The Chemickal Marriage

‘Here it is …’

He slipped his fingers through the mesh and lifted the hatch from its place, then hauled himself up into darkness, where his bare feet touched cold stone. The Doctor’s match died and he lit another. Chang reached to Miss Temple.

‘And so Persephone escaped from the underworld …’

At this she pursed her lips, but took his hand with both of hers. He lifted her out, then helped Phelps. The Doctor stood in the hatchway, head and shoulders in the room, holding the match aloft. Miss Temple laughed aloud.

‘I am a goose! See here!’ From her bag she pulled a beeswax stub and gave it to Svenson to light. ‘I had forgotten!’

‘O for all love,’ muttered Phelps sullenly.

Chang shared the sentiment, but was happy enough to see where they were: a square chamber with a stone-flagged floor. At the base of each wall lay a scattering of straw, and bolted into the cement at regular intervals – almost to resemble an art salon – were long rectangles.

Doctor Svenson sniffed the air. ‘Vinegar. As if the chamber had been scoured.’

Miss Temple took the candle from him, walking closer to a wall. ‘Look at the straw,’ she said. ‘It has all come out of this burlap sacking …’

The scraps of sacking had been painted with crude faces, and within the straw lurked tattered strips of clothing.

‘Straw mannequins,’ Chang said. ‘Test targets …’ Crossing nearer, he could see the rectangles were of different materials: hammered steel, smelted iron, brass, oak, teak, maple studded with iron nails, each to test an explosive’s power. The power of a prototype explosive set off within the chamber – its gasses venting to the tunnel – could be measured against all kinds of surfaces: wood, armour, fabric, even (he imagined a row of hams hanging from hooks) flesh, all from a single blast.

‘Take care for your feet,’ said Doctor Svenson, joining them. ‘Celeste, hold your light closer to the straw.’

She knelt and Chang saw a glimmer near her boot. She gingerly pulled the straw away to reveal a gleaming chip of blue glass. Miss Temple lifted the light to the rectangle above. Its oaken planks bristled with tiny glass splinters, like a cork board stuck with pins. Higher up, still whole, perched a small, spiked blue disc, perhaps the size of a Venetian florin. Chang bunched the silken sleeve over his fingers and tugged the disc free. The edge was sharp and the spikes as regular as a wicked, wheeled spur.

‘A projectile?’ asked Svenson. ‘Grapeshot?’

‘But why blue glass?’ countered Chang. ‘A broken gin bottle will cut just as well.’

‘What have you found?’ called Mr Phelps from across the room, sniffling.

‘The poor man needs a fire,’ Svenson muttered, before calling back. ‘It is blue glass, perhaps part of a weapon.’

‘Will they not be searching for us?’ Phelps replied. ‘Should we not flee?’

Miss Temple plucked the disc from Chang’s palm. Before he could protest she raised it up to her eye.

‘Celeste!’ gasped Svenson. ‘Don’t be a fool!’

Chang forcibly pulled her arm down, breaking the connection.

Her eyes were wide and her face had flushed – but with anger, he realized. Miss Temple thrust the glass back into Chang’s hand.

‘I saw nothing,’ she growled. ‘It is not a memory but a feeling. Deeply felt, obliterating wrath.’

Chang looked to the shredded straw. ‘What does rage matter when the target’s cut to ribbons?’

‘There is a door,’ called Mr Phelps thickly. ‘I am going through it.’

Svenson hurried after Phelps. Chang caught Miss Temple’s arm and turned her to him. ‘You insist on risking yourself –’

‘That is my own business.’

Her cheeks were still red from the glass, and Chang recalled the forest at Parchfeldt. She had been striking his chest in fury before lunging up to kiss him. He imagined slipping a hand through her curls right then and pulling her face to his.

‘Impatience gets a person killed,’ he said instead. ‘And trying to make up for past mistakes only muddles your thinking.’

‘Mistakes?’

‘What of these men you hired, or Jack Pfaff – what of Eloise – what of shooting Roger Bascombe –’

‘I should have spared him, then? And the Contessa – shall we spare her as well?’

‘Are you coming?’ called Doctor Svenson, his words edged with a finite patience.

‘You know full well what I refer to,’ muttered Chang, wishing he had not said a word.

‘An ordnance room,’ explained Svenson, indicating the high scaffolds holding kegs of powder. ‘The racks allow ventilation – and do you mark the slippers?’ A pile of grey felt slippers lay heaped just inside the doorway. ‘To cover one’s shoes, so there is no chance of a spark from a hobnail – an old habit from ships. And there, do you see?’ Svenson pointed to a portion of empty scaffolding against the wall. ‘View-holes into the blast chamber, bent like the mirrored periscopes one uses in trench-works, so no random shot can plunge through, yet still allowing the engineers to view the explosion.’

Mr Phelps had rallied, or perhaps was abashed at his show of peevishness. ‘These barrels are not yet stored away – if they are newer, might they not hold the explosive we saw at the canal?’

Chang took one of Foison’s knives and set to prising the lid from the nearest barrel, grateful for an excuse not to talk. He did not relish companionship for its own sake and often felt, perhaps perversely, that the people one knew best were the most difficult to bear. Over-familiarity with their habits made even the smallest interaction grate, while the obverse notion – of being that much more on view himself – was even worse.

He wedged the knife under the lid and saw Phelps had joined him.

‘If it is the same explosive, might the jostling of your knife set it off? It did strike me as especially volatile.’

Chang applied a slow, strong pressure. The edge grudgingly rose until he could fit his fingers beneath and wrench it clear.

‘Merciful hell,’ muttered Mr Phelps.

Instead of any kind of powder, the barrel was filled with blue glass discs, sharp-spurred, coin-sized … thousands and thousands of them. Chang scooped up a handful and threw it against the wall, but the discs only shattered. Clearly these new glass weapons were not the source of the explosion on the wharf.

Outside the ordnance chamber was another tunnel laid with rail. Miss Temple screwed up her mouth, as if she’d taken a ladle of fish oil.

Svenson reached out with concern. ‘Celeste –’

‘Left at the crossroads takes us back to where we found Chang. Right and straight ahead lead to other blasting chambers … but I believe I know our exit.’

She glanced at Chang, as if daring him to disagree. When he said nothing, she wheeled away. What had happened to her? Chang could feel Svenson watching him, but he had no desire to speak of what he did not understand.

At the crossroads they entered another blast tunnel proper, the men again reduced to ungainly scuttling. Chang managed to slip ahead of Phelps, but he reduced his pace so the Doctor and Miss Temple were soon some yards ahead. Then Chang stopped altogether.

‘Have you hurt your foot?’ asked Phelps.

‘No. It seemed prudent for us to talk. If you are playing Svenson false I’ll cut your throat.’

‘I beg your pardon –’

‘If you cause harm to Miss Temple I’ll hack off your hands.’

‘Harm? Have I not shared their peril? Why would I have saved Svenson’s life –’

‘I have no idea. Didn’t he break your arm at the quarry?’ Chang clamped a hand around Phelps’s wrist.