The Chemickal Marriage by Gordon Dahlquist
When, at the pronouncement of vice-regal opinion, Cynthia turned with her customary sneer, Miss Temple, instead of retreating to cold silence, laughed outright. It was hollow, mocking, more fit for a bragging jay than a lady. The audacity stopped the table dead – and that silence provoked another triumphant and damning bray from Miss Temple. Never again had Miss Hobart given her trouble, though the poor thing had tried. Miss Temple had seen into her rival’s heart and, to her great satisfaction, found it weak.
She was not fool enough to think that mere contempt would break Mr Schoepfil’s control, but Miss Temple was sure of an essential similarity. Despite the impression Schoepfil projected of balancing a hundred facts at once, she marked his persistent reluctance to spell out exactly what he wanted to know. Hers was not a logical opinion, yet, even as Schoepfil studied the glass cards, it struck her as a performance – that, far from possessing a host of questions about the Comte’s alchemy, Mr Schoepfil, who was unquestionably clever, sought to goad Miss Temple into asking questions of him, questions that would divulge her own knowledge – in this case, perhaps, the whereabouts of the missing card.
‘Such colour,’ observed Schoepfil. ‘Brilliance. I suppose you’ve never seen the like.’
He extracted a card for Miss Temple to see.
‘Why is it green?’ she asked.
‘You may well wonder.’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘I expect it’s ground-up emeralds.’
‘Rather costly, don’t you think? Besides …’ He held it higher, so the light shone through. ‘The actual colour cast is more yellow –’
‘Then I expect it’s dried lemon peel, lemons being less expensive than emeralds.’
‘Do you tweak my nose?’
His voice betrayed a hint of steel – not exactly like Cynthia Hobart – but she kept on.
‘How could a mere puppet do that?’
‘You cannot. So you will tell me what you know of these glass cards.’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘I think you do.’
‘Perhaps you should ask the Contessa.’
‘Perhaps I already have.’
The menace of his last words, that he had forced the Contessa to his will, hung in the air. But Miss Temple did not take well to threats – that is, she took them to heart, and whenever a thing touched Miss Temple’s heart, she answered resentfully in kind.
‘All right, then, I’ll tell you this.’ She paused, allowing him to grin in anticipation. ‘If you are the man who cut up Francesca Trapping, I’m going to make you number five.’
Schoepfil jerked his head back at the bluntness of her threat. He snapped shut the box. ‘Mr Kelling!’
Kelling’s head poked in. Schoepfil’s smile was gone, and without it his face seemed a lifeless mask. ‘This woman wastes my time. Get rid of her.’
Mr Kelling’s grip fell painfully across Miss Temple’s injured arm. She was pulled from the room and dragged into the open air to a wooden outbuilding. Kelling opened the bolt using one hand, levered the double door open with his foot – was it a stable? – and shoved her in. A moment later the bolt was shot and his footsteps were fading away. She held her arm, glad that the cut had not reopened, strode back to the door and kicked it. It was only then that Miss Temple realized that not once during all the time gazing at the oblong box and its glass cards had she felt ill. No echo of such a box came from the Comte’s memories, nor of glass in those swirling colours. Schoepfil may have acquired his prize without understanding its function, but her own ignorance meant the cards, and the science behind them, had only come into existence since the Comte’s demise, in these last months. But then Miss Temple frowned, for there was something … she tasted the bile on her tongue … an echo from the vast painting, The Chemickal Marriage. The different colours of paint were connected to the different colours of glass. The Comte had not realized the alchemical potential at the time, but – in the body of Robert Vandaariff – he must have done so since.
‘Are you just going to stand there?’
She turned with a start. In the dying light she had not seen the figure slumped in the corner: a thin man in a white jacket and dark trousers. He had been beaten and his face swelled with bruises. Even as he spoke, his body did not move, as if to do so lay beyond him.
‘Who are you?’
‘Michel Gorine. Late of the Old Palace, now Her Majesty’s guest.’
‘I am Miss Temple. I’m not anyone’s guest at all.’
‘Forgive my not rising.’ He raised his hands, bound about the wrists with knotted rope. ‘Would you mind trying to untie me? My teeth will not do – our hosts knocked a few loose and I am loath to risk my smile.’
Miss Temple did not move. ‘Is this the Old Palace, where we are now?’
‘The Old Palace is a brothel. We are in a shed outside Bathings.’
‘What is Bathings?’
‘What everyone calls the Royal Thermæ. I wish you would untie my hands.’
Miss Temple pulled at the door, then kicked it again, without heat. She looked at the man in the corner. ‘I suppose you told him everything?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘If you had not talked they would still be at you. Now they must be confirming what you said, in case you tried to lie. Did you lie?’
‘About what?’
‘I would be happy to know. The fellow I met was named Schoepfil. Stout and weaselly.’
Gorine shifted to a sitting position. ‘Why would anyone interrogate you?’
‘What did, or didn’t, you lie about, Mr Gorine, and to whom?’
Gorine carefully touched his split lip. ‘An iron rooster named Bronque.’
Miss Temple nodded. ‘I thought he was wicked.’
‘He has a wicked fist.’
‘Why should he care about a brothel?’
‘Who are you?’
‘No one at all. I don’t suppose you saw a beautiful woman with black hair and a dark dress?’ Gorine shook his head. ‘I can’t think they killed her – how could they have killed her but not me? No, the real question is whether she is a prisoner or their ally. She’s very good at getting people to do things. Did you see the dead girl?’
‘What dead girl?’
‘Francesca Trapping. A poor pale thing with red hair.’
Gorine shook his head carefully. ‘How did she die?’
‘That is the mystery. Those beasts have cut her to pieces to find out.’
‘Good Lord,’ cried Gorine. ‘Why?’
‘Because there is very little time – for anyone.’ She crossed to Gorine. ‘If you touch me I will do my best to hurt you, and my best is keen.’
‘I recline forewarned.’
She tugged at the knots to no great success. ‘You’ve bled into the rope.’
‘My apologies.’
Miss Temple lifted his hands to her mouth, taking a knot in her teeth and tugging until the first strand grudgingly pulled loose. She spat it out and made quick work of the rest, until the sticky rope lay uncoiled on the floor. She snatched up some straw to wipe her hands. Gorine studied the raw bands around his wrists. ‘You should wash that with salt and hot water,’ said Miss Temple. ‘It will hurt, but otherwise your hands will puff like a brace of adders.’
‘I’ll have my manservant boil some up directly,’ muttered Gorine, but then he looked up at Miss Temple and caught her smile. He shook his head. ‘You’re an odd creature.’
‘I suggest we escape, but I do not know where to go. My friends have vanished, if they are even alive.’
‘My friends as well.’
‘You have friends?’
‘A shock, I know,’ Gorine replied. ‘A man named Mahmoud. A woman named Madelaine Kraft.’
‘I do not know them.’
‘Why should you, unless you have traffic with our business?’
‘Which I do not.’ But then Miss Temple sighed at an unwelcome thought. ‘Unless you were acquainted with a woman named Angelique.’
Gorine leant forward. ‘How in hell do you know of her?’
‘Part of the same exceedingly long story. She died at Harschmort House.’
‘By whose hand?’
Though she herself had fired the bullet, Miss Temple scarcely considered her answer a lie. ‘The Comte d’Orkancz. He did terrible things to her body, with machines.’ Before Gorine could give vent to his anger – anger that, she knew, would be fuelled to excess by the shame of his own imprisonment – she changed the topic. ‘The fact is, I know all sorts of things – perhaps more about your own troubles than you. But if you expect me to help you must say what you divulged to Colonel Bronque.’
Gorine snorted with disbelief. ‘How can you help me?’
‘I have already untied your hands.’
‘And I thank you. But tonight my place of business has been destroyed, my friends – my family – have disappeared, others whose welfare is my charge have been thrown to the law.’
Miss Temple crossed to the door. ‘Obviously first we must quit this shed.’
‘It is bolted from the outside – and made to withstand the strength of a horse.’
‘But I am not a horse.’ Miss Temple dropped into a far from ladylike crouch.
‘One wonders what you are.’
Miss Temple smiled, for she took pleasure in being wrongly doubted. This was hardly the first time she had been shut in a stable. As a girl, being a routine nuisance, she’d often found the door bolted behind her by some resentful groom. When Kelling had pushed her in, she had noticed the similarity to her father’s stable: instead of a wooden bar across the front, the doors were joined by an ostensibly stronger metal bolt, waist-high, which was further pinned in place by an iron pole sunk into the ground. Unable to shift the bolt, the young Miss Temple discovered that one could lift up the pole. Doing so while carefully pushing outwards opened the doors in tiny increments and eventually slid the bolt from its socket.
It took her a minute of grunting effort to raise the pole. She stood, wiping the rust from her hands and glanced over at Gorine. He had not moved. She began to rock the doors forward.
‘What are you doing?’ Gorine called. ‘Where did you learn that?’
The door scraped free of the bolt. Miss Temple caught it before it swung wide and peered out. The derelict courtyard was empty as before. She looked back at Gorine.
‘It’s almost dark. With any luck –’
Miss Temple shrieked at the figure who appeared out of nowhere in the doorway. Gorine leapt to her defence, but Miss Temple had already turned with an outstretched hand. ‘A friend – it is a friend!’
‘I thought it might be you, mistress. We’ve little time.’ Cunsher’s voice was but a whisper, and Miss Temple was chagrined at her shriek, especially as she had been doing so well.
‘This is Mr Gorine,’ said Miss Temple, making it plain that she could whisper too.
Cunsher narrowed his eyes, then nodded. ‘Mrs Kraft.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Gorine.
‘Mr Cunsher has my complete confidence,’ she said pointedly, and then explained to Cunsher, ‘I arrived in the custody of the Contessa, who may be either the prisoner of Mr Schoepfil or his ally. I believe she intended to depart with the contrivance of Mr Pfaff.’
‘How I’m here, miss. Cardinal Chang set me on Pfaff, while he went off with the Contessa.’
‘But the Contessa has been with me these hours. What happened to Chang?’ Her voice had risen and she felt Cunsher’s touch on her arm.
‘I cannot say. Pfaff has a carriage. Beyond the southern wall, under a stand of trees. He creeps into the courtyard every few minutes, and even goes so far as to peer into the windows.’
‘Did you see the German doctor?’ Both Miss Temple and Cunsher turned to Gorine with surprise. He held up his hands. ‘I am sorry, I should have been more trusting – I arrived in chains with Doctor Svenson. The child was with him – she was killed, in the fire.’
‘Doctor Svenson is here?’ hissed Miss Temple.
‘What did Svenson say?’ Cunsher demanded. ‘Anything at all –’
‘He went to the Institute, with Mrs Kraft. She has been without her mind – the Doctor knew of a laboratory at the Institute. He said she has been restored.’
Cunsher’s sharp gesture brought them to silence. Miss Temple glimpsed a shadow flit past a window, far across the courtyard. Cunsher moved in pursuit, pulling the others after him.
The skulking shadow led them ably around a guard post and a strolling pair of gentlemen with cigars. Cunsher paused and motioned Miss Temple and Gorine near.
‘There is a postern gate,’ he whispered. ‘His coach waits on the other side.’
Ahead of them Pfaff edged along the outer wall, in his orange coat like a fox skirting a farmhouse. Cunsher followed just as deliberately, with Gorine at his heels. Miss Temple let them creep away. Their attention fixed on Pfaff, the men had not noticed an unwatched doorway back into the Royal Thermæ. But Miss Temple darted to it, her business unfinished.
With the exception of her proper Aunt Agathe, Miss Temple had never met anyone who held the old Queen in the slightest regard. The image of Lord Axewith waiting in the mouldy vestibule spoke to how rarely the mechanics of government ever touched the monarch, and Miss Temple wondered at all the ladies in the baths – how their ambitions were tied to a sinking ship, how they must know this perfectly well. What kept them in such close attendance – Miss Temple shuddered anew to recall the Queen’s skin – was it actual loyalty, or had they wagered all to extract a crumb of favour from the doomed woman’s final testament? Miss Temple knew very little about the Crown Prince – only that he was becalmed in a lax sixth decade amongst actresses and wine – but guessed that he too carried a penumbra of hangers-on and hopefuls. No wonder active men like Harald Crabbé and Robert Vandaariff could manipulate the mighty with such ease, and with such relative anonymity. The courtiers they would formerly have served had exchanged actual accomplishment for comfort and prestige.
All of which was only to clarify Miss Temple’s position. If she were a man, all she would have required to brazen any corridor was a Ministry topcoat and a scowl. For a woman, it was more difficult. She was in less danger of being named as a fugitive than of being cast out for inferior couture.
She followed the sound of water to a bustling laundry room, where harried, red-faced women stirred steaming tubs, and others wrung out linens and hung them to dry. Miss Temple emerged with a stack of fresh towels, hoping they would proclaim a legitimate errand. Managing several corridors without being challenged, she steeled herself to stop a young maid, who carried a covered tray.
‘I beg your pardon. I am looking for Mr Schoepfil.’
The maid apologized for not knowing the gentleman.
‘He may be with Colonel Bronque.’
Again the maid knew nothing. Miss Temple waited for a pair of older ladies to pass, aware of the maid’s discomfort in their presence.
‘They will be in their own part of the house, near the hall of mirrors,’ she explained. ‘I do not expect anyone else is allowed.’
The maid’s mouth formed a knowing O. ‘Is it … the lady?’
‘It is,’ Miss Temple confided. ‘And she needs these towels directly.’
Rather proud of herself, Miss Temple followed the maid’s directions, which happily took her to another servant’s corridor, past locked doors and covered eye-holes. When she reached the proper door – seventh after the turn, painted yellow – it was with satisfaction that she set down the towels and rose on her toes to peek.
Mr Schoepfil sat at a table piled high with papers and books. The walls around him were covered with maps and charts, as well as three canvas squares of dense scrawls that, from a distance, formed pictures – flowers, a mask and two interlaced hands. Mr Schoepfil impatiently turned the pages of an ancient book until, not finding what he sought, the book was closed. The man held still, eyes shut, lips moving, as if in a private ritual of
She went first to the far door and braced Schoepfil’s chair beneath the knob. Three days of leisure would not have been enough to plough through everything the small room held. Next to the books were printed pages – newspapers and journals in many languages – and great piles of handwritten notes. Of the latter, each stack represented a unique hand. She identified notes by Doctor Lorenz, others by Mr Gray, and Marcus Fochtmann. At least seven piles came from the Comte himself, notes and diagrams and indecipherable formulae. On the walls were maps of the Polksvarte District (Tarr Village and its quarry marked with pins), the Duchy of Macklenburg, the cities of Vienna and Cadiz, and finally an engineer’s plan of the Orange Canal. Opposite the maps hung a star chart: black parchment pricked with white paint to spell out constellations. Miss Temple had always intended to learn the stars – one spent enough time staring at them – but, as she never had, she continued to the three squares of scribbling she had glimpsed through the spy-hole.
The back of her throat began to burn. The flowers were blue, the mask white, and of the two hands one was white, the other jet black. She recognized each from The Chemickal Marriage. Were these sketches to get the correct form? But what made any form correct? Just framing the question made her head throb – and, as she stared, each image seemed to swell, as if drawing life from her attention …
She rubbed her eyes. When she looked up Miss Temple gasped aloud. How could she not have seen it? It was no star chart at all! With the memory of The Chemickal Marriage bright in her mind, she saw every part of its composition – the Bride and Groom, the floating figures, each allegorical flourish – represented on the star chart by a mark of white paint. Schoepfil had found the Comte’s blueprint for the entire canvas! Did he know what it was? Miss Temple tore the chart from the wall, rolling it tight. She looked about her and with a happy cry saw a cylindrical document case, sheathed in leather. She emptied the maps inside onto the floor, slid the parchment away, fitted the cap and then slapped the tube on her open palm, a diminutive boatswain ready to administer Sunday punishment.