The Chemickal Marriage

‘Leave what’s important to me.’

‘A woman. She lives in a hotel. I don’t like her.’

‘What hotel?’

‘Ned would not tell me. He thought I would follow him.’

She felt his breath in her ear. ‘But you did follow him, didn’t you, Isobel? What hotel?’

‘She lives at the … the St Royale.’

Benton glanced suddenly at the man behind her, but when Miss Temple’s captor spoke his voice betrayed no care.

‘Did you see this woman yourself?’

Miss Temple nodded again, sniffing. ‘She had b-black hair, and a red dress –’

‘And this fellow here – Brine – she’d hired him as well?’

Miss Temple nodded vigorously. Her captor called softly to Benton.

‘Empty his pockets. Show me.’

Benton leapt to the table. Miss Temple quickly counted – there had been five on the ramp … here she saw Benton and three more, digging at Brine’s clothing like vultures. The fifth man must have gone to collect their master. Was he standing guard at the door behind her? The hand tugged at her hair.

‘And what of your pockets? Have you no purse or bag?’

‘I lost it, climbing over the gate. When Mr Brine fell, I was so frightened –’

‘Not so frightened that you died.’ He called behind him. ‘See if it’s there.’

Footsteps signalled the fifth man running for the ramp. Miss Temple’s blood froze. If he discovered Svenson and Phelps –

‘He had this.’ Benton held the clipping from the Herald. ‘ “-grettable Canvases from Paris”. Don’t know what “-grettable” is, not speaking French.’

The paper was snatched from his hand as Miss Temple’s captor stepped forward. She glimpsed only a shining black coat before he was off without a word.

Benton watched him go, his posture lapsing back into feral comfort. He turned to Miss Temple with a satisfied smile.

‘Maybe I should search your pockets too … every little pocket you possess.’

A footfall in the darkness did not shift his hungry gaze. ‘Find her bag, then?’ Benton drawled.

‘Step away from the woman.’

Doctor Svenson strode into the light, the long Navy revolver in his hand. Benton swore aloud and reached in his tunic. The pistol roared in the echoing room like a cannon and Benton flew back, shirt-front spraying gore. Another shot shattered the leg of a man near the table. Two more, rapidly snapped from Miss Temple’s smaller weapon, drilled the back of a fellow dashing for the door. Mr Phelps came forward with Svenson, their guns extended towards the fourth man, his hands in the air.

‘Down on the floor,’ growled the Doctor. The man hurried to comply, and Mr Phelps bound his limbs. Doctor Svenson looked to the open door, then to Miss Temple.

‘Are you hurt?’

Miss Temple shook her head. Her voice was hoarse.

‘Is he – is Mr Brine –’

‘A moment, Celeste …’

Svenson knelt over the man with the shattered leg, then stood and tucked the gun away, stepping clear of the blood.

‘It is the artery,’ he muttered. ‘I meant to wound …’

Even as he spoke the heavy breathing fell to silence. Had it been even one minute? The Doctor crossed to the table, saying nothing. Miss Temple cleared her throat to get his attention. She nodded at Benton.

‘The key to these chains is in his waistcoat.’

Phelps returned Miss Temple’s revolver, with her bag, and helped himself to the unlamented Benton’s.

‘They will have heard our shots.’

‘They may assume their own men did the shooting,’ replied Svenson. He turned to Miss Temple. ‘We heard some of your interrogation.’

Phelps frowned. ‘Their leader’s voice – I’m sure I ought to place it, but the circumstances escape me.’

‘Whoever he is,’ said Svenson, ‘they have taken Mr Ramper – and who knows what he told them.’

‘It cannot have been much.’ Miss Temple straightened her jacket. ‘Not if they believed the Contessa to have hired him. But I must look at Mr Brine.’

Svenson stood with her. ‘His neck was broken in the fall. It is perhaps –’

‘A blessing,’ she said. ‘I know.’

Blue glass had been driven into Brine’s jaw, each spike sending out veins of crystallized destruction, like the limbs of embedded blue spiders. Svenson indicated a spot on Brine’s chest, then others on his abdomen and arms. In every case, peeling away his clothing revealed the hard, mottled skein of penetration.

‘Glass bullets?’ whispered Phelps.

Svenson nodded. ‘I cannot see the purpose. I doubt they alone would have killed him.’

Miss Temple dug in her bag for a handkerchief and walked to the door. ‘We cannot get back over the wall. We must go on.’

‘I am sorry for your man, Celeste,’ said Svenson. ‘He was a brave fellow.’

Miss Temple shrugged, but did not yet face them.

‘Brave fellows arrive by the dozen,’ she said, ‘and fate mows them flat. My own poor crop did not last at all.’

At the end of an echoing tunnel they met a metal door.

‘This explains why no one came,’ said Svenson, tugging on it. ‘Thick steel and entirely locked. We will have to return to see if one of those villains kept a key.’

‘Already done,’ said Phelps with a smile. ‘Courtesy of the late Mr Benton.’

He spread the ring of keys on his palm, selected one and slipped it in. The lock turned. Phelps stepped back and readied his pistol.

‘Do we have a plan, as such?’

‘Quite,’ offered Svenson. ‘Discover what Vandaariff has done here – find Mr Ramper – glean what we can about the Contessa – then manage our own escape.’

Miss Temple simply pulled open the door.

If the works above ground were a broken honeycomb, spread before them now was the hive itself: cages of iron, walls of blistered concrete, great furnaces gone cold, assembly tables, dusty vats, and staircases near and far, extending to the shadows.

‘Ought we to divide our efforts?’ whispered Phelps. ‘The ground is so large …’

The Doctor shook his head. ‘Even separated we could not search it in a week. We have to think: where would they locate themselves – why would they? In a foundry? With the ammunition stores? What serves them best?’

Phelps abruptly sneezed. ‘I beg your pardons –’

‘You have a chill,’ muttered Svenson. ‘We must find a fire.’

‘We must find that man. Perhaps if we climb the stairs we may see more.’ Phelps sighed and finished his own sentence. ‘Or be seen and get a bullet. Miss Temple, you have not spoken –’

She was not listening to either man. She had clearly never seen this place before … and yet …

She opened her bag and removed the glass square. Selecting a row of high columns as a touch point, she looked into the glass. For a moment, as always, her senses swam … but then the same columns were there … and wide circles that must be the chemical vats … and a furnace whose slag she smelt from the door. Still, recognizing the map did not tell her where they ought to go …

The Contessa had sent it to her. Just as Miss Temple had deciphered the clipping, so she ought to decipher this. The message had been sent some days ago – before Ramper had been taken – it was nothing to do with now. The key lay in the past. In the Comte’s past …