The Chemickal Marriage

‘Tell her. She will see me – her life depends upon it.’

‘I am afraid there is no Contessa –’

‘Do not lie! Where is she? The Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza.’

Chang’s fierce pronouncement of the name was followed by a sudden hushed silence. Then the entire circle of women erupted with laughter.

‘Her? Why should anyone want her?’

‘That vulgar Italian? She is no one at all!’

‘Strackenz’s lap dog!’ called the woman with the ribbon, setting off a fresh cascade.

‘Dirty Venetian,’ said the woman with tangerine hair. ‘Mind like a monkey.’

‘Who gave you her name?’ asked another. ‘Pont-Joule? Some other rake with personal experience?’

‘One of the guardsmen?’

‘She skulks in the Palace as if it were an alleyway –’

‘Rubbish through and through!’

‘Low born.’

‘Desperate.’

‘Husbandless.’

‘Stained.’

‘Diseased. I know it for a fact!’

‘Truly, Monsignor,’ Lady Axewith observed acidly, ‘who knew the Church contained such wits? I am in need of more tea – though you have robbed me of my cup! Byrnes!’ A bald-headed footman arrived with a fresh cup and saucer and set to pouring around the room, a dutiful bee in a bed of overblown peonies.

Chang did not know what to do. Their response was not, he was sure, put on for his benefit. To these women, the Contessa’s independence, her disdain, her association with outrageous figures such as the Comte or Francis Xonck, would inspire only resentment and ridicule. For the first time he understood that the women whom the Cabal had drawn to its inner circles – Margaret Hooke or Caroline Stearne – were not themselves high-born. Women of real social power had been targeted for harvest – their memories absorbed into a glass book – and then flung aside. But if he had guessed wrongly, if she had not organized these ladies to gather information for her … why had the Contessa gone to the Palace?

‘Tea, Monsignor?’ The servant hovered near, cup and saucer in one hand and a silver teapot in the other. The man was slender and the pot was heavy, his grip made unsure by pearl-grey gloves.

‘No.’ Chang restored the dagger to his stick, turning his gaze to Lady Axewith. Her eyes, above the veil, were animated, but the whites shot with blood. His gaze dropped to her fingers. Did they all wear gloves? No, only Lady Axewith.

‘Perhaps our false Monsignor will confess the true reason for his visit …’ This was the woman with the ribbon. ‘Which is to serve notice that our enterprise is known!’

‘Yes,’ said the woman with tight satin sleeves. ‘If we are to quiver in fear, should we not know by whom we have been warned?’

‘Is it the Archbishop?’

‘Is it the Ministries?’

‘Robert Vandaariff?’

Lady Axewith shook her head. ‘Those parties would never send such an agent.’

‘Then who?’ cried the woman with tangerine hair. ‘Is he one of these rebels after all?’

She was on her feet and tugging on a hanging bell-pull. Chang met the prim satisfaction in her eyes, and spoke calmly.

‘You take great pride in yourselves – and, no doubt, as an organ of intelligence, none can match you in the city. So, with respect, I tell you this. The explosive devices detonated across this city were packed with spurs formed of blue glass. These glass spurs were produced in quantities at the Xonck works at Raaxfall, a fortress – I assure you – your supposed rebels have never penetrated. The authorities know this. They have told no one. I leave you to your own conclusions.’

By the time he rose from his bow, the butler stood waiting in the open doorway.

At the end of the corridor, Chang bent his head to the butler’s ear. The butler’s silence transmitted disapproval, but he nevertheless led Chang to a tiny anteroom. Inside was a modern commode, and, above it, for ventilation and a touch of light, a transom-window. Chang stood on the seat. The window was hinged and he hauled his body through, finding handholds in the crevices of brick. He flicked the window shut with his foot. Any search would first be on the ground …

Chang crouched in an upstairs corridor, listening. Even if he had guessed correctly, there was little time. Voices rose from the foyer, women requesting their coaches. Chang hurried along the hall, opening doors – a bedchamber, a closet, another commode – and finally found one that was locked. His hand on the knob, he heard footsteps behind it, but then the sounds faded, rising upwards … a stairwell. Chang waited a count of ten, then forced the bolt. The sharp crack brought no cry of alarm. Was he already too late?

Two flights up Chang saw the butler knocking on a door.

‘My lady? It is Whorrel. Answer me, please – are you well?’

Whorrel turned at Chang’s approach, but Chang overrode any protest. ‘Don’t you have a key?’

‘It is the lady’s own retreat – the cupola room –’

Chang pounded with his fist. No response. ‘How long has she been from your sight?’

‘But how did you – the soldiers were instructed –’

‘How long?’

‘I cannot say! Only minutes –’

Whorrel sputtered as Chang once more forced an entrance. Again, the jarring snap was met with silence. Chang pushed inside and saw why.

Lady Axewith lay on the carpet, staring at a pane of swirling blue – a single page detached from a glass book. Her mouth was open and saliva dripped onto the glass. The nails on Lady Axewith’s bare hand were ragged and yellowed, as if each fingertip had begun to rot. Unmasked, her lips were scabbed, gums blazing, nostrils crusted with a pink discharge.

Whorrel rushed for his mistress, but Chang caught his arm.

‘What is wrong with her?’ asked Whorrel.

‘Pull her away. Now.’

The butler tried to raise his mistress to a sitting position, but she fought to stay near the glass. Chang drove his foot into the plate, snapping it to pieces. Lady Axewith wheezed in protest. He heard the clutch in her throat and stepped clear as she spattered vomit, first onto the broken shards and then, tumbling into Whorrel’s arms, over the front of her own dress. Her eyes rolled in her head and her hands clutched at the air.

‘Sweet Christ! Is it a fit?’ Whorrel looked helplessly at Chang. ‘Is it catching?’

‘No.’

The window behind the writing desk was open. Atop the desk sat a box lantern, wick alight, next to a pile of coloured glass squares. The squares fitted across the lantern’s aperture, tinting the light: a signal lamp, and it could even be used during the day, if the receiver possessed a telescope. Chang scanned the nearby rooftops, then – cursing his dullness of mind – set to searching the desk.

‘I cannot allow any trespass!’ cried Whorrel. ‘Lady Axewith’s private papers –’

But Chang had already found a small brass spyglass. He squinted into the eyepiece, easing the sections back and forth to find his focus. Foreshortened gables and eaves slanted up and down like theatrical scenery of painted waves. He wiped his eye on his sleeve and peered again. An uncurtained upper window … a desk, a table … and another lantern.

‘What shall I do? Shall I call a doctor?’

The butler had dragged his mistress clear and wiped her face and front. Her eyelids fluttered. The silver necklace of blue stones gleamed below her throat. Chang wrenched it free, snapping the clasp. Lady Axewith screamed. Whorrel reached for the necklace, but Chang held it at arm’s length, as if the man were a child after a sweet. He raised the necklace to the light, peering into a blue stone. His body met its delirious contents like a lover,