The Chemickal Marriage

How not, after all – how not, given our mutual studies?’

‘Where is Colonel Bronque?’

Schoepfil waved a hand. ‘Inconsequential. But you! You were on Vandaariff’s dirigible! And at Parchfeldt! And the Customs House – and now the Institute! How I have waited to put questions to a man who knows!’

‘You could ask Robert Vandaariff.’

‘That gentleman remains beyond my purview.’

‘What is your purview, if I may ask?’

‘It would be such a pleasure to exchange tales, but there is no time. Would you like a cigarette?’

Schoepfil grinned at the mangled silver case and rang a bell. The soldier re-entered the room, one hand on his sabre hilt. ‘A cigarette for Doctor Svenson. In fact, let us give the poor fellow half a dozen.’

The trooper measured six cigarettes into Svenson’s shaking palm, then set a box of safety matches on top of the stack. He clicked his heels and was gone.

‘Light up – light up!’ urged Schoepfil. ‘I require a man who can think, not a trembling ruin.’ He slipped a pocket watch from his waistcoat and pursed his lips. ‘To the task. How did Robert Vandaariff arrange for the dirigible to sink into the sea? Was a confederate aboard to trigger the descent, or had the machine been sabotaged before leaving Harschmort?’

Svenson inhaled too deeply and began to cough. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘No shyness, Captain-Surgeon. I know of the alliance between Vandaariff, Henry Xonck and the Duke of Staelmaere. I have identified their top tier of agents and a host of underlings. Their grand plan hovers at the very point of execution … and then, in one bold stroke, Vandaariff destroys his two rivals – Henry Xonck and the Duke – and launches his minions, their duties done, off to their doom. The entire Macklenburg expedition is but a red herring! Afterwards, to protect himself, he pretends blood fever, but in secret seizes control of Xonck Armaments, the Ministries, and – as is now plain to the simplest corner bootblack – reaches for the nation itself!’

Svenson tapped his ash into the matchbox. ‘Lydia Vandaariff was a passenger on that dirigible.’

Schoepfil shrugged. ‘I see you have little experience of men of high finance.’

‘The circumstances of her death were appalling.’

‘Just Lord Vandaariff’s style – the others would believe themselves safe from his hand in Lydia’s presence. What is more, his remaining enemies have been shown he will do anything! His own child! They cower in fear! But to my question. When did you realize the dirigible would sink?’

‘When it struck the water.’

‘You jest. Come, was it a triggered device, like those we have seen here?’

‘Why is that important? The airship sank, nearly all aboard were killed –’

‘Ah, and who was not? If there was a confederate, that confederate would have been most likely to survive.’

Svenson let the smoke enter his lungs, drawing strength. ‘If you suspect I am that confederate, what use in denying the fact? You will believe me or you won’t.’

‘My reasons are my own. Could you answer?’

‘Six people survived. Three are since dead – Francis Xonck, Eloise Dujong, Celeste Temple. Two others, Cardinal Chang and the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza, may be dead as well – which leaves me.’ He ground the butt into the matchbox. ‘But it does not matter. You are wrong.’

‘About you?’

‘About everything. The airship went down through no pre-existing plan. Robert Vandaariff was defeated as much as Henry Xonck or the Duke. His resurrection at Parchfeldt only put a monster in his piece. Whatever Vandaariff once wanted in his life, he does not, I assure you, want it now.’

‘Shocking statements! What can you mean?’

‘He is insane. Quite literally of another mind.’

Schoepfil drummed the fingers of one hand upon the table. Then he rapped the table with his fist. ‘It is no good, Doctor. The attempt is worthy, but I know you to be wrong as well!’ A panel in the wall behind him popped open, and Schoepfil turned. ‘Mr Kelling – already? Admirable dispatch.’

Kelling, a slim fellow with the angular features of an apologetic fox, edged in holding a wide tray laden with squat bottles. In each bottle floated an odd-shaped mass – tubular, sponge-like, ink-stained – like a collection of shapeless invertebrates. But Svenson could not hide from his own anatomical knowledge, and his throat tightened. Each specimen jar contained a different sample of corrupted tissue, excised from a child’s body. Francesca Trapping. He leapt for the revolver.

With a speed belying his stoutness, Schoepfil snatched a wooden tray and swung it hard into the side of Svenson’s head. Stunned, the Doctor took two more rapid blows, one to his reaching hand and another to his face, the last forcing him to stagger from the table. He looked up, blinking, furious, impotent. Schoepfil retained his seat – the revolver untouched but within reach. His expression remained cheerful.

‘A surgeon and a spy, yet you retain this sentiment – as if ever there were two professions less suited to such a keepsake. The child is dead, sir. Forbear.’

Svenson felt his face burning. Schoepfil reached for the nearest jar. But Kelling had not gone, and whispered a private word. Schoepfil nodded eagerly.

‘A reprieve! Though I will want your opinion, Doctor, for these samples appear to be nothing like those collected from the blast sites. One itches to speculate irresponsibly.’

He sniffed at Svenson’s revolver. ‘That stays here.’ Schoepfil flung the greatcoat across the table for Svenson to catch. ‘Though I should not wear it. On the contrary, you will wish to trade its warmth for an iced orange squash!’

Kelling waited in the corridor, next to an ovoid hatch, as on a warship. Svenson followed Schoepfil into a dark passageway that smelt of mould. He considered attacking Schoepfil – the way was so narrow that the man might not be able to turn – but hesitated, and in his hesitation felt the weight of his exhaustion and despair. If he did escape, where would he go? What would he do? Svenson felt as alone as he ever had in life.

The air was damp, smelling of rust. They walked on. Finally Svenson felt a single gloved finger impertinently touch his lips. He resisted the urge to bite it. With a gentle scrape, Schoepfil eased aside a tiny panel in the wall: a viewing window the size of a playing card. Through the opening came light and warm, wet air laced with the rotten tang of sulphur … and the echoes of water, splashing, slapping … the sounds of people in a bath.

A very large bath. Svenson dug the monocle from his tunic, wiped it on his trouser leg. He had seen bathhouses before, but rarely so opulent or so old as the one he was peering at now – as if the city’s Roman bones had been overlaid with stucco flowers and birds, the brick archways enamelled with tile. Attendants crossed between pools bearing trays of refreshment and piles of thick Turkish towels.

A splash recalled Svenson’s attention to the pool before his eyes. Along its far edge floated a line of women, rosy with heat, hair wrapped in turbans, bathing costumes of thin muslin plastered to their flesh. Svenson stared, dull-hearted, at bare throats and shoulders, at bosoms winking above the lapping pool. One lady raised a dripping arm, a signal. More splashes, beyond his view, and a new woman, grey-haired and fat, swam to the centre of the pool. She bobbed her head.

‘The ladies you sent for …’

Svenson could not see whom she addressed – they were beneath the tiny window – but he stifled a gasp as another figure glided forward. A muslin bathing costume clung to her torso, and her bare limbs shimmered. The grey-haired woman made an introduction.

‘Rosamonde, Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza, Your Majesty. An Italian gentlewoman.’

The Contessa shyly blinked her violet eyes. With her black hair wrapped away, she appeared disturbingly unadorned, almost innocent.

‘I am much honoured by Your Majesty’s attention,’ she murmured, nodding to the space directly beneath