She started at a skittering noise: a metal grille, painted to blend with the distorted figures that decorated the walls. Miss Temple went to her toes and turned the knob. Through it came voices she knew.
‘You underestimate the power of his belief,’ said Doctor Svenson.
‘There was a second question, my lord?’ asked Mr Foison.
The doors next to the grille had been pushed closed, but remained ajar. Miss Temple cautiously craned her head. Robert Vandaariff stood with his back to her, the only occupant of a strange little room sealed off by thick glass. Beyond him, and more glass, stood Svenson and Foison in what was obviously Vandaariff’s new laboratory.
‘Indeed, for Doctor Svenson. You were given entry in the company of another man. A Mr Pfaff. Where is he now?’
‘We parted ways.’
‘Pfaff is an ally of the Contessa, my lord …’
They kept talking. Miss Temple paid no attention, for at the sight of Chang on the table her heart went cold.
She kicked off the slippers and ran, following Foison and the drag marks, only to reach a crossroads and more damned carpet, where the trail disappeared. Without a thought she dashed left, reached the end of the carpet and cried out as her toe caught on a new-laid plank. She hopped on one foot, picking at the splinter. Staring at Miss Temple with an imperious distrust was a band of acolytes in white robes.
‘Sister?’ ventured one. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I must find Mr Foison!’ cried Miss Temple. ‘Where is Mr Foison?’
But her hood had slipped off. The acolyte pointed at her face. ‘She has not been consumed. She has not been redeemed.’
‘Tell me!’ Miss Temple raised the revolver. ‘Where is Mr Foison!’
Her threat meant nothing. The acolytes charged. Miss Temple pulled the trigger. The pointing acolyte fell, clutching his leg. Miss Temple bolted, snapping another blind shot behind. She careened around a corner. A door ahead of her opened and another white robed idiot peeked out. She raised the pistol, her aim bouncing wildly. The acolyte threw out his arms.
‘There you are!’
She did not break speed, each step narrowing her aim.
‘It’s me! It’s me! It’s Jack!’
She saw beneath the hood and did not shoot. Pfaff pulled her in and slid the bolt home. Fists pounded on the far side of the door.
‘Well, well, little miss –’
‘I must reach Chang! They’re going to kill him!’
Pfaff flashed a confident smile. ‘Then you must follow me.’
He pulled her to an unfinished staircase, little more than a hole in the floor. She noticed his chequered trousers were wet from the knees down.
‘Where have you been, Mr Pfaff?’
‘Not Jack?’
‘It was never Jack. Do not bother to lie. She sent you here. You met her, and she set you a task.’
‘Miss, I came to find you. I have had dealings with the Contessa – had to convince her, didn’t I? But here I am, and I will take you to Chang.’
‘Do you know what they have done to him?’
Pfaff stopped and turned to her. He took a deep breath. ‘Miss –’
‘We must hurry!’
‘I do not like to tell you, but someone must. They took his mind, Miss Temple. Snatched it with a blue glass book, so Vandaariff can exchange himself into Chang’s empty shell. That has been his intention all this time.’
Miss Temple heard the words as if from a distance.
A part of her heart went away, a cloud pulled to pieces by the wind.
‘Who?’ Her voice was calm. She realized Pfaff had taken her hand, to comfort her. Miss Temple gently reclaimed it. ‘Who did this?’
‘Old Foison.’
‘With a glass book.’
‘Who knew that there were any left? I heard them talking, the ones in robes. But they’re all in on it. Even your German doctor. You’ll see for yourself. I’m the only one with you now.’
Pfaff nodded, as if her silence confirmed his last words, and walked on. Miss Temple followed in silence. Pfaff glanced back, with a wary look.
‘The Contessa is all that’s left, you know. Everyone else plays his game.’
‘Please stop talking, Mr Pfaff. Just take me to them.’
Instead, he stopped at a metal panel studded with iron wheels and numbered gauges. Pfaff consulted a pocket watch she did not recall him owning, then shot a white cuff from his coat, marked with numbers. He peered at the scribbles of ink and turned the wheels accordingly. These were controls for the turbines, she guessed. He winked at her.
‘Couldn’t let him get too far without us!’
The pipes behind Miss Temple’s head began to vibrate. Pfaff pointed to an open, square embrasure, its metal grille prised back. Pfaff threw off his robe.
‘No more need for these!’ He gathered his coat-tails and scuttled in. Miss Temple hiked up her own dripping robe, then discarded it as well.
The metal passage was hot, despite several inches of water. She waddled half bent, aware that only the Contessa could have instructed Pfaff on the workings of Vandaariff’s machines. Whether Pfaff had betrayed Miss Temple outright or somehow sought to serve both women and survive, the overweening optimism of the man sickened her. She could shoot him in the back this moment.
Pfaff clambered out. Miss Temple followed, aware of extending her bare legs.
‘Do not look at me, Mr Pfaff.’
‘Just making sure you don’t fall in, miss …’
He nodded to a roiling moat of black water. A tattered streamer of white rolled to the surface and then, with a tug, shot back to the depths … an acolyte’s robe.
They picked their way to an iron staircase, leading up. At its foot lay another acolyte, neck broken from the fall.
Pfaff leant close to her ear. ‘Take care now. We may come up in the middle of everything.’
She tightened her grip on the revolver and began to climb.
Another acolyte’s corpse blocked the stairs halfway up. Pfaff extended a hand to help Miss Temple over the corpse. They crept the final steps bent double, then paused to listen, hunched below an open trapdoor.
‘You have done nothing, madam!’ This was Mr Schoepfil’s mannered tenor. ‘Nothing save deliver all into my hands!’
‘How is that?’ The Contessa’s voice was far away. ‘You are disinherited, are you not? You are officially, legally nothing!’
Schoepfil laughed. ‘I have the will in my hand – once it is burnt, I reclaim my rightful place. You have slain the source too soon! His precious empty vessel will remain so – as if such a man, a known criminal, would ever be permitted such a legacy! No matter what this piece of paper may declare, my own array of supporters, powerful men –’
‘They are not yours,’ Doctor Svenson broke in. ‘Robert Vandaariff arranged it all. Just as he made sure you bought the Comte’s papers, and had the money to do so. Those men are loyal to him, and they will be loyal to his wishes.’
‘O what a tale!’ Schoepfil’s amusement trilled on. ‘His intentions, yes – I have read the strategy. But why should he engineer my support? What service do I provide him as an antagonist?’
‘By exposing your true self,’ replied Svenson. ‘With your own horrible behaviour you – and you alone – have made it possible for a criminal like Chang to inherit. Do you doubt that the Duchess of Cogstead, with the entire court behind her, will not intervene on his behalf if it means damning you?’
Schoepfil was silent, then abruptly erupted in petulant screams. ‘No! No! The court is nothing. And now that he is gone, those men will follow their own sense – they will throw their support behind the man they know! And mark me, Doctor, I won’t forget a word. After I burn this will – then I would like to see –’
‘O think, man,’ called Svenson. ‘Do you imagine there are no copies – lodged at his bank, with the law? He will have foreseen every objection. You cannot do a thing.’
‘No?’ Miss Temple heard a
scuffle and Doctor Svenson grunted in pain. ‘I can punish every one of you. And take this criminal’s life right now. With him removed, the estate must revert to me, no matter how many damned wills there are!’
Miss Temple charged past Pfaff to the light.
‘Get away from him!’ Her voice came as shrill as a pipe. Schoepfil’s hands – his blue hands – hung above Chang’s neck. Miss Temple pulled the trigger, but the gun was too large and kicked, the shot flying high to shatter a mosaic. Miss Temple aimed again, bracing with her other hand, straight for Schoepfil’s heart.
‘Celeste,’ gasped Doctor Svenson, on his knees.
‘Wait!’ This was an enormous dark man with a soiled silk waistcoat, rubbing his arms where he’d been bound. On the floor behind him, bloody and still, lay Mr Foison. At the sight of him Miss Temple’s temper flared. She pulled the trigger, but Pfaff had reached around and the hammer snapped on his thumb, preventing any fire. He swore with the pain and wrenched the weapon free, extricating his hand with a wince.
Miss Temple kicked Pfaff in the shin. He cursed and hopped away, looking at the window. For the first time Miss Temple saw the blood, and the dead man in the feather mask.
‘Celeste Temple, do not move!’ The Contessa’s voice was doubly distant, by virtue of the helmet she wore and the glass barrier in the wall. ‘Mr Pfaff?’
‘All ready down below, Your Ladyship.’
‘This is nonsense,’ declared Schoepfil. ‘I will kill Cardinal Chang, and then I will kill the rest of you.’
Pfaff raised the revolver, taking charge of the room. ‘Now, now then –’
Schoepfil simply ran at him, faster than Pfaff could aim, and chopped the weapon to the floor. Pfaff swung with his brass-knuckled fist, but Schoepfil dodged and drove Pfaff back into the glass with a flurry of blows. A final kick and Pfaff collapsed wheezing. Schoepfil set his foot on Pfaff’s neck.
‘You will surrender, madam, or your man will die.’
‘That is your man, in the tub next to Harcourt, is it not?’
The Contessa’s voice was polite, as if she were asking about his tailor. Schoepfil turned. ‘Yes. Mr Kelling. A very useful person – and this disgraceful treatment –’
‘I wonder if he is more useful to you than Colonel Bronque.’
‘What? Colonel Bronque is my good friend.’
‘You have no friends. You are a mole.’
Schoepfil’s face reddened. ‘Come out at once! Or I promise you, this man will pay.’
The Contessa stepped to the rostrum. Her hand danced above the brass-covered knobs.
‘It does not work,’ Mahmoud called to her. ‘Vandaariff tried. The machines –’
‘Were disabled, yes, at my command – but now they are reset, and the sun has risen.’ The Contessa faced them all. ‘The question is one of attachment. One speculates in every direction … but I don’t suppose any one of you gives a damn for Matthew Harcourt. I’m the only person here who might, I suppose. And I do not.’
She pulled off the brass cap. Light fell from the ceiling onto the exposed glass lozenge and set it to gleaming. The copper cables leading to Harcourt’s tub sparked high into the air and the hoses along the tub shot stiff as they were filled. The liquid in the tub leapt to a hideous boil.
‘Stop!’ shouted Doctor Svenson. ‘God in heaven –’
The Contessa uncovered another knob and sparks leapt up round Mr Kelling’s tub. Schoepfil stepped towards his man, but already the liquid spit and steam billowed, the figure within obscured. Miss Temple covered her mouth and nose. With a slithering rush the hoses connecting the two tubs to the undercarriage of Chang’s table vibrated with the transfer of some gruesome reduction.
The power switched off. The noxious steam dispersed. With a sickening compulsion Miss Temple joined the others, stepping near enough to see. The red liquid had sunk to an opaque inch of crimson mud. Apart from lump-like shadows beneath the scum, no sign of either body remained.
Miss Temple turned, her gorge rising. No one moved to help her, not even Svenson, stricken dumb. She bent over, but nothing came … nothing save jumbled visions of bright paint and cold machines.
‘I trust my point is made,’ called the Contessa. ‘From now on you are responsible for one another’s good behaviour. Drusus Schoepfil to protect his friend. Mr Mahmoud doubly for his mother and his spouse.’ She laughed at Mahmoud’s expression of surprise. ‘O come, Bronque told me everything. And you, Doctor Svenson, will want to protect everyone, as ever, especially the gnome. The only one of you who might not care – care enough to submit – is poor, puking Celeste. I leave it to you gentlemen to compel her cooperation.’
‘And what do you intend?’ asked Doctor Svenson. ‘If it is anything like what Vandaariff had planned, these poor people are already lost. Kill them now and be damned!’
‘Why, Doctor, why should I follow Robert Vandaariff’s plan?’
‘Then what are you doing? What do you want?’
At last Svenson came to Miss Temple, a hand on her bare shoulder. She shrugged herself free, her eye falling upon the revolver near Pfaff’s feet, and dashed towards it.
‘Stop her!’ warned the Contessa. ‘Or someone else turns to soup!’
In a flash Schoepfil had his arms around Miss Temple’s waist. Mahmoud was only a step behind and snatched up the gun. His finger found the trigger as he looked to the glass.
‘Do try.’ The Contessa reached to the rostrum. ‘Will you break the glass in time to stop my hand?’
Mahmoud lowered the gun. Her hand did not retreat. He tossed the weapon through the trapdoor.
‘Bloody idiot,’ snarled Miss Temple. ‘She’s going to kill you all.’
‘That is not true,’ replied the Contessa. ‘Poor Celeste. I’m only going to kill you.’
A dozen acolytes entered from the open doorway and through the trapdoor climbed green-coated lackeys, three with carbines and a fourth, with a wry smile, holding the revolver Mahmoud had just thrown down. The two groups surveyed the chamber with a menacing aspect, but the Contessa addressed them with an easy confidence.
‘Welcome. As you can see, your master, Robert Vandaariff, is dead. His legacy is not. The man on that table is his legal heir. It is your duty to protect him. This is the will of Robert Vandaariff. If any one of these people attempts to interfere, take their lives. Faithful service will be handsomely rewarded.’
Schoepfil stammered with outrage. ‘That – that – woman – she has killed Robert Vandaariff. My uncle! I am his heir! I am his only heir! She is the villain!’
The Contessa’s hand floated warningly above the rostrum. ‘Mr Schoepfil …’
‘She killed him!’ protested Schoepfil desperately. ‘Use your eyes!’
Miss Temple knew it was the Comte d’Orkancz who would be restored, but the soldiers and acolytes had all sworn allegience to Harschmort’s lord.
The acolytes did not move, but the four soldiers took in the blood and the corpse and exchanged a look between them of great suspicion.
‘Perhaps I might speak – for the benefit of those others present in belief?’ An acolyte who had been crouched behind Chang’s table came forward, slipping the hood from his face. His Process scars carried an authority inside Harschmort, and the acolytes and soldiers listened closely. ‘My name is Trooste. I was redeemed this very night. The woman speaks the truth. She did take our master’s life. It was his intention that she do so. He commanded her admission to his chamber. He knew.’
The green-coat with the revolver pointed it at Vandaariff’s corpse. ‘But why?’
‘Yes!’ cried Schoepfil. ‘It makes no earthly sense –’
‘Only bear witness, gentlemen,’ replied Trooste. ‘And you will have your answer.’ He whispered to a pair of acolytes and they hurried away. Trooste bowed to the Contessa, who dipped her brass-bound head in return. Then she flicked the cover off a third glass knob.
‘Now, then, since, by Mr Schoepfil’s resistance, there is no love for Colonel Bron
que …’
Schoepfil screamed his useless contrition. Bright sparks leapt up to burn the air.
The acolytes returned with a wheeled rack of blue glass books and a wicker hamper Miss Temple knew well. Trooste carefully extracted the book from the hamper and slotted it into the rack. He then emptied the three squat bottles, one by one, into rubber reservoirs that hung from the undercarriage of Chang’s table like bloated, black fruit.
The other acolytes confidently tended the machines. The four soldiers adopted positions of fire: two at the main door, one by the glass wall, and their leader behind Schoepfil, the revolver pressed to the man’s back. Schoepfil had fallen to his knees, his pinched face red and wet with tears, unable to turn from the horrid remains in Colonel Bronque’s tub.
The Contessa watched from the window, but her gaze most often returned to Miss Temple, who stared right back. This was the Contessa’s promise from Parchfeldt, a slow death after extinguishing all hope.
Doctor Svenson stepped casually between them, facing Miss Temple.
‘My poor Celeste,’ he whispered.
‘Chang and I are lost. I saw what happened to Francesca. Save yourself.’
‘I will not allow it.’
She looked into his blue eyes, despising his decency, even as she knew Svenson’s care was the only mirror that might show her as she had once been. She took his hand and glanced at the machines. ‘The star map. It shows every coupling, every wire and box.’
‘Star map?’ asked Svenson, fumbling his hand into a pocket.
‘In the leather case with the book. It does not matter. How much of this do you understand?’
‘Enough – perhaps as much as Trooste.’
‘Good.’
‘It isn’t good. Vandaariff showed me a book. Elöise – a scrap of her. God help me. In that rack, not ten yards away.’
Miss Temple’s voice was cold. ‘Elöise would be ashamed. Destroy everything.’
With that she pushed past him, to the glass. She pointed to the enclosed room’s blazing honeycombed ceiling. ‘That is a technique from the Vandaariff tomb. Each shaft draws light from the surface, passing it through different layers of treated glass – each shaft with its own alchemical recipe. The tempered light generates a reaction, and the turbines amplify it. Why did you want me to know?’
The Chemickal Marriage Page 54