The Chemickal Marriage

strangers! What will the Colonel say?’
    ‘What do I care?’ This was Mahmoud.
    ‘Damn you, we agreed –’
    ‘
You
agreed –’
    A sharp-nosed man with a moustache and long, oiled hair stormed in, his eyes leaping about to make sure nothing had been taken. Mahmoud waited in the doorway. The intruder tugged on his white shell jacket and then, glaring at the Doctor and the child, set to cracking his knuckles, one finger at a time.
    ‘You are Mr Gorine?’ Svenson offered. ‘I am Abelard Svenson, Captain-Surgeon of the Macklenburg Navy, attached to the service of Crown Prince Karl-Horst von Maasmärck –’
    Gorine pulled viciously on his thumb until it popped. ‘And
you
will cure her? Is that what we are to believe?
Macklenburg?
’ Gorine stabbed Svenson’s chest with a finger. ‘We have had enough of
Macklenburg
at the Old Palace!’
    ‘If you refer to the Prince –’
    Gorine slapped Svenson across the face. The blow was not hard – he did not think Gorine had much experience with slapping – but it stung. ‘I
refer
, Captain-Surgeon, to two women abducted from this house, to seven more who wake screaming from unnatural dreams, to the collapse of our business, and lastly –
yes
– to Mrs Kraft. All because your worthless Prince came through our door!’
    ‘If it is any solace, the Prince of Macklenburg is dead.’
    ‘Why should that bring me solace? Does that bring back our women?’
    ‘Michel –’ But at Mahmoud’s interjection, Gorine only gave the rest of his complaint directly to the dark man’s face.
    ‘Does that end the tyranny of our
occupation
– unable to come and go without leave from a gold-jacketed, stone-hearted –’
    Doctor Svenson coughed into one hand. ‘If your two women are Margaret Hooke and Angelique, I must inform you both are dead as well.’
    Gorine turned on Svenson, his fury heightened. But while Gorine’s back was turned, the Doctor had taken hold of his revolver and now pressed the barrel into Gorine’s abdomen. Gorine’s breath stopped.
    ‘O well done, Mahmoud –’
    ‘Be quiet.’ Svenson’s voice was calm. ‘Ignorance makes a man angry, I know. The matter is larger than
us
– than all of us together. I
am
here to help – to help
her
. But I am entirely willing to blow you apart like a pumpkin beforehand.’
    The pressure of the pistol caused Gorine’s Adam’s apple to bob like acork in a stream. The Doctor lowered the weapon that – he was quite sure – no longer held any bullets. Gorine darted to the side, clearing the way for Mahmoud to fire, but the dark man did not move. Svenson slipped the pistol back into his greatcoat and addressed them both.
    ‘The Prince of Macklenburg was as much of a dupe as your women, sacrificed to the ambition of a wicked few who are still driving this city to its grave.’
    Mahmoud stepped forward. ‘Who? We have ten good men –’
    ‘Save them – even a hundred is too few.’
    ‘But their
names
–’
    ‘The name that matters is Robert Vandaariff.’
    Mahmoud cast a doubting glance to Gorine. ‘But he was stricken with blood fever – we assumed he was another victim.’
    ‘Forty-seven people were taken ill that night,’ said Gorine. ‘Not one has recovered, save Robert Vandaariff. Are
you
the one who cured him?’
    ‘No. The recovery is false. His entire character is destroyed.’ Svenson rubbed his eyes. ‘Would either of you gentlemen have any tobacco? I have lost my supply and a touch of smoke would do wonders for my mind.’
    At Mahmoud’s nudge, Gorine took an ebony box from a desk drawer. ‘Mrs Kraft’s. Get on with your story.’
    ‘The man is exhausted, Michel.’
    ‘We are all exhausted,’ Gorine retorted.
    Gorine took a cheroot himself before offering the box to Mahmoud, who declined. The squabbling intimacy of the two men was suddenly plain, especially to one who had spent years sailing in close quarters. Svenson shrugged at the insight – it was nothing to him, after all – and took a tightly rolled cheroot from the box and held it to his nose. Gorine held out a light and Svenson puffed with a palpable greed.
    Mahmoud waited, one hand still resting on his pistol-butt.
    ‘So can you help her, Captain-Surgeon, or can you not?’
    The Doctor began by asking questions, but the narrative of Mrs Kraft’s care only tightened his jaw. Nothing had answered, yet he could think of nothing left to try. At last he stubbed out the cheroot – he must work or fall asleep.
    ‘The attack