The Chemickal Marriage

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.