The Dark Volume mtccads-2 Page 40

  “It is,” said Miss Temple.

  “A companion of Lydia Vandaariff,” offered Harcourt.

  “She should be brought to Mr. Phelps,” insisted Tackham.

  “I disagree, Captain,” Rawsbarthe answered, sharply. “Miss Stearne, perhaps you will lower your weapon. There are no highwaymen here, and no lady is in peril.”

  Miss Temple looked to Tackham, who smoothly adopted a posture of casual disinterest and poured himself more brandy. She lowered the knife but did not put it away.

  “I am indeed acquainted with Lydia Vandaariff.” She indicated the case in her left hand. “I am here to collect certain hairbrushes to be sent on to Macklenburg. I came upon the Captain and his charges and have expressed my concern. You have three children—under arms, mistreated—”

  “What of Lord Vandaariff?” Rawsbarthe wheezed. “Do you indeed know where he might be?”

  Miss Temple did not answer him, glaring again at Tackham. Rawsbarthe leaned forward with difficulty. His chin quivered and suddenly Miss Temple wondered where he had been in the house all this intervening time. Even from the upstairs room, his condition had precipitously declined.

  “Will you tell us?” he croaked.

  “Why should I, given these peremptory gentlemen?”

  “It would be indelicate to say,” drawled Tackham, “but I should be more than happy to show you.”

  “Captain Tackham!” cried Rawsbarthe. “I believe you have tasks other than drunken insolence! You will inquire as to the readiness of your charges, at once!”

  “I was told to wait—”

  “And I am telling you to go!”

  The officer met Rawsbarthe's gaze—and his trembling jaw—and then mockingly clicked his heels. He cast a last glance at Miss Temple. Then he was gone.

  “Mr. Harcourt, as soon as Miss Stearne reveals Lord Vandaariff's location, you will take the news to Mr. Phelps alone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If I tell you,” Miss Temple asked, “will you let me see the children?”

  “It is not your place to bargain,” wheezed Rawsbarthe.

  Miss Temple was certain that as they stood talking, no matter what Rawsbarthe intended to do, Captain Tackham would carry the children farther and farther from her grasp.

  “Well then.” She tugged on a dangling chestnut curl, and then exhaled with a tinge of boredom. “It is the simplest thing to learn where a person is—one merely has to know where he isn't. Lord Vandaariff is not at any dwelling or place of business, or you would have found him long ago. He is not anywhere related to his business, or his family. His daughter is gone. His recent companions of close council are gone as well, all off to Macklenburg. Of course, such a man has secrets—yet with the destruction of his home, he must suppose those secrets compromised. He must turn to others, and so one returns to these absent companions. Which of them possesses resources he might rely upon… or take outright.”

  “If he were in the shelter of Crabbé,” whispered Rawsbarthe, “the Ministry would know it.”

  “So he is not,” said Miss Temple. “And neither the Contessa nor the Comte have an organization of people. It leaves only Francis Xonck, and the power of Xonck Armaments.”

  “But… but Francis Xonck…” Harcourt looked nervously to Rawsbarthe.

  “Was here this very day,” said Miss Temple. “I know it.”

  “Yet if Francis Xonck could not find him…” began Rawsbarthe.

  “Then it is not Francis Xonck Lord Vandaariff is with.”

  Neither man spoke. Rawsbarthe stared at Miss Temple, his fingers gripping the divan at some internal pang.

  “Go to Phelps,” he hissed. “It is the sister after all.”

  HARCOURT RUSHED from the room. Miss Temple followed him to the door and locked it. From the corridor she heard Colonel Aspiche roaring to his men. She turned to the wheezing man on the divan.

  “You are not well, Andrew. And now you have quite compromised yourself. When it is known who I am, she will be angry.”

  “Then she must not know.”

  “She knows already. Have you not sent Tackham to her? She will snatch my image from his mind.”

  “I resent this very much indeed,” Rawsbarthe muttered. He coughed weakly. Tears glazed his eyes.

  “Come, come,” she said, with a brightness that would not convince a trusting dog. “You forget that I am well acquainted with the woman. Indeed, I am acquainted with her as a woman. Up you go!”

  She took his arm carefully with her case-hand, guiding him from the sofa and toward the inner door.

  “We cannot—”

  “If I leave you here, you will simply die, like Mr. Soames.”

  “And the Duke,” he sighed, as if this were a terrible admission.

  “And the horrid Duke,” she agreed. “But the truth is, Andrew, the Duke of Stäelmaere was killed some days ago. He was shot through the heart in the quarry at Tarr Manor, and by the lover of a Macklenburg spy at that.”

  Rawsbarthe wobbled as Miss Temple reached for the doorknob.

  “I had no idea.”

  “It is a world of secrets.”

  THEY PASSED through another shuttered parlor and another after that, Miss Temple closing each door behind with a flick of her boot.

  “I have always found you beautiful,” wheezed Rawsbarthe.

  “Well, that is most kind of you, I'm sure.”

  “What you said to me earlier—about my being ushered into a room, and not remembering…”

  “The truth is better for us all, Mr. Rawsbarthe.”

  “That is a terrible lie! The truth is a plague!”

  “Mr. Rawsbarthe—”

  “Andrew!”

  She felt the clawlike grip of his fingers on her arm as she opened the next door. Beyond lay a table spread with white cloth, dotted with small reddish stains.

  “Can you smell her?” she asked.

  “I cannot smell myself,” he whimpered. “Though any mirror says I ought to.”

  “She has left with Captain Tackham and the children.”

  “What does she look like exactly?”

  “You have seen her yourself, Mr. Rawsbarthe.”

  “Andrew,” he whined.

  “Andrew—you have seen her. She has seen you. Have you no memory of it at all?”

  He shook his head dumbly. “I saw your man,” he said.

  “What man?” Miss Temple had grown impatient and pulled him round the table to the door. “Roger?”

  “Roger is dead. And I have been thinking, since we spoke—you will wonder that I have come back to find you—but all of what you said has been gnawing at my mind, and—I will say it—at my body. I can imagine where you have been, what you have done, what experiences you have cast yourself open to, what wanton impulses—”

  “Mr. Rawsbarthe—”

  “Do not deny it! I am speaking of your criminal!”

  Miss Temple's hand was on the knob, but stopped mid-turn.

  “You saw Cardinal Chang? At the station?”

  “Of course not. At the Trappings'.”

  “When was that? What were you doing? What was Chang doing?”

  “Looking for her.”

  “Mrs. Trapping?”

  “Why should you care for him?” Rawsbarthe whined. “He is a brute! Your curls are so beautiful—”

  Rawsbarthe erupted in a coughing fit. His face was bright with fever. Clumps of hair fringed his lapels. His eyes had acquired a slick cerulean oil, and she doubted he could see a thing. Miss Temple pulled free. He sank against the table. She retreated to the far door.

  “Where are you going?” he rasped, his voice shrill with concern.

  “I must find Captain Tackham. I will return, I promise!”

  “You will not!” Rawsbarthe moaned, then toppled. He scrabbled to steady himself but found only the tablecloth, balling it up in his hands. He collapsed to the floor with a shriek, pulling the white sheet on top of him. Miss Temple plunged into the darkness of another
room.

  RAWSBARTHE'S PLAINTIVE cries (“Celeste! Celeste!”) penetrated the door to Miss Temple's back, but she did not pause. She followed Mrs. Marchmoor's path, the smell growing more bitter and the stains more bright until she finally emerged in a far part of the garden, lined with hedges. Crushed on the threshold was a broken chocolate biscuit.

  The glass woman's journey to Harschmort had yielded nothing. In the absence of the book, and the Comte's machines, and Vandaariff, was Mrs. Marchmoor in flight? Or did she follow some desperate strategy? One thing was sure: since the children had been taken out this way, not back through the house, Mrs. Marchmoor did not intend a return via carriage or train…

  So much pointed to Charlotte Trapping. Yet if the children were only hostages to their mother's cooperation, what could one make of the vials and bloodstained cotton wool? With a grimace Miss Temple opened her mind to the memories of the Comte d'Orkancz—the three children, their mother, the vials—but was rewarded only with bitter retching and tears in her eyes. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She must rely on her own wits. The children had been brought here… and now they were being taken away. Why?

  WHEN SHE ran out of lawn—the house now a darkening shadow behind her—Miss Temple tumbled into the beach grass without a break in stride. Another two minutes of running, her pace now spurred by fear, and she dropped into a sudden crouch. Ahead stood a silhouetted man smoking a cigar, its tip winking red. It was Captain Tackham. Miss Temple flung herself down.

  Tackham stood scanning the high grass, turning his head stiffly like a marionette, his face emptied of all expression and intelligence. She held her breath. Another ten seconds and Tackham erupted into a fit of coughing. He raised both hands to his head, gagging like a man given poison.

  From behind him came a call.

  “Captain Tackham!”

  Tackham wiped his mouth with dismay. “In a moment!”

  He threw his shoulders back and staggered from Miss Temple's view. Quietly, she slipped after him. She could hear bootsteps on planking and creaking ropes… another few yards and she could see the canal itself. To either side of a long barge scurried shadowed figures—soldiers on deck and others, actual bargemen, readying sails and coiling the ropes that bound the craft to the canal side. Miss Temple saw nothing of the Trapping children, nor of Mrs. Marchmoor, but the glass woman had just inhabited Tackham in order to search the dunes. She must be in a cabin belowdeck. Tackham strode up the gangway to a knot of men. She recognized Mr. Phelps, Colonel Aspiche, and—his forehead wrapped with gauze—the ambitious engineer, Mr. Fochtmann.

  Captain Tackham saluted the Colonel, gave some minimal report, and then stood back from the others, who talked on. Tackham's gaze was restless, studying the sailors, sweeping the dock, then returning to the grassy dunes. He raised a hand and the other men at once followed his gaze. Miss Temple plunged her head down to the sand, too terrified to move.

  “Where have you been?” Mr. Phelps called directly toward her. “We have been waiting!”

  Miss Temple pressed her body closer to the ground, hoping it was all a mistake, fighting the urge to leap up and run.

  “Did you find Rawsbarthe?” called Phelps again.

  “I did,” gasped a voice right behind her. Miss Temple nearly yelped with surprise. Not inches away, his feet kicking grass into her face, appeared the young Ministry man, Mr. Harcourt.

  “My apologies to you all!” Harcourt was out of breath as he stumbled down to them. Phelps turned to the others.

  “I suppose we can rendezvous with Rawsbarthe tomorrow.”

  “I cannot think he will see morning,” gasped Harcourt, as he reached the gangway. “Mr. Rawsbarthe is overcome. He is quite unable to travel.”

  “Lord preserve us,” muttered Phelps, and rubbed his eyes.

  “What happened to this girl—this Miss Stearne?” asked Colonel Aspiche, his voice low.

  “I questioned Mr. Rawsbarthe—but to be frank, he was no longer lucid.” Harcourt's voice was heavy with concern.

  “Miss Stearne indeed!” snapped Phelps. “We have all been fools—”

  Phelps stopped speaking, for Harcourt had suddenly begun to weave on the gangway, dangerously near to pitching headfirst into the water. Tackham took a step away, but Phelps caught Harcourt's arm. Harcourt tottered, then slowly spun, surveying the canal side and the darkened dunes. He seemed to stare directly at her. Miss Temple did not breathe.

  “Gentlemen…” announced Harcourt, still facing into the night, his voice unpleasantly hollow. “Is it not time to set off?”

  “We were only waiting for Mr. Harcourt,” replied Phelps.

  “Has he seen Miss Stearne?” asked Fochtmann, his voice stiffly conversational.

  “Mr. Harcourt has not,” said Harcourt, a phrasing that made the men visibly uncomfortable.

  “She is dangerous,” said Fochtmann firmly. “She must be found.”

  “Perhaps some soldiers could continue the search here,” offered Phelps.

  “She is nothing,” announced Harcourt, his voice hollow. “An insignificant liar. Mr. Phelps is required in the forward cabin with Mr. Fochtmann and the Colonel. Captain Tackham will see to his men.”

  “May I suggest that Mr. Harcourt remain on deck?” offered Phelps delicately. “I expect he will feel… unwell.”

  “As you like,” intoned Harcourt. “It makes no difference.”

  The younger man staggered again and Phelps rushed to catch his arm, guiding him off the gangway. Tackham hovered, but Phelps turned to him sharply.

  “You have your orders—get below! I will follow in a moment.” Tackham went with a curt nod. Phelps looked at Harcourt—dazed and distractedly sniffing—and then shouted at the bargemen, startling them back to duty.

  “Cast off at once! Barge-master! Make sail!”

  MISS TEMPLE knew very well that she could stay where she was, allow the barge to go and walk back to the house and then to the train station—that her journey could end in a suite at the Anburne, with a proper bath and a proper pot of tea. Yet when she pushed herself up and drove her body on, it was toward the canal. The bargemen pulled the gangplank onto the deck, but Miss Temple kept running. With a catch in her throat came an awareness of how delicate the blue glass was. She cradled the case in both arms, holding it tight against her chest, and leapt the distance onto a pile of netting, the rough hemp biting into the soft skin of her knees and forearms. She rolled quickly off the ropes and into the shadow of a sail, out of sight but dangerously near to where Mr. Harcourt sat slumped.

  The bargemen ran back and forth around her, their hard bare feet slapping the deck, gathering lines. She could see the pale hair above Harcourt's stiff collar. The knife was at hand and the ease of his murder fluttered atop her thoughts, a rippling pennant of cruelty. She imagined the man's shirtless back—she wondered if there would be scars, Chang would have all sorts of scars… even the Doctor might have them, as a soldier… ugly things… disfigurements—she felt a desire to trace her fingers down Mr. Harcourt's spine… or someone else's, anyone else's… and slide her hand beneath his belt like a knife into an envelope.

  MISS TEMPLE slipped from her shadow to a hatchway at the rear of the barge. She stuffed the knife into her boot, and pushed the hatchway wide, wrinkling her nose at the stink of bilge water below her in the dark. She slid the hatchway closed above her, perched in pitch black, listening. Footsteps thumped above… but no cries of alarm, nor was the hatch flung wide. She groped around her—boxes, bales of moist cloth, coiled rope—and then wormed her way behind the ladder so that anyone looking down would not see her, no matter that they had a light. Shifting her buttocks and shoulders made room between the bales where she could sit and Miss Temple did so, leaning back, Lydia's case on her lap.

  No doubt the barge was rife with rats. She snorted. If the rats knew what was good for them they would steer clear.

  Miss Temple snorted again. For the very first time she understood the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza
's slovenly room at the St. Royale. With death and desire such constant companions, what attention would a woman like that possibly waste on décor?

  Or indeed, thought Miss Temple—curling onto her side to sleep, an animal in its lair—a woman like herself.

  Eight. Reticence

  THE SHOUTING from the open French doors must have been very loud, for it penetrated—like the first perceived drop of rain out of a thousand others—just enough to disrupt Chang's velvet enthrallment. He was on his knees in Harschmort's garden. Someone was pulling his hand. He turned—his glasses askew on his nose, half his head still surrounded by morning light and perfume, the voices of young women—as the pistol was wrenched from his fingers.

  Before him lay the Duke. Francis Xonck slithered from view behind an ornamental boxed juniper. The black-coated Ministry man fired the pistol, the bullet splintering the box near Xonck's foot. Bodies rushed past Chang to cluster around the glass woman, her shattered wrist waving above their heads and steaming blue. The Ministry man's pistol clicked on an empty chamber.

  “Reload, Mr. Phelps! Where can he hide?”

  Too slowly Chang spun on his knees. The sharp toe of Colonel Aspiche's boot caught him square on the shoulder. The blow knocked Chang onto his back, the whole of his left arm gone numb. Aspiche swept out his saber. Chang scuttled farther away, feet hopelessly tangled, still unable to stand, raising his stick as Aspiche came on with his blade. Chang knew from experience that stabbing or slashing at a man on his back was more difficult than one might assume—cold comfort when he still felt half-asleep. Aspiche cut at Chang's left knee, to maim him. Chang deflected the blow with his stick, cracking the wood.

  “Ought I to shoot him?” asked Phelps. He stood quite prudently beyond Chang's reach, the cylinder of the revolver opened out, digging in his waistcoat for brass cartridges. Both men gasped at another sharp silent spasm from Mrs. Marchmoor—some tall fellow grappled to wrap her hand. Chang rose to one knee. Again the impact of her distress had passed him by.

  “Cardinal Chang is entirely my business,” barked the Colonel. “Find Mr. Xonck. Predators are most dangerous when they are hurt…”