Harriet approached the desk warily, half-expecting the child to drop the pretence and start laughing at her, and peered down at the paper before the inert little scholar.
Good afternoon, Mrs Westerman, it read, and welcome to my home.
‘You are both magicians, I can barely comprehend it! Are there many machines that write like this?’
‘Some. We have made several that draw also. It is a matter only of examining the movements of the hand as it performs the action we wish, forward and back, right and left, then translating it onto our little brass discs.’
‘You make it sound easy,’ Harriet said wonderingly, and touched the paper face of the child with a fingertip.
‘Not easy no, but in some way simple.’
Sami approached the mechanism and picked up the sheet to cover it. ‘Adnan is too modest,’ he said. He ruffled the model’s hair affectionately, and just as he dropped the sheet over it there came the sound of a male voice calling outside. ‘Oh, perhaps that is Julius,’ he said, and headed for the door with long strides.
‘My apologies, Mrs Westerman,’ Al-Said said, watching him go. ‘Our neighbour is a metalworker called Julius. He and Sami are good friends.’
The words were only just out of his mouth when Sami returned and handed a folded sheet of paper to Harriet. ‘It was a message for you, Mrs Westerman, from the palace.’
Harriet took it from him and broke the seal. She felt the smile fall from her lips and her skin whiten. She thrust the note into her pocket. ‘I am afraid I must go at once. I hope to see you both again, gentlemen.’
‘Harriet, what is it?’ Rachel asked. ‘Is Daniel well?’
‘It is nothing to do with Daniel, dear. If you would stay here and finish your tea, then perhaps the gentlemen may escort you back to the palace.’
‘Don’t be foolish, Harry. I am coming with you.’
‘Stay here.’ She said it so sharply, Rachel almost shrank away. Without trusting herself to speak further, and with only a nod to the astonished brothers, Harriet hurriedly left the house and started out along the northward path from the village.
The directions she had received were very clear. Harriet found the Temple of Apollo at the far end of the formal gardens, at the summit of an artificial hill which gave it views back across the expanse of water, hedges and flower gardens to the pink face of the palace itself. It was a smallish, circular domed building, the roof supported by Doric columns. Below them was a wall covered in frescoes of the Muses. She mounted the steps and found herself in its stone interior. A marble bench curved round the low wall, and taking his ease on it, a lazy smile on his lips and surrounded by various gods apparently offering him lyres and laurel wreaths, was Manzerotti. He was as beautiful as ever. She hesitated.
‘Mrs Westerman,’ he said, his voice light and high as a dove cooing to its mate, and nodded to his right. On the bench, just out of his reach was an open walnut case with a pair of travelling pistols in it. She did not speak but took a seat next to it and removed one of the guns. It was a beautiful object – walnut grip, full silver mount. It was cold and smooth in her hand. Heavy without being cumbersome, it felt full of its purpose. She glanced up at its owner. It was like him to own something so perfect, so lovingly made and so deadly.
‘Are we to fight a duel?’ she said at last. Her voice broke in her throat; it sounded harsh and ugly in her ears.
He shook his head and looked out across the view away from the palace and towards the great forests of Maulberg swelling and falling over the hills.
‘I would not challenge you, madam. There are the guns. Do with them what you will.’
In her mind, during the three years since she had seen him in triumph on the stage of His Majesty’s Theatre, she had tried to make him ugly. She felt his sins should show in his face: this spy-master, for whoever would pay him, this monster without principle or ideal who had sown destruction then fled England, protected by her government. They had made use of him in the past too, and his work meant they were willing to let him leave trailing glory and fame, adored and mourned by the public while others who had done less than he were hung as traitors. Harriet remembered that before she had first laid eyes on Manzerotti, she had been told that a woman had gone mad with love for him and thrown herself under his coach. She had thought the story ridiculous, then having seen him and heard him sing, she had believed it. The years had made no mark on him. He was still an ideal model of a human. And with a casual command from his rosebud mouth, he had ordered the murder of her husband.
She lifted the powder flask from its niche among the velvet and unscrewed the lid, noticing that the motif of leaves and flowers from the metalwork on the gun was repeated round the shoulder of the flask. It was full. There was enough powder there to kill Manzerotti a dozen times over.
Crowther and Graves hurried along the path without any clear idea of where they were going.
‘Why is he here?’ Graves hissed. ‘We should never have agreed to keep silent!’
‘It was an order from the King, Graves. Even if it was framed as a request.’ Crowther could move with surprising speed when he wished. Graves jogged along at his side. Crowther continued. ‘Manzerotti, I am sure, is here on his usual business. The marriage of a sovereign Duke, a murder. The foreign powers will be interested in Maulberg at the moment. No doubt Manzerotti is working for Catherine, or Frederick of Prussia. Both, possibly. There is Mrs Clode … I cannot see Mrs Westerman.’
Rachel had just emerged from one of the side paths, accompanied by a dark-complexioned man. Crowther did not take any trouble with formalities. ‘Where is she?’
Rachel looked between them. ‘She received a note and left at once. I thought she would be meeting you, Crowther.’
‘Manzerotti is here,’ Graves said, and Rachel covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Do you have any notion where she went?’
Rachel shook her head. Al-Said frowned. ‘I think I saw her take the path towards the Temple of Apollo.’
‘Manzerotti absolutely,’ Crowther said through gritted teeth. ‘Can you take us there, sir? As quickly as possible, please.’
Al-Said hesitated, then nodded. ‘This way.’
‘I am sorry your husband was killed, Mrs Westerman.’ Manzerotti still had the trick of making every phrase he spoke sound like a snatch of music in his lightly accented English. He crossed his legs and the black silk whispered. He seemed quite calm.
‘Murdered. On your order.’ She rolled one of the lead bullets around the centre of her palm.
‘All wars have casualties. Your husband sank many ships, drowned many men, and was called a hero.’
Harriet made a sound of disgust in her throat.
Manzerotti continued as if he had not heard her. ‘I regret his death now. It proved unnecessary, given my identity was already discovered, but we were not to know that then.’ Harriet picked up the gun again and examined the mechanism. ‘But then I was not the only person to order a murder, was I, Mrs Westerman?’
She paused. ‘I do not know what you mean, Manzerotti.’
He watched her carefully, examining her face as if he were about to draw it.
‘I think the authorities would have preferred my friend Johannes delivered to them alive, yet he was given over to an angry mob. Mr Crowther is hardly the creature to do such a thing unprompted. His blood, for the most part, runs too cold.’ Harriet felt herself flinch, felt it seen. ‘No, Mrs Westerman, I believe it was you that ordered Johannes’ death. Asked Crowther to perform that act of revenge on your behalf from your husband’s bedside. Johannes had been my companion since childhood, you know.’
Harriet tried to concentrate on the pistol, heavy in her hand, and tapped powder into the muzzle. Her hand had begun to shake a little. ‘He was your knife-man. Did you keep a tally of the murders he did for you?’
Manzerotti nodded, his eyebrows slightly lifted as if considering what she said. ‘I am sure you thought the murder justified. Though I have never murdered for re
venge. And that is what it was, my dear, revenge.’ She dropped the ball into the barrel and rammed home the charge with all her strength. ‘And you have killed since, I understand, with your own hand. Some evil-doer in Keswick, was it not? The same man who shot Mr Crowther?’
‘I was defending my son.’
‘I applauded you then, as I do now, but tell me, do you think that business would have been tidied away so neatly, just as the removal of Johannes was forgiven so completely, were you not thought of as useful? I suspect England holds you in reserve.’
‘Your point, Manzerotti?’
‘My individual talents have made me of help to many governments, and many individuals; my sins have likewise been occasionally overlooked. I can be useful too, Mrs Westerman. I might even be of help to you. What do you know of this place? These people?’
Harriet pointed the pistol at Manzerotti’s chest; she could feel the pulse of blood in her brain. ‘We are not the same, Manzerotti.’
He licked his lips. ‘No, my dear, I do not think we are. In fact, I seem to be betting my life on it. I only say we can be of use to each other. Now either you must shoot me, or we must come to some sort of accommodation. The world is too small to prevent us from bumping into each other from time to time.’
‘Why are you here? Why have you come to Maulberg?’ Her mouth was dry, each word came painfully from her lips.
His eyes glittered. ‘One step at a time. This I shall tell you, Mrs Westerman: I do not come for you, or Mr Clode.’
Her finger tightened on the trigger. She felt the grief of every day since James had died wash over her in a black tide, seemed to live again that moment she had watched him die, felt him torn away from her, leaving this creeping dark at her core. She closed her eyes as it fell over her, then opened them again. Manzerotti was still watching her with that close attention, but there was something in his eyes more human than she had ever seen before, some reflection of her grief. The wave retreated, she became aware of the sound of the wind breathing through the trees. He spoke again, softly, kindly.
‘Where is Mr Clode’s mask, Mrs Westerman? Ask District Officer Krall that, and he will know what to do.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘The moment has come, my dear. You must shoot me or set that pistol down. Know only that in my mind, we are even in blood.’
Harriet felt a tremor run through her arm, then she laid the gun down in its case. She felt as if the life had drained from her body and left her suddenly powerless; all she could do was listen to the leaves shivering on the branches, the distant trill and burst of the song thrush.
Manzerotti, however, seemed suddenly renewed. He slid along the bench like a child, spun the gun case towards him and as he spoke began to disassemble the charge. ‘Excellent, my dear. If you would just give me a moment to render this safe … it would be too bathetic if I blew my own leg off carrying it down the hill again.’ In the middle distance, Harriet could hear her sister calling her. ‘Ah, the cavalry approach,’ he added.
‘Why?’
‘Why what, dear lady?’
‘Why must we meet?’
He blew loose powder from the muzzle and settled the gun back into its velvet seat, then flicked the box closed and snapped the catches. He did not reply until he was looking at her again. His eyes were dancing, his exhilaration obvious. ‘You are by far the most interesting woman in Europe, Mrs Westerman. I am one of the most interesting men. It could not be avoided.’
He stood and tucked the box under his arm. Harriet felt a hundred years older than she had when she arrived in Maulberg, but there was a sort of peace there too, rolling over her like sea fog.
‘The mask?’ she asked, passing her hand over her forehead.
‘They all ate the same, and drank the same. Mr Clode saw visions. If he did not eat or drink the substances that gave him those visions, it might well have come through the skin. There are drugs that can be administered in such a fashion. The mask would be the best method.’
She nodded and he turned to leave her. ‘We are not even in blood,’ she said in a dull voice. ‘We never can be.’ He did not turn back towards her.
‘Opinions differ.’ He reached the top of the stairs just as Graves was running up them with Crowther at his heels. Harriet lowered her head and stared at her hands lying idle in her lap. ‘Mr Graves, Mr Crowther. Delighted to see you again. You aimed to be my saviours? How touching. It has proved unnecessary. In any case, I doubt you could have done much for me; she is far too good a shot.’
Graves stood aside and Manzerotti skipped lightly down the steps, bowing briefly to Rachel as he went.
They gathered round her carefully, leaving Mr Al-Said waiting nervously at the bottom of the steps.
Their nearness, the looks of tender concern felt suddenly oppressive. She stood up swiftly and turned away from them, looking back towards the palace. The network of garden rooms were quite plain from here, they branched out from the central lawns in a regular honeycomb. She let her hand lie on the balustrade, feeling its chill against her skin. ‘I could not kill him,’ she said at last. ‘I had a gun pointed at his chest and I could not, though I wanted to very much.’ No one spoke, but Rachel joined her and placed her gloved hand over Harriet’s bare fingers. Harriet closed her eyes for a moment and drew in her breath. ‘Did you see how beautiful he still is?’
‘He makes me believe in devils, Harry.’
She turned back to face Crowther, who was still pale with worry. She thought of the losses and tragedies he had endured and tried to smile at him. He only offered his arm. She took it, and for the briefest of moments rested her forehead on his shoulder. Then they walked down the steps together and Harriet paused by Mr Al-Said. She drew a sharp metal sliver from her glove. ‘I do apologise, sir. I seem to have picked up one of your files as I left the workshop. Very absent-minded of me.’
Adnan took it from her and bowed.
Krall looked at his watch. It seemed there would no longer be an opportunity to meet the English today. The timetable at court was strictly observed. The party would need to change into court dress to be presented to Ludwig Christoph and that was a fussy business. Krall would not dine with them. He had the liberty to demand what he wanted from the kitchen at his convenience and for now he would rather stare at the plaster cherubs cavorting over his ceiling than anything else. Time enough to meet the English tomorrow.
Since the murder of Lady Martesen, Krall had been in the habit of spending two or three nights in the palace every week to consult with Chancellor Swann and place before him the latest sheafs of reports and interviews. He would have preferred his own home, his own fireside and books, but he accepted the necessity of spending more time among the elaborate flourishes of Ulrichsberg with his usual stoicism. The manner of Lady Martesen’s death itched at him. A smothering was possible, but unlikely, the more he thought of it. The Professor from the University of Leuchtenstadt who had performed the examination of the body was an elderly gentleman, more comfortable with the teachings of Ancient Rome than anything discovered in the current century. He agreed it was a little strange there was not more blood, and supposed the lack of other signs of violence was unusual. He suggested that perhaps Miss Martesen had been transfixed with fear. Krall had thought the suggestion ridiculous. It was likely he showed it. He mentioned the pink foam around the woman’s mouth before her body was cleaned. The Professor thought it without significance. Krall suggested examining the internal organs for any sign of poison; the Professor recoiled. Krall was adamant, however, and the Professor summoned his assistant. That young man was at least efficient with his knife, but so in awe of his master Krall had difficulty getting any opinion from him. At last the young man whispered that there was no sign of damage which would suggest any poison he knew. He pointed out one or two features he thought out of the ordinary. Krall growled and spent some hours describing the corpse in as much detail as he could manage on paper in hopes the remarkable Mr Crowther might supply some answer to the riddle.
‘What’s afoot, Christian?’
The footman held out a note, and Krall took it with a look of great suspicion.
‘From Mrs Westerman, sir. With her compliments.’
He harrumphed then read through the note twice. ‘Looks like I need to ride back to Oberbach tonight, my boy. If anyone needs me, I’ll be back before the Duke wakes in the morning.’
The footman bowed and retreated, and Krall read the note once more. Interesting.
Harriet sat in front of the mirror while her maid arranged her hair. She studied her own face and wondered if it had changed in the course of the day. It was true that she had asked Crowther to make sure the assassin who killed her husband would die. She remembered the weight of the gun as she had it aimed at Manzerotti’s chest and wondered why she had not pulled the trigger. It was not, she admitted to herself, wondering what grief she would cause to her family. It was not even for her children, and it was a lie to say, as she had said, that she simply could not. She could have done it; no hysterical passion prevented her from squeezing the trigger, no sudden regard for the sanctity of life. At first she wondered if she had simply chosen not to be the sort of person who shoots another in cold blood. Manzerotti was clever to provide the gun. If she had had the opportunity to stab him with Al-Said’s file at that first moment of meeting, she might have done it, but the gun, while being a more reliable method of execution, was also slower. She had been forced to hear him speak, and had discovered in those moments that she did not loathe Manzerotti as much as she had thought. It was not his talent, the beauty of his voice, nor of his person. No, suddenly it seemed to her that hating Manzerotti was like hating storms and high-gusting squalls that cracked the masts and cast a ship about with no care for the souls it contained. And in his utter lack of compunction, in his undoubted brilliance, he was like them, in his way, magnificent.
Circle of Shadows Page 9
