The Chemickal Marriage

‘She may have returned to the attic, to Francesca,’ said Miss Temple.

‘We don’t know that the child is there,’ Chang cautioned. ‘I say we descend to where we entered and hope it is not thronged with soldiers.’

Acknowledging this logic, Svenson thrust the key into the slot and stabbed the lowest button on the brass plate. The car vibrated with life. They descended without speaking – all three with weapons ready – but when they heard the tell-tale clank the car did not stop.

‘I thought we entered directly below the cellars,’ said Chang.

‘Perhaps we did not pay attention,’ said Miss Temple. ‘Perhaps it was two stops below.’

‘It wasn’t.’

‘Then there is another floor further below.’

A second clank and the car came to a halt. Chang pulled the iron gate open and set his shoulder against the tarnished metal door beyond it.

This was not the underpassage to Staelmaere House. Instead, they had been delivered to another tunnel, with a tiled floor like a bath house. A single lantern, lit within the hour judging by the level of oil, had been left on the floor. Next to it, like a malicious rose, lay a third red envelope.

It was empty save for a scrap of white tissue, smeared with a scarlet imprint of the Contessa’s mouth. Svenson said nothing. Chang scowled with displeasure. Miss Temple put her nose to the tissue, and observed that it smelt of frangipani flowers. They began to walk.

‘This cannot have been simple to construct,’ said Svenson. ‘The digging must have displaced the coach traffic above us for ages –’

‘Nothing of the kind has displaced anything,’ called Chang, walking in the lead. ‘This can only be the old Norwalk.’

This meant nothing to Svenson or Miss Temple. Chang sighed. ‘The Norwalk fortifications were dismantled to lay the Seventh Bridge, and the new Customs House.’

‘I have been to the Customs House,’ said Miss Temple. ‘To learn about trade.’

‘That does you credit,’ said Svenson. ‘It is the rare heiress not simply content to spend.’

Miss Temple made a bothered face. ‘I did not want to be cheated – sugar-men are famous scoundrels. But, once I was inside, tiresome is not the half of it –’

Chang cleared his throat. They stopped talking. He went on.

‘The Norwalk formed one wall of the original Citadel. I would guess this was once a lower catacomb.’

‘But why has it been remade?’ asked Svenson. ‘New tile and fresh paint.’

Chang reached into his coat for his razor. With the handle he scratched a line in the plaster and blew the dust away. ‘Replastered these past two months.’

‘Before or after the dirigible went into the sea?’ asked Svenson.

Chang shrugged. Miss Temple held up the lantern.

‘We forget this. Someone lit it. We must keep on and make her tell us everything.’

A quarter-mile brought the tunnel’s end: a wooden door, and another red envelope left atop its polished handle. Chang tore it open, glanced at the paper and passed it to Svenson with a snort.

My Dear Doctor,

As a man of evident Vitality you would have found this Lair in Time, but Time is no good Friend.

The Task is beyond any single Agent.

Do not let Love blind your Eyes. Ample Time remains to settle our Account.

RLS

Miss Temple raised her eyebrows impatiently and Svenson handed the paper to her.

‘Why should she mention “love”?’ asked Chang.

‘I expect she means Eloise,’ Svenson replied, wondering if it were true, wondering – despite his surety of the woman’s heartlessness – just how the Contessa viewed their encounter. And how did he view it? ‘She will say anything to mitigate her guilt if she requires our aid.’

Miss Temple thrust the paper back. ‘I will not be a party to her bargains.’

‘If we find the Contessa,’ said Chang, ‘no matter where, she is to die.’

Svenson nodded his agreement. It was not that he wanted to spare the Contessa – and he did not, truly – but he saw in his companions’ resolve a wilful denial of the fact that their struggle now stretched beyond the individuals who had wronged them. And if he did keep the woman alive to defeat the Comte, would Miss Temple and Chang come to hate him just as much, at the end?

The ‘lair’ certainly looked to be inhabited by an animal. Clothes, however fine, were strewn across the floor and furniture, unwashed plates and glasses cluttered the worktops, empty bottles had rolled to each corner of the room, a straw mattress had been folded double and shoved against the wall. Despite the Contessa’s detritus, it was clear the low stone chamber had been refitted for another purpose. Metal pipes fed into squat brass boxes bolted to the wall. The chamber reeked of indigo clay.

Svenson touched the pipes to gauge their heat, then put his palm against the wall. ‘Very cold … could that be the river?’

Chang slapped his hand against the wall. ‘Of course! I’m a fool – the Seventh Bridge! The turbines!’

‘What turbines?’ asked Miss Temple. ‘You say such things as if one mentions turbines over breakfast –’

Chang rode over her words. ‘The supports of the bridge contain turbines – it was an idea for flushing sewage –’

‘These pipes hold sewage?’

‘Not at all – the plan was never implemented. But we know Crabbe and Bascombe plotted against their allies – so of course they required their own version of the Comte’s workshop. The bridge’s turbines, with the force of the river, would serve up enough power to satisfy even these greedy machines.’

‘And I assume the Contessa learnt their secret from her spy, Caroline Stearne.’ Miss Temple waved the reek from her face. ‘But why has she abandoned it?’

‘That is the question,’ agreed Svenson. ‘This night she has given up her refuge at the Palace, and now a quite remarkable laboratory …’

‘There is the matter of her death warrant,’ said Miss Temple.

‘It did not appear to trouble her especially.’

‘Also, if she lit the lamp and left the envelopes to get us here,’ said Chang, ‘where did she go?’

They did not see any other door. Svenson searched behind the mattress and under the piles of clothing, pausing at a wooden crate. The crate was lined with felt and piled with coils of copper wire. Next to it, in a tangle of black rubber hose, lay a mask, the sort they had all seen before in the operating theatre at Harschmort.

‘As we guessed, not only was our view of the painting leached from her own mind, it seems the Contessa did the leaching herself.’

‘How can she be sure the machine selects only the memory she desires?’ asked Chang. ‘Does she not risk its draining everything?’

‘Perhaps that is determined by the glass – a small card can contain only so much.’ Svenson moved on his knees to one of the brass boxes. It was fitted with a slot in which one might insert an entire glass book, but above this was another, much smaller aperture, just wide enough for a card. ‘I agree, however, that to do this alone is insanity. How can she rouse herself to turn off the machine? We have all seen the devastating effects –’

‘Did you see them in her?’ asked Miss Temple, just a little hopefully. ‘Thinning hair? Loosened teeth?’

‘Here.’ Chang held out a tiny pair of leather gloves, dangling them to show the size. ‘The Contessa took precautions after all.’

‘They would not fit a monkey,’ said Svenson.

‘Francesca Trapping,’ said Miss Temple.

‘The sorceress’s familiar.’ Chang hoisted himself onto a worktop to sit. ‘But I still don’t see why she’s left the place, nor why she’s bothered to lure us here …’

His words trailed away. Svenson followed Chang’s gaze to a china platter, blackened and split, piled with bits