The Chemickal Marriage

Gorine turned on Svenson, his fury heightened. But while Gorine’s back was turned, the Doctor had taken hold of his revolver and now pressed the barrel into Gorine’s abdomen. Gorine’s breath stopped.

‘O well done, Mahmoud –’

‘Be quiet.’ Svenson’s voice was calm. ‘Ignorance makes a man angry, I know. The matter is larger than us – than all of us together. I am here to help – to help her. But I am entirely willing to blow you apart like a pumpkin beforehand.’

The pressure of the pistol caused Gorine’s Adam’s apple to bob like a cork in a stream. The Doctor lowered the weapon that – he was quite sure – no longer held any bullets. Gorine darted to the side, clearing the way for Mahmoud to fire, but the dark man did not move. Svenson slipped the pistol back into his greatcoat and addressed them both.

‘The Prince of Macklenburg was as much of a dupe as your women, sacrificed to the ambition of a wicked few who are still driving this city to its grave.’

Mahmoud stepped forward. ‘Who? We have ten good men –’

‘Save them – even a hundred is too few.’

‘But their names –’

‘The name that matters is Robert Vandaariff.’

Mahmoud cast a doubting glance to Gorine. ‘But he was stricken with blood fever – we assumed he was another victim.’

‘Forty-seven people were taken ill that night,’ said Gorine. ‘Not one has recovered, save Robert Vandaariff. Are you the one who cured him?’

‘No. The recovery is false. His entire character is destroyed.’ Svenson rubbed his eyes. ‘Would either of you gentlemen have any tobacco? I have lost my supply and a touch of smoke would do wonders for my mind.’

At Mahmoud’s nudge, Gorine took an ebony box from a desk drawer. ‘Mrs Kraft’s. Get on with your story.’

‘The man is exhausted, Michel.’

‘We are all exhausted,’ Gorine retorted.

Gorine took a cheroot himself before offering the box to Mahmoud, who declined. The squabbling intimacy of the two men was suddenly plain, especially to one who had spent years sailing in close quarters. Svenson shrugged at the insight – it was nothing to him, after all – and took a tightly rolled cheroot from the box and held it to his nose. Gorine held out a light and Svenson puffed with a palpable greed.

Mahmoud waited, one hand still resting on his pistol-butt.

‘So can you help her, Captain-Surgeon, or can you not?’

The Doctor began by asking questions, but the narrative of Mrs Kraft’s care only tightened his jaw. Nothing had answered, yet he could think of nothing left to try. At last he stubbed out the cheroot – he must work or fall asleep.

‘The attack was on Mrs Kraft’s mind, not her body, and in her mind will be the cure.’

‘Her mind is beyond reach,’ replied Gorine. ‘She cannot speak one word.’

‘Yes. If I might impose for a supply of chemicals and then a meal – anything at all, though hot soup would be a treasure …’

Mahmoud went for food while Gorine found paper in the desk. As Svenson made a list of what he required, Gorine studied Francesca. She sat at the foot of the chaise-longue, and for the first time Svenson realized how quiet she had become.

‘Heir to the Xonck empire, is it?’ Gorine asked her.

‘Once my uncle Henry dies.’

‘And you’re with this doctor? Alone?’

‘Her parents,’ said Svenson, ‘along with her uncle Francis –’

Gorine plucked the list from Svenson’s hand. ‘Francis Xonck. One hopes she isn’t heir to that.’

Gorine left the room. Francesca frowned at the carpet. Svenson had no idea how much the girl had heard at Parchfeldt between her uncle and her mother, or how much she had understood.

‘Do not mind him. We are here to help this lady. As you said yourself, a queenly countenance –’

Francesca still stared at the floor. ‘Did you like my uncle Francis?’

‘I’m afraid your uncle did not care for me, my dear.’

‘But he loved mother. He loved me.’

‘Francesca …’

‘He did.’

‘Your uncle Francis loved to be happy, sweetheart – how could he not love you?’ It was a feeble attempt, and Francesca Trapping wrinkled her nose. She fell silent again. ‘What … ah … what did the Contessa say to you, about your uncle?’

Francesca snorted, as if the question was especially stupid.

Gorine hurried in. ‘There is someone to see you –’

Svenson reached for his revolver. ‘No one knows I am here –’

Gorine seized his arm. ‘For God’s sake – don’t be a fool!’

Mahmoud appeared, and his added strength wrenched the Doctor’s weapon away.

‘There is no help for it,’ the dark man said. ‘He recalled your face.’

Colonel Bronque stood in the doorway. Black hair sat flat against his skull, a widow’s peak accentuating his hawk-like nose. Gorine and Mahmoud retreated to either side.

‘Macklenburg.’ The Colonel spat it like a curse. ‘Macklenburg.’

‘What of it?’

‘You’re Svenson. Surgeon. Spy.’

‘Do I know you?’

‘Obviously not. If you did, you would be more frightened.’

The Doctor’s fatigue got the better of him. ‘O no doubt,’ he replied, and sat on the desk.

Colonel Bronque barked with harsh laughter. Svenson risked a glance to Mahmoud and Gorine – both nodding gamely along with the Colonel’s amusement. Bronque came forward beaming. ‘I did not think you fellows had any humour at all.’

‘What fellows?’

‘Macklenburgers – Germans. I knew your Major Blach. Tight as a drum head.’

‘Indeed, a horrid man. Who are you?’

Instead of a reply, Bronque extended his arms, and his glittering eyes invited the Doctor to guess – a test. Svenson had no choice.

‘Very well. Your name tells me nothing, nor – a priori – does your rank. You are seen in a brothel in full dress, with another man whose clothing is expensive but undistinguished. Judging by the poor crease of your trousers, you have spent the night. One guess says your charge is a high-born personage bent upon his pleasures, requiring an especially trusted chaperone in these troubled days.’

Bronque grinned with a wolfish satisfaction. ‘But why should I bother with you?’

‘Because, as a criminal, my presence opens your personage to scandal.’

‘Nonsense.’

Svenson sighed. ‘Indeed, you would simply kill me.’

‘But I have not.’

The Colonel’s intensity was oppressive. Svenson rubbed his eyes. It was early, and the better part of his mind was tangled with thoughts of blue glass. But then he had it.

‘Ah. Because you are not here at all.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You have not come for the brothel’s wares. You have come for the tunnel.’

‘What tunnel?’