Imogen Robertson - Circle of Shadows

‘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.

There was a knock at the door, and with his gruff consent a footman entered. As always, Krall marvelled at how clean the servants kept themselves. It was as if they were scrubbed on the hour. This one he knew a little. Wimpf. A good young lad who had polished his riding boots to such a shine, Krall had sworn at first they were not his. Krall suddenly realised his boots were not that clean any more and resting on the bed. He swung them off rather guiltily. The boy grinned. Krall knew his family, had known them for years. Strange to think this shiny boy had sprung from that farm, neat as it was. He had a look of his mother about him. Hair so fair his eyebrows and lashes seemed white, and he had her trick of turning away a bit to hide a smile. Though he had the cleft chin of his father.