Circle of Shadows caw-4

by Imogen Robertson

  The man had a trace of a West Country burr lingering on his tongue. ‘I am glad to meet you, Colonel Padfield. Mrs Clode has told us of your kindness. I am afraid she and Mrs Westerman are in the gardens at the moment.’

  ‘No matter. I shall have the pleasure of making Mrs Westerman’s acquaintance this evening, but I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time.’

  Crowther nodded and gestured to the chair by the fire, but Colonel Padfield preferred to stand.

  ‘Ticklish times,’ he said, after a considerable pause.

  ‘Are they?’ Crowther said, and put his fingertips together.

  ‘Indeed they are, Mr Crowther. You know the Duke’s bride is to arrive here in four days’ time. There are any number of court entertainments planned. Dinners. Concerts. Hunts. Maulberg wishes to make you welcome, of course …’

  ‘But perhaps Maulberg wishes we would not make ourselves too obvious?’

  ‘You have it,’ Colonel Padfield said with a cautious smile.

  Crowther rather liked the Colonel’s face. It was as weathered as a sailor’s with the bright eyes of a man used to looking far into the distance. He looked, in spite of the braid, more like a prosperous farmer than a functionary of the court.

  ‘May I ask, Colonel, how you came to be in Maulberg? And in the employ of the Duke?’

  Colonel Padfield rapped his fingers on the mantelpiece. ‘I stand out a little among all this magnificence, don’t I?’ Crowther found the steady brown eyes were examining him carefully. Then the man seemed to reach some decision and nodded to himself. ‘I was in the Fifth Regiment of Foot. Fought in America. My family spent their last penny to get me my Colours, but once the fighting was done, I found England had little use for my skills. I was recruited in London to drill the Duke’s troops — been here near two years now.’

  Crowther wondered if he had offended the man. ‘I hope you forgive my curiosity, Colonel.’

  Padfield shook his head. ‘Nothing to forgive, Mr Crowther. Only it seems to me that here, no one asks a question or answers it without calculation, some hidden reasons of their own. I have grown suspicious of my own shadow.’

  ‘Your military concerns mean you spend a lot of time at court?’

  ‘They shouldn’t, but the Duke has taken a liking to me, it seems, so I have been forced to turn courtier. However, I have no complaint. He rewards his friends handsomely and I was lucky enough to marry a clever woman. She keeps an eye on the politics for me.’

  His face softened as he spoke of his wife. Crowther looked away and tugged at his cuff.

  ‘And as I seem to be interrogating you, Colonel, may I ask your opinion of the case of Mr Clode? Rachel tells us there is a distressing lack of other suspects.’

  Padfield straightened. It was lucky for him that his back was so broad; so much braid on a smaller man would have made him ridiculous.

  ‘I like Mr and Mrs Clode, but I am certain some madness took him at the Carnival and that he killed Lady Martesen. I hope you may throw up enough smoke and dust to confuse the authorities and steal him away back to England, but be careful. Lady Martesen was a favourite here, and no one will thank you for helping her killer to escape justice.’ The evenness of his tone made the verdict all the more damning. ‘You will be presented to the Duke this evening, and are invited to sup with the company. But after that … You have been provided with your own private dining room.’

  ‘We may have to ask some uncomfortable questions.’

  ‘Then, Mr Crowther, you may have to face some uncomfortable answers. If you require anything, you may send for me.’

  He bowed and left Crowther to his papers and his thoughts.

  Harriet came to a sudden halt and looked about her. ‘Good Lord,’ she said. She was apparently standing in the main square of a village. Or rather it seemed to be the drawing of a village square such as one might find in a child’s storybook. A well stood in the centre, complete with its own pitched slate roof. Elaborate wooden carvings of fruits and vines supported it. Four double-storeyed houses stood, neat sentinels at the compass points, facing the well. There was something wrong about them, something, for all their solidity, that looked false. Their half-timbering was too exact, their paint too neat and the signs that hung from them rather too extravagant in their metalwork curls. The balconies on each house were elaborately carved and lined with flower baskets. Harriet realised with a start that she was looking at a very expensive version of rural simplicity. She turned about. The square was surrounded by a mature copse through which she had just walked with Rachel. It hid the buildings from the palace, and the palace from the buildings. It was certainly impressive, but there hung over it the strange air of falseness such as a dream takes on just before a sleeper wakes.

  ‘The Duke developed a great passion for the rural some years ago,’ Rachel said, watching her sister’s confusion. ‘The courtiers would dress in peasant costumes and play skittles while the Duke poured beer. Then he learned that the Prince of Conde had created a larger village complete with a working mill on his estate, and this lost its appeal. He started work on his theatre to the west and these houses became workshops for some of the artists he keeps about the court.’

  ‘They do not appear to be neglected.’

  ‘He treats the artists he persuades here very well. And pays them large retainers just to live here. There is a portrait artist living there.’ She pointed to the north. ‘And in the east cottage lives a man called Julius, famous for his fine metalwork.’

  Harriet shook her head. ‘How are we ever to make sense of such a place?’

  Rachel hung her head. ‘Harry, I know I have said terrible things in the past about your actions …’

  ‘Rachel, we’ve spoken about this.’

  ‘We have, but I must say this, so do listen. You have a talent, Harry, for asking the right questions. And you read people the way Jocasta Bligh reads those cards of hers.’

  ‘I am so often wrong,’ Harriet said quietly.

  ‘And so often right. Please do not lose your nerve now, Harry. Don’t be blinded by all this glitter and show. They are still people under the powder and lace.’

  The sound of a door opening came from their right and to her great surprise Harriet saw Michaels appear in his shirt-sleeves with his jacket over his arm.

  ‘Thought I heard yabbering out here.’

  Harriet grinned, and Rachel dropped her sister’s arm and ran towards him.

  ‘Oh, Michaels!’ She stood on her tip-toes to kiss his cheek. ‘I heard you had come!’

  He blushed and patted her shoulder. ‘There, Mrs Rachel. Wanted to get them to you safe.’

  Harriet stepped forward. ‘Thank goodness. I thought they had stolen you away. You have found a bed here?’

  ‘I came to a friendly understanding with the head footman.’ He turned to Rachel again. ‘You’re not eating enough, girlie. I like your friends though, my neighbours.’

  ‘They are kind, aren’t they?’ She raised her voice. ‘Mr Al-Said? Mr Sami? I have brought my sister to you as promised!’

  The door of the southern building was opened and a man also in shirt-sleeves emerged and approached them with his hands outstretched. ‘Mrs Clode! I am so happy you are come. If you did not visit us, we would think ourselves lost in the wilds.’

  ‘Harriet, this is Mr Adnan Al-Said. Mr Al-Said, this is my sister, Mrs Westerman.’

  Harriet curtseyed and the gentleman bowed, still smiling. He had the same dark complexion as the Duke’s Turkish Hussars, though none of their bristling moustaches. He moved easily and there were laughter lines around his large dark eyes. Harriet guessed he was around forty, but there was something very youthful in his manner. He looked like the sort of man who found his life interesting.

  ‘I am delighted to meet you, Mrs Westerman.’

  ‘You speak excellent English, Mr Al-Said,’ she said.

  ‘But of course, I learned much of my trade in London in the workshop of James Cox. My brother and I h
ave worked all over the continent in the last ten years. A man such as myself must be a linguist to sell to the limited number who can afford what we offer.’

  The name of Cox sounded vaguely familiar to Harriet, something she had read in a newspaper. ‘What is your trade, sir? Rachel has refused to tell me anything on our way here, other than how helpful you have been to her.’

  Al-Said smiled with genuine delight. ‘Come in and drink some tea with my brother and I, Mrs Westerman, and you shall see all. We are makers of automata. Come. Take some relief from your worries and see our work.’

  ‘I would be delighted. Michaels?’

  He shook his head, smiling. ‘I’ve already seen the wonders. I aim to wash and sleep. You know where I am if you have need of me.’ He turned to Rachel again. ‘I am glad to see you, Mrs Clode. We will get you and your fella out of here safe if I have to tear down their castle with my bare hands.’

  II.7

  Pegel and Florian had been debating for some hours. They agreed, repeatedly and with frequent examples, that society was viciously unfair and it was obscene that so much wealth should be enjoyed by the privileged when others went hungry. There followed an hour on Rousseau and his Discourse on Inequality. Pegel wondered how often young men had debated such matters in attic rooms, heated up by wine and the flourishes of their own rhetoric.

  ‘You are lucky,’ Florian said, leaning forward, then twitching as his side ached. ‘It is much better to have been born poor. You are an honest man. My birth, the fortune I am to inherit, makes it so much harder to be honest.’

  Pegel almost choked on his wine. ‘Give it to me then! You have a try at being poor. There have been times I haven’t had the blunt to feed myself. Nothing makes a man dishonest quicker than that.’

  ‘I did not mean to offend.’

  ‘You can either hand over your wealth, or promise not to say such stupid things. Choice is yours.’

  Florian smiled a little reluctantly. ‘I shan’t hand it over just yet, Jacob. I mean to make use of it.’

  ‘I’d make use of it,’ Pegel said, drawing up his knees. ‘Steak every day and my own horse. No more hired nags. He can have steak every day too.’ He pressed his cheek onto his knees, feeling the rough texture of the material. ‘That might not be good for him. He can have his hay on a silver platter instead. He shall be very beautiful and I shall call him Philippe.’

  ‘No, I shall use it for the greater good. There are ways, Jacob. Things can change.’

  ‘No, they can’t.’

  ‘But listen-’

  Pegel suddenly jumped to his feet. ‘I cannot listen any more without some food and more wine.’ He put his hand out. ‘Give me a Thaler and watch the fire.’

  Frenzel rolled his eyes, but handed over the coin quickly enough. Pegel swung on his coat on his way to the door.

  ‘Jacob?’

  ‘What is it? A minute more and I die of thirst. Or starve.’

  He turned back. Florian seemed very slight curled up on the settee. He glanced at Pegel then back at his glass. ‘Do you think those men might have followed us here?’

  ‘No.’ Pegel paused. ‘Tell you what. Key’s on the table beside you. Lock yourself in while I’m gone. When I come back I’ll knock three then two then one — all right, Florian?’

  Frenzel swallowed and nodded and Pegel slammed the door to behind him and headed down his rickety staircase whistling.

  The two gentlemen were waiting opposite the bottom of the stairs. He walked west twenty yards and turned down a side-street then waited for them to catch him up.

  ‘Ooh, sir!’ the giant said. ‘Your poor jaw. I’m ever so sorry — I didn’t want to hit you so hard.’

  ‘Not at all, Titus,’ Pegel said, pulling out a purse. ‘Absolutely splendid job. Nothing that needs a surgeon and yet looks as dramatic as you please. Could not be happier!’ He counted out five thick and heavy-looking coins, then paused and added a sixth and handed them to the giant.

  ‘Ooh, now there’s handsome,’ he said with glee as he closed his great paw round them. Pegel turned to the man in the wig and coat.

  ‘Now you! You! What a triumph! Come here at once.’ Pegel clasped the man by the shoulders and kissed him firmly on each cheek. The man blushed.

  ‘Really, merest trifle. You think I convinced the lad? Truly?’

  ‘Convinced him? You scared the hell out of him. Brilliant performance! You must, must use this money to get to Berlin.’ He counted out the five coins, again apparently had a slight struggle with himself and added a sixth. ‘You are wasted, absolutely wasted in country fairs. No, not Berlin. They don’t deserve you. There’s a fellow called Schiller doing lovely work in Mannheim. Excellent chap. Tell him you are sent with a recommendation from Jacob Pegel and you’ll get the audience you deserve.’

  ‘Herr Friedrich Schiller? The Schiller? You mean it, Mr Pegel?’

  ‘But of course! Leave tonight, gentlemen — destiny calls!’ The men grinned at each other. ‘Now would you be so kind as to do me one small favour before you go?’

  When Pegel gave the coded knock at the door to his room he found Frenzel so pale that the growing bruises round his eye stood out like a sunset.

  ‘Florian, you’re white as a ghost. What is it?’

  ‘I saw them,’ he said, dragging Pegel in and slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Who, those men?’

  ‘Yes, of course — from your window. You were gone so long, I looked out to see if I could catch sight of you.’

  Pegel held out the steaming plates he carried in front of him by way of explanation. ‘Mother Brown makes a splendid cutlet. You have to wait a bit this time of day.’

  ‘Never mind that. They were there in the square looking about them as if they knew we had come this far, then did not know where to find us exactly. Then you came out from the shop.’

  ‘Did they spot me?’ Pegel said quickly, glancing towards the door.

  ‘No! It was the luckiest thing, they were looking at the other side of the square as you came past. You went within an inch of them!’

  ‘Are they still there?’ Pegel said, putting down his tray and making for the window. Frenzel grabbed hold of his coat.

  ‘Don’t look! Jacob, I hate to have you think me a coward, but might I stay here tonight, just while I think what to do? There are people who should be warned.’

  Pegel put his hand on the young Count’s shoulder. ‘Naturally, my friend. You are welcome here. But don’t you think you might see your way clear to giving a fellow a bit of a hint as to what is going on? You say you will, then it’s all philosophy till my head is aching.’

  Frenzel turned away from him slightly. ‘Yes, of course. I must. I have … I have exposed you to some danger; it is your right to know something of this.’

  Pegel settled himself on the floor again. ‘Can we eat first?’

  For the first time since the messenger had arrived at Caveley, Harriet could think of nothing but what was in front of her eyes. The tiger turned its head warily towards her, blinked, then continued to pad across the work-top until Adnan picked it up, pressed a brass pin on its side and it became still. Harriet sat with her elbows on the work bench and her chin in her hand. Entranced.

  ‘I’d swear it was alive! It looked into my eyes. Mr Al-Said, you are a miracle worker.’

  Adnan laughed and reached upwards to unhook a cage from the ceiling which held two brilliantly-coloured, frozen birds each about the size of Harriet’s thumb. ‘No, Mrs Westerman, a craftsman. I learned how to make watches in Constantinople, but when the first automaton was given to the Sultan by the French Ambassador, I fell in love. Why have something simply tell you the hour when you can make it do all this.’ Harriet put out a hand and touched the sleeping tiger. Al-Said watched her. ‘The paws are weighted, madam. A simple trick when you know it, which gives the illusion of natural movement.’

  He touched something on the base of the cage and the birds began to pipe to each other, their beaks opening in
time with their song and their wings flapping. Suddenly one sprang from one side of the cage to the other and Harriet laughed.

  ‘Oh I must have one like that for my children! They would adore it.’

  ‘They are not toys, Mrs Westerman,’ he said, somewhat serious.

  ‘Of course not, Mr Al-Said. I have no doubt that they will treat it with the proper respect.’ Adnan gave a slight nod. ‘Were you acquainted with Lady Martesen, sir?’

  He touched the base of the cage and the birds were still again. ‘I am not certain how to answer you, madam. The courtiers are not sure how to treat my brother and I. They like to have us here — we, as well as what we create, are ornaments to be boasted of — yet we work, and with our hands. So they flatter us and pay us well, but you will not see us at the supper-table in the palace. And even if I were a Prince, how many men have you met of my complexion in the palaces of Europe?’

  ‘I have not visited many of them, Mr Al-Said. Yet Rachel tells me you have been of great assistance to her.’

  ‘It is interesting what one hears by pretending not to listen. Lady Martesen was a clever woman, and one of several at court who thought of more than their own amusement. The Duke asked us to make one of these cages of singing birds for her, and she visited us on several occasions while it was being made to discuss the design, and decide on the plumage of the birds. She came often with Countess Dieth, once with Glucke, I think, and another time with Swann.’

  ‘Who is Glucke?’ Harriet asked. ‘I have not heard his name before.’

  Adnan’s face darkened and he bent over the cage, leaving Sami to answer in a stage whisper. He was far younger than his brother, not more than twenty-five, and so quick and light in his movements it would be as easy to think him ten years younger.

  ‘Herr von Glucke is a scholar and member of the Duke’s Privy Council, but he made the mistake of asking Adnan to create a few mechanical mice …’