Free The Chemickal Marriage by Gordon Dahlquist Page A

was mottled and crusted with blue, like a French cheese from a cave.
    ‘And the sweetmeat on the throne.’
    Miss Temple rose to her knees. ‘I can seat myself –’
    The men exchanged a laugh and shoved her into a high-backed seat, made from welded iron pipes and bolted to the floor. A chain was cinched below her breasts and another pulled across her throat. Behind her came the creak of a door.
    ‘Who did you find, Benton?’
    The voice was thin, as unhurried as swirling smoke. The lantern man – Benton – immediately dipped his head and backed away, ceding any claim.
    ‘Miss Isobel Hastings, sir. Says Ned Ramper’s her fiancé. Came with this great lump to find him.’
    ‘Can she speak?’
    ‘Course she can! I wouldn’t – not without your order –’
    ‘No.’
    Miss Temple sensed the thin-voiced man behind her, though the chain stopped her from turning. ‘Tell me, Isobel. If you will forgive the impropriety.’ A finger insinuated itself into a curl of her hair and gave a gentle tug. ‘Who is your friend on the table?’
    ‘Mr Brine. Corporal Brine. He is a friend of Ned Ramper.’
    ‘And he led you here? Did you pay him money?’
    Miss Temple nodded dumbly.
    ‘Benton?’
    ‘Six silver shillings in his pocket, sir. No one touched it.’
    ‘Does six shillings pay a man to die, I wonder? Would it be enough for you, Benton?’
    ‘Way things are now, sir … I’d call it a decent wage.’
    ‘And who paid Ned Ramper, Isobel?’
    ‘Is that important?’
    He pulled her hair sharply enough to make her wince.
    ‘Leave what’s important to me.’
    ‘A woman. She lives in a hotel. I don’t like her.’
    ‘What hotel?’
    ‘Ned would not tell me. He thought I would follow him.’
    She felt his breath in her ear. ‘But you
did
follow him, didn’t you, Isobel? What hotel?’
    ‘She lives at the … the St Royale.’
    Benton glanced suddenly at the man behind her, but when Miss Temple’s captor spoke his voice betrayed no care.
    ‘Did you see this woman yourself?’
    Miss Temple nodded again, sniffing. ‘She had b-black hair, and a red dress –’
    ‘And this fellow here –
Brine
– she’d hired him as well?’
    Miss Temple nodded vigorously. Her captor called softly to Benton.
    ‘Empty his pockets. Show me.’
    Benton leapt to the table. Miss Temple quickly counted – there had been five on the ramp … here she saw Benton and three more, digging at Brine’s clothing like vultures. The fifth man must have gone to collect their master. Was he standing guard at the door behind her? The hand tugged at her hair.
    ‘And what of
your
pockets? Have you no purse or bag?’
    ‘I lost it, climbing over the gate. When Mr Brine fell, I was so frightened –’
    ‘Not so frightened that you died.’ He called behind him. ‘See if it’s there.’
    Footsteps signalled the fifth man running for the ramp. Miss Temple’s blood froze. If he discovered Svenson and Phelps –
    ‘He had this.’ Benton held the clipping from the
Herald
. ‘ “-grettable Canvases from Paris”. Don’t know what “-grettable” is, not speaking French.’
    The paper was snatched from his hand as Miss Temple’s captor stepped forward. She glimpsed only a shining black coat before he was off without a word.
    Benton watched him go, his posture lapsing back into feral comfort. He turned to Miss Temple with a satisfied smile.
    ‘Maybe I should search your pockets too … every little pocket you possess.’
    A footfall in the darkness did not shift his hungry gaze. ‘Find her bag, then?’ Benton drawled.
    ‘Step away from the woman.’
    Doctor Svenson strode into the light, the long Navy revolver in his hand. Benton swore aloud and reached in his tunic. The pistol roared in the echoing room like a cannon and Benton flew back, shirt-front spraying gore. Another shot shattered the leg of a man near the table. Two more, rapidly snapped from Miss Temple’s smaller weapon, drilled the back of a fellow dashing for the door. Mr