The Chemickal Marriage

‘No.’ Phelps began to shake his head. ‘No – I am so sorry – so ashamed –’

Chang dropped his voice. ‘You had no choice. No one does. Listen to me – I must know what you said –’

But Phelps did not hear, still working to form his words. ‘I did not know – you must believe me, Chang, I had no earthly idea. A failure from the start.’

‘No one knows – and everyone submits. Phelps, there is no shame –’

Tears rolled lines through the blood on Phelps’s shaking face. ‘All this time, I had thought myself reclaimed –’

‘They were bound to apprehend us –’

‘But who am I, Chang? How much have I betrayed? Have I done so all this time?’

‘Done what?’

‘Betrayed everything!’

‘But what did you tell them?’

‘I don’t know!’

Chang forced himself to stay calm. ‘Phelps, they are about to set in on me – it will doom us both if I contradict you –’

‘My soul is already taken.’

The man was useless. Chang changed tactics. ‘Have you seen Celeste Temple? She is to be exchanged – have you seen her? Did they speak of her? Is she here?’

Phelps shook his head. ‘Heard nothing. Seen nothing. If the girl is here …’

‘What? What?’

‘… she has already been consumed.’

The door opened. Phelps flinched at the sound and began to babble. ‘I assure you – for God’s sake – we said nothing –’

Foison smiled regretfully. ‘Of course not. Still, one attempts what one can.’ He took a third chair, facing Chang, but putting Phelps between them.

‘Cardinal. Will you tell me of the Contessa?’

‘By all means. She claims to be Italian, her figure is handsome, her personal habits are slovenly in the extreme –’

A knife appeared in Foison’s hand, and he extended his arm until the tip pricked Mr Phelps’s earlobe. Phelps gasped but kept still.

‘No,’ said Foison. ‘Mr Phelps has divulged everything, or so I am convinced. Do you understand? I lose nothing in his disposal.’

‘And I do?’

‘Such is my perception. Start from the Customs House. After the explosion – how did the Contessa find you?’

‘I found her.’

‘She has sworn to kill you.’

‘And I, her. It is deferred.’

‘How did you find her?’

‘I saw her coach and forced my way inside.’

‘Another lie.’

Phelps gasped again as a whisper-thin line of blood formed across his earlobe. As Chang watched, a bead of red slid off the line and hung like a pirate’s ear-ring, then dropped to stain Phelps’s shirt. Chang had barely seen Foison move.

‘Cardinal?’ Foison tapped the knife against Phelps’s shoulder.

‘I guessed where she would be. She had hidden herself in the Palace, hoping to enslave as many highly placed courtiers as possible –’

‘If you are referring to Sophia of Strackenz –’

‘I refer to Lady Axewith.’

Foison shifted in his chair, the knife cradled in his lap. ‘Do you have proof?’

‘The lady’s appearance, for one. But also the network of society women she has enlisted to gather information. They have been swarming Axewith House like bees a hive – all at the unseen behest of the Contessa.’

‘Where is the Contessa now?’

‘Laughing at you, I expect. Why did you stop Harcourt from taking her?’

Foison ignored the question. ‘Where is Doctor Svenson?’

‘We were separated after the blast.’

‘Where is Francesca Trapping?’

‘With Doctor Svenson.’

‘How did he acquire her?’

‘At the Palace. The Contessa had hidden her.’

‘That isn’t true.’

The words hung there. Phelps glanced desperately at Chang. Foison’s grip shifted on the knife. Chang knew it was a test, exerting pressure to establish how far he would go to preserve Phelps. Chang kept his face empty. If he made up anything now, it would make matters worse. Foison flicked his head, flipping a lock of white hair from his eyes. ‘Tell me about the painting.’

‘Which painting?’

‘You know very well.’

Another test – Chang had no idea what Phelps had already confessed. ‘A newspaper clipping. From the Herald, critiquing an art salon, especially a painting of the Comte d’Orkancz entitled The Chemickal Marriage –’

‘And you saw this painting yourself?’

‘None of us did.’

‘I will ask you once more. Did you see this painting?’

‘No. The salon was in Vienna.’

The knife sliced through the earlobe. Phelps shrieked and hopped against his bonds. The gash streamed blood, the severed nub of flesh somewhere on the floor.

‘The salon burnt down with the painting in it!’ Chang shouted. ‘The clipping came from the Contessa – if you want to know more, ask her!’

Foison ignored his anger. ‘Again, please, how did you acquire Francesca Trapping?’

‘I didn’t! We were separated in the Palace – when I found Svenson, he had the child –’

‘So Doctor Svenson had seen the Contessa?’

‘If he had, she would have killed him.’

‘She did not kill you.’

‘Doctor Svenson would have given her no choice. She murdered the woman he loved, Eloise Dujong.’

‘So he stole the Contessa’s property – this child – out of revenge?’

‘You do not know Svenson. He rescued a child in danger.’

‘Has the child been mistreated?’

‘You saw her yourself, you damned ghoul. She’s been poisoned by that glass book. By your filthy master. Who’s no more Robert Vandaariff than I’m the Pope – or you’re the God damned Queen!’

The door opened, and Robert Vandaariff tottered in. He had aged even since the Customs House, his face grey and his bony fingers fiercely gripping the head of his cane. His throat was wrapped in a neck cloth, but a red bruise extended past its white border. Harcourt slipped in behind, eyes darting covetously between Chang and Mr Phelps.

‘Time ticks on,’ Vandaariff announced blandly. ‘Close the door, Mr Harcourt. We have no need of soldiers.’

‘But, my lord, your safety – Cardinal Chang –’

‘Is tied to a chair. Mr Foison will preserve me. Will you not trust him, too?’