The Red Plague Affair

Chapter Seventeen A Process of Discovery

“We will not be torturing him. Why do you insist on making me repeat myself?” Clare tested the knot. No room for error when it came to their guest.

“He deserve it, mentale. A finger. One little finger, for Ludo’s honour.”

“I can hear you, you know.” It was difficult to gauge Vance’s expression under the blindfold, which was more a nod to Valentinelli’s sense of propriety than an actual deterrent to Vance understanding which quarter of Londinium his captors had repaired to.

“Good.” Ludovico was unrepentant, to say the least. He laid the flat of the razor-sharpened, slightly curved dagger along Vance’s naked cheek.

A thorough search of the criminal’s clothing and person had turned up several extraordinarily interesting items. One in particular had caught Clare’s attention, and he slipped the small statue, cut from a single violently-blue gem, into a bureau drawer, deliberately making noise. There was no point in seeking to misdirect.

“You may return that to the Museum, Clare.” Vance did not move a muscle. His tone was as if he was at tea, instead of with a sharp edge pressed to his flesh. “A sign of good faith, don’t you think?”

“Ludo, fetch your instruments.” I sound weary. Well, he felt weary. There were some terrible choices to be made soon. “We will in all likelihood not need them, but best to be prepared, don’t you think?”

“Ci.” The Neapolitan was happier than Clare had ever heard him. “Do not start without me, mentale.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He watched Valentinelli slink through the workroom’s door, closing it with only the ghost of a click, and untied the blindfold. “My apologies, sir. He is… overzealous.”

“But useful.” Vance opened his eyes. He examined Clare from top to toe, then his gaze passed through the workroom Miss Bannon had placed at Clare’s disposal.

Stone walls, sturdy enough to withstand all manner of experimental mishaps, showed grey and smooth, charm-brushed. One reached this room at the bottom of a long flight of stairs, and Clare had wondered if it was Miss Bannon’s attempt to ease his mind at the incidence of such unnatural material in the walls and floor. The roof was heavy timbers, more than high enough for racks to dangle from them, hangman shapes with sharp and dull hooks Clare had not begun to fill yet.

The tables were heavy, solid pieces more likely to be found in a butcher’s shop despite their fresh-scrubbed appearance, and the racks of alembics and other experimental minutiae gracing their surfaces were sparkling new. Clare’s older glassware and materials did not look precisely shabby next to such equipment, but there was a glaring difference between the worn and the just-bought. Two capacious bureaus stood to attention, ready to receive larger items and racks. The desk, set with its back to one corner so Clare could see the door as he wrote, was a quite heavy oaken roll-top, with enough pigeon- and cubbyholes to satisfy the most magpie of mentaths.

“Very useful,” Clare agreed. Whatever deductions Vance would make from the state of the workroom, he was welcome to them. “My hope is that you will prove likewise useful.”

“If not, the Neapolitan prince is allowed to exercise upon me? Bad sport, old man.” Vance’s grin was untroubled. His eyes were now a cheerful hazel, and his moustache twitched slightly as he passed his gaze over the room’s interior again.

“Almost as bad a sport as poisoning a decoy.” Clare folded his arms, leaning one hip against the closest table, and examined his guest in return. He very carefully did not touch his pocket. “Or financing the lamentably missing Mr Morris.”

“I did not finance him.” Vance actually prickled at the notion, his eyes narrowing. A ghost of colour suffused his shaven cheeks. “He sought to engage some of my fellows in this work. But it is not profitable, and once I realised what he was about—”

A weapon, Miss Bannon said. Now gone astray. Madness, sheer lunacy. “And when was this?” Clare weighed every word, testing them for duplicity. “Your pangs of unprofitability, when do they date from?”

“Very recently, sir. I regret to say, very recently.”

“It is, of course, an illness. Microscopic.”

“Yes. And highly communicable. The Pathogenic Theory is borne out by my own experiments.”

Yes, let us hear more about those. “You were working with Morris, and realised it was unprofitable only lately?”

“I was engaged on a process of discovery, Clare. Morris was merely a useful donkey to bear some bits of the burden. What he has done with it is sheer folly. He found others to finance his research, not the least of whom were the good offices of Her Majesty. Rather short-sighted, but they did not understand such a weapon will turn on its bearer as easily as onto Britannia’s enemies.” Vance’s tongue flicked out, oddly colourless, and touched his dry lips. “Or even more easily, as it turns out.”

“I see.” Miss Bannon was not told the nature of these experiments. Does the Queen know? “Her Majesty’s government was seeking a new weapon?” He said it slowly, as if not quite convinced.

Vance made a quick, impatient movement. “You are not dim-witted, sir, you understand this very well. Morris convinced a paymaster that such a weapon was efficient and controllable. He is wrong, very wrong. I am not certain whether he believed it himself, but it matters little.” Vance had gone still, a flush rising in his cheeks. “What matters is finding a remedy.”

“Indeed.” Clare’s chin dipped. He stood, sunk in deep thought, until Valentinelli’s return was marked by a cheerful slam of the door.

“Ah, you must want to start with his eyes!” The Neapolitan thumped his own small well-worn Gladstone onto a free expanse of table, snapping it open with practised movements. “Not where I would choose, mentale, but very well.”

“Hush for a moment, my dear bandit.” Clare’s eyelids had dropped halfway, and he longed for a fraction of coja to sharpen his faculties. Vance was still studying him, and the thought that the criminal mentath might be uncertain of Clare’s next move was a balm indeed. “Yes,” he said, finally. “Yes, we must find a remedy.”

Valentinelli made a small spitting sound, and Clare turned his gaze upon him, noting afresh the man’s pockmarked cheeks and calloused hands. A prince? He is certainly noble, and his manners – when he chooses to use them – are exquisite. Very possible. Or perhaps Vance is seeking to misdirect. Either is possible, which one is probable?

He brought his attention back to the matter at hand. He had noted this before – after a severe shock, sometimes the faculties wandered, taking every route to a problem but the one most direct.

“A remedy,” he repeated, and stood straight, dropping his arms. Vance twitched inside his casing of rope, and the assassin leaned forward. He had produced a knife with a dull-black, tarry substance smeared on the blade, and was examining the bound mentath with a wide white grin likely to cause no few nightmares. “Yes. We must consult Tarshingale.”