‘If you were going to abandon Miss Temple, you would have done so earlier, when you could have pummelled Jack Pfaff raw. No, apart from the splendour of your company, I have come to see who else does Oskar’s bidding.’
‘And is this the house of someone you know?’
She looked at him quizzically, and then nodded towards a white-painted mansion at the end of the street. ‘I thought you had been here. It was where he worked on Angelique.’
Chang sighed, recalling too vividly the abandoned greenhouse and its bloodstained bed. ‘I did not realize we had walked so far. The house is improved – from the rear it looked a shambles.’
‘Vandaariff money. And he is a resurrectionist.’
‘What stops them from shooting us dead in the street?’
‘How do you ever manage to feed yourself? If there are two people Robert Vandaariff is more keen to preserve than ourselves, I cannot name them. No, whoever he has charged will emerge, and then I will better know my enemies.’
‘At which point you will saunter away? Why not take you as well, if he desires you so ardently?’
‘Well, that is Oskar. I would end his life the first chance I had, but he will ever postpone. He has pretensions to theatre.’
‘Like the Chemickal Marriage?’
She did not answer, for the white door of the mansion opened and a dozen green-coated soldiers poured forth. Behind them came a man whose Ministry-black topcoat belied his young face and fair hair. He stabbed an arm at the Contessa.
‘That woman is wanted by the Crown! Seize her!’
Four soldiers broke forward. Chang only raised his hands.
The Contessa’s nostrils flared with rage. ‘I will cut off that man’s –’ But then the soldiers had seized her arms.
‘The pride – the pride of it!’ Harcourt’s voice shook. ‘Truly, madam, are you so brazen? So arrogant to think no one might withstand you?’
‘Release her.’
Foison stood far away in the open door, but his voice stopped the soldiers cold. Harcourt stamped up the steps like a schoolboy.
‘I beg your pardon! I am Deputy to the Privy Council – and this woman – this woman –’
‘Release her.’
‘Do you know Mr Foison?’ Chang ventured.
‘I had hoped he would be elsewhere,’ replied the Contessa. ‘But now I prize him above all other minions.’
It was clear that Harcourt was terrified of Foison, but the young man had enough pride – at least for his office – to stand firm. ‘This woman is a murderer, a spy, a saboteur –’
‘There is an arrangement,’ Foison corrected him, menacingly calm. ‘If that woman steps through these doors – I do hope you understand me – you will answer for Lord Vandaariff’s displeasure.’
Harcourt wavered. ‘But – but surely she may be brought in – or if not brought in – surely remanded to the Marcelline –’
‘No.’
Harcourt wavered and in the silence his authority gave way. The Contessa gently extracted herself from the soldiers. Harcourt wheeled to her, his slim hands balled to fists.
‘It is not finished, madam! You will be taken – you will be hanged!’
The Contessa whispered to Chang, ‘Au revoir. Remember your pledge.’
‘Remember yours.’
‘Celeste Temple will be delivered to Doctor Svenson.’
‘Alive.’
The Contessa laughed. ‘Stickler.’ She dipped her head and walked away.
Chang knew she was lying, and that Celeste would be delivered to whomever the Contessa found most advantageous, or – in the absence of any advantage at all – to a grave. It made managing his mission now all the more vital. He noted with satisfaction a bruise below Foison’s eye.
Foison relieved Chang of his stick, tugged it open and studied the blade. Chang gestured at her receding figure. ‘If only my stick were half as deadly.’
One corner of Foison’s mouth twitched to acknowledge the remark. Ignoring Harcourt, Foison nodded to the soldiers and Chang was escorted inside.
The renovations were not limited to the exterior. The carpets had been piled against a wall, and the floorboards were slippery with plaster dust. Harcourt disappeared with Foison deeper into the house. Despite a slammed door, their muffled argument reached Chang where he waited. He turned to his nearest guard.
‘A soldier cannot love taking orders from a rich man’s secretary – especially a man like that. An Asiatic.’
‘Aren’t you a Chinaman yourself?’
‘That’s why I know.’
The soldier peered more closely at Chang. ‘Are you a Chinaman?’
Foison reappeared, still carrying Chang’s stick. ‘Hold his arms. Search him.’
The findings were presented to Foison, arrayed on the green-coat’s open palms like a tray: razor, money, key, the prison writ, the samples of glass from Pfaff’s room, including the broken key.
‘Dispose of it. Bring him in.’
A man had been bound to a high-backed wooden chair, a canvas bag over his head. His once-starched shirt was stained with blood, some dried rust-brown, some still a festive red. Whatever he had endured, it had spanned hours.
The man, whose head rose at their entrance, became more agitated at Foison’s approaching footsteps, pulling on the ropes that held him fast. Foison’s voice remained characteristically soft, with an absence of intent that nearly seemed kind.
‘Someone to help you.’
The captive’s bare feet kicked against the cords. His voice was smothered by the bag. ‘Stop your torments! No one has come!’
‘By God – you have won your way with Lacquer-Sforza, but here you do trespass, Mr Foison! That man is mine!’
Harcourt stood in the doorway with several Ministry men, reinforcements muttering at their superior’s collar.
Foison nodded at Chang. ‘And he is mine. Is it not possible they are acquainted?’
‘Perhaps! Perhaps! And now that we are all present – well, go ahead and ask your best – but any attempt to exclude the Council will not stand. My prisoner is here only at Lord Axewith’s personal instruction –’
‘Your prisoner is here so we may learn what you could not.’
‘If you throw them together they will only lie – you will be forced –’
‘To take measures?’
‘Exactly. And it will be no business of mine.’
‘Though it was your business with this gentleman.’ Foison sighed at the man in the chair. ‘Rather crudely.’
‘He is no gentleman!’ Harcourt’s eyes were hard. It was clear to Chang that the prisoner had been savaged precisely because of Harcourt’s indecision – with the ferocity boiling forth in resentment at his dilemma.
Foison shrugged. ‘He bleeds like one, but such distinctions are not my expertise. I do know that Cardinal Chang –’
‘A criminal of the first water.’
‘If by that you mean he will be more difficult to persuade, I agree.’
‘Do not say that where he can hear!’ Harcourt sputtered. ‘You steel his purpose – now he will hold out even longer!’
‘I tell the Cardinal nothing he does not know. Just as he knows, no matter his resistance, that I will break him. The only question is how badly broken he will be.’
‘If you think we will spare you,’ Harcourt called to Chang, deciding after all to support Foison, ‘you are deeply mistaken. The nation is in peril. The Crown. And in setting yourself against us, you’re nothing but a common traitor.’
Chang nodded towards their prisoner in the chair. ‘Is he?’
Foison pulled the bag away. Mr Phelps flinched from the light as if it too might strike him. What Cunsher had endured at the Marcelline was nothing to the ordeal inflicted on Phelps. Dark blood smeared his face. One eye had swollen shut, and the other peeped through a veil of seeping fluid. His nose was broken and one lip split like a rotten plum.
Chang felt his stomach tighten. Phelps had been one of their own, and this i
s what they’d done. Foison gently turned Phelps’s face to Chang. ‘Do you know this man, Mr Phelps?’
Phelps nodded. His voice was a slurred croak. ‘Criminal … ought to be hanged.’
‘You just heard Mr Harcourt voice the same opinion. Perhaps you would explain why he should be hanged?’
‘Outlaw … the Duke signed a writ on his life.’
‘I don’t believe he did.’
‘Lost … never delivered –’
‘Come, Mr Phelps. When did you last see this man?’ Phelps shook his head at the question, as if such a thing were beyond his scattered mind, but Foison remained patient. ‘At Parchfeldt? At Harschmort? This evening at the Palace?’
With a pang, Chang saw Phelps shake his head at this last suggestion, too vehemently. Harcourt pointed a finger, triumphant.
‘He is lying.’
A tight, pleading gasp of distress escaped Phelps’s throat. ‘Chang is a killer … you know it yourselves –’
‘Who did he kill?’
‘I don’t know –’
‘Did he kill Colonel Aspiche?’
‘I don’t know –’
‘What of Arthur Leverett? Or Charlotte Trapping?’ Foison remained calm. ‘The Crown Prince of Macklenburg? The Comte d’Orkancz?’ Phelps gulped air, unable to reply. Saliva flecked his purpled lips. Foison rested a hand on Phelps’s shoulder. ‘So many deaths …’
‘I would like nothing more than Cardinal Chang on a scaffold,’ said Harcourt.
‘Why in hell are you here?’ Chang’s voice was as dark as he could make it. Harcourt quailed.
‘I – I – Lord Axewith – I am appointed, deputized, in the immediate crisis –’
‘Do not speak to the prisoner, Mr Harcourt, he only seeks your discomfort.’ Foison stepped away from Phelps, hands at his waist, near his knives. ‘In truth, perhaps it would be better if you left.’
‘Phelps is my prisoner,’ protested Harcourt.
‘But Chang is a different matter. I require this room free.’
Harcourt sniffed and took a pocket watch from his waistcoat. ‘Very well. Five minutes. But then we will consult.’ Foison said nothing. Harcourt nodded, as if they had agreed, and backed into his assistants. They left in a scuffle. The soldiers remained at either side of the door.
Chang spoke as brightly as possible. ‘My turn?’
‘I must deliver you alive. You understand the breadth of options I can exercise without compromising that condition. Whether I do so is up to you.’
‘You will not break my teeth for your own revenge, then?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I know what awaits you, Cardinal Chang. Revenge enough.’
He was bound to a chair. When it was done, Foison crossed to the door, waving the green-coats out ahead of him. ‘I will return momentarily – Mr Harcourt, for all his faults, is energetic and must be contained. You cannot escape – nor, if you value the young woman’s life, will you try.’
The door closed and the room fell into silence, apart from Phelps’s straining wheeze. Chang knew there was little time. He snapped his fingers
‘Phelps! Wake up! Phelps!’
Phelps raised his head with difficulty, his one clear eye helpless and apologetic. Was he even in his right mind?
‘Your friend is alive,’ said Chang.
Phelps swallowed, blinked. ‘Friend?’
‘The one taken with you. He is alive and free.’
‘Dear God. Thank heaven.’ Phelps cast a wary glance to the door. ‘The Doctor?’
‘You need not worry. But there is little time –’
‘No.’ Phelps began to shake his head. ‘No – I am so sorry – so ashamed –’
Chang dropped his voice. ‘You had no choice. No one does. Listen to me – I must know what you said –’
But Phelps did not hear, still working to form his words. ‘I did not know – you must believe me, Chang, I had no earthly idea. A failure from the start.’
‘No one knows – and everyone submits. Phelps, there is no shame –’
Tears rolled lines through the blood on Phelps’s shaking face. ‘All this time, I had thought myself reclaimed –’
‘They were bound to apprehend us –’
‘But who am I, Chang? How much have I betrayed? Have I done so all this time?’
‘Done what?’
‘Betrayed everything!’
‘But what did you tell them?’
‘I don’t know!’
Chang forced himself to stay calm. ‘Phelps, they are about to set in on me – it will doom us both if I contradict you –’
‘My soul is already taken.’
The man was useless. Chang changed tactics. ‘Have you seen Celeste Temple? She is to be exchanged – have you seen her? Did they speak of her? Is she here?’
Phelps shook his head. ‘Heard nothing. Seen nothing. If the girl is here …’
‘What? What?’
‘… she has already been consumed.’
The door opened. Phelps flinched at the sound and began to babble. ‘I assure you – for God’s sake – we said nothing –’
Foison smiled regretfully. ‘Of course not. Still, one attempts what one can.’ He took a third chair, facing Chang, but putting Phelps between them.
‘Cardinal. Will you tell me of the Contessa?’
‘By all means. She claims to be Italian, her figure is handsome, her personal habits are slovenly in the extreme –’
A knife appeared in Foison’s hand, and he extended his arm until the tip pricked Mr Phelps’s earlobe. Phelps gasped but kept still.
‘No,’ said Foison. ‘Mr Phelps has divulged everything, or so I am convinced. Do you understand? I lose nothing in his disposal.’
‘And I do?’
‘Such is my perception. Start from the Customs House. After the explosion – how did the Contessa find you?’
‘I found her.’
‘She has sworn to kill you.’
‘And I, her. It is deferred.’
‘How did you find her?’
‘I saw her coach and forced my way inside.’
‘Another lie.’
Phelps gasped again as a whisper-thin line of blood formed across his earlobe. As Chang watched, a bead of red slid off the line and hung like a pirate’s ear-ring, then dropped to stain Phelps’s shirt. Chang had barely seen Foison move.
‘Cardinal?’ Foison tapped the knife against Phelps’s shoulder.
‘I guessed where she would be. She had hidden herself in the Palace, hoping to enslave as many highly placed courtiers as possible –’
‘If you are referring to Sophia of Strackenz –’
‘I refer to Lady Axewith.’
Foison shifted in his chair, the knife cradled in his lap. ‘Do you have proof?’
‘The lady’s appearance, for one. But also the network of society women she has enlisted to gather information. They have been swarming Axewith House like bees a hive – all at the unseen behest of the Contessa.’
‘Where is the Contessa now?’
‘Laughing at you, I expect. Why did you stop Harcourt from taking her?’
Foison ignored the question. ‘Where is Doctor Svenson?’
‘We were separated after the blast.’
‘Where is Francesca Trapping?’
‘With Doctor Svenson.’
‘How did he acquire her?’
‘At the Palace. The Contessa had hidden her.’
‘That isn’t true.’
The words hung there. Phelps glanced desperately at Chang. Foison’s grip shifted on the knife. Chang knew it was a test, exerting pressure to establish how far he would go to preserve Phelps. Chang kept his face empty. If he made up anything now, it would make matters worse. Foison flicked his head, flipping a lock of white hair from his eyes. ‘Tell me about the painting.’
‘Which painting?’
‘You know very well.’
Another test –
Chang had no idea what Phelps had already confessed. ‘A newspaper clipping. From the Herald, critiquing an art salon, especially a painting of the Comte d’Orkancz entitled The Chemickal Marriage –’
‘And you saw this painting yourself?’
‘None of us did.’
‘I will ask you once more. Did you see this painting?’
‘No. The salon was in Vienna.’
The knife sliced through the earlobe. Phelps shrieked and hopped against his bonds. The gash streamed blood, the severed nub of flesh somewhere on the floor.
‘The salon burnt down with the painting in it!’ Chang shouted. ‘The clipping came from the Contessa – if you want to know more, ask her!’
Foison ignored his anger. ‘Again, please, how did you acquire Francesca Trapping?’
‘I didn’t! We were separated in the Palace – when I found Svenson, he had the child –’
‘So Doctor Svenson had seen the Contessa?’
‘If he had, she would have killed him.’
‘She did not kill you.’
‘Doctor Svenson would have given her no choice. She murdered the woman he loved, Elöise Dujong.’
‘So he stole the Contessa’s property – this child – out of revenge?’
‘You do not know Svenson. He rescued a child in danger.’
‘Has the child been mistreated?’
‘You saw her yourself, you damned ghoul. She’s been poisoned by that glass book. By your filthy master. Who’s no more Robert Vandaariff than I’m the Pope – or you’re the God damned Queen!’
The door opened, and Robert Vandaariff tottered in. He had aged even since the Customs House, his face grey and his bony fingers fiercely gripping the head of his cane. His throat was wrapped in a neck cloth, but a red bruise extended past its white border. Harcourt slipped in behind, eyes darting covetously between Chang and Mr Phelps.
‘Time ticks on,’ Vandaariff announced blandly. ‘Close the door, Mr Harcourt. We have no need of soldiers.’
‘But, my lord, your safety – Cardinal Chang –’
‘Is tied to a chair. Mr Foison will preserve me. Will you not trust him, too?’
With a gesture somehow grudging and haughty at the same time, Harcourt sniffed at the grenadiers and shut the door in their faces.
‘And the lock,’ added Vandaariff.
Harcourt turned the bolt. A curl of dread climbed Cardinal Chang’s spine. He had returned himself to this madman’s power. Every impulse cried out to fight, but he’d thrown away the chance.
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