Pegel lifted his nose: that was horses, several of them. A great shout reached them from the world outside: ‘
Hoo-rah
!’ and there was a clatter of hooves on cobblestones in the outer courtyard. An English voice, a woman’s, shouting: ‘There, through that arch! Fire!’
Frenzel had gone completely still, the torch in his hand and a look of confusion on his face. Wimpf shut his eyes and held the gun straight, then fired. Pegel darted behind the automaton and felt the force of his own gun exploding, pressed against the automaton’s side. Wimpf’s bullet caught it too. The roar deafened him. Pegel felt the automaton fall across him, trapping his ankle. He yelled, squeezing his eyes closed with the pain. When he opened them, he found himself staring into the automaton’s blue eyes. They flickered. ‘Christ,’ he said, and instinctively reached out and touched her cheek. It felt warm. He dropped back onto his elbows, panting.
‘There, through the arch! Fire!’ Harriet shouted, and the Hussars drove their horses forward. The courtyard suddenly erupted with noise. One, two shots in quick succession. She saw Clode’s thin form slide down from his horse and dash forward. She did the same, lifting up her skirts and running, then came to a halt, blinded by the fierce light of the bonfire. Count Frenzel was surrounded by soldiers. Pegel, looking terrified, was struggling to get out from under some figure that had fallen across him. Another young man was laying over the cobbles some feet away.
‘Swann!’ Pegel shouted. ‘Swann is on the fire!’ It’s too late, Harriet thought. The fire has hold. ‘He’s still alive!’
A man sprang up the bonfire in the corner where the flames were still only smouldering and grabbed Swann round the shoulders. Not until he shouted to the Hussars for help, did Harriet realise it was Clode. Crowther and the Major got to him first and together they dragged the Chancellor’s body down and away.
‘Christ, man!’ Graves was at Clode’s side beating out the sparks on his coat. Crowther had taken off his cloak and was using it to do the same for the Chancellor, then he checked Swann’s pulse and Harriet heard the Major’s voice: ‘He’s gone.’ Then Crowther’s murmured reply: ‘Don’t be so sure.’ Crowther stood up and crossed to the other man, and turned him on his side. He was a young man, fair-haired. Pegel’s friend, she supposed. He groaned.
Pegel finally managed to push away the damaged figure that lay across him. As he shoved it aside, the torso seemed to buckle and Count Frenzel made a desperate swallowing grunt and collapsed to his knees. There was a ringing sound of metal on stone, and a large brass egg-shaped object rolled free from the body. It split apart on the cobbles and in the light of the torches, Harriet saw it ooze something dark and oily. Frenzel began to wail, a high wordless lament, his head tipped back and staring up into the stars above his home. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Harriet heard Graves say to the Major. ‘Get the Count out of here. Get him to Krall.’ The keening continued.
The Major undid the rope that was round Florian’s wrists and used it to bind his father. Harriet noticed that the Major’s face was dead white. Frenzel would not stand, he would not walk, so they dragged him out of the courtyard, his eyes still fixed on the broken ghost of his wife.
Harriet still could not move. The torches cast red shadows over her dress and caught the light of her hair. All around her, people were busy. Some of the Hussars were dowsing the flames. Pegel had crawled over to where Crowther was tending to Florian. Clode was bent over the Chancellor, Graves at his side. She remained, amazed, watching the fire, and as the Hussars emptied buckets of water on its smouldering ashes under the direction of the old servant, listened to their hiss and complaint. The water ran over the cobbles, soaking the automaton and carrying the contents of the brass vessel into the gutter.
D
AWN HAD COME
. Harriet was seated on a low bench of the inner courtyard reading Count Frenzel’s letter to his son. She tried to picture Beatrice, her sharpness and confidence. How terrible to have been so wrong. So she had winkled the story of Antonia’s death from Wimpf at one of the seances in the fake village and set off with her chin in the air. She thought she’d find a fat sheep to fleece in his castle with his grief and his automata, but she had thrown herself into the lap of a wolf. Frenzel related how he studied Beatrice’s book then went to court to find who had been responsible for his wife’s disgrace. There he found Wimpf, their devoted servant, eager to please and already aware of the secret room, its seven glasses. The letter ended with a series of crowing descriptions of the murders Frenzel had perpetrated, his anger when he became aware that Rachel had seen the grave on her visit to his home with Clode, the realisation that he had the means and opportunity to make her husband appear a murderer with the
datura
drug. Colonel Padfield himself had told the Count about the costumes and the haberdasher’s shop where the party intended to change into their Carnival costumes. Frenzel proclaimed himself an equal of God, and ended again with a declaration of love.
Crowther was sitting by Harriet’s side, staring into the cold ashes of the fire. He had taken a place next to her while she was reading but did not interrupt her.
‘How are the two young men?’ she said at last.
‘Exhausted,’ he told her, ‘but otherwise undamaged. Florian zu Frenzel is sleeping. Pegel is wandering around the house.’
‘Where is your cane?’ she asked, already knowing the answer.
Crowther shrugged. ‘How else could he wander around the house?’
She laughed softly, and he smiled. ‘A deputation from the court has arrived,’ he continued. ‘Colonel Padfield and his men are going through the house and it seems the Al-Saids have come with him. Clode and Graves have returned to Rachel and we are to go and meet the Duke.’
‘To receive his congratulations?’
‘His blessings for our return journey to England perhaps. I suspect he would be pleased if we were to leave the court quietly and soon. Krall continues, with the air of a man of great conviction, to hide many of these crimes. They will execute Frenzel for the murders of Beatrice and Lady Martesen, and the attempt on Mr Clode. The other deaths will be described as accident or illness.’
Harriet sighed. ‘Will Swann recover?’
‘Yes, thanks to the heroic actions of Mr Clode. Not many men would rescue another from a funeral pyre – but then I think that may have done him some good.’
‘He could not save Lady Martesen, but he cheated Frenzel of his last victim?’ Crowther nodded. ‘I think you are right,’ Harriet agreed. ‘Clode is a better hero than a victim.’
‘Swann is not a young man, but given he has survived so far, I think he will regain his health. I suspect Count Frenzel was nearing the end of his supplies – those items that came originally from the shaman, through Kupfel’s and Beatrice’s hands to him – and that Swann therefore received a lighter dose of the paralysing agent. The Chancellor is to remain here until he is fully recovered.’
‘And Wimpf?’
‘Disappeared like smoke in the battle. However, Krall seems confident he will track him down.’ Crowther closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall behind him. ‘Is there anything else? Yes – now Frenzel is under lock and key in Grenzhow, Krall and Michaels have gone off in the direction of Oberbach. They will take statements about the discovery of Beatrice and see the young lady properly buried.’
‘Mrs Padfield?’
‘Attends to her duties at court with the new Duchess. Her connection to little Beatrice remains secret.’
‘I wish her every success among those people.’ Harriet tapped the pile of papers at her side. ‘Have you read this?’ He nodded. ‘A love story! Good Lord, it is a dark idea of love. What do you think he would have done, when Swann’s death did not give the automaton the power of speech?’
Crowther stared out over the courtyard again; it still smelled of burned straw, a faint tang of smoke. ‘Perhaps she would have spoken to him.’
‘Crowther?’
‘No, I have not turned mystic, only his madness was so complete, his illusion so seamless, he might have actually heard her. I wonder what she would have said …’
‘Has a search been made? Has the poison book been discovered yet?’
Crowther looked uncomfortable. ‘Mrs Westerman, Manzerotti arrived while you were reading …’
Her eyes widened. ‘And you let him take it? Good God, Crowther, the most dangerous man in Europe and you hand him
that
?’
‘Harriet …’
‘Crowther, where is he?’
‘Frenzel’s study behind the great hall, but—’
She was on her feet at once and walked away from him with a firm step. ‘If you would let me finish …’ he said quietly, as he watched her neat figure disappear into the shadows. ‘No? Very well.’
‘Is she beyond repair? I’m so terribly sorry I shot her.’ Pegel had been standing in the doorway leaning on his borrowed cane for a few minutes now, watching the Al-Said brothers inspect the damaged automaton.
Adnan looked up. ‘Nothing is entirely beyond repair, Mr Pegel, but the central cam that controls her movement is destroyed. Poor Nancy.’
‘Poor Nancy indeed,’ Sami said, touching the automaton’s lifeless face. It was strange looking at it. It had seemed so alive last night, yet now, in the daylight, it looked like a skilful work of art, not nature. ‘Not your fault the man who had you made was a crazy fellow, was it? We can use the head again. The Ambassador to China has asked us to create an automaton that plays an instrument. She shall go off and have more adventures there. More pleasant ones, I hope. If we create another automaton who dances, she will not have this same face.’
‘I note you don’t call her Antonia,’ Pegel said.
‘Never,’ Sami said firmly. ‘We made her, and we called her Nancy. Better.’
Pegel had to agree. ‘What will happen to the vessel? Is there still … anything in it?’
‘A residue. A little gothic, I understand,’ Adnan said, picking up another bent cog and tracing its teeth and grooves with his fingertip. ‘There is a suggestion that it is to be melted down, discreetly, by the Public Executioner. An agreement was reached that there should be some ceremony about it, but no one was sure quite what it should be. Those poor people.’ Adnan leaned his weight against the table and looked with affection at the broken wreckage of his great work. ‘Am I right in thinking, Mr Pegel, that you saw her perform?’
‘Yes, dancing hand-in-hand with that lunatic an hour before the troops arrived. She looked wonderful. Her movement, the way she looked at him, her breathing. I swore up and down it was a real woman.’ He saw they were looking at him with some curiosity.
‘The darkness deceived you, Mr Pegel,’ Adnan said. ‘She did not breathe.’
‘She did! The way her chest rose and fell – that jewel on her breast made it quite clear.’
‘Mr Pegel, I built her. There are breathing mechanisms in some of our creations, but not in Nancy. She does not breathe.’
There was a period of silence. Pegel swallowed. ‘Of course. Candlelight. All very emotional at the time. Mind plays tricks.’
‘Quite understandable you should make the mistake in the circumstances.’
‘Er, yes. Quite. I shall leave you to your work, gentlemen.’
Harriet found Manzerotti perched on Count Frenzel’s desk in the library.
‘Manzerotti, where is the poison book?’
He looked up. ‘Ah! Mrs Westerman arrives with her eyes ablaze. Let evil tremble!’ He turned a page. ‘What book, dear lady? I have Beatrice’s scrapbook of the esoteric cobbled together from the Alchemist’s papers here. She had a fine imagination and a talent for mimicking the literature. She should have taken to writing novels. Would you like to see it?’
‘You know perfectly well that is not what I mean.’
‘Herr Kupfel’s poison book? Perhaps Count Frenzel destroyed it.’
‘You have stolen it already, Manzerotti! You would not be sitting there so pleased with yourself if it were not in your possession. Do you really expect Crowther and I to let you leave with that in your hands?’
‘I have something to show you.’ He picked up an item from the table beside him, then slid gracefully from his perch and handed it to her. She looked down. It was a glass jar, one of the set from the poisoner’s room.
‘Is this a threat?’
‘Perhaps you could examine the jar a little more carefully.’
She turned it in her hands. On one side was printed in gold:
Kupfel’s Modern Miracles, by Appointment to the Court of Ulrichsberg
.
‘I see.’
‘Yes. If I threaten you, Mrs Westerman, it will be with something more powerful than face cream. The jar is not from the room, but from a large supply of young Kupfel’s wonders which I bought yesterday.’
‘So the papers and potions in the palace …’
‘Are the work of Theo Kupfel. He picked up a fair amount from his father: some of that knowledge he used to make his cosmetics, some he used to create these more unpleasant ointments for the Minervals. He certainly has talent.’
She replaced the jar on the table. ‘I will not be distracted, Manzerotti. What of Adam Kupfel’s poison book? The one you said you would give a great deal of gold to put your hands on? I will not let you take it.’
He sighed. ‘Dear lady, I do not think you have anything to say in the matter. Really, I have already been through this with Gabriel. Yesterday, as you know, I put into the Duke’s hand the names of two hundred and fifty Minervals – some hundred of them resident in Maulberg. Good. Their more senior adepts have been arrested or banished. The younger ones have all been given a very stern talking-to. But the rest include men and women of influence in most of the other courts in the Empire, including Vienna and Berlin. Do you understand, my dear?’
She looked at the floor. ‘You have given him a trump card.’
‘A whole pack of them, and Christoph knows very well how to play them. Now suppose a grateful Duke, absolute ruler and holder, suddenly, of a very, very interesting list of names … suppose that grateful Duke has made a present of some particular documents to the genius who helped him – do you really think you are in a position to countermand him? You gave him a madman and a story of horrors. I gave him a conspiracy. It’s quite fair, you know.’ He looked up at her and smiled his beautiful smile. ‘And you still get that pretty Caravaggio he promised you.’