The Chemickal Marriage

walls blackened and stubbled with chemical residue, receded far beyond the match light’s reach. Svenson took the opportunity to light a cigarette, speaking as he puffed the tip to red life.
    ‘The main gates will be guarded, and we are no party to force them.’ The match went to his fingertips and Svenson dropped it, the flame winking out mid-fall.
    ‘I should like a pair of
shoes
,’ said Chang.
    ‘And I should like to examine your spine,’ replied the Doctor.
    ‘Whilst we are being hunted in the dark, I suggest it be postponed.’
    ‘Perhaps we could find that man again,’ said Phelps, ‘with the white hair –’
    ‘His name is Foison.’
    ‘The thing is, I believe I have seen him before.’
    ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ snapped Chang.
    ‘I was not sure – and we have been running!’
    ‘
Where
did you see him?’ asked Svenson.
    ‘At Harschmort, it must have been – ages ago. Not that he spoke, but when one serves a man of power, as I did the Duke of Staëlmaere, one observes the minions of others.’
    ‘So he was Robert Vandaariff’s man?’ asked Svenson.
    ‘But Vandaariff’s body holds another,’ said Miss Temple. ‘Robert Vandaariff is gone.’
    ‘Does Mr Foison know that?’
    ‘Why should he care?’ asked Miss Temple, crawling on. ‘The man is a villain. I think you
should
have killed him. O there now – do you mark it – the air is warmer … is there a join with another passage?’
    The Doctor lit a second match. Chang turned his eyes from the flare and noticed, above them in the cement, a perforated hatchway.
    ‘Here it is …’
    He slipped his fingers through the mesh and lifted the hatch from itsplace, then hauled himself up into darkness, where his bare feet touched cold stone. The Doctor’s match died and he lit another. Chang reached to Miss Temple.
    ‘And so Persephone escaped from the underworld …’
    At this she pursed her lips, but took his hand with both of hers. He lifted her out, then helped Phelps. The Doctor stood in the hatchway, head and shoulders in the room, holding the match aloft. Miss Temple laughed aloud.
    ‘I am a goose! See here!’ From her bag she pulled a beeswax stub and gave it to Svenson to light. ‘I had forgotten!’
    ‘O for all love,’ muttered Phelps sullenly.
    Chang shared the sentiment, but was happy enough to see where they were: a square chamber with a stone-flagged floor. At the base of each wall lay a scattering of straw, and bolted into the cement at regular intervals – almost to resemble an art salon – were long rectangles.
    Doctor Svenson sniffed the air. ‘Vinegar. As if the chamber had been scoured.’
    Miss Temple took the candle from him, walking closer to a wall. ‘Look at the straw,’ she said. ‘It has all come out of this burlap sacking …’
    The scraps of sacking had been painted with crude faces, and within the straw lurked tattered strips of clothing.
    ‘Straw mannequins,’ Chang said. ‘Test targets …’ Crossing nearer, he could see the rectangles were of different materials: hammered steel, smelted iron, brass, oak, teak, maple studded with iron nails, each to test an explosive’s power. The power of a prototype explosive set off within the chamber – its gasses venting to the tunnel – could be measured against all kinds of surfaces: wood, armour, fabric, even (he imagined a row of hams hanging from hooks) flesh, all from a single blast.
    ‘Take care for your feet,’ said Doctor Svenson, joining them. ‘Celeste, hold your light closer to the straw.’
    She knelt and Chang saw a glimmer near her boot. She gingerly pulled the straw away to reveal a gleaming chip of blue glass. Miss Temple lifted the light to the rectangle above. Its oaken planks bristled with tiny glass splinters, like a cork board stuck with pins. Higher up, still whole, perched asmall, spiked blue disc, perhaps the size of a Venetian florin. Chang bunched the silken sleeve over his fingers and tugged the disc free. The edge was sharp and the spikes as regular as a wicked, wheeled spur.
    ‘A projectile?’ asked Svenson. ‘Grapeshot?’
    ‘But why
blue
glass?’ countered Chang. ‘A broken gin bottle will cut just as well.’
    ‘What have you found?’ called Mr Phelps from across the room, sniffling.
    ‘The poor man needs a fire,’ Svenson muttered, before calling back. ‘It is blue glass, perhaps part of a weapon.’
    ‘Will they not be searching for us?’ Phelps replied. ‘Should we not flee?’
    Miss