The Chemickal Marriage

her clutch bag with a smile. ‘I have only to imagine the man a brown glass bottle and I will pot him square!’
    She did not have to fashion an excuse for Mr Brine to leave after all, for when they reappeared Pfaff himself sent Ramper and Brine on their way, expressing a desire to speak to ‘the mistress’ alone. Once the door closed, Pfaff reached into an inner pocket and removed a green cheroot, wrapped tight as a pencil. He bit off the tip and spat it into his teacup.
    ‘I trust you do not object?’
    ‘As long as you do not foul the floor.’
    Pfaff lit the cheroot, puffing until the tip glowed red.
    ‘We have not spoken of Cardinal Chang.’
    ‘Nor will we,’ replied Miss Temple.
    ‘If I do not know what he did in your employ, I cannot succeed where he failed –’
    ‘He did not
fail
in my
employ
.’
    ‘However you paint it. The Cardinal’s dead. I do not care to join him. If my questions intrude on delicate matters –’
    ‘You overreach yourself, Mr Pfaff.’
    ‘Do I? The Cardinal, this doctor – how many others? You are perilous company, miss, and the less you make it plain, the more I am inclined to
nerves
.’
    ‘You have spent your time investigating
me
,’ said Miss Temple with a start, knowing it was true.
    ‘And learnt enough to wonder why a sugar-rich spinster took up with foreigners and killers and disappeared for a fortnight.’
    ‘
Spinster?
’
    Pfaff rolled ash onto a white saucer. ‘If a woman can look past the Cardinal’s scars, what business is that of mine? We all shut our eyes in the dark.’
    Miss Temple’s voice dropped to an icy snarl. ‘I will
tell
you your business, Mr Pfaff – and if I choose to straddle twenty sailors in succession in St Isobel’s Square at noon, it is nothing you need note. I have paid you good money. If you think to defy me, or if you think I care a whit about your leers or the threat of scandal, you have made a very grave mistake.’
    Only then did Pfaff realize that Miss Temple’s hand was in her bag and the bag now tight against his abdomen. Very slowly, he raised both hands and met her eyes. He grinned.
    ‘It seems you’ve answered me after all, miss. Forgive my presumption – a fellow acquires worries. I understand you now quite well.’
    Miss Temple did not shift her bag. ‘Then you are for the glassworks?’
    ‘And will send word, however late the hour.’
    ‘I am obliged to you, Mr Pfaff.’
    In a show of bravado she dropped her bag onto the side table and snatched the last tea biscuit, snapping it between her teeth. Pfaff took his leave. When she heard the door close, Miss Temple sighed heavily. Her mouth was dry. She spat the biscuit back onto the plate.
    Miss Temple looked up at the clock. She still had time. She found Marie in the maid’s little room, mending buttons, and explained what to tell Mr Pfaff on the unlikely chance that Miss Temple did not return. When Marie protested this idea, Miss Temple observed that the thread Marie was using did not exactly match the garment. After Marie had promised for the third time to relock and bar the door behind her, Miss Temple tersely allowed that the girl might avail herself of a glass of wine with supper.
    The corridor was empty, and Miss Temple met no other guest on her way to the kitchen. Ignoring the looks of the slop boys and tradesmen, she walked to the corner, peered into the street, saw no obvious spy and hurried from the hotel, keeping her head low. At the avenue Miss Temple hailed a carriage. The driver hopped down to help her to her seat and asked her destination.
    ‘The Library.’
    Miss Temple had never been in the grand Library before – it held no more natural attraction than a barrelworks – and in its stiff majesty she saw a monument to a high-minded struggle interminably waged by others. She approached a wide wooden counter, behind which stood waxy, bespectacled men whose dark coats were dappled with grey finger-swipes of dust.
    ‘Excuse me,’ Miss Temple said. ‘I require information.’
    A younger archivist stepped to serve her, eyes dipping down the front of her dress. The counter drew a line just below her breasts, making it appear, to Miss Temple’s chagrin, that she had jutted herself forward.
    ‘What information is that, my dear?’
    ‘I am searching for a piece of property.’
    ‘Property?’ The archivist chuckled. ‘You’ll want a house agent.’
    On his upper lip swelled a pale-tipped pimple. Miss Temple wondered if he would pop it