‘Of course. How do you think I always manage to know a little more than I should? But I had the best teacher when I was young – hunger. The boys who had been castrated were a little better fed than the rest at the school where I was trained, but only a little. There. The pantry at Padua was a great deal better guarded than this.’
He pushed the door open. At first Harriet could make out nothing but the chequerboard design on the floor, but as Manzerotti moved around the room, lighting the candles that hung against the walls, each with a brass panel behind it to throw forward what light it could, the room began to take shape before her.
It was a square chamber, with a number of chairs placed against the wall and one larger chair at the north end. The case with the glasses in it was located on the sideboard by the door. Harriet opened it. Seven, all identical and arranged in a circle. She took out one. It was engraved as Wimpf had said with a pattern of vines and flowers. He had not mentioned that there was also an owl cut into the glass of each.
‘What do you think they spoke of here, Manzerotti?’
‘Power, I suspect. Imagine, Mrs Westerman, this little group with their owls: if they had simply been courtiers wandering in the gardens making their little plots, then they are ordinary. But here they are a secret little group of seven, meeting in their own secret little room. It gives them a sense of their own importance. Some people have children to stave off their mortality, some religion, and some create these rituals of their own.’
‘But not you?’
‘I am a breed apart, Mrs Westerman, you know that.’
‘Music?’
He smiled. ‘Very, very occasionally. I enjoy what is beautiful and original, and so very little is.’
She fitted the glass back into the case and closed it. ‘Do you know of a musician named Bertolini, who was employed here some years ago, Manzerotti?’
‘Yes, but he was neither beautiful, nor original. He is Kappelmeister in Colburg now. He leads a band of competent musicians in a competent manner. What of him?’
‘I heard this evening that he was involved in a scandal here some years ago. It ended badly for the woman involved. She was separated from her child, and the child died.’
‘I am not sure I understand, my dear. What threads have you been pulling from the air?’
‘I was told the Duke was thinking of putting this lady, Kastner was her name, under his protection when the scandal broke out, then after her banishment his attentions alighted on Countess Dieth. Suppose this little cabal wanted one of their own in the Ducal bed and they slandered this woman to remove her. She is sent from court, her child is taken from her and dies. That woman therefore had reason to hate her enemies to such a degree she might take this …
revenge
.’ The word choked her, and she found herself staring at Manzerotti, but seeing only her husband. She remembered suddenly the feel of her children’s hands in her own the day of James’s funeral. She stepped back from him, fumbling for the chair behind her, and sat down. He lowered himself onto one knee in front of her. She felt a sickness in her throat.
‘Mrs Westerman …’
‘Do not speak.’
‘I must.’
She placed her hands over her ears, but could not block out the sound of his voice.
‘I have done many things that you may think immoral, but I gave no order that any man, woman or child should die in London. I ordered that a body be removed and concealed. That is all. Johannes’s devotion to me was very powerful. It had become unmanageable by the time we arrived in London.’
‘I shall not hear you – you are the devil himself.’
‘Johannes acted to protect me, but
not
by my command. Do you think I would be the man I am today if such slaughter were my usual modus operandi?’ His voice was low, urgent.
‘Why did you not tell me this before, at once when we met, if it is true?’
‘You would not have believed me.’
‘Why should I now?’
He was still kneeling before her, looking at the floor in front of him. ‘You know me a little better now. I should have killed him before we left France. I am sorry, but he was my friend. I told myself he was under sufficient control.’ She covered her face and heard him move; he had taken the chair next to her own. ‘Forgive me.’
‘Never. Even if you did not give the order, it was still you who told Johannes that my husband might be able to identify you. I shall never forgive you.’
He sighed. ‘That is your right.’ He waited until her breathing began to steady and then spoke as if the exchange had not taken place. ‘The woman you speak of cannot be your murderer; you need someone who can move about in plain sight. Someone to whom Glucke would open his door. Either this merry band gave someone else a motive as powerful, or someone is taking revenge on her behalf.’
Harriet’s blood beat in her brain, her exhaustion slowed her thoughts. She held up her hand. ‘Mrs Westerman?’ She did not speak to him, but after a few moments picked up the candle from the table and placed it near to the panelling behind them. There was a draught coming from somewhere close to her that carried some strange foreign smell. An astringency. She stood.
‘Never speak to me of London again, Manzerotti. Never mention my husband in my hearing.’ He lowered his head. ‘Now help me shift these chairs.’ He did so swiftly, setting them in the centre of the room while Harriet moved the candle-flame to and fro. The flame held steady. She wondered if she had imagined it, but then she felt it again on her left hand. She moved the candle once more and the flame fluttered and bent towards the wall. Using it as her guide, she brought the candle closer. There was a keyhole. It had a thin wooden covering over it, that had been left not quite straight, allowing that thread of air into the room. She ran her hand over the carved uprights in the panelling. It was possible that the edge of a doorway might be concealed beneath them. She felt Manzerotti’s breath on her cheek.
‘Very good, Mrs Westerman.’
This lock took rather longer than the first. Manzerotti, after an initial examination, actually removed his coat. She watched him as he worked and wondered if she believed him. The more she thought of it, the more likely it seemed. He was subtle, the murders in London were not.
As he worked, he never swore or showed any sign of frustration. The only indication that he had found it anything of a challenge was the nod he gave to himself as something deep within the wood clicked. He pushed the door with his fingertips. It was beautifully weighted. To conceal its edges behind the decoration it was particularly wide, yet it swung slowly open even with that most gentle pressure. He stood at the doorway looking over his shoulder at her. Without his jacket his figure looked almost girlish, and his forearms showing where he had pushed up his sleeves were as white and hairless as his cheek.
‘That smell,’ she said.
‘Yes. I would think it wise if we were to avoid touching anything in this room,’ he said, and moved aside to let her join him in the doorway. It was a far smaller chamber, almost a closet. A narrow bench ran along one wall and on it were a number of innocuous-looking glass jars. In front of them was a brown leather folder. Manzerotti produced a knife from his pocket and flicked open the cover with its blade.
There was a diagram of a series of circles, each labelled in flowing copperplate. Harriet counted the row of jars. She craned forward slightly to read, then she reached out for one of the jars. Manzerotti, apparently without looking up, caught her wrist with his left hand.
‘A moment, Mrs Westerman.’ He turned the page. A number of paragraphs in the same florid handwriting. ‘The names may be innocent but the potions are not.’ He tapped the knife on the page as he released her, and Harriet read:
Nausea, vomiting and evacuation of the bowels. To be ingested. Will not be detected in highly peppered dishes
.
‘And here.’
May be applied to clothing: will cause a painful rash wherever it touches
. ‘This is foul.’
Manzerotti’s voice sounded angry when he spoke. ‘Yes, it is, and my employer and I take it very seriously. I am in your debt, Mrs Westerman. This is certainly the lair of the poisoner I am searching for, though Herr Kupfel’s most powerful secrets did not end up here. There is no sign of the drugs used on Clode or the victims of blood-letting.’ He turned another page. ‘Nor anything that would nearly kill Swann either. But it is unpleasant enough. Until we sort out who is who in our catalogue of poisoners, may I give you some advice – advice you might pass to your friends here?’
She would not look at him, but nodded.
‘Caution. No poison is completely invisible. Drink only when you see others drink. Eat only from shared plates. As for clothing, remember, Mrs Westerman, you noticed a scent that came from the poisoner’s chamber. That must be your warning. May I also suggest that none of you put clothes on your person that feel cold to the touch. Sometimes articles are chilled, that on being warmed by the skin give off their poison. And now, madam, perhaps you will allow me to escort you back to your chamber?’
H
ARRIET SLEPT VERY DEEPLY
for those few hours. She dreamed of walking through her own gardens at Caveley and finding there not her friends or children, but Manzerotti laughing at a wound in his belly, the Duke introducing his spaniel to her as his new wife, and Crowther locking her into a room in Caveley she had never known existed, with the Countess Dieth, who wore the mask of a Harlequin on parade. Stephen was sitting at a desk in the corner of the chamber, but instead of working at his mathematics Harriet found her son drawing a strange talisman again and again. His movement was mechanical, and when he looked up at her his eyes were made of glass. She found herself outside her house again. A man in a long black cloak and mask was chalking symbols on her door. Her children emerged from the door hand-in-hand. She called out to them and began to run towards them, but Graves appeared, caught her round the waist and began to drag her into a carriage. The footmen were dressed in the livery of the Palace of Ulrichsberg. She fought, but Graves slammed the door on her. She threw herself to the window and called out to Stephen and Anne; they made no move towards her but stood either side of the man in the black cloak and mask, holding his hands.
She woke to hear the maid moving about the room, and the clink of china. Her forehead was damp. She slid out of bed and Dido bought her a dressing-gown. She held it for a moment and breathed in deeply; nothing but the smell of lavender and the coal burning in the grate. She drew it over her arms and the small hairs on her arms prickled. The coffee was set out beside the fire. She poured it into the waiting cup then closed her eyes.
‘Dido, do you make my coffee yourself in the morning?’
The girl looked confused. ‘No, ma’am. The trays for all the guests are made in the kitchen this side.’
Harriet looked at the tray in front of her. Rosewood, inlaid with the Arms of Maulberg in mother-of-pearl, little displays of flowers and laurels in the four corners. ‘Is this the tray that I had yesterday? Is it marked for me in some way?’ Dido was frowning, trying to make sense of her. ‘It is so charming,’ Harriet continued, lifting the cup. ‘I wondered if all the guests have the same.’
‘All the trays are the same, ma’am. I’ll say this for this place – they know how to run a kitchen. The cook makes dozens of trays with coffee and a roll. Plenty with chocolate, which is very nice, though I know you’ve not a sweet tooth like Mrs Clode. I arrive at the hatch and say, “Coffee and roll”, and they hand me a tray. The maid behind me says, “Coffee and roll”, she gets a tray.’
Harriet sipped her coffee gratefully. ‘Thank you, Dido. I’ll wear the same costume as yesterday, if you would be so good as to lay it out.’
‘The marriage?’
‘I shall not be attending the court festivities. I’m sorry, Dido, you won’t have the opportunity to bind me into Court Dress today.’
Once Dido was finished with her, she sat down at her desk and drew towards her the various volumes selected for her by Mr Zeller, the books stolen from the old Alchemist, and tried hard to think of nothing but what was in front of her. There was a lifetime of study here. Harriet found herself sinking into the manuscript paintings. She imagined the patient hands of the scribes as they drew and coloured these borders to the pages, with daisies and vines. In the centre of the page, in front of her, a King wandered through a landscape that reminded her a little of Keswick – low lands between great hills. He wore long golden robes edged with fur, a crown, and he carried his sceptre and orb with him. Behind him in the marshes, in the curl of a rushing river, falling over itself past woodland, was another King, drowning. An old King. He still wore his crown, but the hand he held above the waters was empty and his beard was long. It seemed to be a promise of eternal rebirth. She turned to another, a French translation of a book written in German by a man who claimed to have discovered the secrets of magic in his wanderings through the lands of Egypt. He stated, matter of factly, that with his magic, a dead body could be raised again and made to walk about for seven years; in fact, one of the Dukedoms had been run by such an animated corpse until the heir was old enough to rule as he should.
Harriet put down the book and wondered how many people about her believed such things. She had been amazed last summer to see in Keswick how the beliefs in Old Magic still pulsed through the hills, but that was among the common people. Did such belief really pool in people of her own class, in the ranks above her, to the degree that a person would kill for ritual purposes? She took up the book again. Incantations, calls to angels and demons … Each spirit seemed to be as carefully ranked as the officials in the palace; each had its own role and speciality, its proper term of address. There were repeated warnings that if not called with their correct titles and attendants, they would be deeply offended.
She found again the image she thought she had recognised. It was quite different to the one chalked at the death scenes of Countess Dieth and Glucke, but it nagged at her. She spent a few minutes trying to understand the Latin words below it, then she sighed and, book in hand, made her way to Swann’s chamber where Graves maintained his bedside vigil. The Chancellor was asleep, but snoring. His colour was much improved and his sleep seemed peaceful. Graves clambered to his feet as she came in, but she waved him back and without preamble, said, ‘Graves, do you read Latin?’