The Chemickal Marriage

will spark all kinds of suspicion. The car will rise to a reception of armed men.’
    ‘And that is because we lack a key.’
    ‘Yes. Without a key, it will only return to whoever sent it down. It is a protection against any stranger using it.
With
a key, we could go to any floor without pause –’
    ‘But that could still deliver us to armed men,’ said Chang. ‘You have no idea.’
    ‘I descended from the Duke’s rooms to this sub-basement without stopping,’ announced Miss Temple rather unhelpfully.
    ‘We should press on to the river,’ muttered Chang.
    ‘I disagree,’ replied Svenson. ‘The idea to infiltrate is sound, a chink in our opponent’s armour.’
    ‘Entering a lion’s den does not constitute a
chink
.’
    ‘Then
I
will go,’ the Doctor snapped. ‘I will go by myself.’
    Miss Temple took his arm. ‘You will not.’
    Chang sighed with impatience. ‘Lord above –’
    Phelps raised his hands. ‘No. I have brought us here – no one else need take the risk. Stand away.’
    He pressed a disc set into the keyplate. Somewhere above them echoed a distant trill.
    They waited, the sole sound the muffled breath of the constable, which they all chose to ignore. But then came a mechanical
thrum
… growing louder.
    ‘Well begun at least,’ Phelps said with a brittle smile. ‘
Someone
is home.’
    His relief was cut short by the click of Cunsher pulling back the hammer of his pistol. Svenson dug out his own and soon they all stood in a half-circle, weapons ready. The car descended, settling with a
clank
.
    The door opened wide. Beyond an iron grating, the vestibule car was empty. Phelps shoved the grate aside and stepped in.
    ‘I will go where it takes me, and if all is safe return to collect you.’
    Chang shook his head. ‘All of us together may be able to overcome resistance – if you are taken alone, it will expose everyone.’
    ‘And there is no time,’ added Svenson. ‘Vandaariff is in the Palace
now
.’
    Svenson entered the car and turned, averting his gaze from the figure of the trussed, wriggling constable. Overruled, Phelps slammed the iron gate home and the car rumbled into life. Cunsher took Chang’s arm, looking up. ‘Count the floors …’
    They waited, listening. Cunsher nodded at a particularly loud
clank
.
    ‘Do you hear? We have passed the cellars.’
    Svenson gripped his revolver. Another
clank
.
    ‘The ground floor,’ whispered Phelps. ‘Which offers passage to the Ministries.’
    ‘We’re still climbing,’ said Cunsher. They waited. The cables above them groaned. Another
clank
.
    ‘The first floor.’ Phelps nodded to Miss Temple. ‘The Duke’s chambers.’ Another loud
clank
. ‘We will reach the second, with passage to the Palace. Of course the corridor leads not to the Palace
proper
– first to suites of older apartments, where no royal has lived these fifty years – but technically speaking –’
    ‘Who will
be
there?’ hissed Chang.
    ‘I have told you!’ replied Phelps. ‘Absolutely anyone!’
    The vestibule came to a shuddering halt. The iron gate slid into the wall and a wooden door was before them. Its lock snapped clear. Before the door could be opened from the other side Chang kicked it wide. An elderly man in black livery took the door across his chest and sprawled on the carpet. In a second Chang was above him like a ghoul, his razor against the servant’s throat.
    ‘Do not! Do not!’ Phelps spoke quickly to the stunned old man. ‘Do not cry out – it is your life!’
    The servant merely gaped, his webbed old mouth working. ‘Mr Phelps … you were pronounced a traitor.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ said Phelps. ‘The Duke is dead and the Queen in danger. The
Queen
, I say, and there is little time …’
    Svenson inhaled, tasting the dank air of a sickroom. Stäelmaere House had been the glass woman’s lair, staining all who came there with decay. The Duke’s old serving man showed dark circled eyes, pasty flesh, livid gums – and this after weeks of recovery. Phelps interrogated the servant. Svenson walked to a curtained window at the corridor’s end.
    ‘Where are you going?’ called Chang.
    Svenson did not reply. The corridor was lined with portraits, intolerant beaks above a progression of steadily weaker chins, watery eyes peering out between ridiculous wigs and lace collars as stiff and wide as serving platters – an archive of the Duke’s relations, whose exile to the upper floor reflected the degree to which they’d