The Chemickal Marriage

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