Gordon Dahlquist - The Chemickal Marriage

Miss Temple started, deep in her own mind. Svenson had stepped closer to the stove and rubbed his hands.

‘I am growing cold after all.’

‘It is cold,’ replied Miss Temple, holding out her hands as well. ‘Winter is the guest who never leaves – who one finds lurking behind the beer barrel in the kitchen.’

Svenson chuckled, and shook his head. ‘To keep your humour, Celeste, after all you’ve seen.’

‘I’m sure I have no humour at all. Speaking one’s mind is not wit.’

‘My dear, that is wit exactly.’

Miss Temple reddened. When it was clear she had no intention of replying, the Doctor knelt and scooped more coal into the stove.

‘Mr Cunsher has not come. He may be hiding, or in pursuit – or taken, in which case we cannot remain here.’

‘How will we know which? If we leave, how will we find him?’

‘He will find us, do not fear …’

‘I do not like Mr Cunsher.’

‘Upon such men we must rely. How long did it take until you trusted Chang?’

‘No time at all. I saw him on the train. I knew .’

Svenson met her determined expression, then shrugged. ‘Harschmort is too perilous until we know more. Our struggle has become a chess match. We cannot strike at king or queen, but must fence with pawns and hope to force a path. Your Mr Pfaff –’

‘Went to a glassworks by the river, which led him somewhere else.’

‘And Mr Ramper went to Raaxfall. Phelps and I have hopes to waylay Mr Harcourt as he leaves the Ministry –’

‘We should go back to the Boniface,’ Miss Temple said. ‘As it is watched, my arrival may provoke one of these pawns to action – which you and Mr Phelps can observe. I will be safe with Brine, and with any luck Mr Pfaff will have returned.’

‘Spelt out like that, I cannot disagree.’

She smiled. ‘Why should you want to?’

Breakfast was quick and cold, well before dawn. Fog clung to the stones. The streets on the far side of the tower were of a piece with the tents on the common they had passed in the night – even at this hour crowded with faces from other lands, tiny shops, carts, mere squares of carpet piled with copper, beadwork, spices, embroidery. Miss Temple found herself next to Mr Phelps. Unable to shed her distrust, yet feeling obliged because of the Doctor’s alliance, she did her best to strike up a conversation.

‘How strange it must be, Mr Phelps, to be so uprooted from your life.’

The pale man’s expression remained wary. ‘In truth, I scarcely note it.’

‘But your family, your home – are you not missed?’

‘The only ones to miss me are already dead.’

Miss Temple felt an impulse to apologize, but repressed it. Behind them Svenson listened to Mr Brine describe his service abroad, apparently spurred on by the dark faces around them.

‘When you say “dead”, Mr Phelps, do you refer to your former allies – Mrs Marchmoor, Colonel Aspiche and the others?’

Phelps’s lips were a thin, whitened line. He gestured at the market stalls. ‘Have you spent all your hours in that hotel? Do you not see how we are stared at?’

‘I am not unaccustomed to dark faces, Mr Phelps, nor their attention.’

‘Have you not perceived the disorder in the streets?’

‘Of course I have perceived it,’ said Miss Temple. ‘But disorder and unrest have always been the lot of the unfortunate.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ Phelps replied under his breath, angry but not wanting to draw attention. ‘Everything you see – the fear amongst these colonials, the anger of the displaced workers, the outrage with the banks, our paralysed industry – all of this comes directly from my misguided efforts. And your virtuous ones.’

‘I do not understand.’

Phelps exhaled, a chuff of clouded air. She saw the strain in his eyes, a vibration of guilt. He did not like her, she knew, but, more, Phelps did not like himself. She gave the man credit for his awareness of the latter dislike colouring the former – thus the sigh, and an attempt at explanation.

‘Those you name as “the Cabal” insinuated themselves into the highest levels of every ministry, the Palace, Admiralty, Army and Privy Council. Even more importantly, through the subversion of men of industry like Robert Vandaariff and Henry Xonck, they influenced mills, banks, shipping lines, railways, a gridwork of influence and power – all of it suborned through their Process , and all, on their departure in that dirigible, left awaiting instructions, free will expunged.’

‘And I have worked against them –’

‘Yes, and unintentionally, through your success, delivered the nation from one dilemma to another. When the Cabal’s mission to Macklenburg failed and its leaders were undone, this gridwork I describe was left without command, even without sense. Various minions attempted to take the reins – out of ambition, I make no bones, for I was of their number – Mrs Marchmoor and the Colonel, but there were others too with a scrambling knowledge of what plans had been in place. This second crop was defeated at Parchfeldt, as we deserved – but that victory has only allowed the nation’s sickness to deepen.’

‘What sickness?’

Phelps shook his head. ‘The sickness of rule. The Cabal has hollowed out the rule of this land like a melon – and what remains? What remains of the nation ? In governance there is ever but a narrow margin between acceptance and revolt. Quite simply, Miss Temple, that margin is gone.’

‘But why should you care?’

Phelps stammered, aghast. ‘Because I am guilty. Because others have died without the chance to repent.’

Miss Temple sniffed. ‘What does repentance do, save ease a villain’s conscience?’

Phelps turned down a lane of smithies, where the air rang with hammers and the breeze was warm. He spoke abruptly, his voice unpleasantly crisp.‘We went back to Parchfeldt. While Cunsher spied out the factory. Did the Doctor tell you? No. It had been weeks – cold, rain – the wild . We went back for her . We took the body to her uncle’s on a cart. Dug a grave in the garden.’ He twisted his mouth to a grimace. ‘Who’ll do that for you or me?’

When Miss Temple spoke her voice was small.

‘Did you look for Chang?’

‘We did.’ Mr Phelps took her hand to cross the busy road. ‘Without success.’

Mr Spanning, the assistant manager, was just unlocking the hotel’s front door as Miss Temple and Mr Brine arrived. Mr Phelps and the Doctor had gone to secure a carriage and would meet them outside.

‘Early morning?’ Spanning offered, eyes flitting across their rumpled clothes.

Miss Temple had not forgotten Spanning’s willingness to accept the Cabal’s money, nor her own threat to set his over-oiled hair aflame. He smoothly preceded them to the desk.

‘No messages. So sorry.’

Mr Brine leant over the lip of the desk to look for himself, but Miss Temple was already walking to the stairs.

‘Will you want tea?’ called Spanning with arch solicitude. ‘Brandy?’

By the time Miss Temple reached her own floor the revolver was in her hand. Mr Brine pressed ahead of her with his cudgel. The door was locked as they had left it.

Inside, nothing had been touched. Miss Temple sent Mr Brine downstairs to wake Marie. While he was gone, she retrieved the two red envelopes and their original contents, tucking them carefully into one of her aunt’s serial novels ( Susannah, White Ranee of Kaipoor ) to protect the glass. Her eyes caught her old ankle boots. The bold green leather had been chosen out of spite, of course, at the disapproval of Roger Bascombe’s cousin. She disliked the memory.