Imogen Robertson - Circle of Shadows

‘I’d stake my life on it, Miss Valentin. That boy is innocent as you are.’

‘Lord, poor fella!’ Gurt said, her eyes wide.

‘Could it have been two years ago, Mr Michaels?’

He nodded. ‘I suppose that was when the letter must have been sent.’

‘There was a girl … Gurt, do you remember? Dark-haired little piece. Used to come and get a chop for Whistler every Saturday and charge it to his son. Had that dark blue dress I thought was just the colour for you. Wasn’t her name Beatrice?’

‘Oh, that it was!’ Gurt rolled her eyes. ‘What a little bitch she was!’

‘Gurt!’

‘I’m sorry, Mother, but she was so. And I’m sorry for you, Mr Michaels, if that’s your niece. You know, twice I saw her sweetheart a shilling out of one of the fellas to pay for her supper, then she’d charge it to Whistler’s account anyway and walk off with the coin in her pocket and her nose in the air. And the manners on her! She’d make the Empress herself, God rest her soul, look humble.’ Gurt widened her eyes and tilted her head a little to one side. ‘Honest, Mr Michaels, if that’s her, don’t pay her no mind. Sure we can find you another girl to spend your money on if you fancy it?’

Michaels suppressed a smile, though he noticed a definite cooling in the air, as if a draught had just come in from the angle where Mrs Valentin was sitting.

‘Sorry to hear that, miss. But I still have a duty to my poor mother. What became of her?’

Gurt crossed her arms and sat back in her chair looking sulky. ‘No notion, I’m sure. She was here through the spring and summer, then pouff! Gone away! I asked Whistler if he’d got sick of her and blown her up in one of his experiments. He looked at me as if I were stupid then ran away. But you might ask Simon. They seemed friendly. You’ll find him hammering for the blacksmith off Ludwig’s Platz. She took a coin or two off him, and he don’t part with them easy.’

‘Or there’s the son,’ Mrs Valentin continued. ‘Theo Kupfel. He sells ointments and perfumes on Karlstrasse, and pays them that wait on his father.’

Michaels got to his feet. ‘Thank you, ladies. You’ve been very kind to a stranger.’

Michaels would probably have gone straight back to the palace to see Crowther and find out why their paths had crossed at Whistler’s door, except his way took him along Karlstrasse, so shrugging his shoulders he pushed open the door of the perfumers, and stood slightly stunned by the smell of rosewater, as it clanged to behind him.

It was a large shop, crammed with dainty-looking porcelain and glass jars in gleaming and glowing display cabinets. Three neat young women, gleaming and glowing too in their way, stood behind the counter, all engaged in what looked like intimate conversation with ladies whose elaborate hair and impractical costumes marked them out as nobility. There were a number of vitrined display cases on chests scattered about the room. He leaned over and examined the one nearest to him: silver-backed brushes and minuscule combs resting in velvet boxes, and to his left a display of snuffboxes, each one crowded with painted cherubs and chariots. His nose began to itch. There was a sign above the counter, the writing in gold leaf: Kupfel’s miracles for ladies and gentlemen. Elixirs of youth and vitality by appointment to the court .

The prettiest of the young women standing behind the counter gave him a long look, and rang a tiny little bell by her side. Michaels felt as if he were the bear from his own inn sign, ungainly and unsure on his two hind legs.

A door to the back of the shop opened and a man, probably some years younger than Michaels, appeared. He was very thin and pale. His hair was pulled up off his head at such an unnatural angle it must have been stiffened with sugar water, and he wore his breeches so tight, to take a seat must be impossible.

‘Can I help you?’

Michaels was briefly distracted by the thought of breaking off a portion of that reddish quiff and eating it like barley sugar.

‘I said, can I help you?’

Michaels dragged his eyes to the man’s face. ‘I want to ask you something concerning your father. If you are Theo Kupfel, that is.’

The man gave a dramatic sigh and exchanged sad and weary smiles with his shop girls. ‘What has he done now? More explosions?’

Michaels shrugged. ‘No, nothing that I know of. Thing is, there was a girl working for him a couple of years ago who I think might be a niece of mine. Dark hair. Pretty. Goes by the name of Beatrice.’

‘Apologies! No idea! I must have hired a hundred girls to try and look after my father, and most of them can’t take his manners for more than a fortnight. So sorry, bye bye, off you go!’ He made a little shooing gesture.

Michaels wandered over to the counter. ‘I’m in no hurry, son. She stayed a fair while longer than that. I’ll just have a look around until you’ve had a chance to think.’

He stuck his finger into one of the pots and lifted it to his nose. It made him sneeze. A bell jangled and a woman in red silk opened the door. Michaels smiled broadly at her. She retreated. The women already in the shop began to cast slightly nervous glances at him while their servers waved coloured powders at them like matadors trying to attract the attention of a bull.

‘Very well,’ Kupfel said sharply. ‘I shall tell you what I can remember. Out the back, if you please.’

Michaels followed him and noticed one of the shop girls shaking her head sympathetically as he went.

Michaels sat down on one of Kupfel Junior’s spindly little chairs rather more heavily than he needed to, and was glad to see its owner wince. He leaned up against his desk and folded his arms across his narrow chest.

‘Beatrice? It does ring a bell — she lasted a few months, now I think of it. Though I can’t tell you much about her. And we’re very, very busy with the wedding around the corner. Everyone wants to look their absolute best for the arrival of the new Duchess.’

Michaels shifted his weight from side to side on the chair and grinned as if childishly amused by the little squeaking noise it made. ‘Very well!’ the perfumer almost screeched. ‘If you can just stay still while I think.’

The squeaking stopped.

‘She was prettyish, I suppose, for a common girl. That black hair. I even offered her employment in the shop, as I was a little short-handed, but for some reason she preferred to go to my father.’

‘He had no one at that time?’

‘His last girl gave notice the day before Beatrice arrived at my shop. Said she had come into some money and meant to go and marry on it, but that she had a cousin willing to take the place. That was Beatrice.’

Any thoughts on the convenience of the arrangement, Michaels kept to himself.

‘And you had no complaints of her?’

He shrugged his shoulders and Michaels noticed they were padded. ‘None. Then she was gone and gave me no notice. First I knew of it was my father turning up at the shop demanding to know where his dinner was. I suppose I would have owed her wages for the last month, but she made no effort to collect them.’

‘That not strike you as unusual?’

‘Young girls can be flighty.’

‘See much of your father, do you?’ Michaels asked, looking about him.

‘Our relations are a little strained. Not surprising, given his eccentricities. I took what he taught me of his arts and have created the best cosmetics in Europe. Do you have a wife? I have a skin cream that will make her look as fresh as she did on the morning of your marriage! I can create scents to charm a hermit from his cave, rouge that looks as natural as the blush on a rose. I make the world a better place and he despises me for it. He thinks himself superior because all he has become is scarred and poor, while I am rich.’