Kelling dived through, but the Ministry men paused. ‘Is there a light?’ one ventured.
Through the door came a crash and a grunt of pain. ‘There are steps,’ called Mr Kelling.
Svenson opened the doors of a sideboard and pulled out a metal railwayman’s lantern.
‘How did you find that?’ asked Schoepfil.
‘Pont-Joule must have used these tunnels for surveillance.’
‘And look what it got him,’ Schoepfil spat, then shouted at them all. ‘A match! A match! Light the damned thing up!’
Kelling was waiting by a pile of clothing. Schoepfil stood at the black pool, glaring at the billowing effervescence. The Ministry men hovered, one, stuck between care and complicity, arm in arm with the Duchess, for Schoepfil dared not leave her alone. Another held the lantern high, but the cavern had no other exit but the pool.
Svenson gave the candle a glance, noticed the ash around its base and the tiniest curl of unburnt paper, coloured red. The Contessa had left a message, which Miss Temple had possessed the presence of mind to burn.
The riddle of the clothing was even simpler: one woman had followed the lead of the other, the clothing removed to swim. Svenson knelt at the water, swiped a finger through the fizz and put it to his nose, then in his mouth.
‘Colder than the baths,’ he said, ‘though the minerals prove a mingling. This channel meets the river. Underground.’
‘It was a secret way,’ said the Duchess. ‘Used for terrible things.’
He did not suppose any explanation was needed; they were beneath a palace, after all. ‘The journey to air cannot be far. Do we follow?’
He plucked his tunic between his thumb and forefinger, as if offering to strip. Schoepfil scowled. ‘Of course we don’t. The ash there, Kelling – what was burnt?’
‘A note. Unreadable, sir.’
‘Blasted female. Shameless. Brazen.’ Schoepfil pointed damningly at the clothes. ‘Does she have a new wardrobe ready on the other side? Of course she does. And as soon as your little beast arrives she will also have my book!’
Svenson had thought Miss Temple dead, only to see her again in the baths – with the Contessa, of all people, and being introduced, of all things, to the sickly, costive Queen. From their concealment he and Schoepfil had heard the entire conversation, the Contessa’s sly blaming of Vandaariff and Lord Axewith for the Duke of Staëlmaere’s murder. Minutes later came Colonel Bronque’s own audience, a litany of abuse received in place of Axewith, whose request for the Queen’s seal was violently refused. Schoepfil had nearly exposed their hiding place, chuckling at this reverse for his uncle. Uncle! What but a life of envious proximity to power could explain this strange creature of a man?
From there Svenson had been passed to the odious Kelling, who – with two grenadiers – had shown him another cork-lined room stuffed with ephemera relating to the Comte d’Orkancz and indigo clay: books and papers, diagrams, paintings, half-tooled bits of brass and steel. Kelling hungrily noted where his attention fell, as if Svenson were a pilgrim in an alchemical allegory, presented with a table of riches, with his choice to dictate the course of his soul.
‘Lorenz.’ Svenson tapped a stack of that man’s notes. ‘Dropped out of an airship to the freezing sea.’
Kelling was silent. Svenson moved to the next pile.
‘Fochtmann. Shot in the head at Parchfeldt.’ He smiled at Kelling, as if in friendly reminiscence. ‘Gray, killed at Harschmort by Cardinal Chang. And Crooner … everyone forgets him. Lost both arms – turned to glass and sheared off. Died of the shock, I suppose …’
‘What about the marriage?’ Kelling extended his knobbed throat like a buzzard.
‘Do you mean the painting?’
‘Do I?’
‘Or the ritual behind it?’ Svenson smiled pleasantly. ‘A man like the Comte d’Orkancz would view the thing as a recipe. Since he was barking mad.’
Svenson fished out a rumpled cigarette and, not waiting for Kelling’s permission, set it to light. He exhaled. ‘Do you know what happened to the Comte?’
‘He died on the airship,’ replied Kelling.
Doctor Svenson took another puff and shook his head. ‘No, Mr Kelling. He is in hell.’
He was taken by the grenadiers to another room, Kelling called away and, to Svenson’s mind, happy to leave. Kelling was exactly the sort of court-bred toad whose dislike the Doctor had so often negotiated in protecting the Prince, men whose self-regard became one with their masters’. Svenson’s refusal to be so attached had marked him a social leper.
But worse than the company of Kelling was that of his own untended heart. Left alone, the guilt Svenson had been able to suppress since his delivery to Schoepfil rose to the surface of his thought. Francesca. Elöise. The Contessa.
A soldier entered with a wooden plate of bread and meat, and a mug of beer. Svenson drank half the beer in a swallow and set the plate on his lap, forcing himself to chew each bite. The bread had gone stiff, sliced hours before, and the grey beef stank of vinegar. Still, he finished the plate, emptied the mug and carried them to the door.
As the guard took the empty dishes, Doctor Svenson looked out.
‘Do you think I might stretch my legs?’ he asked. ‘I have had so little sleep, if I do not walk I will collapse.’
‘Why not sleep now?’
‘There is no time. Mr Schoepfil says we must travel. I require my wits.’
He took out his last two cigarettes, offered one to the grenadier, who – blessedly – declined. Svenson tucked it away, lit the other and indicated the small corridor. ‘Just here?’
The guard did not protest and Svenson wandered to a window. Night had fallen and a movement outside caught his eye: a man in a white jacket, arms bound, dragged by soldiers towards a livery shed. A few steps behind came Kelling. Perhaps a minute later Kelling and the grenadiers returned alone.
In the distance came the sound of doors. Svenson ambled to the corridor’s end in time to see the Contessa with an escort of guards.
‘There you are!’ She called with such self-importance that her soldiers allowed her to veer towards Svenson. He bowed as she approached.
‘The Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza,’ he said to his guard, ‘a gentlewoman from Venice.’
The guard’s reply, and her own guards’ desire to interpose, was brusquely overridden. ‘Doctor Svenson, thank goodness. I’ve just been with Her Majesty now’ – this clearly for the benefit of the guards – ‘and I would speak to Mr Schoepfil – yet I may not have time, you see. Because of Her Majesty.’ She pointed past Svenson. ‘Is that where you’ve been waiting? May we speak?’
‘I am at your service,’ replied Svenson.
‘Mr Schoepfil wants you to wait,’ managed one of her guards.
‘Of course I’ll wait,’ she cried. ‘But if the Queen requests my presence, what do you suggest? This way I may convey to Doctor Svenson – who also waits for Mr Schoepfil – my own account of the matter, so he may pass it on – in case. Don’t you see?’
She strode down the windowed passage, unseen heels clipping the floor like the hoofs of a performing horse. ‘I will knock when I am finished,’ she told the guard. ‘What is that, beer? Two more of the same. I am parched.’
She sailed inside and sat in the only chair. Svenson smiled apologetically at the guard and began to shut the door.
‘The beer,’ the Contessa snapped.
She flounced her dress into place. The knot of soldiers stared past him at the woman. Svenson accepted the beer and shut the door with his heel.
‘What are you waiting for, trumpets?’
She snatched a mug from his hand and drank deeply, paused to breathe, then finished it off. ‘Drink. Drink or give it to me. There is very little time.’
He looked to the door. ‘Surely everything we say is heard –’
The Contessa took hold of Svenson’s belt and yanked him sharply to one knee. She took his mug and set it down, slopping beer across the varni
shed cork.
‘We have unfinished business.’
‘Madam, nothing between us –’
She jerked his belt to stop his rising. ‘Speak quietly,’ she whispered. She put her mouth near his ear. ‘We have all manner of unfinished business, Abelard Svenson. Do not deny it.’
‘I will not.’ He swallowed. ‘But this morning – I cannot –’
‘Cannot what?’
‘You took the life of Mrs Dujong –’
‘Someone had to.’
The crack of Doctor Svenson’s open hand across her cheek split the room. He leapt to his feet, furious, appalled.
Her eyes blazed. ‘You’ll pay for that.’
‘I already have.’
The Contessa burst into a raucous laugh. The door opened and two grenadiers peered in, alarmed by the sound of the blow, but now confused by her laughter and the Doctor’s shame-red face. The Contessa waved them away and, docile to hauteur, they went. She laid two fingers on her cheek. ‘My lord.’
‘Whatever you have to say, madam, say it.’
‘Not until you kneel.’ She raised her eyebrows. Svenson sighed and did so, reaching to shift the beer mug.
‘I’ll have that. If you’re not drinking.’ She took another long pull. ‘I’ve been in the baths. No wonder her skin comes off in strips.’
‘Immersion dehydrates the flesh,’ observed Svenson. ‘So does alcohol.’
‘Not beer, surely.’ She offered him the mug. He shook his head, and the Contessa tipped back the rest.
‘Those soldiers will not wait forever. And Schoepfil not at all.’
‘Nor Bronque. Do you know Bronque?’ She gave him the mug, which he set down with annoyance. When he looked back she held a tightly wrapped piece of silk, plucked, while his gaze was diverted, from between her breasts. She tossed it to him, like a treat for a lapdog.
‘I stole that from Celeste Temple. The handkerchief belongs to Robert Vandaariff.’
Svenson unwrapped the silk: a blue glass spur.
‘I have seen these before. At Raaxfall – and in the square –’
‘Everyone has seen them,’ she said. ‘Why give it to her?’
Svenson glanced quickly to the door. ‘It must be different.’
‘I have not time to investigate, but had I the time I do not think I would, as it was given to Celeste precisely before her delivery to me.’
‘I am your enemy just as much as Miss Temple –’
Svenson began to stand. She caught his belt. ‘Of course you are, lord – what does a woman have to do?’
‘To do, madam? To do?’
She bit back whatever tart reply she was about to make and met his eyes. The moment stretched. ‘You’re not afraid of me, are you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘No. You’re afraid of yourself.’
Svenson pursed his lips, shrugged. She relaxed her grip on his belt, and gently arched her wrist so her four fingers slipped inside the Doctor’s trousers.
‘Do you recall,’ she asked, the back of her fingers slipping into his woollen undersuit, ‘our first meeting? When we first spoke?’
Svenson’s body tensed. ‘The St Royale Hotel. I sought the Prince.’
‘And I told you where he was.’
‘Because doing so amused you. You later consigned me to death for the same reason.’
‘But you did not die.’ She studied him closely, warily. Her hand slowly slipped deeper, until her nails just traced his groin, then just as suddenly withdrew. She sat back in the chair. Her manner became brisk.
‘Robert Vandaariff has exchanged Cardinal Chang, who was mine, for Celeste Temple, who was his. Now Celeste – and you – are guests of Drusus Schoepfil –’
‘As are you.’
The Contessa let this pass as immaterial. ‘She must be freed.’
He spoke bitterly. ‘Because the child has died?’
‘What child?’
‘Francesca Trapping! And since Celeste is the other person with knowledge of your horrid book – and thus the Comte – you require her, to sacrifice her as well, to defeat him!’
‘The child is dead?’
‘You sent her to me!’ he said savagely. ‘You sent us to Mrs Kraft! What else could happen?’
The Contessa sighed. ‘I did not know.’
‘Did you care?’
‘About what?’
‘About her!’
The Contessa caught sharp hold of Svenson’s chin and pulled his face to hers.
‘Of course I didn’t!’ she hissed. ‘She was an odious and unnaturally born cast-off. She was doomed, like every girl born to ruin. The world cannot withstand them grown. Their kind makes the world pay.’
She stood, forcing Svenson back onto his heels.
‘I regret you bore the burden. And Madelaine Kraft?’
His mouth was dry. ‘Restored.’
‘Superb. If you survive, you may visit every brainless victim of Oskar’s books and make a fortune reclaiming their precious minds. A grateful nation, lacking such a bounty of overlords, will grovel at your feet.’
‘Did you know it could be done?’
She swept to the door. ‘I do now, don’t I?’
Doctor Svenson held up the handkerchief. ‘And what of this?’
The Contessa lifted her dress and kicked the door. ‘It’s yours now, Doctor. Isn’t that enough for you?’
The grenadier only just dodged from her path. He frowned with jealous disapproval at Svenson, still on the floor, and hurried after her.
Svenson paused to help the Duchess back through the oval door. Kelling had collected his papers. The footmen and the wounded soldiers had been taken away. Mr Nordling had returned with a dozen men of the court, and, though their presence had caused the Ministry men to retire – and then to join their number – Schoepfil paid them no mind. He told Kelling to be quick and sneered at Svenson’s kindness.
‘You must answer, sir,’ called Nordling, sword cane in hand. ‘You have transgressed, most gravely – and the person of Her Grace –’
‘Let him pass, Mr Nordling.’ The Duchess squeezed the Doctor’s hand as she pulled away.
‘Of course I’ll pass!’ cried Schoepfil. ‘I’ll leave the man who tries to stop me in tears!’
The Duchess spoke to the room. ‘That girl, the colonial with the Chinese name – she said the realm was under attack. The realm.’
‘O stuff,’ muttered Schoepfil. ‘On and on …’
‘Robert Vandaariff is Our Majesty’s enemy. I do not know who is strong enough to stand against him – hush, Mr Nordling, your loyalty is noted – save perhaps these criminals. Mr Schoepfil, and this Italian murderess –’
‘And that German spy,’ observed Schoepfil, ‘awaiting the noose in two lands.’
The Duchess looked to Svenson with dismay.
‘No tale is completely true, Your Grace. What can be done, will be.’ Svenson tipped his head. ‘And then – only then – will I consent to hang.’
‘Leather-skinned valise,’ growled Schoepfil. ‘Interfering sheepdog. Did you see the hairs on her chin? In her ears? Less a duchess than a horse blanket.’ He pounded on the ceiling and shouted to the coachman. ‘Run them down! There is a curfew! They are in the wrong!’
They had extracted themselves from the Thermæ without issue, swift passage assured by the same duchess Schoepfil now hotly condemned.
‘To call you a criminal, sir,’ added Kelling. ‘And in such company.’
‘She will answer, Mr Kelling. Every last one will answer for every last thing. I have friends.’ Schoepfil sniffed at Svenson, who sat next to the crate of papers. ‘The way of the world, after all. Chemical equivalencies. Do you understand my meaning?’
‘Alchemy?’
‘You disapprove!’ Schoepfil laughed. ‘The fact is, so do I! And yet – and yet!’ He twirled a hand with a flourish. ‘My uncle is not, in fact, a fool!’
Schoepfil turned his attention to Kelling, who nodded with a professi
onal deliberation, memorizing his master’s commands. Svenson shut his eyes. His last cigarette had been sacrificed to calm his nerves after the Contessa’s departure. A foolish indulgence, for he’d been desperate for another after studying the glass spur.
The grenadier had collected the mugs, scowled at the spilt-upon floor and come back with a rag, swabbing with an angry, protective zeal. Then Svenson had been alone. He had unfolded the square of silk, staring at the blue disc as if it were some faerie token that, wrongly handled, would serve his doom.
The spurs found at the Xonck works had been infused with rage, and it seemed reasonable that the simplicity of the content was determined by the small amount of glass. But here was a spur made for the specific target of the Contessa.
Such were both the Contessa’s power and Vandaariff’s invention that Svenson hesitated to touch the thing with bare flesh, much less gaze inside. He thought of Euripides’ sorceress giving a poisoned gown to her lover’s new bride, consuming the girl in flames … but that seemed wrong. The spur would never be so volatile, because of Celeste. Vandaariff could not depend on his messenger’s lack of curiosity – thus, unless Miss Temple was its true target, which Svenson did not believe, the spur must be benign to Miss Temple yet deadly to the Contessa. Would it be safe for him as well?
He grazed the glass with a fingertip and felt a flutter at the back of his neck. He took a breath and pressed his finger onto the flat side of the disc. The hair rose on his nape and his breath quickened …
Svenson raised the spur to his eye.
A hollow lightness filled his chest. He was with Elöise, standing on the sand. He was with Corinna in the trees, her hand in his, knowing he must release it before their walk ended and they could be seen. Tenderness overwhelmed him. His eyes brimmed and then spilt tears down the Doctor’s face.
Of course. The deadly spur held love.
They drove past soldiers and torches, angry crowds and noise, even the clatter of hurled stones bouncing off the coach. Doctor Svenson ignored it all. He was exhausted, disgusted by Schoepfil’s self-satisfaction and sick with worry for Celeste. Chang had delivered himself to death to save her, not unlike Svenson himself in the Parchfeldt woods. He twisted into the corner of the seat and felt the pull of the long, puckered scar. Why her, of all people? Why he and Chang? A more unlikely trio would be hard to imagine. Yes, he was a spy, and Chang an assassin – yet Miss Temple remained unlikely in the extreme. But was she the strongest of the three? He recalled their morning in the abandoned tower, the awkward conversation after so long, her palpable distress. Could he or Chang have borne such a torment?