The Chemickal Marriage

windowed crevice lay a wider passage, once used to house sentries. ‘Another corpse, architecturally speaking. Do we simply wait here for the bridge to be opened?’
    ‘We could wait eight years,’ said Chang. ‘They control the entire river.’
    ‘I wonder if Mr Pfaff escaped them,’ said Miss Temple. ‘Though who knows when he was there. Perhaps he has been captured.’
    No one answered her, which Miss Temple found irksome. Francesca Trapping peeked out of the narrow window.
    ‘Come away from there,’ Miss Temple said.
    Francesca did so, but then walked past Miss Temple to Doctor Svenson and pulled at his arm. ‘I am supposed to take you somewhere else.’
    Svenson dredged up a smile. ‘Then let us see what we can find. The work here was hastily done …’
    He led her further into the alcove, tapping at the wall, a mixture of old stone and new brick, until the impact of his boot echoed hollowly. He looked to Chang and Miss Temple with a raised eyebrow.
    ‘Perhaps it’s a colony of rats,’ offered Chang. ‘Burrowing out their home.’
    Svenson held the light to the join of the floor and the oddly angled wall, then passed the candle to Francesca. He braced his hands against the wall for leverage.
    ‘Steel-toed boots, you know …’ He kicked and the bricks were driven in, for the mortar was honeycombed with mould. A few more kicks and he was chopping at an opening with his heel. The crusted stones tumbled into thedarkness as they came loose, and soon the Doctor had cleared a gap wide enough to writhe through.
    Miss Temple wrinkled her nose at the dank air rising from the hole. ‘What do you suppose is down there?’
    ‘Apart from rats?’ asked Chang.
    ‘I am not frightened of rats.’
    ‘Then you should go first.’
    She saw he was smiling, and, though his tone annoyed her, she recognized his teasing as a kindly overture. Why did it seem impossible to have a conversation that did not leave her feeling cross?
    ‘Do not be absurd,’ said Doctor Svenson seriously. He dropped to his knees, extending the candle through the hole and then his head. He waved his remaining hand in the air. Chang caught it and, so braced, the Doctor crawled further. Finally Svenson squeezed Chang’s hand and Chang pulled him back into view. In the candlelight, the Doctor seemed to have emerged from some fairy portal, aged ten years, his hair floured with cobwebs and brick dust. He brushed it away with a smile.
    ‘If we had not seen Crabbé’s tunnel I should not have known what to make of it – but it is indeed another part of the old fortress. Utterly derelict, yet I cannot think but it will take us
somewhere
.’
    Svenson insisted on widening the hole for the ladies, prising away what bricks he could without risking the wall’s collapse. This done, he led the way – sliding down a slope of rubble to a shallow stone trench. Soon all four of them stood beating dust from their clothes.
    ‘I do not see one rat anywhere,’ said Miss Temple.
    ‘I am glad of it,’ whispered Francesca.
    Chang smiled. ‘We can only pray something larger has not eaten them.’
    With a disapproving glare the Doctor led them in the direction least cluttered by debris. Miss Temple wondered who had last been in this place – some man-at-arms in polished steel? She felt she ought to have been frightened – outside the candle’s meagre glow the passage was pitch black, and the air hung heavy with rot – but her foolishness with the red glass ball seemed long ago, and their escape from the bridge had fuelled her confidence.
    ‘If we do reach the Customs House, I am sure I can find our way, having been inside it.’
    Svenson called over Miss Temple’s head to Chang, ‘What is your guess as to the time?’
    ‘Near sunrise. We may meet porters, but it is unlikely any staff have arrived.’
    ‘The porters will not bother
us
,’ announced Miss Temple.
    Francesca Trapping shrieked and thrust herself against the Doctor in fear. Miss Temple’s heart leapt at the child’s cry, but she could not see what had provoked it. She felt Chang at her shoulder and saw the knife in his hand.
    Svenson advanced with the candle. Across their path lay a jumble of blackened shapes, bound together by twists of rotting leather.
    ‘Bones,’ said the Doctor simply. ‘Not old – not ancient – nor would any person be buried in a fortification’s corridor.’ Svenson studied the squalid heap. ‘I make it at least three men … but I cannot say what