The Chemickal Marriage

silhouetted against the sky. At last a man from the gatehouse jogged to the courtyard for a look. At his yell two more followed … and then in a blessed rush the rest of the guards ran to the tunnel entrance, calling for water, for axes, for everyone.

The man posted at the roundhouse hesitated, but at last set down his rifle and ran after his fellows. In a flash Mahmoud vaulted out. Svenson passed Francesca through and then did his best with Mrs Kraft, only to have Mahmoud pluck her easily from his grasp. Svenson clambered over the sill, all knees and elbows, and gathered Francesca. Mahmoud was already a dozen strides gone, his mistress over his back like a rolled carpet.

Svenson’s side jolted with pain at every step. Mahmoud reached the roundhouse and slipped Mrs Kraft from his shoulder. Svenson thudded up next to them.

The door was not locked and they ducked inside. ‘Down, my dear, fast as you can!’

Francesca gripped the rail and descended with a painful delicacy. The Doctor could not blame her – the merest slip on this high staircase meant a broken neck. Keeping firm hold of Mrs Kraft, Mahmoud gave the girl his other hand and made sure of them both. Svenson closed the door and turned the lock. Had they been seen? How long would they have? He dug out the revolver and rapped the open cylinder on the heel of his hand, scattering brass cartridges onto the landing. He pawed through the pockets of his tunic. Only three bullets. He slotted them in and told himself it was no shooting situation. If he needed more, he had already lost.

‘Do not move.’

At Svenson’s words, the laboratory’s only occupant spun with shock, a glass flask slipping from his hand. The man yelped and hopped clear, batting at the greenish smoke that rose from the stone-flagged floor.

‘Damn you, sir! Look at what you’ve done! What is this trespass?’

The indignant man was fair and unkempt, with a well-fed jaw blooming from his tight collar like a toad’s. ‘Do you know whose works these are? I promise you, when Lord Robert is made aware –’

‘Professor Trooste,’ Mahmoud called from the door.

The Professor swallowed nervously. ‘Bloody Christ – I mean to say – hello. My goodness – and Mrs Kraft!’

‘Professor Trooste is a patron of the Old Palace.’ Mahmoud secured the door with an iron bolt. ‘When someone sponsors his visit, of course. He’s been travelling – haven’t you, Professor? Research expedition?’

‘Where?’ Svenson demanded. ‘Quickly – where?’

‘Nowhere at all –’

‘Polksvarte District,’ said Mahmoud. ‘And Macklenburg before it.’

‘Damn your black eyes! Not that it matters – what are the rivalries of science to the likes of you? If you must know, I was advised of certain mineral deposits – utterly unprofitable, as it happens, waste of time all round –’

‘You’re a liar.’ Svenson cocked the revolver. ‘What does he have you doing?’

‘He?’

‘Robert Vandaariff.’

‘Your uniform and voice, sir, suggest a foreign soldier. I am a patriot. Shoot me through the heart – threats mean nothing.’ Trooste struck a noble posture, but then broke into a knowing cackle. ‘In all candour, if I were to break my word, the Ministry would punish me tenfold –’

Svenson cracked the butt of the revolver on the Professor’s forehead. Trooste fell with a cry. Before he could scuttle under the table the Doctor dragged him clear.

‘Mahmoud – place Mrs Kraft on the table.’

‘But what do you intend?’ whined Trooste, both fat hands flat across his forehead. ‘I am sorry this woman is unwell – but I am no physician –’

Svenson sought out Francesca. The girl stood staring at a little hut against the far wall.

‘What is that room?’ Svenson asked Trooste.

‘The foundry.’

‘For what is it used?’

‘Smelting metals, what else?’

‘Is there a door inside, to the corridor?’

‘Of course not –’

Francesca coughed into her hands and sank down on a wooden crate. Her lips were dark and moist. Trooste squirmed to his feet. ‘Is it plague?’

‘It is not. Mahmoud, if you would prevent the Professor from leaving?’ Svenson crossed to the child. ‘What do you remember, Francesca?’

The little girl groaned, as if the disturbance in her body would not submit to speech.

‘Try shutting your eyes. The memories will be less insistent –’

She shook her head with a whine. ‘I can’t – I can’t look away.’

Svenson turned to find Trooste had edged near.

‘She is sick with the genius of your master, through close contact with indigo clay.’

‘Indigo clay?’

‘Do not pretend you do not know it.’

‘On the contrary …’ Trooste studied Francesca like a fox eyeing a fallen fledgling. ‘Close contact, you say?’

A sharp word from Mahmoud called Trooste to assist in situating Mrs Kraft on the table. Mrs Kraft remained silent, gazing into the high, conical ceiling, an enormous brick beehive.

Svenson wiped Francesca’s mouth with a handkerchief and left it in her hands. ‘Once this is finished, you shall have anything. Back in your own home, safe with your brothers, all the tea cakes you can eat –’

Francesca nodded weakly, but her pallor forestalled further mention of food. The child had visibly deteriorated, the laboratory too resonant for her frail frame. It could not last.

‘We need to align these machines,’ he told Trooste. ‘You will obey the child’s instructions.’

‘Obey her?’

‘Exactly.’

‘How provocative. That a child might possess such knowledge – one speculates …’

Svenson ignored him and began to take stock of each device, speaking aloud for Francesca’s benefit. ‘Copper wiring connects each gearbox to leads at the foot of the table, and runs inside these rectangular crates –’

‘Crucibles,’ interjected Trooste. Svenson glanced at Francesca, who nodded, pinching her nose. Svenson went on.

‘More wires pass from the crucibles to the table and hoses, which attach to the subject’s body – no doubt there is an esoteric meaning to each point of contact – and also, most prominently, a mask …’ He found the thing hanging from a peg, rubberized canvas on a metal frame. ‘The current is passed through a bolus of blue glass inside the crucible. I assume you have an adequate supply?’

This was to Trooste. The Professor nodded, adding in a crafty undertone, ‘Lord Vandaariff assured me there was no rival inquiry in these subjects.’

‘He is a liar. And I tell you here: every man to study indigo clay has paid with his life. Gray, Lorenz, Fochtmann, the Comte d’Orkancz himself – all of them dead.’

Trooste chewed his lip, shrugged.

‘You knew this?’

‘O yes. Lord Vandaariff was quite candid. But once I knew the details of each man’s failure, I saw how my own efforts –’

Doctor Svenson dug into his tunic and came out with one of the glass spurs. He flung it at Trooste. The disc harmlessly struck the Professor’s chest and dropped into his gloved palm.

‘Packed into every bomb set off in the city,’ Svenson announced. ‘By the thousands. I trust you recognize the provenance.’

‘But that’s ridiculous –’

‘Look into it, Professor!’

At Svenson’s shout, Trooste raised the blue disc to his eye. An ugly grunt came from his mouth. Before the anger in the glass could fully insinuate itself, Svenson slapped the spur away.

‘Doctor Svenson.’