The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

in their lives, where Miss Poole’s insistence on gaiety seemed rather a shrill denial. And to Miss Temple’s mind all the more repellent, for if she posed as Lydia’s true friend, it was only to better ply their awful
philtre
.
    “Yes, Lydia and I got on quite well,” Miss Temple said. “I have taught her how to poke the eyes of foolish ladies attempting to rise beyond themselves.”
    Miss Poole’s smile became fixed on her face. She glanced back at the Comte—still occupied with the boxes and flasks and lengths of copper wire—and then called to Mrs. Stearne, loud enough for all to hear.
    “You did miss so much of interest at Mr. Bascombe’s estate—or should I say Lord Tarr? Part of our delay involved the capture and execution of the Prince’s physician, Doctor—O what is his name?—a strange fellow, now quite dead, I’m afraid. The other part was one of our subjects; her reaction to the
collection
was averse but not fatal, and she ended up causing, as I say, rather an important problem—though Doctor Lorenz is confident it may be remedied …”
    She glanced back to the Comte. He had stopped his work and listened, his face impassive. Miss Poole pretended not to notice and spoke again to Mrs. Stearne, a sly smile gracing the corners of her plump mouth.
    “The funny thing, Caroline—and I thought you would be
particularly
interested—is that this Elöise Dujong—is tutor to the children of Arthur and Charlotte
Trapping
.”
    “I see,” said Caroline, carefully, as if she did not know what Miss Poole intended with this comment. “And what happened to this woman?”
    Miss Poole gestured to the darkened rampway behind her. “Why, she is just in the outer room. It was Mr. Crabbé’s suggestion that such spirited defiance be put to use, and so I have brought her here to be initiated.”
    Miss Temple saw she was now looking at the Comte, pleased to be giving him information he did not have.
    “The woman was intimate with the Trappings?” he asked.
    “And thus of course the Xoncks,” Miss Poole said. “It was through Francis that she was
seduced
to Tarr Manor.”
    “Did she reveal anything? About the Colonel’s death, or—or about—” With an uncharacteristic reticence, the Comte nodded toward Lydia.
    “Not that I am aware—though of course it was the Deputy Minister who interrogated her last.”
    “Where is Mr. Crabbé?” he asked.
    “Actually, it is Doctor Lorenz you should be seeking first, Monsieur le Comte, for the
damage
the woman has done—if you will remember who else was attending our business at Tarr Manor—is such that the Doctor would very much appreciate your consultation.”
    “Would he?” snarled the Comte.
    “Most urgently.” She smiled. “If only there were two of you, Monsieur, for your expertise is required on so many fronts! I do promise that I will do my best to ferret out any clues from this lady—for indeed it seems that a good many people might have wished the Colonel dead.”
    “Why do you say that, Elspeth?” asked Caroline.
    Miss Poole kept her gaze on the Comte as she replied. “I only echo the Deputy Minister. As someone in
between
so many parties, the Colonel was well-placed to divine … secrets.”
    “But all here are in allegiance,” said Caroline.
    “And yet the Colonel is dead.” Miss Poole turned to Lydia, who listened to their talk with a confused half-smile. “And when it is a matter of
secrets
… who can say what we don’t know?”
    The Comte abruptly snatched up his helmet and gloves. This caused him to step closer to Miss Poole—who quite despite herself took a small step backwards.
    “You will initiate Miss Vandaariff first,” he growled, “and then Miss Temple. Then, if there is time—and
only
if there is time—you will initiate this third woman. Your higher purpose here is to inform those in attendance of our work, not to initiate
per se
.”
    “But the Deputy Minister—” began Miss Poole.
    “His wishes are not your concern. Mrs. Stearne, you will come with me.”
    “Monsieur?”
    It was quite clear that Mrs. Stearne had thought to remain in the theatre.
    “There are more
important
tasks,” he hissed, and turned as two men in leather aprons and helmets came in dragging a slumped woman between them.
    “Miss Poole, you will address our spectators, but do not presume to operate the machinery.” He called up to the dark upper reaches of the gallery. “Open the doors!”
    He wheeled and was at the rampway in