Circle of Shadows

II.7

Pegel and Florian had been debating for some hours. They agreed, repeatedly and with frequent examples, that society was viciously unfair and it was obscene that so much wealth should be enjoyed by the privileged when others went hungry. There followed an hour on Rousseau and his Discourse on Inequality. Pegel wondered how often young men had debated such matters in attic rooms, heated up by wine and the flourishes of their own rhetoric.

‘You are lucky,’ Florian said, leaning forward, then twitching as his side ached. ‘It is much better to have been born poor. You are an honest man. My birth, the fortune I am to inherit, makes it so much harder to be honest.’

Pegel almost choked on his wine. ‘Give it to me then! You have a try at being poor. There have been times I haven’t had the blunt to feed myself. Nothing makes a man dishonest quicker than that.’

‘I did not mean to offend.’

‘You can either hand over your wealth, or promise not to say such stupid things. Choice is yours.’

Florian smiled a little reluctantly. ‘I shan’t hand it over just yet, Jacob. I mean to make use of it.’

‘I’d make use of it,’ Pegel said, drawing up his knees. ‘Steak every day and my own horse. No more hired nags. He can have steak every day too.’ He pressed his cheek onto his knees, feeling the rough texture of the material. ‘That might not be good for him. He can have his hay on a silver platter instead. He shall be very beautiful and I shall call him Philippe.’

‘No, I shall use it for the greater good. There are ways, Jacob. Things can change.’

‘No, they can’t.’

‘But listen-’

Pegel suddenly jumped to his feet. ‘I cannot listen any more without some food and more wine.’ He put his hand out. ‘Give me a Thaler and watch the fire.’

Frenzel rolled his eyes, but handed over the coin quickly enough. Pegel swung on his coat on his way to the door.

‘Jacob?’

‘What is it? A minute more and I die of thirst. Or starve.’

He turned back. Florian seemed very slight curled up on the settee. He glanced at Pegel then back at his glass. ‘Do you think those men might have followed us here?’

‘No.’ Pegel paused. ‘Tell you what. Key’s on the table beside you. Lock yourself in while I’m gone. When I come back I’ll knock three then two then one — all right, Florian?’

Frenzel swallowed and nodded and Pegel slammed the door to behind him and headed down his rickety staircase whistling.

The two gentlemen were waiting opposite the bottom of the stairs. He walked west twenty yards and turned down a side-street then waited for them to catch him up.

‘Ooh, sir!’ the giant said. ‘Your poor jaw. I’m ever so sorry — I didn’t want to hit you so hard.’

‘Not at all, Titus,’ Pegel said, pulling out a purse. ‘Absolutely splendid job. Nothing that needs a surgeon and yet looks as dramatic as you please. Could not be happier!’ He counted out five thick and heavy-looking coins, then paused and added a sixth and handed them to the giant.

‘Ooh, now there’s handsome,’ he said with glee as he closed his great paw round them. Pegel turned to the man in the wig and coat.

‘Now you! You! What a triumph! Come here at once.’ Pegel clasped the man by the shoulders and kissed him firmly on each cheek. The man blushed.

‘Really, merest trifle. You think I convinced the lad? Truly?’

‘Convinced him? You scared the hell out of him. Brilliant performance! You must, must use this money to get to Berlin.’ He counted out the five coins, again apparently had a slight struggle with himself and added a sixth. ‘You are wasted, absolutely wasted in country fairs. No, not Berlin. They don’t deserve you. There’s a fellow called Schiller doing lovely work in Mannheim. Excellent chap. Tell him you are sent with a recommendation from Jacob Pegel and you’ll get the audience you deserve.’

‘Herr Friedrich Schiller? The Schiller? You mean it, Mr Pegel?’

‘But of course! Leave tonight, gentlemen — destiny calls!’ The men grinned at each other. ‘Now would you be so kind as to do me one small favour before you go?’

When Pegel gave the coded knock at the door to his room he found Frenzel so pale that the growing bruises round his eye stood out like a sunset.

‘Florian, you’re white as a ghost. What is it?’

‘I saw them,’ he said, dragging Pegel in and slamming the door behind him.

‘Who, those men?’

‘Yes, of course — from your window. You were gone so long, I looked out to see if I could catch sight of you.’

Pegel held out the steaming plates he carried in front of him by way of explanation. ‘Mother Brown makes a splendid cutlet. You have to wait a bit this time of day.’

‘Never mind that. They were there in the square looking about them as if they knew we had come this far, then did not know where to find us exactly. Then you came out from the shop.’

‘Did they spot me?’ Pegel said quickly, glancing towards the door.

‘No! It was the luckiest thing, they were looking at the other side of the square as you came past. You went within an inch of them!’

‘Are they still there?’ Pegel said, putting down his tray and making for the window. Frenzel grabbed hold of his coat.

‘Don’t look! Jacob, I hate to have you think me a coward, but might I stay here tonight, just while I think what to do? There are people who should be warned.’

Pegel put his hand on the young Count’s shoulder. ‘Naturally, my friend. You are welcome here. But don’t you think you might see your way clear to giving a fellow a bit of a hint as to what is going on? You say you will, then it’s all philosophy till my head is aching.’

Frenzel turned away from him slightly. ‘Yes, of course. I must. I have … I have exposed you to some danger; it is your right to know something of this.’

Pegel settled himself on the floor again. ‘Can we eat first?’

For the first time since the messenger had arrived at Caveley, Harriet could think of nothing but what was in front of her eyes. The tiger turned its head warily towards her, blinked, then continued to pad across the work-top until Adnan picked it up, pressed a brass pin on its side and it became still. Harriet sat with her elbows on the work bench and her chin in her hand. Entranced.

‘I’d swear it was alive! It looked into my eyes. Mr Al-Said, you are a miracle worker.’

Adnan laughed and reached upwards to unhook a cage from the ceiling which held two brilliantly-coloured, frozen birds each about the size of Harriet’s thumb. ‘No, Mrs Westerman, a craftsman. I learned how to make watches in Constantinople, but when the first automaton was given to the Sultan by the French Ambassador, I fell in love. Why have something simply tell you the hour when you can make it do all this.’ Harriet put out a hand and touched the sleeping tiger. Al-Said watched her. ‘The paws are weighted, madam. A simple trick when you know it, which gives the illusion of natural movement.’

He touched something on the base of the cage and the birds began to pipe to each other, their beaks opening in time with their song and their wings flapping. Suddenly one sprang from one side of the cage to the other and Harriet laughed.

‘Oh I must have one like that for my children! They would adore it.’

‘They are not toys, Mrs Westerman,’ he said, somewhat serious.

‘Of course not, Mr Al-Said. I have no doubt that they will treat it with the proper respect.’ Adnan gave a slight nod. ‘Were you acquainted with Lady Martesen, sir?’

He touched the base of the cage and the birds were still again. ‘I am not certain how to answer you, madam. The courtiers are not sure how to treat my brother and I. They like to have us here — we, as well as what we create, are ornaments to be boasted of — yet we work, and with our hands. So they flatter us and pay us well, but you will not see us at the supper-table in the palace. And even if I were a Prince, how many men have you met of my complexion in the palaces of Europe?’

‘I have not visited many of them, Mr Al-Said. Yet Rachel tells me you have been of great assistance to her.’

‘It is interesting what one hears by pretending not to listen. Lady Martesen was a clever woman, and one of several at court who thought of more than their own amusement. The Duke asked us to make one of these cages of singing birds for her, and she visited us on several occasions while it was being made to discuss the design, and decide on the plumage of the birds. She came often with Countess Dieth, once with Glucke, I think, and another time with Swann.’

‘Who is Glucke?’ Harriet asked. ‘I have not heard his name before.’

Adnan’s face darkened and he bent over the cage, leaving Sami to answer in a stage whisper. He was far younger than his brother, not more than twenty-five, and so quick and light in his movements it would be as easy to think him ten years younger.

‘Herr von Glucke is a scholar and member of the Duke’s Privy Council, but he made the mistake of asking Adnan to create a few mechanical mice …’

Harriet was confused.

‘For his cats!’ Adnan said, with bitter emphasis. ‘Some respectable children might be allowed to handle our creations, but playthings for animals! They say he is a wise man, and a good one, but I cannot see it.’

‘So did Chancellor Swann come to discuss the plumage of the singing birds?’ Rachel asked.

Adnan smiled briefly, as if amused by his own anger. ‘He did not contribute to the conversation. But I believe he was a friend of Lady Martesen; one saw them together from time to time.’

‘Did they have … some understanding?’ Harriet thought she saw Adnan’s cheeks blush dark pink.

‘I do not think so.’ He placed the cage on the work-top once more, and glanced at Rachel. ‘You have not told your sister then, the little details that could not be written down?’

She shook her head. ‘She has only just arrived, and all I know, I know only from you, Mr Al-Said.’

‘I dislike gossip, Mrs Westerman,’ he said, ‘but none of us can work blindly. Lady Martesen had an understanding with the Duke. Or rather she did, until such time as his betrothal was announced.’

‘Oh Lord,’ Harriet said softly. ‘That rather complicates matters, does it not?’

Rachel said quickly, ‘She was rather poor, Harriet. And the Duke was generous to his … friends. Some years ago he was the protector of Lady Martesen’s cousin, Countess Dieth. He bought her an estate when their liaison came to an end.’

‘Then, as I understand it, Countess Dieth thrust her cousin into the sovereign’s bed,’ Sami said cheerfully. His elder brother looked at him severely and he dropped his gaze. Harriet held up her hand.

‘Please, gentlemen, I would be most grateful if you speak openly.’

Adnan cleared his throat. ‘So you see, it is unlikely that Chancellor Swann would ever begin an … understanding with Lady Martesen during the time they were visiting me here. There was no betrothal then. Lady Martesen was still the acknowledged favourite. It would be a dangerous alliance, would it not? The Duke has a fearsome temper when roused, and his good opinion once lost is difficult to regain. One hears stories of those who have suffered greatly on having disappointed him. I imagine Swann and Lady Martesen were discussing politics.’

‘The competing marriages perhaps,’ Sami said with a shrug. Harriet looked towards the younger brother as he perched on the bench swinging his legs. ‘Some in the court — Swann included, I think — did not regard the Duke’s choice as the best.’

Rachel was examining some of the half-painted faces that lined the walls. ‘You see, Harry? Mr Al-Said knows everything. When I wanted to be sure that Daniel would be allowed books and writing materials, Mr Al-Said told me to talk to Count Frenzel or Herr Zeller. Frenzel because he is never seen with Countess Dieth or Swann, Zeller because as a librarian of the court he understands the comfort of reading.’

‘I see,’ Harriet said. ‘So Mr Al-Said, who do you think murdered Lady Martesen, and why?’

He shrugged. ‘The other reason I love my automata, Mrs Westerman, is they do exactly what they were designed and made to do, and nothing more. People I find interesting to watch because they are the opposite. But I can only tell you what I see. I offer no conclusions.’

‘You sound like Crowther,’ Harriet said dryly.

‘In such a place as this there are many alliances made and broken from day to day. Passions run high and whoever has the ear of the Duke has great power. Secrets and signs are passed back and forth.’

He did not look at her as he spoke, and Harriet realised that perhaps he too thought Clode a murderer, and herself and her sister deluded. She began to understand how lonely the past weeks must have been. Harriet thought of the papers from Krall. The people who knew Lady Martesen best: had they been asked the right questions? She put her chin in her hand, and looked about her.

The ground floor of the fake cottage was taken up with a light and airy workshop. At its centre were two workbenches set into an L-shape. On one, small metal instruments and knives predominated; on the other, paints and brushes. The walls were stacked with papier-mache faces, curled lengths of metal, brass cones, strange limbs, sharp crops of pointed files, and pinned to the wall from time to time, pencil drawings and water colours, designs of cogs and levers. To Harriet’s right stood a deep stack of leather notebooks, and to her left where Rachel sat with a glass of tea in her hand and a cautious smile on her lips, a tiny lathe drawn by a bow. From the ceiling hung bunches of keys and garlands of clean brass discs. The place smelled of paint and metal.

The younger Mr Al-Said slipped down from his perch.

‘Our little friend is ready, if Mrs Westerman would like to see him.’

Crowther had almost finished his pile of papers when there was the sound of a knock on the door. Again he half-expected to see Krall, and again he was disappointed. It was Graves, his cheeks flushed.

‘Crowther! Where is Mrs Westerman?’

‘Still visiting these acquaintances of Mrs Clode and touring the gardens. I understand that they are quite extensive.’

‘We must find her at once.’

‘Do you require her assistance to negotiate with Chancellor Swann?’

Graves looked angry and Crowther put down his pen. ‘I am sorry, Graves. What has happened?’

‘Manzerotti.’

‘What of him?’

‘He is here.’

‘Damn. How long has he been here?’ Crowther said, reaching for his coat. ‘How could Rachel not tell us?’

‘She cannot have known,’ Graves said, almost dancing with impatience. ‘He arrived only this morning, with a troupe of French dancers to swell the crowd of performers here for the wedding celebrations. It is a great coup for the Duke to have such a star perform at his court. Swann mentioned it in passing at the end of our discussion. Said he understood we were acquainted with Manzerotti and that the monster sent his regards. Well, he did not phrase it quite like that …’

‘Did he see your reaction?’

‘I think not — he was bent over his papers again. Crowther, what will she do if she meets him?’

Crowther found himself transported back to the room in Highgate where James had died, saw Harriet’s face as she bent over her husband, his hand clasped between her own and his blood pooling round her dress. She had loved her husband very much. ‘I should imagine she’ll try very hard to kill him,’ he said, and took up his hat.

Krall decided he had given the English travellers enough time to settle into their luxurious cages, and his pipe still clamped between his teeth, was making his way through the rear courtyard to pay his respects when he saw two gentlemen, strangers to him, walking swiftly out into the gardens.

‘Kinkel?’ The head footman turned from the underling he was berating and approached, his shiny black shoes tapping out a quick tripping rhythm over the flagstones under the colonnade.

‘Herr District Officer?’

Krall pointed with his pipe at the disappearing strangers.

‘Milords Crowther and Graves, sir,’ Kinkel said. ‘Perhaps they go to meet Mrs Clode and her sister. The ladies left to tour the gardens some little time ago.’

Krall decided it might be better to put off introducing himself for a while. To pursue the two men would necessitate walking so fast he might disturb his digestion. The two men, both tall, angular beings, disappeared from sight and Krall sniffed and looked about him, patting his belly. The courtyard was lively. Footmen went back and forth with large trunks held between them, and another carriage, emptied of its dignitaries, was being led back out under the arch towards the stables. Krall thought it spoke well of Kinkel’s organisational talents that he was able to watch this with apparent calm.

‘Any other notable arrivals today, Herr Kinkel?’

The footman clasped his hands behind his back. ‘The Princess Theresa Anna, the Duke of Mecklenburg, a troupe of French dancers, and Manzerotti himself.’ Herr Kinkel allowed himself a small sigh. ‘Herr District Officer, I could almost wish myself a valet again if it meant the chance of dressing Manzerotti. The most beautiful clothes, such taste, and on such a handsome man. His looks are as remarkable as his talent.’

Krall looked sideways at Kinkel from under his heavy brows, but it seemed the latter was too lost in admiration to note it. ‘We’re more likely to clap a fiddler who knows a good dance tune than these opera types in Oberbach,’ he grunted. ‘Anyway, this Manzerotti ain’t quite a man, is he?’

Kinkel smiled. ‘The best castrato singer in Europe here among us. I understand the Duke is delighted.’

Deep in Krall’s mind another bell rang, softly; another page of English newsprint swam before his inner eye.

‘Wasn’t he in London when those folk were murdered at the opera house? Weren’t our English guests caught up in that in some way?’

Kinkel nodded. ‘Yes, indeed! I believe Mrs Westerman was at the theatre the night Mademoiselle Marin was murdered on stage. It was just before her husband was killed by some French spy. Manzerotti was the toast of the season there.’ He stared off into the air again. ‘They must be acquainted. How delightful it will be, for them to meet again.’

Krall sucked on his pipe. ‘Delightful indeed.’

‘Remarkable!’ Harriet said softly as the cover was removed.

Adnan nodded. ‘I have been fortunate in the sons of my mother, Mrs Westerman. Sami is an artist. The sculpting of the models and the painting of the features I leave all to him. I find my enthusiasm confined to giving these creatures of ours the power of movement and communication.’

Harriet looked sceptical. ‘Did I hear you right, sir? Communication? Have you trapped some spirit in the statue?’

‘No, madam, there is no — how can I put it? — ghost in this machine. But let me show you.’ Harriet was aware in the background of Sami almost dancing with delight and whispering to Rachel. She was profoundly glad these brothers had been here to offer her sister some refuge, some relief. Sami reminded her of her son when he had some powerful secret to share, and the thought of him both tugged on her sore heart and made her smile.

They were grouped around the figure of a young boy seated at a wooden desk and dressed like the child of a prosperous family. He would have been perhaps four years old, if living. His head was a natural confusion of blond curls and his eyes were bright blue and glimmering glass. The colouring of his face was very beautiful. Harriet expected that if she touched his cheek it would be warm. In his right hand he held a quill pen. He looked with steady contemplation at the piece of parchment in front of him. Adnan pressed some switch on the underside of the mahogany table and then moved to one side where he could observe both the automaton and Harriet’s reaction.

After a momentary pause, the boy’s head lifted and, blinking his eyes, he nodded at Harriet, then dipped his quill in the inkpot at his side and put his pen to the paper. His chest rose and fell and he tilted his head to one side as he began to write, then to the other. After a moment he seemed to shift the paper a little to his left and he continued, his chin now tucked into his lace cravat. There was the faintest sound of whirr and click in the air, but the illusion was remarkable. Half of Harriet’s mind told her she was seeing a clever copy of life, but watching it move, breathe and concentrate, half of her protested that this was a living being. The effect was distinctly unsettling.

‘This is a masterpiece,’ she whispered, almost expecting the child to complain of the interruption.

‘We have only excelled it once,’ Adnan said, watching his creation with affectionate pride, ‘with a walking automaton — and I think we were both a little in love with her before she left us.’ A minute or two passed, and the little boy looked up again and moved his arm away from the page with a nod. Harriet could hear the smile in Al-Said’s voice as he said, ‘Do examine the paper, madam.’

Harriet approached the desk warily, half-expecting the child to drop the pretence and start laughing at her, and peered down at the paper before the inert little scholar.

Good afternoon, Mrs Westerman, it read, and welcome to my home.

‘You are both magicians, I can barely comprehend it! Are there many machines that write like this?’

‘Some. We have made several that draw also. It is a matter only of examining the movements of the hand as it performs the action we wish, forward and back, right and left, then translating it onto our little brass discs.’

‘You make it sound easy,’ Harriet said wonderingly, and touched the paper face of the child with a fingertip.

‘Not easy no, but in some way simple.’

Sami approached the mechanism and picked up the sheet to cover it. ‘Adnan is too modest,’ he said. He ruffled the model’s hair affectionately, and just as he dropped the sheet over it there came the sound of a male voice calling outside. ‘Oh, perhaps that is Julius,’ he said, and headed for the door with long strides.

‘My apologies, Mrs Westerman,’ Al-Said said, watching him go. ‘Our neighbour is a metalworker called Julius. He and Sami are good friends.’

The words were only just out of his mouth when Sami returned and handed a folded sheet of paper to Harriet. ‘It was a message for you, Mrs Westerman, from the palace.’

Harriet took it from him and broke the seal. She felt the smile fall from her lips and her skin whiten. She thrust the note into her pocket. ‘I am afraid I must go at once. I hope to see you both again, gentlemen.’

‘Harriet, what is it?’ Rachel asked. ‘Is Daniel well?’

‘It is nothing to do with Daniel, dear. If you would stay here and finish your tea, then perhaps the gentlemen may escort you back to the palace.’

‘Don’t be foolish, Harry. I am coming with you.’

‘Stay here.’ She said it so sharply, Rachel almost shrank away. Without trusting herself to speak further, and with only a nod to the astonished brothers, Harriet hurriedly left the house and started out along the northward path from the village.

The directions she had received were very clear. Harriet found the Temple of Apollo at the far end of the formal gardens, at the summit of an artificial hill which gave it views back across the expanse of water, hedges and flower gardens to the pink face of the palace itself. It was a smallish, circular domed building, the roof supported by Doric columns. Below them was a wall covered in frescoes of the Muses. She mounted the steps and found herself in its stone interior. A marble bench curved round the low wall, and taking his ease on it, a lazy smile on his lips and surrounded by various gods apparently offering him lyres and laurel wreaths, was Manzerotti. He was as beautiful as ever. She hesitated.

‘Mrs Westerman,’ he said, his voice light and high as a dove cooing to its mate, and nodded to his right. On the bench, just out of his reach was an open walnut case with a pair of travelling pistols in it. She did not speak but took a seat next to it and removed one of the guns. It was a beautiful object — walnut grip, full silver mount. It was cold and smooth in her hand. Heavy without being cumbersome, it felt full of its purpose. She glanced up at its owner. It was like him to own something so perfect, so lovingly made and so deadly.

‘Are we to fight a duel?’ she said at last. Her voice broke in her throat; it sounded harsh and ugly in her ears.

He shook his head and looked out across the view away from the palace and towards the great forests of Maulberg swelling and falling over the hills.

‘I would not challenge you, madam. There are the guns. Do with them what you will.’

In her mind, during the three years since she had seen him in triumph on the stage of His Majesty’s Theatre, she had tried to make him ugly. She felt his sins should show in his face: this spy-master, for whoever would pay him, this monster without principle or ideal who had sown destruction then fled England, protected by her government. They had made use of him in the past too, and his work meant they were willing to let him leave trailing glory and fame, adored and mourned by the public while others who had done less than he were hung as traitors. Harriet remembered that before she had first laid eyes on Manzerotti, she had been told that a woman had gone mad with love for him and thrown herself under his coach. She had thought the story ridiculous, then having seen him and heard him sing, she had believed it. The years had made no mark on him. He was still an ideal model of a human. And with a casual command from his rosebud mouth, he had ordered the murder of her husband.

She lifted the powder flask from its niche among the velvet and unscrewed the lid, noticing that the motif of leaves and flowers from the metalwork on the gun was repeated round the shoulder of the flask. It was full. There was enough powder there to kill Manzerotti a dozen times over.

Crowther and Graves hurried along the path without any clear idea of where they were going.

‘Why is he here?’ Graves hissed. ‘We should never have agreed to keep silent!’

‘It was an order from the King, Graves. Even if it was framed as a request.’ Crowther could move with surprising speed when he wished. Graves jogged along at his side. Crowther continued. ‘Manzerotti, I am sure, is here on his usual business. The marriage of a sovereign Duke, a murder. The foreign powers will be interested in Maulberg at the moment. No doubt Manzerotti is working for Catherine, or Frederick of Prussia. Both, possibly. There is Mrs Clode … I cannot see Mrs Westerman.’

Rachel had just emerged from one of the side paths, accompanied by a dark-complexioned man. Crowther did not take any trouble with formalities. ‘Where is she?’

Rachel looked between them. ‘She received a note and left at once. I thought she would be meeting you, Crowther.’

‘Manzerotti is here,’ Graves said, and Rachel covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Do you have any notion where she went?’

Rachel shook her head. Al-Said frowned. ‘I think I saw her take the path towards the Temple of Apollo.’

‘Manzerotti absolutely,’ Crowther said through gritted teeth. ‘Can you take us there, sir? As quickly as possible, please.’

Al-Said hesitated, then nodded. ‘This way.’

‘I am sorry your husband was killed, Mrs Westerman.’ Manzerotti still had the trick of making every phrase he spoke sound like a snatch of music in his lightly accented English. He crossed his legs and the black silk whispered. He seemed quite calm.

‘Murdered. On your order.’ She rolled one of the lead bullets around the centre of her palm.

‘All wars have casualties. Your husband sank many ships, drowned many men, and was called a hero.’

Harriet made a sound of disgust in her throat.

Manzerotti continued as if he had not heard her. ‘I regret his death now. It proved unnecessary, given my identity was already discovered, but we were not to know that then.’ Harriet picked up the gun again and examined the mechanism. ‘But then I was not the only person to order a murder, was I, Mrs Westerman?’

She paused. ‘I do not know what you mean, Manzerotti.’

He watched her carefully, examining her face as if he were about to draw it.

‘I think the authorities would have preferred my friend Johannes delivered to them alive, yet he was given over to an angry mob. Mr Crowther is hardly the creature to do such a thing unprompted. His blood, for the most part, runs too cold.’ Harriet felt herself flinch, felt it seen. ‘No, Mrs Westerman, I believe it was you that ordered Johannes’ death. Asked Crowther to perform that act of revenge on your behalf from your husband’s bedside. Johannes had been my companion since childhood, you know.’

Harriet tried to concentrate on the pistol, heavy in her hand, and tapped powder into the muzzle. Her hand had begun to shake a little. ‘He was your knife-man. Did you keep a tally of the murders he did for you?’

Manzerotti nodded, his eyebrows slightly lifted as if considering what she said. ‘I am sure you thought the murder justified. Though I have never murdered for revenge. And that is what it was, my dear, revenge.’ She dropped the ball into the barrel and rammed home the charge with all her strength. ‘And you have killed since, I understand, with your own hand. Some evil-doer in Keswick, was it not? The same man who shot Mr Crowther?’

‘I was defending my son.’

‘I applauded you then, as I do now, but tell me, do you think that business would have been tidied away so neatly, just as the removal of Johannes was forgiven so completely, were you not thought of as useful? I suspect England holds you in reserve.’

‘Your point, Manzerotti?’

‘My individual talents have made me of help to many governments, and many individuals; my sins have likewise been occasionally overlooked. I can be useful too, Mrs Westerman. I might even be of help to you. What do you know of this place? These people?’

Harriet pointed the pistol at Manzerotti’s chest; she could feel the pulse of blood in her brain. ‘We are not the same, Manzerotti.’

He licked his lips. ‘No, my dear, I do not think we are. In fact, I seem to be betting my life on it. I only say we can be of use to each other. Now either you must shoot me, or we must come to some sort of accommodation. The world is too small to prevent us from bumping into each other from time to time.’

‘Why are you here? Why have you come to Maulberg?’ Her mouth was dry, each word came painfully from her lips.

His eyes glittered. ‘One step at a time. This I shall tell you, Mrs Westerman: I do not come for you, or Mr Clode.’

Her finger tightened on the trigger. She felt the grief of every day since James had died wash over her in a black tide, seemed to live again that moment she had watched him die, felt him torn away from her, leaving this creeping dark at her core. She closed her eyes as it fell over her, then opened them again. Manzerotti was still watching her with that close attention, but there was something in his eyes more human than she had ever seen before, some reflection of her grief. The wave retreated, she became aware of the sound of the wind breathing through the trees. He spoke again, softly, kindly.

‘Where is Mr Clode’s mask, Mrs Westerman? Ask District Officer Krall that, and he will know what to do.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘The moment has come, my dear. You must shoot me or set that pistol down. Know only that in my mind, we are even in blood.’

Harriet felt a tremor run through her arm, then she laid the gun down in its case. She felt as if the life had drained from her body and left her suddenly powerless; all she could do was listen to the leaves shivering on the branches, the distant trill and burst of the song thrush.

Manzerotti, however, seemed suddenly renewed. He slid along the bench like a child, spun the gun case towards him and as he spoke began to disassemble the charge. ‘Excellent, my dear. If you would just give me a moment to render this safe … it would be too bathetic if I blew my own leg off carrying it down the hill again.’ In the middle distance, Harriet could hear her sister calling her. ‘Ah, the cavalry approach,’ he added.

‘Why?’

‘Why what, dear lady?’

‘Why must we meet?’

He blew loose powder from the muzzle and settled the gun back into its velvet seat, then flicked the box closed and snapped the catches. He did not reply until he was looking at her again. His eyes were dancing, his exhilaration obvious. ‘You are by far the most interesting woman in Europe, Mrs Westerman. I am one of the most interesting men. It could not be avoided.’

He stood and tucked the box under his arm. Harriet felt a hundred years older than she had when she arrived in Maulberg, but there was a sort of peace there too, rolling over her like sea fog.

‘The mask?’ she asked, passing her hand over her forehead.

‘They all ate the same, and drank the same. Mr Clode saw visions. If he did not eat or drink the substances that gave him those visions, it might well have come through the skin. There are drugs that can be administered in such a fashion. The mask would be the best method.’

She nodded and he turned to leave her. ‘We are not even in blood,’ she said in a dull voice. ‘We never can be.’ He did not turn back towards her.

‘Opinions differ.’ He reached the top of the stairs just as Graves was running up them with Crowther at his heels. Harriet lowered her head and stared at her hands lying idle in her lap. ‘Mr Graves, Mr Crowther. Delighted to see you again. You aimed to be my saviours? How touching. It has proved unnecessary. In any case, I doubt you could have done much for me; she is far too good a shot.’

Graves stood aside and Manzerotti skipped lightly down the steps, bowing briefly to Rachel as he went.

They gathered round her carefully, leaving Mr Al-Said waiting nervously at the bottom of the steps.

Their nearness, the looks of tender concern felt suddenly oppressive. She stood up swiftly and turned away from them, looking back towards the palace. The network of garden rooms were quite plain from here, they branched out from the central lawns in a regular honeycomb. She let her hand lie on the balustrade, feeling its chill against her skin. ‘I could not kill him,’ she said at last. ‘I had a gun pointed at his chest and I could not, though I wanted to very much.’ No one spoke, but Rachel joined her and placed her gloved hand over Harriet’s bare fingers. Harriet closed her eyes for a moment and drew in her breath. ‘Did you see how beautiful he still is?’

‘He makes me believe in devils, Harry.’

She turned back to face Crowther, who was still pale with worry. She thought of the losses and tragedies he had endured and tried to smile at him. He only offered his arm. She took it, and for the briefest of moments rested her forehead on his shoulder. Then they walked down the steps together and Harriet paused by Mr Al-Said. She drew a sharp metal sliver from her glove. ‘I do apologise, sir. I seem to have picked up one of your files as I left the workshop. Very absent-minded of me.’

Adnan took it from her and bowed.

Krall looked at his watch. It seemed there would no longer be an opportunity to meet the English today. The timetable at court was strictly observed. The party would need to change into court dress to be presented to Ludwig Christoph and that was a fussy business. Krall would not dine with them. He had the liberty to demand what he wanted from the kitchen at his convenience and for now he would rather stare at the plaster cherubs cavorting over his ceiling than anything else. Time enough to meet the English tomorrow.

Since the murder of Lady Martesen, Krall had been in the habit of spending two or three nights in the palace every week to consult with Chancellor Swann and place before him the latest sheafs of reports and interviews. He would have preferred his own home, his own fireside and books, but he accepted the necessity of spending more time among the elaborate flourishes of Ulrichsberg with his usual stoicism. The manner of Lady Martesen’s death itched at him. A smothering was possible, but unlikely, the more he thought of it. The Professor from the University of Leuchtenstadt who had performed the examination of the body was an elderly gentleman, more comfortable with the teachings of Ancient Rome than anything discovered in the current century. He agreed it was a little strange there was not more blood, and supposed the lack of other signs of violence was unusual. He suggested that perhaps Miss Martesen had been transfixed with fear. Krall had thought the suggestion ridiculous. It was likely he showed it. He mentioned the pink foam around the woman’s mouth before her body was cleaned. The Professor thought it without significance. Krall suggested examining the internal organs for any sign of poison; the Professor recoiled. Krall was adamant, however, and the Professor summoned his assistant. That young man was at least efficient with his knife, but so in awe of his master Krall had difficulty getting any opinion from him. At last the young man whispered that there was no sign of damage which would suggest any poison he knew. He pointed out one or two features he thought out of the ordinary. Krall growled and spent some hours describing the corpse in as much detail as he could manage on paper in hopes the remarkable Mr Crowther might supply some answer to the riddle.

There was a knock at the door, and with his gruff consent a footman entered. As always, Krall marvelled at how clean the servants kept themselves. It was as if they were scrubbed on the hour. This one he knew a little. Wimpf. A good young lad who had polished his riding boots to such a shine, Krall had sworn at first they were not his. Krall suddenly realised his boots were not that clean any more and resting on the bed. He swung them off rather guiltily. The boy grinned. Krall knew his family, had known them for years. Strange to think this shiny boy had sprung from that farm, neat as it was. He had a look of his mother about him. Hair so fair his eyebrows and lashes seemed white, and he had her trick of turning away a bit to hide a smile. Though he had the cleft chin of his father.

‘What’s afoot, Christian?’

The footman held out a note, and Krall took it with a look of great suspicion.

‘From Mrs Westerman, sir. With her compliments.’

He harrumphed then read through the note twice. ‘Looks like I need to ride back to Oberbach tonight, my boy. If anyone needs me, I’ll be back before the Duke wakes in the morning.’

The footman bowed and retreated, and Krall read the note once more. Interesting.

Harriet sat in front of the mirror while her maid arranged her hair. She studied her own face and wondered if it had changed in the course of the day. It was true that she had asked Crowther to make sure the assassin who killed her husband would die. She remembered the weight of the gun as she had it aimed at Manzerotti’s chest and wondered why she had not pulled the trigger. It was not, she admitted to herself, wondering what grief she would cause to her family. It was not even for her children, and it was a lie to say, as she had said, that she simply could not. She could have done it; no hysterical passion prevented her from squeezing the trigger, no sudden regard for the sanctity of life. At first she wondered if she had simply chosen not to be the sort of person who shoots another in cold blood. Manzerotti was clever to provide the gun. If she had had the opportunity to stab him with Al-Said’s file at that first moment of meeting, she might have done it, but the gun, while being a more reliable method of execution, was also slower. She had been forced to hear him speak, and had discovered in those moments that she did not loathe Manzerotti as much as she had thought. It was not his talent, the beauty of his voice, nor of his person. No, suddenly it seemed to her that hating Manzerotti was like hating storms and high-gusting squalls that cracked the masts and cast a ship about with no care for the souls it contained. And in his utter lack of compunction, in his undoubted brilliance, he was like them, in his way, magnificent.

‘Dear God, what have I become?’ she said to the mirror.

‘Madam?’ the maid said, confused, not quite understanding.

‘Nothing, Dido. Fetch me my pearls.’ The girl padded over to the press and returned with Harriet’s jewel case. She unlocked it with the key from her pocket, took out the necklace and matching eardrops, and placed them in Harriet’s hands. They had been a wedding present from James, and an extravagant one it had seemed in those times before his luck and skill as a naval commander had made them rich.

There was a tap at the door and Rachel slipped into the room like a shadow. She was still wearing her day dress and Harriet remembered what she had said about avoiding dining with the court. ‘You look very fine, Harry.’

‘All Dido’s work,’ her sister replied and caught the maid’s smile in the mirror.

‘Harry, do you think, if you are not too tired, I might sit with you a while by ourselves after supper?’

‘Of course, my dear.’

Rachel smiled briefly and retreated as quickly and quietly as she had come. Harriet frowned at her reflection.

Dido began the work of fixing yet more pearls into Harriet’s hair and sighed.

‘What is it, Dido?’

‘Well, ma’am, I have no aim to marry myself, but it seems to me, judging from my sisters and cousins, the first months of marriage are hard enough without your husband being locked away for murder.’

Harriet smoothed down her sleeves. ‘I can hardly remember, it seems such an age since I was a bride. Will you make sure she eats something this evening, Dido?’

‘That I will, ma’am.’ She stepped back. ‘There, Mrs Westerman. You are ready.’