“Traitors?” asked Miss Temple. “You only mentioned the one.”
“It is hardly your concern.”
“It becomes mine when you detain me.”
“What do you expect?” replied Soames. “You obviously know more than you will say!”
“Say? You have barely asked a thing!”
“I will ask however it pleases me!”
“What apparently pleases you most is to waste my time,” muttered Miss Temple.
THE COACH pulled up, forestalling Soames' defiant reply. Miss Temple pulled aside the curtain, but saw nothing through the little window save a waist-high wall of white brick. Beyond it rose a very musty old hedge, blocking the sky. Soames reached for the door handle.
“You had your chance. Now we shall see how you answer your betters.”
But instead of opening the door, Soames exhaled with a strange rattle. Both eyelids fluttered, the eyes themselves rolled back in his head. Then the fluttering stopped and he very slowly turned toward her, his jaw slack. Miss Temple retreated to the far corner of her seat.
“Mr. Soames?” she whispered.
He did not seem to hear. The coach rocked as the soldier climbed down. Miss Temple heard bootsteps on the cobbles. Then, like the prick of a needle puncturing her skin, Soames' eyes snapped into focus— he saw her…
Then Soames was shaking his head and swallowing awkwardly, smacking his lips like a dog that has snapped at a bee. He pulled open the door and stepped through, turning behind to take her hand.
“This way, Miss Hastings.” He cleared his throat and then smiled heartily. “It will be for the best. Better manners always are…”
HE DID not release her hand as they made their way to a small open gate in the wall. Before they reached it, two more men emerged. They wore coats identical to Soames'.
“Mr. Phelps,” called Soames in greeting.
Phelps, whose coat hung slack over his right shoulder, ignored Soames. Instead he met Miss Temple's gaze with an expression of dismay, as if her existence was simply more evidence of a disappointing world. His hair was brushed forward in an old-fashioned manner, and strangely his right arm, like Francis Xonck's, was wrapped in plaster, from the hand up to the elbow.
“What is in that bag?” His voice was crisp and high-pitched, as if belonging to a smaller animal.
“Her supper,” answered Soames.
“Give it to me.”
Soames reached for the canvas sack. Miss Temple knew she could not maintain her grip in the face of so many, and let it go. Phelps did not look into the bag—nor did he even seem tempted, merely looped it over his plaster-wrapped hand. Without another word he led them through an ill-trimmed archway in the hedge to a little courtyard with a weed-choked pool, from which rose a nonworking fountain, a stone statue of a naked youth with broken arms, a corroded metal spout protruding from his mouth.
Across the plaza was another archway in another hedge, this time leading to a heavy wooden door set with an iron-barred window. The third man fished out an iron key and unlocked it. Miss Temple followed them into a dark, dank, stone corridor with a low ceiling. The door was locked, the dragoons remaining on the other side.
They passed through narrow pools of light let in by a series of oval barred windows, footsteps echoing off the stone. Another wooden door was opened with another key. Mr. Phelps indicated that Miss Temple should enter—a room of pale plaster walls, the floor bare, two simple wooden chairs, and a battered table of planking.
“Would you care for anything while you wait?” he asked. “Tea?”
“I should appreciate that very much.”
She saw Soames bite back a comment as the third man marched away at once, a small satisfaction that allowed Miss Temple to enter the room with poise. To her surprise, the door was not locked behind her.
“Go ahead and sit down.” Phelps gestured with his protruding pink fingers toward the nearest chair. Miss Temple did not move. He stepped into the room.
“I appreciate the oddness of the occasion. You have no need to be afraid.”
“I am not afraid,” replied Miss Temple.
He looked as if he expected her to say more, but being rather afraid indeed, she did not. Phelps turned to Soames. “What is your name again?”
“Soames. Joseph Soames. One of Lord Acton's special liaisons.”
“Soames.” Phelps intoned it, committing the name to memory. “Per haps you could discover what delays this woman's tea.”
SOAMES' FOOTSTEPS echoed down the corridor. Phelps reached into the pocket of his topcoat, pulling out one black leather glove. Still watching her expression—which remained willfully bland—he tugged the glove onto his non-plastered hand and then carefully opened the canvas sack. As if he were unpacking a cobra, Phelps removed a shining blue glass book. He set it down on the table and took two steps away, removing the glove.
“What was your name again?” he asked, a bit too idly. “Because I feel I have seen you before.”
“Isobel Hastings. May I ask what happened to your arm?”
“It was broken,” said Phelps.
“Did it hurt?”
“It did indeed.”
“Does it hurt still?”
“Only when I am attempting to sleep.”
“You know, I myself am fascinated by that exact sort of thing— how in the middle of a sleepless night a sore tooth can seem to have become the size of one's entire fist—so much room does it take up in one's thoughts, you see. What did you actually do to break it?”
“A German doctor broke it for me—at a place called Tarr Manor. Do you know it?”
“Do you insinuate I ought to?”
“Heavens no, I merely pass the time.”
Miss Temple settled herself on one of the chairs, both because she was bored by standing like a servant and to bring the knife in the boot nearer to her hand.
“I'm sure it is a lesson to steer clear of Germans to begin with,” she observed. “Am I your prisoner?”
“I will tell you as soon as I know myself,” said Mr. Phelps.
Mr. Soames returned alone, holding a metal tray with a pot, a stack of cups without saucers, a small jug of milk, and, Miss Temple noted bitterly, not one biscuit on a plate. He stopped abruptly in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the book on the table, then caught himself and turned to Phelps, raising the tray as if to ask where—the table taken—he should put it. Phelps gestured with disdain to the floor. Soames set the tray on the tiles and knelt, pouring tea, looking to Miss Temple to see if she wanted milk, then pouring milk at her indication that she did. He took the cup to her, returned to the tray, and looked to Phelps, who shook his head with impatience. Soames looked down briefly at the tray, measuring whether, with Phelps' demurral, he might avail himself of a cup, but then clasped his hands behind his back, looking sharply at Miss Temple. She held the warm cup cradled on her lap and smiled back at him brightly.
“We were just discussing the manner in which pain can preoccupy the mind—”
Her words were cut off by the loud clatter of Mr. Soames' foot kicking the teapot, scattering the tray and its contents across the floor. He staggered where he stood, his face blank as it had been in the coach, arms dangling at his side. Miss Temple looked to Phelps, but Phelps had already crossed to the doorway. He slammed it shut and turned a metal key in its lock. Miss Temple's hand reached toward her boot. Soames blinked and cocked his head, watching her with intent, flickering eyes.
“Celeste Temple.” His voice was an unpleasant, uninflected hiss.
“Mr. Soames?”
“It is not Mr. Soames,” whispered Phelps. “If you value your life, you must answer every question put to you.”