in this coach – at liberty – because our enemies allow it. The Contessa has sent these envelopes to spur us to action. That means she must be desperate.’

‘If it were so pressing, her hints would be
clearer
.’

‘Perhaps they are clearer than we know,’ said Svenson. ‘A clipping about the Comte’s painting and an architectural plan – in glass, which links it too with the Comte. May we suppose the structure is the home of the painting?’