The Chemickal Marriage

With a cold horror, Svenson followed Mahmoud’s gaze. From within the foundry came the rattling of a doorknob.

Mahmoud whipped a sheet of canvas over Mrs Kraft and shoved Svenson under the table. He plucked Francesca off her feet and carried her behind a tall cabinet, a hand across the child’s mouth.

Trooste stood blinking, still confused by the glass and staring at the tip of Svenson’s revolver beneath the hoses, ready to fire at the Professor’s first mischosen word.

Mr Foison entered from the foundry. With the knife in his right hand he pointed past Trooste to the main entrance. ‘Why is that door locked?’

‘Is it?’ asked Trooste.

Foison surveyed the room. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing objectionable, I hope. I am working.’

‘Lord Vandaariff is delayed. He will send word.’ Foison flipped the knife into the air and caught it again, as if the action helped him to think. ‘Did you lock that door?’

Trooste’s voice hovered at the edge of a stammer. ‘Perhaps I did. Lord Vandaariff said our work was extremely sensitive –’

‘What sort of idiot locks one door but not the other?’

Trooste visibly fought the urge to glance at Svenson. ‘I suppose an idiot like me.’

‘The same idiot that dropped that flask?’

‘Indeed, yes – an accident –’

‘You are anxious, Professor. You have not been anxious before. No, I should have described you as singularly satisfied.’ Foison’s contempt entered his words like the surfacing eyes of a crocodile.

‘Ah – well, perhaps – the state of the city.’

‘I hadn’t heard.’ Foison flipped the knife again. Abruptly he stepped to the wooden crate where Francesca had been sitting. He drew a fingertip across the crate and flicked it at Trooste: a spatter of black across the Professor’s pink cheek. Trooste dabbed a finger to his face and sniffed.

‘A chemical residue – carbolic phosphate – I thought I had cleaned it all –’

Beyond Trooste, Svenson could just detect the tip of Mahmoud’s shoe. He knew Mahmoud had his own pistol ready to fire. With a sickening dread Svenson saw Foison casually shift his stance to place Trooste between, blocking any clear shot.

‘What you are doing, Professor?’

‘I am assisting Lord Vandaariff –’

‘And your guest?’

‘Guest?’

Foison flipped up the canvas, revealing Madelaine Kraft’s slippered feet. He pinched her toe and provoked a noise from beneath the canvas. ‘I did not know your work at the Institute had graduated to … live subjects.’

‘I do nothing save follow Lord Vandaariff’s instruction.’

‘I see. And – now your work has taken this turn – do you find Lord Vandaariff’s instructions troubling?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Of course not,’ Foison echoed.

‘I – ah – ascribe them to his own f-fever – and – and his recovery. To be candid, we have all heard the rumours –’

‘I have been abroad, until quite recently. Rumours?’

Trooste retreated into the table, rattling the hoses in front of Svenson’s face. ‘Lord Vandaariff’s interest in Macklenburg – and the marriage of his daughter –’

‘One explains the other, does it not? Where the daughter marries, the father invests.’

‘Indeed. But his patronage of the Comte d’Orkancz, who had also been to Macklenburg – ah!’ Trooste gasped at a sudden movement from Foison. Was the knife at his throat?

‘You will not take advantage of Lord Vandaariff, because of his ill health.’

‘Never. Christ above, I promise you –’

‘No, Professor. I promise you.’

Foison stepped away, the knife back in his coat. ‘Whatever happened to your face?’

Trooste touched his forehead where Svenson had struck it with the pistol-butt. ‘Ah, that. One of the machines. Flay-rod. One’s attention wanders –’

‘And then you’re dead.’ Foison walked to the foundry door, but then paused. ‘And Professor?’

Trooste forced a patient smile. ‘Anything.’

‘You wouldn’t know how empty shell casings came to be littering the top of your stairs?’

‘Shell casings?’

‘From a revolving pistol.’

‘I’ve no idea. I have no weapon.’

‘That is wise. The way your day is going, it would only be used against you.’

As soon as Foison was gone, Trooste sagged against the table, pale with fear. ‘I did what you asked – wait – wait! Where are you going?’

Mahmoud raced from his hiding place to the foundry room. Svenson hesitated, taking a step towards Francesca, but then followed the dark man. He found Mahmoud crouched at the second exit door. With silent care Mahmoud eased its bolt home, blocking any re-entry.

‘That cold-eyed Asiatic will have my life.’

Trooste had joined them, but the Doctor paid no heed. Above the foundry’s stone trough hung a metal rack, and there, like cakes from a baker’s oven, lay three blue glass books.

‘What in heaven …’ whispered Mahmoud.

‘O yes,’ agreed Trooste. ‘Aren’t they glorious? Just made this morning, by Lord Vandaariff himself, every one untouched and pure –’

Svenson tried to control his voice. ‘Mahmoud, take hold of the Professor. Do not touch or look into these books. A glass book brought your mistress to this pass.’

‘But what are they?’

Against the wall lay a stack of leather cases. Svenson opened the topmost, noting with grim satisfaction that its interior was lined with orange felt. Equally to his purpose was a pair of iron tongs, wrapped with cloth. As the others watched, Svenson carefully lifted one of the books and set it in the case. He snapped the case shut. Mahmoud held another ready, but Svenson shook his head.

‘Put it down. Turn away.’

‘O no.’ Trooste began to sputter. ‘No, no – good God, the effort! He will kill me! I beg you –’

Svenson flipped the second book off the rack. It struck the edge of the trough and shattered across the stone floor. Trooste howled, and only Mahmoud’s strength kept him from tackling Svenson. Svenson seized the third book.

‘You cannot!’ Trooste writhed. ‘I swear – I will be hunted down –’

Svenson heaved the book onto the stone. He broke the shards under his boots. He stumbled. He was growing light-headed – there were fumes. He dropped the tongs and clapped a hand over his nose and mouth.

‘Get out – hold your breath!’ As the others fled, the Doctor stamped again and again on the broken books. He careened into the main chamber, slamming the door behind.

‘Barbarian,’ spat Trooste.

‘You have no idea.’ Svenson rubbed his stinging eyes.

‘But, Doctor, I don’t understand.’ Mahmoud pointed to the leather case in Svenson’s hand. ‘If those books are so terrible, why keep that one?’

‘Because the Professor is correct. We’ll need a weapon.’

Svenson interrogated Trooste about the machinery, keeping one eye on Francesca – gauging the veracity of the resentful man’s answers by the distress each nugget of information provoked in the girl. Caught between Svenson’s bitter resolve and the spectre of Mr Foison, the Professor became more and more anxious. By the end Trooste barked his replies, flinching in advance at the child’s grunts and soot-coloured drool.