Her smile froze for, until that moment hidden by the document case, her eyes fell across Roger Bascombe’s notebook – taken from her purse and deposited, like any other bit of evidence, in Schoepfil’s trove. Her regret at having lost it unread rose within her, but now Miss Temple thrust it down. That life was done. She would be free of it, by force of will if nothing else. She snatched up the notebook and wrenched at the cover. The fibres of its binding gave and with another tug came free. Miss Temple hurled both vanquished halves at the wall.
Abruptly she shoved a pile of Doctor Lorenz’s notes off the table, where it exploded like feathers burst from a seam-ripped pillow. In quick order the rest of the papers followed. Between two stacks of books nestled a pair of fountain pens and bottle of black ink. With a grin she uncorked the ink bottle and flung the contents in wet bolts across the papered floor. She opened the books wide and heaped them together, tearing what pages she could on the way. She yanked the maps and canvases from the wall and balled them up atop the books. The painting of the hands she rolled into a tube and shoved its paint-clogged end into the gaslight sconce.
She glanced at the door. Were those footsteps? They were. The knob was turned, but the chair held, catching on the floorboards. The knob was worked again, and then the key tried. The tip of the canvas blackened and began to curl. The door was pushed with force. Flame crawled up the canvas, turning green and blue as it licked the coloured paints. Miss Temple stepped to the table, the door now rattling hard, and plunged the flaming tip into the pile of papers, maps, canvases and books.
‘Open this door!’ shouted Mr Kelling. ‘Who is there?’
He flung himself against the door, the chair skidding back an inch. The flame leapt across the maps with a sudden hunger. Kelling’s hand came through the gap, groping to dislodge the chair. Curls of white smoke climbed the wall. Miss Temple slipped into the servant’s passage. Holding the leather tube in both hands, she began to run.
Her face glowed with the pleasure of mayhem. How long they must have searched to gather those artefacts together! Even if Kelling could smother the fire – she knew from childhood how hard it was to burn a book, especially a thick one – she’d ruined so many pages. She laughed at the hours needed to sort it back to sense – and who knew, perhaps it would catch after all!
She tumbled into the brightness of the main corridors. The danger of being recognized and denounced for Lady Hopton’s death was as real as the prospect of Mr Kelling’s appearing at her heels, yet exhilaration lent an air of invulnerability. What was more, something in the atmosphere of the Royal Thermæ had changed. The crowds seeking favour had dispersed. In their place were preoccupied individuals rushing in opposite directions. No one paid her the slightest mind, and when her path was crossed by officials or soldiers, they cared even less than the guests. What had happened while she’d been in the stable?
Shouts echoed behind her and a glance showed a gang of men in shirtsleeves, faces black with ash. She prudently retreated to an empty reception room whose walls were hung with red draperies. The far door abruptly opened.
‘Stop!’
Miss Temple froze. The uniformed man with his hand on the knob did not see her, his face turned behind him.
‘What is it now?’ called Colonel Bronque with impatience.
Miss Temple darted behind a curtain, flattening her dress and carefully angling her eye to peer out. The imperious voice that had called she recognized too well.
The Colonel stepped aside at the Contessa’s entrance, and gave a grim nod to the two soldiers who were her escort, before closing the door in their faces.
‘What has happened now?’ Bronque’s voice was wary, but the Contessa’s reply was only plaintive.
‘Where have you been?’ she complained. ‘I expected you this last hour, but have seen only that horrid Drusus Schoepfil. Such preening satisfaction.’
‘Why should you care? If he has taken you under his protection –’
‘I am his to deliver to the law at any time.’ The Contessa caught the Colonel’s hand. ‘You are my only friend. If you go, I am at Schoepfil’s mercy.’
‘Rosamonde, please. If you’ve been honest –’
The Contessa slapped the Colonel’s face with an echoing crack.
‘Honest?’ she cried. ‘There is a warrant for my life. Everything I know of Vandaariff’s intentions I have told you both.’
Bronque said nothing. In the charged silence she traced the red mark on his cheek with an extended finger.
‘Such indifference humbles a lady.’
‘I have explained, once I return –’
‘And if you don’t?’
‘Robert Vandaariff’s hired brutes cannot stand against trained regiments.’
‘But you’ve not said where you are going – or why.’
‘You must make yourself content.’
‘That’s very cruel.’
Bronque caught her finger in his hand. ‘Then you must be content with my cruelty.’
‘Must I?’ The Contessa ducked her head. ‘May I ask just one more tiny, tiny question?’
‘By God, you will press every advantage. What is it?’
‘Were you a friend of Francis Xonck?’
Her voice retained the same shy lilt, but the Colonel’s indulgent smile froze. ‘Why in hell do you mention him?’
‘Because you never said how you met Drusus Schoepfil, how you became of use.’
‘We are partners –’
‘Schoepfil is nothing to his uncle, after all – always the dog smelling supper from another room. Admittedly, a clever dog – no doubt why Vandaariff distrusted him. Smart animals make people nervous.’
Bronque sighed. ‘We have spoken too long. You must go back, and be patient –’
‘Blue Caesar blue palace ice consumption.’
She whispered the words and then stepped away. A shudder shook Bronque’s body. His eyes went dull.
‘Drusus Schoepfil is a boat that can venture only on the smoothest seas. He doubts. He trusts no one – which means he should not trust you … yet he apparently does. At first I wondered why, but then it was clear – Francis. I can imagine your relief at his death, silencing the secret of your corruption. But Schoepfil guessed, didn’t he?’
‘He’d seen me at Harschmort … knew I played cards with Arthur Trapping …’
‘And so you secretly underwent the Process. Did you enjoy it?’
Miss Temple recalled Roger Bascombe on the dirigible, slumped against a wall, calmly confessing his own treachery. Every initiate of the Process was instilled with a control phrase. The speaking of this phrase, which the Contessa had deduced from her knowledge of Xonck, delivered the initiate into the power of the speaker, a passive state in which any questions would be answered and all commands obeyed. Colonel Bronque’s reply was vacant and cool.
‘Enormously.’
‘You planned to betray me all along.’
‘Of course.’
The Contessa slapped Bronque’s face twice more, echoing blows that left a bead of red at the corner of his mouth. ‘Tell me.’
‘Schoepfil will sell you to Vandaariff, forcing a meeting where Vandaariff will be killed.’
The Contessa’s lips curled with fury. ‘Why?’
‘We no longer need you.’ Bronque’s reply was distant. ‘And Harcourt’s warrant for your death absolves our action.’
‘Where are you going now?’
‘First to Axewith, so he knows the Queen has refused his writ, then to Vandaariff, to arrange your sale. After the Queen’s denial, he will leap at the chance, and we will have him.’
‘And where is Axewith?’
‘At the fire. The longer he is distracted, the more time we have.’
‘What weapons do you carry, apart from that ridiculous sword?’
Bronque unbuttoned his jacket and plucked out a horn-handled clasp-knife. ‘I keep this for luck, it belonged to my father –’
The Contessa snatched it fr
om his hand, opening the blade – a malignant flashing finger – then snapping it home. The doorknob rattled. She tucked the knife away and hissed at Bronque. ‘You have not told me a thing. Wake.’
Bronque brought a hand to his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned to an agitated Mr Schoepfil, bustling in with the oblong box gripped tightly in one hand.
‘What are you doing alone with this woman?’
‘Nothing of your concern, I assure you.’ Bronque’s voice had recovered its strength, but his face still blazed with the impact of the Contessa’s hand.
Schoepfil glared at the Contessa, who had retreated behind the Colonel. ‘Someone has set a fire in our rooms!’
‘Another fire?’ The Contessa bit her lip. ‘Is the entire town tinderwood? Must we evacuate? Is Her Majesty safe?’
Schoepfil gave a derisive snort and quickly snatched her hands in his. He turned them to study each side, then lifted them to his nose.
‘How gallant. Do you expect to smell paraffin or kerosene?’
He thrust her hands away and waved angrily to the two soldiers who had followed him in. ‘Remove this woman.’
Schoepfil shut the door on the Contessa’s heels and turned, fuming, on Bronque.
‘A fire set in our rooms. Kelling will need hours to even divine the damage. And I find you with her here – alone! Please, Colonel! Think!’
‘How could she be responsible? I distrust her as much as you do –’
Schoepfil reached to rebutton Bronque’s jacket. ‘What has happened to your face?’
‘Nothing has happened.’
‘You are very red.’
‘From the steam. Wasn’t the Contessa under guard?’
‘But who else knew of our trove?’
‘The German doctor?’
‘He was with me,’ said Schoepfil.
‘The other prisoners –’
‘Kelling locked them in the stable.’
‘Then an agent of Vandaariff?’
‘But Vandaariff wants my collection for himself. No, the Contessa is frightened, thus she has become desperate – perfectly natural … and perhaps even advantageous.’ Schoepfil urgently dug under the cuff of one glove with the poking fingers of the other. ‘Ah! The itching becomes unbearable – any excitement sets it off –’
He peeled down the glove and Miss Temple stifled a gasp of surprise. Mr Schoepfil’s hand was a brilliant cerulean blue. He raised it to his mouth and nipped the flesh between his teeth, then tugged the glove back into position. Bronque watched with distaste.
‘Drusus, I assure you. The woman means nothing. She’s a monster – I know she’s a monster. She’ll get her comeuppance from Vandaariff or she’ll hang. But what if we have another enemy entirely, perhaps one of the Queen’s retainers? They cannot be pleased at your taking up residence, and they are not all fools.’
‘Aren’t they?’
‘The Duchess of Cogstead, for example.’
‘Is it possible?’ Schoepfil frowned in thought, then abruptly slapped Bronque on the shoulder. ‘I will consider – as I will continue to consider the Contessa. Go – to Axewith, then Vandaariff. Make the offer.’ Bronque turned on his heel, but Schoepfil hopped after him. ‘Wait! Do you credit this story about Madelaine Kraft – that she was cured?’
‘Do you?’
‘Svenson says so.’
‘Svenson is a hero or a liar. Does he look like a hero to you?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ laughed Schoepfil. ‘I’ve never seen one!’
Bronque marched out. Schoepfil stood staring at where Bronque had been. Then he lifted his nose and began to sniff the air. Miss Temple pressed herself against the wall. Schoepfil turned to her hiding place, but stopped sniffing as abruptly as he’d begun. He tugged his jacket into position and hurried after the Contessa.
Miss Temple crept to the keyhole. She saw the Contessa escorted away and Schoepfil, instead of following, disappear surreptitiously behind a Moorish screen. When he did not re-emerge, Miss Temple took a breath for courage and scampered down the corridor after him. The screen concealed another room. Schoepfil spoke into a copper funnel attached to the wall. He returned the funnel to its hook and shoved two fingertips under his glove, scratched, then briskly clapped his hands together, as if the sting might suspend the itching.
Beyond Schoepfil a door opened, his summons answered. At the distraction Miss Temple slipped in, as low as a spaniel, and dropped behind a sofa.
‘Doctor,’ called Schoepfil warmly. ‘Enter, enter – so much to discuss, so little time. You have eaten – no? Well, hardly time now – you have been told of the fire?’
‘I saw enough of it myself.’ Miss Temple craned around a sofa leg. Doctor Svenson looked like a beaten dog. Schoepfil poked him playfully.
‘Not that fire. Can you not smell?’
Svenson swatted at his greatcoat. ‘I would smell smoke if we stood in a rose garden.’
‘Yes, a shocking conflagration, by all accounts, and now that these accounts are arriving, thick as migrating crows – do crows migrate? – the Queen’s court is a-boil with fear.’ Schoepfil lifted a folder of papers from a table and raised a cloud of ash. ‘Thus the extremely small blaze in my own quarters prompts a request that I relocate.’
‘What caused this extremely small blaze?’
‘Do you truly not know?’
‘I have been locked in a room.’
‘The Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza. She has provoked an abominable inconvenience.’
‘I should say you came off lucky.’
‘I did not count you amongst her admirers.’
‘I am not. Where is Miss Temple? They were together in the baths.’
Schoepfil shrugged, as if the question were trivial. Svenson reached for the man, but Schoepfil’s hand shot out and quickly twisted the Doctor’s arm at the elbow. Svenson grimaced, but managed to repeat his question.
‘Where is Miss Temple?’
‘Perfectly safe – how you will squirm! – locked with that fellow from the brothel.’
‘Let me make sure of her safety. I can as easily be locked up there as here.’
Schoepfil released the Doctor’s arm. ‘An extraordinary request. Does the Contessa care for her as well? What if I threatened to cut off her nose?’
‘The Contessa would probably ask to eat it.’
Schoepfil sighed. ‘Perhaps. Before I decide the fate of Miss Temple’s nose, however, I must know more about Madelaine Kraft.’
‘There is nothing to tell. She recovered. I cannot say how.’
Schoepfil reached into his coat pocket and removed a cork-stopped flask of brown dust. ‘I believe this is called bloodstone.’
‘Is it?’
‘It was in your own tunic, Doctor. Gorine confirms that you employed bloodstone to effect the lady’s restoration.’
‘Mr Gorine was not present. He tells you what you want to hear.’
‘What I want are Mrs Kraft’s whereabouts.’
‘She died in the fire.’
‘Who taught you the properties of bloodstone? Vandaariff? He’s resumed production of the Comte’s library, as you know.’ Miss Temple’s eyes went wide at the sight of a leather case propped next to the papers. She bore a scar where another such case, containing the glass book preserving the Comte d’Orkancz, had nearly cracked her skull.
‘With luck he’s set a book aside for you.’
Schoepfil trilled with amusement and shook his head, too quickly, like a little dog shaking off sleep. ‘You tweak me, Doctor Svenson – you tweak me because nothing has gone your way. I accept it – accept the impulse – though I insist on a serious response before we leave.’
‘Leave for where?’
‘Excellent question. And since I admire your abject determination, Doctor, I will tell you – well, tell you a little …’ Schoepfil held up a hand, stepped to the archway and poked his head through. He re-emerged, smiled, and then without warning leapt behind the sofa. But when Mr Schoepfil’s
attention had been diverted at the archway, Miss Temple had crept to the cover of an over-stuffed fauteuil. Schoepfil lifted the sofa to glare at the carpet beneath.
‘Are you quite well?’ asked Svenson.
‘Of course I am,’ growled Schoepfil. ‘Didn’t you hear?’
‘Hear what?’
‘A spy.’ Schoepfil returned to the archway, scowling out. ‘Breathing.’
Svenson sighed impatiently. ‘If you refuse to tell me –’
‘I will tell you when I want! And you will tell me – whatever I want – more than I want – you will beg for the chance!’
‘No doubt,’ agreed the Doctor blandly.
Schoepfil marched straight to Svenson and struck him across the face. Neither man spoke. Miss Temple dared not peek to see their expressions.
‘I will not endure that … that tone,’ hissed Schoepfil. Svenson’s silence was excruciating. Schoepfil sniffed. ‘Set the matter aside. What I was going to say – what I was going to offer – was a chance for your own skills to turn a profit, Doctor. A chance to follow in the footsteps of greater men. Doctor Lorenz, Mr Grey –’
‘They were corrupt fools.’
‘Better to follow fools than your neck in a noose, eh?’
‘Follow where? Robert Vandaariff controls every such laboratory, does he not? For heaven’s sake, what is your serious question?’
Schoepfil hesitated, and his voice dropped to a nervous whisper. ‘What has my uncle done to this Cardinal Chang?’
A discreet cough announced Mr Kelling, soot-smeared but unperturbed. ‘The Duchess of Cogstead, sir. She insists –’
Before Mr Schoepfil could welcome the lady or attempt to refuse, the Duchess made her entry. Miss Temple hardly recognized the old put-upon woman she had seen in the baths, for here was a high lady of court, wig and powder perfectly applied, and her dress, in happy contrast to the clinging bathing costume, a triumph of buttresses.
‘Your Grace.’ Schoepfil made an unctuous bow. ‘As you see, we do prepare our exit –’
‘Where is that woman?’
‘Woman?’ Schoepfil fluttered a hand, a grey wren shaking its feathers, at the leather case and papers. ‘Kelling, if you could collect all that and bring it to the coach?’