The Chemickal Marriage

force.

A line of constables blocked their final passage to the Ministries. Phelps shouldered his way to the front.

‘Officer!’

A constable with frightened wide eyes spun to face him, but Phelps retained an official bearing that won the man’s attention.

‘Why are only you officers posted here? Does no one realize the danger?’ Phelps’s voice sharpened. ‘I am Mr Phelps, attache to the Privy Council. What provisions have been made for securing the underpassage?’

‘Underpassage?’

Phelps pointed past to the maze of white buildings. ‘To Staelmaere House! Through it one can access both the Ministries and the Palace. How many men have you posted?’

The constable gaped at Phelps’s extended, damning finger. ‘Why … no men at all.’

‘O Lord above, man! There is no time!’

Phelps burst through the line of policemen. The constable darted after. ‘Wait now, sir – you can’t – all these people – you cannot –’

‘They are with me!’ snapped Phelps. ‘And no one will bar my passage until I am personally assured of the Queen’s safety!’

‘The Queen?’

‘Of course the Queen!’ Phelps directed the constable’s attention to Mr Cunsher. ‘This man is a foreign agent in our service. He has information of a plot – a plot employing significant distraction, do you understand?’

The constable, for whom Svenson was by now feeling a certain pity, looked helplessly to the square, echoing with screams and gunfire.

‘Exactly,’ said Phelps. ‘I only pray we are not too late.’

The constable gamely followed to a cobbled lane descending below Staelmaere House.

‘Down there?’ he asked, dismayed by the darkness.

Phelps shouted into the cavern, ‘You there! Sentries! Come up!’ No soldiers appeared and Phelps snorted with bitter satisfaction. ‘It is the grossest oversight.’

‘I’ll run to the guardhouse –’ offered the constable.

Chang caught the constable’s arm. ‘If the attack has already begun, we will need every man.’

He pulled the constable with them, tightening his grip as the man’s countenance betrayed his doubts. They descended to a dank vaulted chamber. Phelps hurried to a heavy wooden door and pulled the knob. It was locked.

‘Safe after all,’ ventured the constable. ‘So … all is well?’

Doctor Svenson spoke gently. ‘You need not worry. We wish your Queen only long life.’ The constable’s expression sank further. ‘Restored health.’ Svenson’s words ran dry. ‘Dentistry.’

Phelps peered at the door’s lock while Cunsher and Chang combined to secure the constable: wrists and ankles tied and mouth stuffed with a handkerchief.

‘Dentistry?’ asked Miss Temple.

Svenson sighed. ‘I had the privilege of the royal presence, when the Prince was first received.’

‘I suppose one would not see it on the coins.’

‘A rotting dockfront hardly inspires monetary confidence.’

‘Surely there is carved ivory or porcelain.’

‘The monarch lays her trust in the Lord’s handiwork,’ replied the Doctor.

‘One enjoys all manner of advancements not strictly from the Lord.’

‘Apparently matters of the body have their own strictures.’

‘Surely she styles her hair, and uses soap.’

Svenson tactfully said nothing.

‘Royalty are in-bred dogs,’ said Chang, joining them, ‘yapping, brainless, and fouling any place they can bring their haunches to bear. What is he doing?’

This last was directed at Mr Phelps, but Chang did not wait for an answer, crossing to Phelps and repeating his question directly.

Miss Temple whispered to Svenson,‘It is a pneumatic vestibule.’

‘A what?’

‘A room that moves up and down. I travelled in it with Mrs Marchmoor and the Duke, and with Mr Phelps.’

‘Do you accept his repentance?’ asked Svenson quietly.

‘I accept his guilt. One does not care why a cart-horse pulls.’

‘Chang fears Phelps will betray us. Did you not mark their discussion in the blast tunnel?’

‘What discussion?’ asked Miss Temple, a bit too loudly.

They turned at the sound of Mr Cunsher clearing his throat. Miss Temple took interruption as censure, and addressed Cunsher directly: ‘It is easy to repent when one has lost.’

Cunsher studied her face, which Miss Temple bore for perhaps three seconds before returning the stare doubly hard.

‘Any luck with the door?’ called Doctor Svenson.

‘The problem,’ Mr Phelps replied, ‘is that there is no lock.’ He nodded at a metal key plate. ‘To summon the car, one inserts the key, at which point the vestibule car descends. Only when the car is in place will the door open. Even had we an axe, we could only reach the empty shaftway.’

‘Then why did you bring us here?’ snarled Chang.

‘Because the way is unguarded. The hallways of Staelmaere House connect to the Palace on one side and to the Ministries on the other. This was the private exit for the Duke himself – only his most intimate servants and aides know of it. Once inside we can search for the Comte – for Vandaariff – in any direction.’

‘Is there no signal?’ asked Miss Temple. ‘Some sort of bell?’

‘Of course,’ huffed Phelps, ‘the use of which will alert those inside. We will be taken and killed!’

‘Perhaps I do not understand,’ Svenson offered. Phelps had so deftly managed the cordon, it was dismaying to see him at such an impasse. ‘If we do ring the bell –’

‘Whoever hears it may well send the car down. But ringing the bell after the Duke’s death will spark all kinds of suspicion. The car will rise to a reception of armed men.’

‘And that is because we lack a key.’

‘Yes. Without a key, it will only return to whoever sent it down. It is a protection against any stranger using it. With a key, we could go to any floor without pause –’

‘But that could still deliver us to armed men,’ said Chang. ‘You have no idea.’

‘I descended from the Duke’s rooms to this sub-basement without stopping,’ announced Miss Temple rather unhelpfully.

‘We should press on to the river,’ muttered Chang.

‘I disagree,’ replied Svenson. ‘The idea to infiltrate is sound, a chink in our opponent’s armour.’

‘Entering a lion’s den does not constitute a chink.’

‘Then I will go,’ the Doctor snapped. ‘I will go by myself.’

Miss Temple took his arm. ‘You will not.’

Chang sighed with impatience. ‘Lord above –’

Phelps raised his hands. ‘No. I have brought us here – no one else need take the risk. Stand away.’

He pressed a disc set into the keyplate. Somewhere above them echoed a distant trill.

They waited, the sole sound the muffled breath of the constable, which they all chose to ignore. But then came a mechanical thrum … growing louder.

‘Well begun at least,’ Phelps said with a brittle smile. ‘Someone is home.’

His relief was cut short by the click of Cunsher pulling back the hammer of his pistol. Svenson dug out his own and soon they all stood in a half-circle, weapons ready. The car descended, settling with a clank.