Imogen Robertson - Circle of Shadows

There was a diagram of a series of circles, each labelled in flowing copperplate. Harriet counted the row of jars. She craned forward slightly to read, then she reached out for one of the jars. Manzerotti, apparently without looking up, caught her wrist with his left hand.

‘A moment, Mrs Westerman.’ He turned the page. A number of paragraphs in the same florid handwriting. ‘The names may be innocent but the potions are not.’ He tapped the knife on the page as he released her, and Harriet read: Nausea, vomiting and evacuation of the bowels. To be ingested. Will not be detected in highly peppered dishes .

‘And here.’

May be applied to clothing: will cause a painful rash wherever it touches . ‘This is foul.’

Manzerotti’s voice sounded angry when he spoke. ‘Yes, it is, and my employer and I take it very seriously. I am in your debt, Mrs Westerman. This is certainly the lair of the poisoner I am searching for, though Herr Kupfel’s most powerful secrets did not end up here. There is no sign of the drugs used on Clode or the victims of blood-letting.’ He turned another page. ‘Nor anything that would nearly kill Swann either. But it is unpleasant enough. Until we sort out who is who in our catalogue of poisoners, may I give you some advice — advice you might pass to your friends here?’

She would not look at him, but nodded.

‘Caution. No poison is completely invisible. Drink only when you see others drink. Eat only from shared plates. As for clothing, remember, Mrs Westerman, you noticed a scent that came from the poisoner’s chamber. That must be your warning. May I also suggest that none of you put clothes on your person that feel cold to the touch. Sometimes articles are chilled, that on being warmed by the skin give off their poison. And now, madam, perhaps you will allow me to escort you back to your chamber?’

Harriet slept very deeply for those few hours. She dreamed of walking through her own gardens at Caveley and finding there not her friends or children, but Manzerotti laughing at a wound in his belly, the Duke introducing his spaniel to her as his new wife, and Crowther locking her into a room in Caveley she had never known existed, with the Countess Dieth, who wore the mask of a Harlequin on parade. Stephen was sitting at a desk in the corner of the chamber, but instead of working at his mathematics Harriet found her son drawing a strange talisman again and again. His movement was mechanical, and when he looked up at her his eyes were made of glass. She found herself outside her house again. A man in a long black cloak and mask was chalking symbols on her door. Her children emerged from the door hand-in-hand. She called out to them and began to run towards them, but Graves appeared, caught her round the waist and began to drag her into a carriage. The footmen were dressed in the livery of the Palace of Ulrichsberg. She fought, but Graves slammed the door on her. She threw herself to the window and called out to Stephen and Anne; they made no move towards her but stood either side of the man in the black cloak and mask, holding his hands.

She woke to hear the maid moving about the room, and the clink of china. Her forehead was damp. She slid out of bed and Dido bought her a dressing-gown. She held it for a moment and breathed in deeply; nothing but the smell of lavender and the coal burning in the grate. She drew it over her arms and the small hairs on her arms prickled. The coffee was set out beside the fire. She poured it into the waiting cup then closed her eyes.

‘Dido, do you make my coffee yourself in the morning?’

The girl looked confused. ‘No, ma’am. The trays for all the guests are made in the kitchen this side.’

Harriet looked at the tray in front of her. Rosewood, inlaid with the Arms of Maulberg in mother-of-pearl, little displays of flowers and laurels in the four corners. ‘Is this the tray that I had yesterday? Is it marked for me in some way?’ Dido was frowning, trying to make sense of her. ‘It is so charming,’ Harriet continued, lifting the cup. ‘I wondered if all the guests have the same.’

‘All the trays are the same, ma’am. I’ll say this for this place — they know how to run a kitchen. The cook makes dozens of trays with coffee and a roll. Plenty with chocolate, which is very nice, though I know you’ve not a sweet tooth like Mrs Clode. I arrive at the hatch and say, “Coffee and roll”, and they hand me a tray. The maid behind me says, “Coffee and roll”, she gets a tray.’

Harriet sipped her coffee gratefully. ‘Thank you, Dido. I’ll wear the same costume as yesterday, if you would be so good as to lay it out.’

‘The marriage?’

‘I shall not be attending the court festivities. I’m sorry, Dido, you won’t have the opportunity to bind me into Court Dress today.’

Once Dido was finished with her, she sat down at her desk and drew towards her the various volumes selected for her by Mr Zeller, the books stolen from the old Alchemist, and tried hard to think of nothing but what was in front of her. There was a lifetime of study here. Harriet found herself sinking into the manuscript paintings. She imagined the patient hands of the scribes as they drew and coloured these borders to the pages, with daisies and vines. In the centre of the page, in front of her, a King wandered through a landscape that reminded her a little of Keswick — low lands between great hills. He wore long golden robes edged with fur, a crown, and he carried his sceptre and orb with him. Behind him in the marshes, in the curl of a rushing river, falling over itself past woodland, was another King, drowning. An old King. He still wore his crown, but the hand he held above the waters was empty and his beard was long. It seemed to be a promise of eternal rebirth. She turned to another, a French translation of a book written in German by a man who claimed to have discovered the secrets of magic in his wanderings through the lands of Egypt. He stated, matter of factly, that with his magic, a dead body could be raised again and made to walk about for seven years; in fact, one of the Dukedoms had been run by such an animated corpse until the heir was old enough to rule as he should.

Harriet put down the book and wondered how many people about her believed such things. She had been amazed last summer to see in Keswick how the beliefs in Old Magic still pulsed through the hills, but that was among the common people. Did such belief really pool in people of her own class, in the ranks above her, to the degree that a person would kill for ritual purposes? She took up the book again. Incantations, calls to angels and demons … Each spirit seemed to be as carefully ranked as the officials in the palace; each had its own role and speciality, its proper term of address. There were repeated warnings that if not called with their correct titles and attendants, they would be deeply offended.

She found again the image she thought she had recognised. It was quite different to the one chalked at the death scenes of Countess Dieth and Glucke, but it nagged at her. She spent a few minutes trying to understand the Latin words below it, then she sighed and, book in hand, made her way to Swann’s chamber where Graves maintained his bedside vigil. The Chancellor was asleep, but snoring. His colour was much improved and his sleep seemed peaceful. Graves clambered to his feet as she came in, but she waved him back and without preamble, said, ‘Graves, do you read Latin?’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s a little rusty, but part of every gentleman’s education, you know.’

‘Not to be wasted on females, however. Can you translate this?’

He took the book from her and started to read, his left hand moving back and forth through his hair as he did so.