The Chemickal Marriage

‘Why Strackenz? She has no sway at court.’ Svenson puffed his cigarette to light, then answered his own question. ‘And that is the idea itself. Protection from the unloved Sophia provides sanctuary without exposure.’ He studied the sparsely furnished room. ‘And where are these many, many dresses? Does that explain your presence in the attic of Staelmaere House – garment storage?’

She sneered through blown smoke. ‘And what explains your presence? That Oskar comes to the Palace to save the nation? Did you hope to shoot him down?’

‘It seemed worth the attempt.’

‘Peh.’

‘Is it coincidence to find you here too, just when Lord Vandaariff has arrived?’

Svenson had taken several steps as he spoke, and he realized she was watching him closely, as if he were near an open flame. He stepped decisively to the high-canopied bed.

‘Doctor Svenson –’

Svenson extended the pistol and carefully flipped up the pillows. Underneath lurked a blue glass book, like a cobra at the bottom of a basket.

‘Poor Sophia,’ he said. ‘Does she sink her mind in its depths every night – living glories she’d never know on her own? Does she even bother to eat and bathe?’

The Contessa laughed. ‘She was fat to begin with, and never fond of a wash.’

‘She will die.’

‘Not while I need her.’

Doctor Svenson brought the pistol-butt down with a crack onto the book, starring the thick cover and punching a gritty hole in the centre.

‘Hell’s damnation!’ snarled the Contessa.

Svenson struck the book again, cracking the cover into shards and splitting the layers below. The Contessa spat with fury.

‘Doctor! The Princess is an empty-headed, greedy – she is despised – O the waste!’

A final blow broke the book to pieces, like the battered carcass of a horseshoe crab. Svenson wiped the pistol on the bedlinen.

‘You have no idea –’

‘But I do – and besides, you have another.’

‘I do not!’

‘You have the volume tainted by the Comte’s own mind. This isn’t it – the Princess would be driven mad. This was a book of allurement, a honeyed trap filled with pleasures. With any luck it is the last. And, now we come to the topic, you do not look ill – which means you’ve found a way to consult the Comte’s corrupted book without harm. Where is it?’

‘Safely stowed.’

‘Where is Francesca Trapping?’ the Doctor demanded. ‘In an attic room with your clothes racks?’ He gestured to the shattered book. ‘Is she enslaved? Have you flooded her mind with wickedness as well?’

‘As well.’ The Contessa laughed. ‘As well as Celeste Temple? Tell me, does she tremble? Does she drool? Can you smell her like a barnyard mare?’

Svenson raised the pistol.

‘Doctor, if you act the fool we will be taken. They search from room to room – they are not all idiots – we are only safe here a few minutes more.’ She reached to what he realized was a second door, painted to appear flush with the wall. ‘If I intended to betray you, Doctor, I would not have brought you here.’ She put her head to the panel, listening. ‘Indeed, it did occur to me, while you strove to take my life, that our meeting might well serve us both.’

‘How?’

‘What do you think Oskar will demand, for his money and guns?’

‘Whatever it is,’ said Svenson, ‘Axewith will give it to him.’

‘What Oskar wants, Lord Axewith does not have.’

She smiled, allowing Svenson to guess what things – or persons – she meant. From outside came the chime of a silver bell.

‘Exactly on time.’ The Contessa ground her cigarette on the tabletop. ‘If you would just tuck the gun behind your back?’

She sailed into a lush corridor ablaze with light. Standing not ten yards away were three men in stiff black topcoats: a pair of Ministry officials and a grey-bearded figure with a blue sash.

‘My dear Lord Pont-Joule, what a relief it is to see your face!’ the Contessa cried. ‘The rumours one hears are frightful! Is Her Majesty safe? Has there truly been violence?’

The blue-sashed lord bowed kindly, but his deep voice rumbled with disapproval. ‘Who is the man behind you, madam? Sir – what uniform is that? Whom do you serve? How are you here? Is that blood on your face?’

‘It is Abelard Svenson!’ The Contessa’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Captain-Surgeon of the Macklenburg Navy. Surely you know him – he is a fugitive!’

Svenson whipped the pistol from behind his back. The Contessa gave a yelp and leapt to the side of Pont- Joule, who stammered angrily, even as the Ministry men – evidently unarmed – advanced towards the Doctor with earnest, awkward stances copied from boxing matches.

‘Now, sir!’ cried Pont-Joule. ‘That will not do – you must surrender! You cannot escape! You will not harm the lady –’

His next words were lost in a gurgling choke, his stiff white collar dark with spurting blood. Pont-Joule’s aides turned in time for the first to take the Contessa’s spike into his throat. The second stood in shock, covering his mouth with one hand. The Contessa came for him, but before she could land her blow Svenson struck the man behind the ear. The man arched his back and fell. Without a pause the Contessa knelt down, hiked her dress out of the way and opened his throat with a stroke of her hand.

‘Are you a savage?’ cried Svenson. ‘Dear God –’

‘He has seen us both,’ she answered flatly. A bead of red had caught her cheek. With a grimace of irritation the Contessa wiped it off with a fingertip, and then impatiently stuck the finger in her mouth. She stepped carefully past the spreading pools and called to Svenson, white-faced, rooted to the spot. ‘Pont-Joule is the Queen’s Master of Comportment.’

‘Comportment?’

‘Etiquette and safety – if we are past him, we are past the cordon of soldiers, who will now be posted at every exit. But our way should be clear – come.’

‘Then we cannot escape?’

‘O Doctor, for shame! When the cradle waits unguarded at our feet?’

Svenson hurried after her into what could only have been the Marble Gallery – a gaudily elegant chamber draped with crystal. Their footsteps echoed across the chequered parquet floor. They were alone.

‘Is it not a lovely room?’ the Contessa called, her voice echoing. She spun like a girl, arms outstretched, laughing. Svenson came doggedly after, glancing at the wide chair on a dais that must have once held the Queen. Two more were set near it for Axewith and Vandaariff. Tables were still laden for tea, with plates of thickly iced pink petits fours. The Contessa snatched one up, took a bite with a satisfied growl, then dropped the rest onto the floor, walking on.

In the sickroom of his heart, Doctor Svenson condemned these three new murders … but again found himself shrugging off the guilt. The Contessa paused at the double doors, her composed features studying his face. He could imagine how she had seized every chance to flirt with poor Pont-Joule over these past weeks, just to make possible so deft a slaughter. The wall panels framing the door were set with mirrors, but the man reflected there bore scant resemblance to the officer he had once been. This figure was unshaven and hollow-eyed. Even his hair seemed to signal with its lack of colour the weight of withering experience.

It had not been fear that kept him from shooting her in the bedchamber. He knew it was better for anyone who remained in the Doctor’s affections that he had been the one to collide with the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza. Phelps or Cunsher would have hesitated and been slain. Miss Temple and Chang would