The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  Two footmen, seeing this distinguished member of the household amongst the litter of the picnic, dashed back to their duties. ‘May we help with anything Monsieur DuQuelle? A cup of tea? Or perhaps something stronger?’

  DuQuelle smiled very slightly and continued to look around him, as if for a lost object. ‘I thank you kindly, but no, I am nourished by this bright winter day and the astounding project before me.’ He wandered away, leaving the footmen to roll their eyes at his eccentric behaviour.

  ‘He really would be ridiculous,’ thought Katie, ‘if he wasn’t so frightening.’

  James had finally escaped the Reverend Duckworth. He was looking for Katie – he had a buttered scone for her and a clutch of questions on modern construction techniques. But as he approached, James was waylaid by Bernardo DuQuelle. Katie could hear everything as she crouched behind one of the newly rescued elm trees.

  ‘It is young Master O’Reilly, I believe,’ DuQuelle began, trying to look friendly. ‘Your father takes supremely good care of the Prince Leopold. It is, how would one say, a tragedy for the Royal Family, do you not think? A terrible illness, and so strange that the taint would appear – out of the blue – in the royal blood. But then the dear Prince Leopold is not the heir to the throne, thank heavens, and he’s been placed in such competent hands.’

  James bowed slightly; he had no intention of gossiping about the Royal Family or betraying any kind of medical confidence, particularly to one as powerful and puzzling as Bernardo DuQuelle.

  DuQuelle continued. ‘You are, I believe, a great help to your father in his duties at the Palace. And of course you are invaluable in looking after that little brother of yours – is it Riordan? He does have a tendency to take the odd midnight stroll, not really suitable to one of his age. Ah, the escapades of childhood – they can lead to danger, you know. What a pity your father hasn’t found a better protector for that little chap. The Honourable Emma Twisted, really… but then, for some, breeding is all.’ James tried not to scowl, tried to be polite to this important man, to cover the revulsion he felt for DuQuelle. ‘And your sister?’ DuQuelle asked, ‘is she not also a favourite in the Palace?’

  ‘My older sister Grace is away at school, sir,’ James replied.

  ‘I meant your younger sister.’

  ‘I have no younger sister. My brother Jack is at the military academy. My older sister has not lived with us for several years. She was sent abroad to relations after my mother died. Her health has been poor this winter, and she is convalescing in Florence. There is only myself, my father and Riordan within the Palace.’

  DuQuelle lifted his walking stick, and knocked a block of wood off a pile nearby. He seemed hugely amused. ‘How curious. I am certain I have seen you with a young girl – and at strange hours too. The relationship must be familiar – a cousin perhaps?’

  James became taller and stiffer, but he answered evenly. ‘Sir, I am privileged to live in the Palace and respectful of my position in relation to the Royal Family. I will endeavour to control the movements of my little brother. He is but a baby, and needs the mother he does not have. As to a little sister or cousin – there is none. There is only my older sister and, as I said, she is convalescing abroad – in Florence to be exact. You have perhaps mistaken my identity with that of another.’

  The more uncomfortable James looked, the more relaxed DuQuelle became. ‘Ah, but I have angered you. Forgive my words, yes? Sometimes I do not find quite the right ones,’ DuQuelle said cheerfully. ‘It must all be a mistake.’ Doffing his top hat DuQuelle bowed slightly and moved away.

  Katie was not taken in by DuQuelle’s buffoonery. His sudden and unexplained appearance in the river, the way he’d looked at the Chinese chest where she’d hidden in the Throne Room, and now the conversation with James today. ‘It’s obvious, he knows,’ Katie concluded. ‘DuQuelle knows I am here. But he doesn’t know everything – otherwise he wouldn’t be questioning James like that. But does he know who I am, and more importantly, how I can get home?’

  Bernardo DuQuelle passed the raised platform where the Royal Family was still absorbed in their tea. Alice had managed to filch a toasted crumpet for Leopold, which he ate eagerly. Prince Albert, cheeks flushed, was talking nonstop to Joseph Paxton, pausing only to point out a particular arch or angle in the project. ‘We can reuse the wooden hoarding to make the floorboards of the edifice,’ the Prince was heard to say. Nothing escaped his detailed brain. Paxton nodded repeatedly, all the while taking notes in a little book. The workmen continued raising columns, and were adding girders to support the roof. Katie watched the workers sway industriously above her. It was dangerous work, as they had no real support above nor a net below.

  With a flourish of his walking stick and an exaggerated bow, DuQuelle directed an elegant little speech towards Prince Albert. ‘We see before us the elements that are still but wood, steel and mortar, but the magic of our time will create an enchanted pile…’ Both Alice and Leopold looked as if they wanted to laugh. Prince Albert sighed, and rolled his eyes upwards, where a single workman now swung along the roof girders. DuQuelle continued. ‘This castle of industry, built through the sagacious taste and prescient philanthropy of an accomplished and enlightened prince will be raised for the glory of the world…’ The children began to giggle. Dr O’Reilly looked annoyed, after all, he was the one with the flowery speeches. Only the Reverend Duckworth seemed to take DuQuelle seriously.

  ‘Hear! Hear!’ Duckworth cried. Prince Albert glared at him. Katie noticed the lone workman swinging from girder to girder, ever closer to the platform where the Royal Family sat. He was lugging a large vat of something with him. It must have been even more difficult and dangerous to move about with such a burden.

  ‘This Palace of Crystal,’ DuQuelle droned on, ‘will be the envy of the continents…’ He broke off suddenly, his attention also caught by the workman above, now pouring something from the vat he carried. DuQuelle sprinted forward. With one leap he was on the platform, pushing Alice to one side and hurling Prince Leopold from his bath chair.

  ‘Good God, man,’ Dr O’Reilly roared. ‘Are you insane? Don’t you know his condition? You could kill the boy with that kind of rough treatment!’

  ‘Move aside!’ DuQuelle bellowed back, ‘for your own safety, move aside!’ With a long and menacing hiss, a stream of molten liquid poured down from the heights above them, burning a hole right through the bath chair and the wooden platform below as well. The bath chair careened off the platform. Prince Leopold began to cry.

  Alice ran to Prince Leopold and, whipping off her cloak, wrapped her brother in it. Dr O’Reilly bent down on the other side, taking the child’s pulse. The Reverend Duckworth paced beside them, muttering something that might be a prayer, or perhaps a curse. Prince Albert was white with rage. The object of his fury was Joseph Paxton. He turned to his former favourite and addressed him with a cold, biting formality. ‘We have heard much of speed on this project. And yes, it is commendable, and admirable, but not with the sacrifice of efficiency and basic safety. There isn’t a person here today that might not have been killed by that accident.’

  Poor Joseph Paxton looked twenty years older. He bent down and examined the steaming liquid, now congealing on the platform. ‘I can’t understand,’ he said. ‘I gave specific orders to secure the safety of the royal party – I banned dangerous substances such as this.’ He lifted some of the now cooling substance on to his finger, looked at it closely, and then licked it. ‘This liquid is a molten compound that will be used to glaze the windows. It shouldn’t be on site for weeks yet. Who could possibly be using it today? Against my very orders? And how could he be so careless as to spill it?’

  A crowd of workmen had gathered around the platform, Paxton’s senior foreman pushed through them. Bowing to the Royal Family he turned and addressed Paxton. ‘We cannot find the man responsible for this careless accident. He has fled the construction site.’ An angry protest rose amongst the workmen – this was despica
ble, cowardly behaviour from one of their own rank. ‘It might have been one of those foreigners, brought in to work on the overseas exhibitions,’ one was heard to mutter. ‘There was a swarthy fellow hanging around the edges,’ another volunteered, ‘might be a Turk or summat.’ The jubilant day had gone decidedly sour, and the ever-growing crowd had the air of a lynch mob, looking for a scapegoat.

  Bernardo DuQuelle sized up the situation. At any moment this crowd might spill over into riot. The masses had to be quelled. He strode over to Joseph Paxton and, placing a hand on his shoulder, spoke loudly, so that all could hear. ‘It was the Royal Family’s choice to come today,’ he cried into the crowd. ‘We wanted to see the wonders of this Crystal Palace, even at such a precarious time in its construction. A building site is always dangerous. Accidents may happen. We must take the consequences for our own enthusiasm.’

  Turning to Prince Albert, he spoke in a much lower voice. ‘We must, by all means, keep this incident out of the newspapers. The British press hasn’t exactly warmed to the Crystal Palace, and reports of a mishap like this could scupper the project for good. The papers would sink Joseph Paxton’s reputation, and the Crystal Palace would go down with him. There would be no great glass building, no exhibition, no celebration of Britain’s superior industry. And this, Your Highness, will not reflect well on you.’

  Prince Albert acknowledged DuQuelle’s reasoning. He didn’t like the man, but his cunning was supreme. Sighing, he moved to the front of the platform. The crowd grew quiet, anxious to hear Prince Albert speak.

  ‘Our esteemed courtier, Bernardo DuQuelle, is right,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘My apologies to Joseph Paxton for my hasty speech – it was spoken in anxiety for my son, and I am happy to report, he is unhurt in the incident. This is a great building, the home of an exhibition that will change the history of Britain for ever. I salute Mr Paxton for the genius of his design and the ingenuity of his construction.’

  Again the mood changed, and cheers rang out through the building site. As Prince Albert turned from the waving, heaving crowd, his face took on a sullen cast. ‘My thanks, DuQuelle,’ he remarked curtly. ‘You were right, as usual. It was an unfortunate accident and the blame cannot be placed on Paxton. I take full responsibility. Now I must get Prince Leopold home. There is no need for you to return to the Palace.’

  The Prince quickly bundled Leopold and Alice into a carriage while the footmen cleared the crowd to make a path for them. Baroness Lehzen followed behind. ‘The Crystal Palace,’ she spat through a stream of caraway seeds, ‘more of The Crystal Pig Sty.’

  The carriage lurched its way through the mud, splattering DuQuelle in its wake. Katie looked into his face. He was an enigma, wrapped in a mystery. He had saved Prince Leopold’s life and, when the mood of the crowd grew ugly, defused the anger. His quick thinking had probably saved the entire Crystal Palace project. Yet Prince Albert had not been generous in his thanks. It was obvious – the Prince loathed DuQuelle. Then why was DuQuelle standing there, humming an aria from Rigoletto, while wiping the mud from his well-tailored trousers? ‘Accident,’ Katie heard him say. ‘Accident, hah! Accident my boots. An assassin is more likely. An assassin bearing all the marks of the Black Tide. Ah… The Black Tide… is rising…’

  Finishing his aria, DuQuelle moved towards an empty carriage. Katie followed. She had been right. DuQuelle was the key to everything. She must confront him, on her own. Squeezing herself under the groom’s jump seat she prepared for another bumpy ride, a muddy face and a lungful of dust. As they trotted past the construction site, she waved to a startled and furious James O’Reilly.

  Chapter Nine

  Lucia and Belzen

  The carriage bumped along past the Serpentine Lake and up through the dormant gardens of Hyde Park. As it hit the cobbled streets, Katie’s head banged against the bottom of the groom’s seat. From her position she had a close look at all the rubbish and waste found on a busy thoroughfare. The hundreds of horses on the move had been particularly prolific. Something spattered her face – she didn’t want to think what. From this far down, the smell was horrendous. ‘Some day I’m going to sit properly in one of these carriages,’ she thought. It was a weak joke, but Mimi had always told her, ‘If you’re frightened, crack a joke,’ and she was frightened – very jostled, sick to her stomach, and frightened. She was alone, in a different time, with someone who might be her protector or her betrayer. And they were about to meet, face to face.

  The carriage turned from the wide thoroughfare of Piccadilly to the darker regions of Mayfair. Twisting through the narrow lanes, they came to a stop on Half Moon Street. DuQuelle’s house was old to the point of decrepit. No brilliant white stucco and marble columns here, but a half-timbered structure, its small windows divided into diamonds by lead strips. The upper floors bulged out over the street, leaving the pavement in shadow. Katie shivered. This house wasn’t exactly welcoming. She could see DuQuelle’s square-toed boots tripping down the carriage steps. ‘I’m half dead from the cold,’ he complained to the footman opening the door. ‘Don’t just stand there gawping, man, take my hat and gloves, and bring me a warm shawl. There had better be a fire in my private study. And tell cook…’

  In the ensuing bustle of coats and canes, Katie slipped past the iron gates and below stairs. Wedging a basement window open, she found herself in a pantry off the kitchen. Katie now knew it was possible to be very frightened and very hungry at the same time. Baking smells were coming from the kitchen, gingery, sugary baking smells. She could see the backside of a very wide cook, stooping down to take something from the oven. The cook put the tray hastily on the counter as the footman came in with her orders.

  ‘A bit of pottage!’ she wailed. ‘Hot water and lemon! Steamed fish! The things that man eats, you’d think he was on his deathbed, day in and day out. No wonder he looks like nothing more than a cadaver. And what does this do for my reputation? No cook wants a master who won’t fatten up with her good food. Well, the servants will just have to eat the nice things I’ve made for his supper, and they can bless him and bless him twice for making their lives so plush. I’ll have his invalid’s victuals up within this half hour.’

  ‘Lucky servants. I’d eat anything,’ Katie thought ruefully, eyeing the sugar buns just out of the oven, and the steaming soup cook was now stirring. But the kitchen wasn’t the place for her. She needed to get to DuQuelle. Creeping out of the room, she started up the back stairs. Looking out of the stairwell windows, she could see the final light of day disappearing over the park. Within, it was darker still. The rooms were small and low, the wooden floors worn and uneven. DuQuelle’s staff had neither lit a lamp nor kindled a fire. Ancient furniture loomed black in the fading light and strange aged faces peered down at her from portraits. As she ascended, each floor grew gloomier than the last. Yet she must find him. Floor by floor Katie searched for DuQuelle.

  On the fourth floor she could see a flickering light underneath a door. She had been seeking DuQuelle, and here he was. But she couldn’t bring herself to confront him. ‘Best check things out first,’ she said to herself, knowing she was a coward. She pushed the door open softly; it didn’t creak, thank God. DuQuelle was seated with his back to the door, leafing hungrily through a dog-eared book. He was huddled before a smoking fire, which sent light and shadows flickering across the dark wooden panels of the curious furniture. The chests and wardrobes were deeply carved with leering gargoyles and grotesque hybrid animals: griffins, dragons and snakes seemed to jump from the walls as the light from the fire randomly hit them. They stared down upon stack after stack of books, lining the walls and rising in columns from the floor. ‘He has a thing for books,’ Katie thought. ‘You’d think he was devouring the one on his knee.’ They had something in common. This should have been comforting, but it was not.

  She screwed up her courage, and stepped towards DuQuelle. ‘Bang!’ The door swung behind her with a blast. Air whipped through the room, pushing Katie into a corner.
A bright flash of light filled the entire space. It was like being caught in a cyclone. Katie’s hair slapped across her face and she clung to the side of a wardrobe as the tapestries rattled against the walls. The books flew through the air, pelting down like cannon balls. A dresser skidded across the room, fencing her in. She crouched down. She was trapped, but at least she couldn’t be seen. And then the wind and light died down, ever so slightly, and she heard DuQuelle speak.

  ‘So you have come, Lucia. And for all your sense, you make a sensational first impression. Did you cause a commotion downstairs?’

  ‘They always think it’s a lightning storm,’ a breathy whistling female voice answered. ‘Humans can be so simple.’

  ‘Do sit down. And please help yourself to a book.’

  ‘Not now, DuQuelle, we have no time for pleasantries.’ But she glanced greedily at the books, now scattered across the floor.

  Katie peered over the dresser, trying to see the woman by the fire, but she couldn’t get a good look at her. It was so bright, and the strange woman seemed to be the source of the light. Everything in the room shimmered and shook. Only DuQuelle remained still. ‘I would invite you to take a seat,’ he said, ‘but I know you prefer to keep moving. If you will excuse me, I will remain by the fire. Blue skies, yes, but a bitterly chill day to spend in Hyde Park. One would think the Royal Family had better things to do than poke around a timber yard in the mud and ice.’

  Despite his conversational air, Katie could hear the strain is DuQuelle’s voice. The light magnified everything in the room, throwing him into sharp definition. Katie could see every detail of his face. The heavy lids over his eyes twitched slightly and deep crevices lined his face from nose to chin. Despite the talk of the cold, slight beads of perspiration dotted his temples. He continued to stare at the fire, as the shining figure flitted before him.