The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters (38 page)

“Good Lord,” whispered Doctor Svenson. He peered at the small card to the side of a largely orange canvas whose figures seemed to slither from the surface fully fleshed into the air around them.
“St. Rowena and the Viking Raiders,”
he read, and turned up to the face that could perhaps charitably be said to be glowing with religious fervor. “Good
Lord
.”

Chang was silent, but equally transfixed, his expression unreadable behind the smoked-glass lenses. Miss Temple spoke in a low tone, so as not to attract the agent.

“So…now that we may speak without concern…”

“The Blissful Fortitude of St. Jasper,”
read the Doctor, glancing up at a canvas on the other wall. “Are those
pig snouts
?”

She cleared her throat. They turned to her, slightly abashed.

“Good Lord, Miss Temple,” said Svenson, “these paintings do not take you aback?”

“In fact they do, yet I have already seen them. I had thought, since we have already shared the blue cards, we could weather their challenge.”

“Yes—yes, I see,” said Svenson, at once even more obviously awkward. “The gallery is certainly empty. And convenient.”

Chang did not offer any opinion on the place or the paintings of Mr. Veilandt, but merely smiled—once more rather wolfishly, it seemed.

“My own idea…,” began Miss Temple. “You
did
look at the glass cards, Cardinal?”

“I did.” The man was positively
leering
.

“Well, in the one with Roger Bascombe—and myself—” She stopped and frowned, gathering her thoughts—there were too many at wing inside her brain. “What I am trying to decide is where we ought to next direct our efforts, and most importantly whether it is best for us to remain together or if the work is more effectively accomplished in different directions.”

“You mentioned the
card
?” prompted Chang.

“Because it showed the country house of Roger’s uncle, Lord Tarr, and some kind of quarry—”

“Wait, wait,” Svenson broke in. “Francis Xonck, speaking of Bascombe’s inheritance…he referred to a substance called ‘indigo clay’—have you heard of it?”

She shook her head. Chang shrugged.

“Neither had I,” continued Svenson. “But he suggested that Bascombe would soon be the owner of a large deposit of the same. It has to be the quarry, which has to be on his uncle’s land.”

“
His
land,” corrected Chang.

Svenson nodded. “And my thought is that it may be vital to making their glass!”

“Thus why Tarr was killed,” said Chang. “And why Bascombe was chosen. They seduce him to their cause, and then this indigo clay is under their control.”

Miss Temple saw the ease of it—a few words from Crabbé about the usefulness of a title to an ambitious man, the flattering company of a woman like the Contessa or even—she sighed with disappointment—Mrs. Marchmoor and cigars and brandy with a flattering rake like Francis Xonck. She wondered if Roger had any real idea of the value of this indigo clay, or if his allegiance was being purchased as cheaply as that of an Indian savage, with these people’s equivalent of beads and feathers. Then she remembered that he too had borne the purple scars. Did he even retain his own unfettered mind, or had this
Process
transmuted him into their slave?

“He
is
a pawn after all…,” she whispered.

“I’d wager every preening member of this cabal sees every other as a pawn.” Chang chuckled. “I would not single out poor Bascombe.”

“No,” said Miss Temple. “I’m sure you’re correct. I’m sure he’s only like them all.”

She shrugged away the glimmer of sympathy. “But the question remains—should we direct our efforts to Tarr Manor?”

“There is another possibility,” said Doctor Svenson. “I’ve been distracted. Not three minutes from here is the walled garden where the Comte d’Orkancz brought me to look at the injured woman—it was my destination when I saw you in the window.”

“What woman?” asked Chang.

Svenson exhaled heavily and shook his head. “Another unfortunate caught up in the Comte’s experiments, and another mystery. She bore all the features of drowning in frozen water, though the damage had apparently been inflicted by some machine—I assume it has to do with the glass, or the boxes—I could not say if she survived the night. But the location—a greenhouse, to keep her warm—must be a stronghold of the Comte, and it is very near. He sought me to treat her—”

“Sought you?” asked Miss Temple.

“He claimed to have seen a pamphlet I wrote, years ago, on the afflictions of Baltic seamen—”

“He is indeed widely read.”

“It is ridiculous, I agree—”

“I do not doubt it, but
why
?” Miss Temple frowned, her thoughts quickening. “But wait…if the pamphlet is so old, then it means the Comte must have had cause, even then, to be mindful of such injuries!”

Svenson nodded. “Yes! Would this mean the Comte is the chief architect of these
experiments
?”

“At Harschmort it was quite clearly he who managed the boxes and the strange mechanical masks. It only follows he is master of the science itself…” She shivered at the memory of the large man’s callous manipulation of the somnolent women.

“What did the woman look like?” interrupted Chang. “At this greenhouse?”

“Look like?” said Svenson, his train of thought jarred. “Ah—well—there were disfiguring marks across her body—she was young, beautiful—yes, and perhaps Asiatic. Do you know who she is?”

“Of course not,” said Chang.

“We can see if she is still there—”

“So that is another possibility,” said Miss Temple, attempting to keep the conversation clear. “I can also think of several destinations in search of particular people—back to Harschmort, to the St. Royale for the Contessa—”

“Crabbé’s house on Hadrian Square,” said Svenson.

They turned to Chang. He was silent, lost in thought. Abruptly he looked up, and shook his head. “Following an individual merely gives us a prisoner—at best, that is. It means interrogation, threats—it is awkward. True, we may find the Prince—we may find anything—but most likely we will catch Harald Crabbé at dinner with his wife and end up having to cut both their throats.”

“I have not made Mrs. Crabbé’s acquaintance,” said Miss Temple. “I should prefer any mayhem be directly applied to those who we know have harmed us.” She knew that Chang had raised the idea of murdering the woman just to frighten them, and she
was
frightened—a test, as she realized the paintings were a way for her to test the two of them. As they stood speaking, she saw that placing herself with two men amidst a room full of undulating flesh was actually a declaration of a certain capacity and knowledge that she did not in fact possess. It had not been her initial intention, but it made her feel more their equal.

“So you are not content to simply kill everyone.” Chang smiled.

“I am not,” replied Miss Temple. “In all this I have wanted to know
why
—from the first moment I decided to follow Roger.”

“Do you suppose we should separate?” asked Svenson. “Some to visit the greenhouse—which may involve the throat-cutting you describe, if it is full of the Comte’s men—and one to visit Tarr Manor?”

“What of your Prince?” asked Miss Temple.

Svenson rubbed his eyes. “I do not know. Even
they
did not know.”

“Who did not?” asked Chang. “Specifically.”

“Xonck, Bascombe, Major Blach, the Comte…”

“Did they rule out the Contessa?”

“No. Nor Lord Vandaariff. So…perhaps the Prince is in a room at the St. Royale, or at Harschmort—perhaps, if we
were
able to find him, it would accentuate the divisions between them, and who can say—thus provoke some rash action or at least reveal more of their true aims.”

Chang nodded. He turned to Miss Temple and spoke quite seriously. “What is your opinion about dividing our efforts? About pursuing one of these choices alone?”

Before she could answer—as she knew she must answer—Miss Temple felt the whole of her mind relocated to the jolting coach with Spragg, the hot smell of his sweating, bristled neck, the suffocating weight of his body, the imperious force of his hands, the crush of fear that had taken such implacable hold over her body. She blinked the thought away and found herself again facing the woman in red, her piercing violet eyes sharper than any knife, her dismissive, lordly insolence of expression, her dark chuckling laugh that seemed to flay the nerves from Miss Temple’s spine. She blinked again. She looked around her at the paintings, and at the two men who had become her allies—because she had chosen them, as she had chosen to place her very self at hazard. She knew they would do whatever she said.

“I do not mind at all.” Miss Temple smiled. “If I should have the chance to shoot one of these fellows by myself, then all the better, I say.”

“Just a moment…,” said Doctor Svenson. He was looking past her at the far wall and walked over to it, wiping his monocle on the lapel of his greatcoat. He stood in front of a small canvas—perhaps the smallest on display—and peered at the identifying card, then back at the painting with close attention. “Both of you need to come here.”

Miss Temple crossed to the painting and abruptly gasped with surprise. How could she have not remembered this from before? The canvas—clearly cut from a larger work—showed an ethereal woman reclining on what one first assumed to be a sofa or divan, but which on further study was clearly an angled table—there even seemed to be straps (or was this merely the artist’s conception of a Biblical garment?) securing her arms. Above the woman’s head floated a golden halo, but on her face, around her eyes, were the same purpled looping scars they had all witnessed in the flesh.

Svenson consulted his brochure. “
Annunciation Fragment
…it is…a moment—” He flipped the page. “The painting is five years old. And it is the newest piece in the collection. Excuse me.”

He left them and approached the agent, who sat making notes in a ledger at his desk. Miss Temple returned to the painting. She could not deny that it was unsettlingly lovely, and she noticed with horror that the woman’s pale robe was bordered at the neck with a line of green circles. “The robes in Harschmort,” she whispered to Chang, “the women under the Comte’s power—they wore the same!”

The Doctor returned, shaking his head. “It’s most bizarre,” he hissed. “The artist—Mr. Oskar Veilandt—was apparently a mystic, deranged, a dabbler in alchemy and dark science.”

“Excellent,” said Chang. “Perhaps he’s the one to tie these threads together—”

“He can lead us to the others!” Miss Temple whispered excitedly.

“My exact thought.” The Doctor nodded. “But I am told that Mr. Veilandt has been dead for these five years.”

All three were silent. Five years? How could that be possible? What did it mean?

“The lines on her face,” said Chang. “They are definitely the same…”

“Yes,” agreed Svenson, “which only tells us that the plot itself—the Process—is at least that old as well. We will need to know more—where the artist lived, where he died, who holds custody of his work—indeed, who has sponsored this very exhibition—”

Miss Temple extended her finger to point at the small card with the work’s title, for next to it was a small blot of red ink. “Even more, Doctor, we will need to know who has
bought
this painting!”

The gallery agent, a Mr. Shanck, was happy to oblige them with information (after the Doctor had thoroughly inquired as to prices and delivery procedures for several of the larger paintings, in between mutters about wall space in the Macklenburg Palace), but unfortunately what Mr. Shanck knew was little: Veilandt himself was a mystery, school in Vienna, sojourns in Italy and Constantinople,
atelier
in Montmartre. The paintings had come from a dealer in Paris, where he understood Veilandt had died. He glanced toward the opulent compositions and tendered that he did not doubt it was due to consumption or absinthe or some other such destructive mania. The present owner wished to remain anonymous—in Mr. Shanck’s view because of the
oeuvre
’s scandalous nature—and Shanck’s only dealings were with his opposite number at a gallery in the Boulevard St. Germain. Mr. Shanck clearly relished the patina of intrigue around the collection, as he relished sharing his privileged information with those he deemed discerning. His expression faltered into suspicion however when Miss Temple, in a fully casual manner, wondered who had purchased the “odd little painting”, and if he might have any others like it for purchase. She quite fancied it, and would love another for her home. In fact, he outright blanched.

“I…I assumed—you mentioned the wedding—the Prince—”

Miss Temple nodded in agreement, dispelling none of the man’s sudden fear.

“Exactly. Thus my interest in buying one for myself.”

“But none are available for purchase at all! They never were!”

“That seems no way to run a gallery,” she said, “and besides,
one
has been sold—”

“Why—why else would you come?” he said, more to himself than to her, his voice fading as he spoke.

“To see the paintings, Mr. Shanck—as I told you—”

“It was not even
bought
,” he sputtered, waving at the small canvas. “It was given,
for
the wedding. It is a gift for Lydia Vandaariff. The entire exhibition has been arranged for no other reason than to reunite each canvas with the others in a single collection! Anyone acquainted with the gallery—anyone suitable to be
informed
—surely, the union of the artist’s themes…religion…morality…appetite…mysticism…you must be aware…the forces at work—the
dangerous
…”

Mr. Shanck looked at them and swallowed nervously. “If you did not know
that
—how did you—who did you—”

Miss Temple saw the man’s rising distress and found she was instinctively smiling at him, shaking her head—it was all a misunderstanding—but before she could actually speak, Chang stepped forward, immediately menacing and sharp, and took up a fistful of Mr. Shanck’s cravat, pulling him awkwardly over his desk. Shanck bleated in futile protest.