The Chemickal Marriage

‘But who else knew of our trove?’

‘The German doctor?’

‘He was with me,’ said Schoepfil.

‘The other prisoners –’

‘Kelling locked them in the stable.’

‘Then an agent of Vandaariff?’

‘But Vandaariff wants my collection for himself. No, the Contessa is frightened, thus she has become desperate – perfectly natural … and perhaps even advantageous.’ Schoepfil urgently dug under the cuff of one glove with the poking fingers of the other. ‘Ah! The itching becomes unbearable – any excitement sets it off –’

He peeled down the glove and Miss Temple stifled a gasp of surprise. Mr Schoepfil’s hand was a brilliant cerulean blue. He raised it to his mouth and nipped the flesh between his teeth, then tugged the glove back into position. Bronque watched with distaste.

‘Drusus, I assure you. The woman means nothing. She’s a monster – I know she’s a monster. She’ll get her comeuppance from Vandaariff or she’ll hang. But what if we have another enemy entirely, perhaps one of the Queen’s retainers? They cannot be pleased at your taking up residence, and they are not all fools.’

‘Aren’t they?’

‘The Duchess of Cogstead, for example.’

‘Is it possible?’ Schoepfil frowned in thought, then abruptly slapped Bronque on the shoulder. ‘I will consider – as I will continue to consider the Contessa. Go – to Axewith, then Vandaariff. Make the offer.’ Bronque turned on his heel, but Schoepfil hopped after him. ‘Wait! Do you credit this story about Madelaine Kraft – that she was cured?’

‘Do you?’

‘Svenson says so.’

‘Svenson is a hero or a liar. Does he look like a hero to you?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ laughed Schoepfil. ‘I’ve never seen one!’

Bronque marched out. Schoepfil stood staring at where Bronque had been. Then he lifted his nose and began to sniff the air. Miss Temple pressed herself against the wall. Schoepfil turned to her hiding place, but stopped sniffing as abruptly as he’d begun. He tugged his jacket into position and hurried after the Contessa.

Miss Temple crept to the keyhole. She saw the Contessa escorted away and Schoepfil, instead of following, disappear surreptitiously behind a Moorish screen. When he did not re-emerge, Miss Temple took a breath for courage and scampered down the corridor after him. The screen concealed another room. Schoepfil spoke into a copper funnel attached to the wall. He returned the funnel to its hook and shoved two fingertips under his glove, scratched, then briskly clapped his hands together, as if the sting might suspend the itching.

Beyond Schoepfil a door opened, his summons answered. At the distraction Miss Temple slipped in, as low as a spaniel, and dropped behind a sofa.

‘Doctor,’ called Schoepfil warmly. ‘Enter, enter – so much to discuss, so little time. You have eaten – no? Well, hardly time now – you have been told of the fire?’

‘I saw enough of it myself.’ Miss Temple craned around a sofa leg. Doctor Svenson looked like a beaten dog. Schoepfil poked him playfully.

‘Not that fire. Can you not smell?’

Svenson swatted at his greatcoat. ‘I would smell smoke if we stood in a rose garden.’

‘Yes, a shocking conflagration, by all accounts, and now that these accounts are arriving, thick as migrating crows – do crows migrate? – the Queen’s court is a-boil with fear.’ Schoepfil lifted a folder of papers from a table and raised a cloud of ash. ‘Thus the extremely small blaze in my own quarters prompts a request that I relocate.’

‘What caused this extremely small blaze?’

‘Do you truly not know?’

‘I have been locked in a room.’

‘The Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza. She has provoked an abominable inconvenience.’

‘I should say you came off lucky.’

‘I did not count you amongst her admirers.’

‘I am not. Where is Miss Temple? They were together in the baths.’

Schoepfil shrugged, as if the question were trivial. Svenson reached for the man, but Schoepfil’s hand shot out and quickly twisted the Doctor’s arm at the elbow. Svenson grimaced, but managed to repeat his question.

‘Where is Miss Temple?’

‘Perfectly safe – how you will squirm! – locked with that fellow from the brothel.’

‘Let me make sure of her safety. I can as easily be locked up there as here.’

Schoepfil released the Doctor’s arm. ‘An extraordinary request. Does the Contessa care for her as well? What if I threatened to cut off her nose?’

‘The Contessa would probably ask to eat it.’

Schoepfil sighed. ‘Perhaps. Before I decide the fate of Miss Temple’s nose, however, I must know more about Madelaine Kraft.’

‘There is nothing to tell. She recovered. I cannot say how.’

Schoepfil reached into his coat pocket and removed a cork-stopped flask of brown dust. ‘I believe this is called bloodstone.’

‘Is it?’

‘It was in your own tunic, Doctor. Gorine confirms that you employed bloodstone to effect the lady’s restoration.’

‘Mr Gorine was not present. He tells you what you want to hear.’

‘What I want are Mrs Kraft’s whereabouts.’

‘She died in the fire.’

‘Who taught you the properties of bloodstone? Vandaariff? He’s resumed production of the Comte’s library, as you know.’ Miss Temple’s eyes went wide at the sight of a leather case propped next to the papers. She bore a scar where another such case, containing the glass book preserving the Comte d’Orkancz, had nearly cracked her skull.

‘With luck he’s set a book aside for you.’

Schoepfil trilled with amusement and shook his head, too quickly, like a little dog shaking off sleep. ‘You tweak me, Doctor Svenson – you tweak me because nothing has gone your way. I accept it – accept the impulse – though I insist on a serious response before we leave.’

‘Leave for where?’

‘Excellent question. And since I admire your abject determination, Doctor, I will tell you – well, tell you a little …’ Schoepfil held up a hand, stepped to the archway and poked his head through. He re-emerged, smiled, and then without warning leapt behind the sofa. But when Mr Schoepfil’s attention had been diverted at the archway, Miss Temple had crept to the cover of an over-stuffed fauteuil. Schoepfil lifted the sofa to glare at the carpet beneath.

‘Are you quite well?’ asked Svenson.

‘Of course I am,’ growled Schoepfil. ‘Didn’t you hear?’

‘Hear what?’

‘A spy.’ Schoepfil returned to the archway, scowling out. ‘Breathing.’

Svenson sighed impatiently. ‘If you refuse to tell me –’

‘I will tell you when I want! And you will tell me – whatever I want – more than I want – you will beg for the chance!’

‘No doubt,’ agreed the Doctor blandly.

Schoepfil marched straight to Svenson and struck him across the face. Neither man spoke. Miss Temple dared not peek to see their expressions.

‘I will not endure that … that tone,’ hissed Schoepfil. Svenson’s silence was