Imogen Robertson - Circle of Shadows

Harriet felt her eyes sting. ‘Of course it is. I am a fool. Wimpf said Auwerk had the key and I never even thought-’

‘Do not worry, dear lady, I have another advantage over Mr Graves as a companion on this venture.’ Manzerotti reached into his jacket and produced a soft leather roll. It was the same sort of thing that Crowther used to carry the tools of dissection with him, but much smaller. He untied it and showed her within a number of slim metal tools, each a subtly different shape and size.

‘Lock picks? How did you know?’

‘A lucky guess, my dear. But I try to be prepared. I am also carrying a knife and a large quantity of money.’

‘You know how to use these, of course.’

‘Of course. How do you think I always manage to know a little more than I should? But I had the best teacher when I was young — hunger. The boys who had been castrated were a little better fed than the rest at the school where I was trained, but only a little. There. The pantry at Padua was a great deal better guarded than this.’

He pushed the door open. At first Harriet could make out nothing but the chequerboard design on the floor, but as Manzerotti moved around the room, lighting the candles that hung against the walls, each with a brass panel behind it to throw forward what light it could, the room began to take shape before her.

It was a square chamber, with a number of chairs placed against the wall and one larger chair at the north end. The case with the glasses in it was located on the sideboard by the door. Harriet opened it. Seven, all identical and arranged in a circle. She took out one. It was engraved as Wimpf had said with a pattern of vines and flowers. He had not mentioned that there was also an owl cut into the glass of each.

‘What do you think they spoke of here, Manzerotti?’

‘Power, I suspect. Imagine, Mrs Westerman, this little group with their owls: if they had simply been courtiers wandering in the gardens making their little plots, then they are ordinary. But here they are a secret little group of seven, meeting in their own secret little room. It gives them a sense of their own importance. Some people have children to stave off their mortality, some religion, and some create these rituals of their own.’

‘But not you?’

‘I am a breed apart, Mrs Westerman, you know that.’

‘Music?’

He smiled. ‘Very, very occasionally. I enjoy what is beautiful and original, and so very little is.’

She fitted the glass back into the case and closed it. ‘Do you know of a musician named Bertolini, who was employed here some years ago, Manzerotti?’

‘Yes, but he was neither beautiful, nor original. He is Kappelmeister in Colburg now. He leads a band of competent musicians in a competent manner. What of him?’

‘I heard this evening that he was involved in a scandal here some years ago. It ended badly for the woman involved. She was separated from her child, and the child died.’

‘I am not sure I understand, my dear. What threads have you been pulling from the air?’

‘I was told the Duke was thinking of putting this lady, Kastner was her name, under his protection when the scandal broke out, then after her banishment his attentions alighted on Countess Dieth. Suppose this little cabal wanted one of their own in the Ducal bed and they slandered this woman to remove her. She is sent from court, her child is taken from her and dies. That woman therefore had reason to hate her enemies to such a degree she might take this … revenge .’ The word choked her, and she found herself staring at Manzerotti, but seeing only her husband. She remembered suddenly the feel of her children’s hands in her own the day of James’s funeral. She stepped back from him, fumbling for the chair behind her, and sat down. He lowered himself onto one knee in front of her. She felt a sickness in her throat.

‘Mrs Westerman …’

‘Do not speak.’

‘I must.’

She placed her hands over her ears, but could not block out the sound of his voice.

‘I have done many things that you may think immoral, but I gave no order that any man, woman or child should die in London. I ordered that a body be removed and concealed. That is all. Johannes’s devotion to me was very powerful. It had become unmanageable by the time we arrived in London.’

‘I shall not hear you — you are the devil himself.’

‘Johannes acted to protect me, but not by my command. Do you think I would be the man I am today if such slaughter were my usual modus operandi?’ His voice was low, urgent.

‘Why did you not tell me this before, at once when we met, if it is true?’

‘You would not have believed me.’

‘Why should I now?’

He was still kneeling before her, looking at the floor in front of him. ‘You know me a little better now. I should have killed him before we left France. I am sorry, but he was my friend. I told myself he was under sufficient control.’ She covered her face and heard him move; he had taken the chair next to her own. ‘Forgive me.’

‘Never. Even if you did not give the order, it was still you who told Johannes that my husband might be able to identify you. I shall never forgive you.’

He sighed. ‘That is your right.’ He waited until her breathing began to steady and then spoke as if the exchange had not taken place. ‘The woman you speak of cannot be your murderer; you need someone who can move about in plain sight. Someone to whom Glucke would open his door. Either this merry band gave someone else a motive as powerful, or someone is taking revenge on her behalf.’

Harriet’s blood beat in her brain, her exhaustion slowed her thoughts. She held up her hand. ‘Mrs Westerman?’ She did not speak to him, but after a few moments picked up the candle from the table and placed it near to the panelling behind them. There was a draught coming from somewhere close to her that carried some strange foreign smell. An astringency. She stood.

‘Never speak to me of London again, Manzerotti. Never mention my husband in my hearing.’ He lowered his head. ‘Now help me shift these chairs.’ He did so swiftly, setting them in the centre of the room while Harriet moved the candle-flame to and fro. The flame held steady. She wondered if she had imagined it, but then she felt it again on her left hand. She moved the candle once more and the flame fluttered and bent towards the wall. Using it as her guide, she brought the candle closer. There was a keyhole. It had a thin wooden covering over it, that had been left not quite straight, allowing that thread of air into the room. She ran her hand over the carved uprights in the panelling. It was possible that the edge of a doorway might be concealed beneath them. She felt Manzerotti’s breath on her cheek.

‘Very good, Mrs Westerman.’

This lock took rather longer than the first. Manzerotti, after an initial examination, actually removed his coat. She watched him as he worked and wondered if she believed him. The more she thought of it, the more likely it seemed. He was subtle, the murders in London were not.

As he worked, he never swore or showed any sign of frustration. The only indication that he had found it anything of a challenge was the nod he gave to himself as something deep within the wood clicked. He pushed the door with his fingertips. It was beautifully weighted. To conceal its edges behind the decoration it was particularly wide, yet it swung slowly open even with that most gentle pressure. He stood at the doorway looking over his shoulder at her. Without his jacket his figure looked almost girlish, and his forearms showing where he had pushed up his sleeves were as white and hairless as his cheek.

‘That smell,’ she said.

‘Yes. I would think it wise if we were to avoid touching anything in this room,’ he said, and moved aside to let her join him in the doorway. It was a far smaller chamber, almost a closet. A narrow bench ran along one wall and on it were a number of innocuous-looking glass jars. In front of them was a brown leather folder. Manzerotti produced a knife from his pocket and flicked open the cover with its blade.