‘Very glad, sire.’
The Duke turned towards Harriet. ‘But perhaps my request alone might not be enough to hold you. I add to it that of your own King. Would you like to see the letter? The British Ambassador brought it along with him this morning. Dear Lord, that man wears ugly shoes.’
Harriet’s throat grew rather dry. ‘Sire, your request alone would be enough to hold us here.’
A corner of the Duke’s mouth lifted. ‘Clever girl. You shall have a copy of the letter in any case, to enjoy seeing your name bandied about in the correspondence of monarchs. See to it, Swanny.’ He looked carefully at his Chancellor. ‘Are you cross I hadn’t told you about my correspondence with Cousin George? Do not look so put out, my dear Swann. Am I not allowed a secret too from time to time?’
Swann bowed.
‘What next, Swann? I assume I have a mountain of papers to look through?’
‘There are a number of matters, sire.’
‘Very well. Krall, I assume from your horrible coat you do not intend to eat at our table this afternoon?’
‘I wish to continue my attempts to discover the history of this mask, sire.’
‘You do work hard! You have every assistance?’
He bowed.
The Duke looked about him. ‘Swanny, have some of the new musicians come in and play while we go through the papers, will you? Such excitement, I feel in need of a little calm.’
III.3
Harriet all but fled the room and not until they were a hundred feet of gallery away did she speak. ‘Will you come to the Castle, Crowther?’
‘If you will excuse me, I think I should serve Clode better by consulting about the provenance of the drug on the mask.’
‘In other words you do not think you can stand another tearful reunion so soon,’ Graves said under his breath. Harriet smiled then found herself looking around guiltily. Something in the atmosphere of the palace made her fear she was in danger of being constantly overheard.
‘What did you say to Krall as we left? He looked as if you had struck him,’ Graves asked Crowther. Harriet realised he was talking in low tones as well. Only a day and the palace had them fearing their own shadows.
‘After asking him to come to our private room at his first opportunity, I said, “I believe she drowned”, of course. What else would I say?’
‘Social pleasantries have never been your strong suit, have they, Crowther?’ Harriet said with a sigh. ‘Well, that explains the poor man’s expression.’
‘At least I have not interrogated any despots about their amours today, Mrs Westerman.’
She grimaced. Their footsteps echoed up the corridor which was lined with yet more classical statuary. Muses, heroes and a smattering of Dukes observed them as they passed. The Muses looked at them slyly over their shoulders. The heroes stared boldly and the Dukes looked down their noses. ‘A fair point. Why did you not tell the Duke about the manner of Lady Martesen’s death?’
‘I feared he might fetch in another child to demonstrate,’ Crowther said simply.
Graves shook his head. ‘That man almost frightens me.’
‘He is an absolute ruler, Mr Graves. He has been obeyed his entire life. Perhaps it is not surprising to find that produces a slightly … warping effect. Give Mr Clode my best wishes.’ He nodded to them as if he intended to leave their side, but she put out her hand.
‘Crowther, Rachel has been worried about Daniel. The state of his mind. This drug, do you think the effects might be long-lasting?’
He paused for a moment, putting his weight onto his cane, his long fingers spread out over its silver head, and looked at their faces, all concern. ‘Not the drug itself, I think, given what Rachel has said. But you have been under fire in battle, Mrs Westerman.’
‘A number of times on my husband’s ships.’
‘So you have seen the effects, not on the body, but on the mind such extremes of fear and confusion can have?’
‘More often than I would like. I think I understand you, Crowther.’
‘I fear I do not,’ Graves said.
‘The effects of battle are cruel enough, Graves, but they are at least both understandable and shared. Even so, they can haunt men for years. Daniel’s visions were his alone and included the bizarre murder of a young woman, the cutting of his own wrists and being arrested.’
‘What do you advise, sir?’ Graves’s voice was low and serious.
‘That we find out the truth behind his visions. We are haunted by what we do not understand.’
‘Then we shall. Come, Mrs Westerman. Let us go and find our captured Prince.’ Graves offered her his arm, Harriet took it and they disappeared up the corridor. Crowther watched them go, then turned to search out his quarry.
He found Manzerotti at play in the rooms adjoining the ballroom which had been set aside for cards. The castrato noticed Crowther and at once handed his cards to a gentleman behind him and spoke to his companions. His soft cooing voice made each word a pearl.
‘My nemesis approaches, ladies!’ His French was as perfect as his English. The three women, middle-aged, heavily rouged and jewelled, hid their automatic smiles behind their fans. ‘Please allow the Comte de Grieve to take my place among you.’
Crowther did not smile, but simply watched him get up from his chair and bow the Count into his place with the same interest with which he would watch an exotic animal. He could not help thinking of the muscles and tendons of the body when he observed Manzerotti in motion; his physical grace was astonishing. The air seemed to ripple and part for him, allowing him to move through the world without the effort other mortals needed to shift their bodies from place to place. When he approached and made his bow, and Crowther returned it, he felt his own body to be an inferior machine, unlubricated and fixed with cogs and gears more clumsily wrought.
‘Mr Crowther, have you had leisure to examine His Highness’s Cabinet of Curiosities? Of course not. Let us have a look at them together.’
Crowther followed him without a word through a set of heavy double doors into a room, octagonal in shape and lit from above by a glass roof and a series of high windows. The air tasted unused. Against each wall was a display case, panelled over with glass at its top, and set with narrow drawers below. Crowther organised his anatomical samples in something similar in his house at Hartswood, but his cabinet was a far more utilitarian object. These seven cabinets were wonders in themselves. Each was inlayed with mother of pearl into a themed profusion of life. The example to Crowther’s right was smothered in inlays of flowers and vines that tumbled over each other, the stems seeming to thrust and grow under the eye. To his left, animals real and apocryphal clambered on each other’s backs to peer in through the glass at the bones and preserved fragments of their fellows.
In the centre of the room was a large table, octagonal also, and crowded with domed glass cases for larger curiosities. Crowther noticed the skeleton of a two-headed baby. It had been provided with an ivory violin and stood on top of a small mossy rise, one foot lifted as if dancing to its own tune.
‘It was the current Duke’s uncle who created this room,’ Manzerotti said.
‘Ludwig Christoph prefers living curiosities?’ Crowther replied, but Manzerotti only smiled.
‘He prefers the opera. Your rudeness is terribly clever, but not very useful, is it? Come now, Mr Crowther, do I have to put a loaded gun in your hand too before we can talk like civilised men?’
‘Would you?’
Manzerotti bent to examine the skeleton as he spoke, ‘I think not. You calculate more methodically than Mrs Westerman. That makes you more dangerous in some ways. In truth, the more I consider it, the more I think you an exemplary pairing. You complement each other to an unusual degree.’