The Chemickal Marriage

themselves safe from his hand in Lydia’s presence. What is more, his remaining enemies have been shown he will do
anything
! His own child! They cower in fear! But to my question. When did you realize the dirigible would sink?’
    ‘When it struck the water.’
    ‘You jest. Come, was it a triggered device, like those we have seen here?’
    ‘Why is that important? The airship sank, nearly all aboard were killed –’
    ‘Ah, and who was not? If there was a confederate, that confederate would have been most likely to survive.’
    Svenson let the smoke enter his lungs, drawing strength. ‘If you suspect I am that confederate, what use in denying the fact? You will believe me or you won’t.’
    ‘My reasons are my own. Could you answer?’
    ‘Six people survived. Three are since dead – Francis Xonck, Elöise Dujong, Celeste Temple. Two others, Cardinal Chang and the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza, may be dead as well – which leaves me.’ He ground the butt into the matchbox. ‘But it does not matter. You are wrong.’
    ‘About you?’
    ‘About everything. The airship went down through no pre-existing
plan
. Robert Vandaariff was defeated as much as Henry Xonck or the Duke. His resurrection at Parchfeldt only put a monster in his piece. Whatever Vandaariff once wanted in his life, he does not, I assure you, want it now.’
    ‘Shocking statements! What can you mean?’
    ‘He is insane. Quite literally of another mind.’
    Schoepfil drummed the fingers of one hand upon the table. Then he rapped the table with his fist. ‘It is no good, Doctor. The attempt is worthy, but I know
you
to be wrong as well!’ A panel in the wall behind him popped open, and Schoepfil turned. ‘Mr Kelling – already? Admirable dispatch.’
    Kelling, a slim fellow with the angular features of an apologetic fox, edged in holding a wide tray laden with squat bottles. In each bottle floated an odd-shaped mass – tubular, sponge-like, ink-stained – like a collection of shapeless invertebrates. But Svenson could not hide from his own anatomical knowledge, and his throat tightened. Each specimen jar contained a different sample of corrupted tissue, excised from a child’s body. Francesca Trapping. He leapt for the revolver.
    With a speed belying his stoutness, Schoepfil snatched a wooden tray and swung it hard into the side of Svenson’s head. Stunned, the Doctor took two more rapid blows, one to his reaching hand and another to his face, the last forcing him to stagger from the table. He looked up, blinking, furious, impotent. Schoepfil retained his seat – the revolver untouched but within reach. His expression remained cheerful.
    ‘A surgeon and a spy, yet you retain this
sentiment
– as if ever there were two professions less suited to such a keepsake. The child is dead, sir.
Forbear
.’
    Svenson felt his face burning. Schoepfil reached for the nearest jar. But Kelling had not gone, and whispered a private word. Schoepfil nodded eagerly.
    ‘A reprieve! Though I
will
want your opinion, Doctor, for these samples appear to be
nothing
like those collected from the blast sites. One itches to speculate irresponsibly.’
    He sniffed at Svenson’s revolver. ‘That stays here.’ Schoepfil flung the greatcoat across the table for Svenson to catch. ‘Though I should not wear it. On the contrary, you will wish to trade its warmth for an iced orange squash!’
    Kelling waited in the corridor, next to an ovoid hatch, as on a warship. Svenson followed Schoepfil into a dark passageway that smelt of mould. He considered attacking Schoepfil – the way was so narrow that the man might not be able to turn – but hesitated, and in his hesitation felt the weight of his exhaustion and despair. If he did escape, where would he go? What would he do? Svenson felt as alone as he ever had in life.
    The air was damp, smelling of rust. They walked on. Finally Svenson felt a single gloved finger impertinently touch his lips. He resisted the urge tobite it. With a gentle scrape, Schoepfil eased aside a tiny panel in the wall: a viewing window the size of a playing card. Through the opening came light and warm, wet air laced with the rotten tang of sulphur … and the echoes of water, splashing, slapping … the sounds of people in a bath.
    A very
large
bath. Svenson dug the monocle from his tunic, wiped it on his trouser leg. He had seen bathhouses before, but rarely so opulent or so
old
as the one he was peering at now – as if the city’s