The Chemickal Marriage

had been purchased, and by whom, if it was a final memento from the girl’s mother or something the Contessa had purloined for their stay in the tunnels. Sensible cloth, well sewn. Miss Temple cocked her head … several bits seemed of a double thickness.

The first pocket contained a tangled tuft of hair poorly tied with ribbon. Miss Temple recognized its colour. This was Charlotte Trapping’s, not taken from her head, but scavenged by Francesca from her mother’s hairbrush. The child had kept it with her, from Mrs Trapping’s disappearance right to the very end. Miss Temple put it back. The second pocket held a tiny leather sleeve, like a case for the Doctor’s monocle. She prised it open and revealed, snug in an impression of orange felt, a blue glass key.

Miss Temple tucked the key sleeve in her own pocket and turned at a scuffing from the outer room. A tall man with a starched collar, whose pointed features were undone by coarse tufts of hair in his ears, peered past the panel with disapproval.

‘Who are you?’ Miss Temple demanded, before he could speak.

‘I am Mr Kelling.’

‘Why do you not keep such a door locked, Mr Kelling, instead of allowing innocent women to blunder onto so shocking a sight? It is disgraceful and cruel!’

Kelling studied her shrewdly. ‘You were told to wait.’

‘With that smell? Now I’ve been sickened. Now I just want some air.’

‘Of course. If you would follow me.’

Kelling stepped aside. Under his arm was tucked an oblong box of dark wood. He led her into the corridor and locked the door behind him.

‘Who was that girl?’ asked Miss Temple. ‘And what was that horrid stink?’

‘An unfortunate orphan.’ Kelling’s voice was glazed with apology, like watered honey on a poor-quality gammon. ‘The odour is regrettable.’

‘I did not expect dead orphans in a palace.’

‘One wouldn’t.’

‘What did she die of?’

‘An inevitable question.’

A period of silence made clear it was also a question to which Miss Temple would get no answer. ‘What do you do here, Mr Kelling?’

‘Whatever I am asked.’

‘So you’re someone’s spaniel?’

They reached another door. Kelling waved her through.

‘Mr Schoepfil.’

Miss Temple stopped where she stood. ‘I don’t want to see any Mr Schoepfil.’

‘He insists on seeing you.’

She was offered an upholstered chair. The only other furniture in the room was a little table on wheels, stacked with folders. Kelling gave Schoepfil the oblong box, then made a discreet exit. Schoepfil opened the narrow casket eagerly, pecking at its contents with the tip of one gloved finger, counting to seven. He snapped the box shut and impishly raised his eyebrows, inviting Miss Temple to share his pleasure.

‘Your first audience with the Queen?’ He nodded before she could reply, and rapped the stack of folders with a grey-gloved fist. ‘I offer no refreshment – there is no time – as much as I would enjoy chatting at length with someone who, however inadvertently, might answer so many matters digging at my mind. I believe you even knew my cousin – I expect you saw her die! I imagine the event was spectacular.’ Mr Schoepfil’s hands flapped at either side of his neck and a wretched squawk came from his mouth, enacting – it took Miss Temple a moment to realize – Lydia Vandaariff’s decapitation. ‘Dreadful! Still, a stupid girl, and sacrificed with no more thought than a loaf of stale bread given to pigs. But you – you’re a different fish. One gathers – one sifts – even within the lies! – and the name of Miss Celestial Temple persistently appears.’

He pursed his lips with a lemony expectation.

‘I would like to leave,’ said Miss Temple.

Schoepfil shook his head. ‘No, no, no – think and move on.’

‘What can you want with me?’

‘Less by the second, I assure you.’

‘Where is the Contessa?’

‘Is she your patroness?’

‘She can go hang. Where is Lord Axewith?’

‘Why should a little thing like you care about him?’

‘He was at the baths. His watch stopped working for the steam.’

‘Lord Axewith was called to his wife, who is unwell.’

Miss Temple gazed back, blankly, knowing this was a lie – or, conversely, that it was the truth and Colonel Bronque was the liar.

‘Is not the city on fire?’

‘Yes, sometimes others are kind enough to manage things for you.’ Schoepfil unexpectedly grinned. ‘Most likely you should die here and now! What would you say to that? I am nearly in jest – but not all, because I know – and when one knows, one must always fear. Have you learnt that – learnt it enough? When did you last see the Trapping child alive?’

Miss Temple did not want to answer, but saw no value in the information. ‘At the Customs House, before the explosion.’

‘Ah. As I suspected.’

‘But that’s not where she was killed.’

‘Of course not.’ Schoepfil let out a frustrated huff, his torso compacted in a contemplative hunch. Again Miss Temple attempted to prompt him.

‘Francesca’s sickness –’

‘Too fragile, could have predicted it ten miles away.’ He tapped his thin lips with a thumb. ‘But where does that leave you?’

‘I have killed four men,’ said Miss Temple.

‘I do not doubt it. One’s fingertips tingle. Come!’

He snatched up the oblong box and hauled her to the door, Miss Temple restraining an urge to kick. They passed Kelling in the corridor, and the servant fell in step.

‘You asked to be reminded, sir –’

‘There is no hope, Kelling – they must wait!’ Schoepfil turned with an exasperated smile. ‘Is there an hour in the day that might not be doubled and still found too brief?’

‘Every last one of them,’ she replied, not liking to be pulled.

Mr Schoepfil’s eyes twinkled. ‘You affect to be sour.’

‘You are a ghoul.’

‘The world is ghoulish. I do not see you hiding your head in a rabbit-hole!’ Kelling darted forward to open a door, allowing Schoepfil to sweep through without pause. ‘Figures such as ourselves do not arise without purpose.’

The door closed on Miss Temple’s heel, Kelling outside. Schoepfil approached another table, piled not with papers but, to her dismay, a heap of metal tools.

‘But whose purpose, Miss Temple?’ Schoepfil sorted the tools with an extended finger. ‘We navigate currents of influence as Magellan did the sea, and glean what? The source, if to address it thusly does not impugn the term, of integrity. In your own case, what puppeteer has hung you in my reach?’

‘Since you saw me with the Contessa, I assume you’ve solved that mystery.’

‘And whatever shall I do about it?’

‘What you can get away with. But you had best make sure that woman’s dead.’

Schoepfil gave her an indulgent smile and opened the oblong box. He peered at her above his spectacles. ‘I