The Last Duchess Page 9

  ‘Vultures!’ Eleri spat, as soon as she and Pattern were alone. ‘How they long to pick over my poor dead bones! I am tempted to drive away so far and so fast tomorrow that no one will catch me or see me ever again.’

  Perhaps the same notion had occurred to Prince Leopold, for he appointed as her chaperone the most senior and least agreeable of her ladies-in-waiting. Lady Agatha Craddock was an iron-grey woman with an iron-grey manner, who made no attempt to hide her displeasure at having been assigned to such a tedious task.

  They departed just after dawn in the unmarked carriage that royalty used when travelling on private business. Lady Agatha’s displeasure only increased when, two hours into the journey, they stopped to change horses at a coaching inn. ‘Surely the von Bliven estate lies to the west of here?’ she remarked, frowning at the window as they set off again upon the road.

  ‘Yes,’ said Eleri airily, ‘but I have decided I don’t wish to go there after all. The castle’s situation is famously damp, and I have a ticklish sort of throat this morning.’ She coughed for effect. ‘What’s more, I remember my dear godmama always spoke very warmly of the mineral spring at Llanotto Wells. I am sure that taking the waters there will do me a power of good.’

  ‘Llanotto Wells! Llanotto Wells? Really, Your Highness, I must protest. This is most irregular. It is not at all what I or your uncle were led to believe—’

  ‘It does not matter what you or he believe about anything,’ Eleri retorted. ‘I may not be of age, but I am still Head of State, and I shall visit whichever part of my Duchy I choose.’ She settled herself more comfortably upon the seat. ‘You look peaky, Craddock. Perhaps you would benefit from taking the waters too. It might put some colour in your cheeks.’

  Their coachman and co-conspirator was Franz, Dilys’s particular friend. The story Pattern gave was that the Grand Duchess wished to visit an old servant of her father’s of whom Prince Leopold did not approve. Although Dilys – flattered by this sign of Royal Favour, and anxious to prove her helpfulness – had urged Franz to accept the commission, he still took some persuading. He had weighed the fat pouch of coins the Grand Duchess had pressed on him and frowned.

  ‘But Your Highness, if Prince Leopold were to find out my part in this—’

  ‘He won’t,’ Eleri had said firmly. ‘And if you are questioned, you will simply tell him you were following orders, and that however much you protested, I would not be denied.’ Her eyes widened in appeal. ‘Did you never play truant when you were a little boy?’

  At this, Franz had grinned, so his dimples danced. Pattern saw why Dilys was so fond of him.

  And so it was they travelled the remaining fifteen miles to where the town of Llanotto Wells perched high on the hills above the Forest of Annwn. This was not a high-society resort like the town of Brecon-Baden, with its horse-racing track and theatres and famous Pump Room. It was mostly frequented by the elderly and unfashionable, who were not in a position to mind that the baths were cold rather than hot, or that the mineral water had the distinct flavour of mud.

  They drew up to the so-called Royal Hotel, a dark and musty establishment furnished with a great quantity of chintz. Pattern went within to enquire about taking a suite. She represented herself as maid to Lady Agatha, who was bringing her invalid niece to take the waters. The concierge was so busy bowing and scraping as he showed them to their rooms that he barely glanced at the Grand Duchess, who was swaddled up to her ears in an invalid’s muffler and scarf.

  Lady Agatha surveyed their quarters with iron-grey disdain. ‘Small wonder you wish your visit to this fleapit to be incognito, Your Highness. What do you propose first? Are we to wash in the local slime-bath, or merely drink from it?’

  ‘I propose,’ said Eleri brightly, ‘a nice cup of tea, prepared in the nice English manner. Pattern is quite the Angel of the Brew.’

  Pattern gave her a look. She thought Eleri’s good cheer must appear highly suspicious. However, after a long and tiresome morning on the road, Lady Agatha was not disposed to turn away refreshment.

  Almost with the first sip from the cup that Pattern gave her, the woman began to nod. Her head drooped forward over table and cup – was resolutely jerked back, then drooped again. And again. Her eyes began to close. She blinked rapidly, took another sip of tea to keep herself awake . . . and continued sipping herself into sleep. Five minutes later, she was slumped and snoring in her chair.

  After a somewhat breathless pause, Eleri tiptoed over and tweaked her nose. There was no response.

  ‘What in heaven did you give her?’

  ‘It’s a new sleeping tonic I’ve been working on,’ Pattern replied with quiet pride. ‘De Quincey’s Cordial by way of Hargreave’s Elixir of Lethe, with a few refinements of my own. By my calculations, she should be out for the afternoon.’

  A note was left for Lady Agatha, in the event she woke up before they returned, to say that mistress and maid were touring the town and that they hoped she had a pleasant rest in the meantime. Franz was already settled in the stable block with a mug of ale. They were able to slip out of the hotel and into an empty outbuilding without trouble. Here Pattern changed into her plainest print dress, and helped Eleri pin up her hair under a peaked cap. The Grand Duchess was disguised in a costume of boy’s breeches, shirt and jacket that Pattern had purloined from the castle laundries. Both were equipped with stout shoes and walking sticks for their walk into the forest; Pattern carried a spy-glass.

  The town did not improve on closer acquaintance. The only people out in it were the elderly and infirm. The gaily painted villas had faded to shabby pastel hues, the flowers drooped in their hanging baskets, and smoke belched from a giant bottle-shaped brick building on the riverbank below.

  ‘It’s the kiln of a porcelain manufactory,’ Eleri said, putting the spy-glass to her eye. ‘I wonder that it is here at all, for most of our potteries are in the east of the Duchy. I have to tour there once a year to bill and coo over their mouldy old plates.’

  Pattern wondered about it too. She took out their map of paths through the forest, and looked out at the undulating mass of trees spread out over the valley. Summer was over, and the leaves glimmered with copper and bronze. Somewhere in their depths was the Prince’s hunting lodge. But her eye kept being drawn back to the bottle kiln.

  A little way along, they came upon a grocer’s, and went inside to purchase food for their expedition. After exchanging pleasantries with the grandmotherly shopkeeper, Pattern ventured a question.

  ‘The manufactory down by the river . . . it looks to be a recent construction?’

  ‘Oh yes, it has only been put up this last year. But if you and your brother are looking for work, I fear you are out of luck. The owner is a foreigner, and so are his labourers – Orientals of some kind, I believe. They live on site and are hardly ever seen outside it, for they don’t speak English, let alone the Elffish tongue. We have a delivery made up for them this afternoon, but it will be their driver who comes and collects it, and he has barely spoken more than two or three words to us in all this time.’

  ‘Surely a foreign owner would need a special licence from the Grand Duchess?’ Eleri piped up.

  ‘They have a Royal Warrant from Prince Leopold, and I’m sure that’s much the same thing.’

  ‘Leopold! Ha! I should have—’

  Pattern nudged Eleri sharply in the ribs. However, the shopkeeper was rambling on, oblivious. The Prince was such an affable gentleman, and often passed through town on his way to his hunting lodge. Only last winter he had come and taken tea at the Royal Hotel and opened the Christmas bazaar. ‘Folk were alarmed when construction of the pottery began, especially when we learned there would be no jobs. And we worried about the effect of the smoke, you know, on the health and peace of our visitors. But the Prince has settled everything with the pottery’s owner. He is going to use the taxes raised from the manufactory to quite overhaul the town. For he said, with only a little investment, we could become as fashionable as Br
econ-Baden. And why not indeed? Our waters are as healthful; our situation quite as picturesque. Yes, there are great plans afoot for Llanotto Wells. Come back in a year and I’m sure you will not recognize us.’ Then she lowered her voice. ‘Always supposing, of course, that Elffinberg’s present troubles are resolved.’

  Eleri was plucking at Pattern’s sleeve. As soon as they were out of the shop, she burst out. ‘We can forget the hunting lodge! Don’t you see? The pottery is my uncle’s. He will be putting the stolen children to work there. It is the perfect place to hide them, and turn a profit on their labours too.’

  She explained that her father the Grand Duke had passed several laws to improve the pay and conditions in the potteries, and it was now illegal for them to employ children of under thirteen years of age. Formerly, a great many used to sicken from Potter’s Rot, a disease of the lungs that children are especially vulnerable to. ‘Poor mites! I myself will break open their prison. Imagine it, Pattern: everyone will hail me as a great saviour, while my uncle will be utterly disgraced. I’ll put him on trial for high treason and kidnapping and breaking the labour laws!’

  ‘But however are we to get inside? The shopkeeper said hardly anyone goes in or out.’

  ‘Except for the delivery cart, remember. Don’t you see? We can build our very own Trojan horse out of their groceries.’

  Eleri hurried round to the yard at the back of the shop. Pattern followed more slowly. Sure enough, when they peeked over the wall, they saw a young fellow engaged in loading a covered wagon with canned goods, sides of bacon and other household items.

  ‘Everything is falling exactly into place,’ Eleri crowed. ‘This is more than blind luck. It is a sign that my fortunes are on the turn at last.’

  The man disappeared into the shop to fetch his next load. Before Pattern could stop her, Eleri darted into the yard and hopped into the back of the wagon. She beckoned to Pattern to follow. Pattern shook her head and gestured to Eleri to get out. Eleri scowled and beckoned again, with even more emphasis. And so Pattern, who had not quite got out of the habit of doing as she was told, went to join the Grand Duchess in her hiding place between bags of potatoes and onions, with only bit of sacking to pull over their heads.

  ‘I do not think this is at all sensible,’ she whispered. ‘Even if we are not discovered and gain entrance to the place, we will then be trapped inside without any means of protection or escape.’

  ‘Well, I think it is an excellent plan, and you are peevish because you did not come up with it yourself,’ Eleri hissed back. ‘As for our defence, I am one step ahead of you there too. Look!’ She opened her jacket to reveal the handle of a pistol stowed in her belt. ‘It was my papa’s and he showed me how to use it. Like him, I am sure to be an exceedingly good shot.’

  Pattern’s alarm only increased. But before she could make any further protest, they heard someone else come into the yard and speak a few halting, heavily accented words to the shopworker. There was a brief discussion of payment, as a couple of sacks were opened and inspected. Pattern hardly dared breathe while this was going on; Eleri’s hand closed round hers in a sweaty grip. Yet they remained undetected. Minutes later, the canvas covering was tied in place, the wagon lurched forward, and they were rattling out of town along the road that wound down to the river.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Dishonesty seldom fails to be detected.

  J. Bulcock, The Duties of a Lady’s Maid

  Eleri’s plan, such as it was, began well. After a most uncomfortable twenty minutes jolting among the potatoes, they heard the sounds of doors or gates opening and of the pony clattering across a cobbled yard full of movement and noise. Then the wagon turned a corner, and the noise faded away.

  All too soon, someone fumbled at the ties closing the canvas cover. A Chinese face peered in.

  ‘Stand and deliver!’

  The Grand Duchess shot up from amidst the groceries, her pistol aimed squarely at the man’s forehead.

  Her target seemed more perplexed than alarmed. He looked about him, baffled and blinking, as Eleri scrambled out from the wagon, managing to keep her aim steady all the time.

  ‘Put up your hands! Up – like this! Up!’

  Slowly, the Chinese gentleman did as he was asked, still with an air of polite puzzlement.

  They were in a kind of alley between the outer wall of the manufactory and a storage facility. Its doors were open for the delivery, a wheeled trolley standing by. Nobody else was in view.

  ‘Pattern, secure the prisoner. You’d best gag him too.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ Pattern murmured, fixing a length of torn canvas round the man’s mouth and checking that his hands were securely fastened behind his back with layers of string from the food sacks. She finished off both knots with a neatly looped bow. ‘I trust you will not be inconvenienced for long.’

  It would be rude to stare, but Pattern had never seen someone from China before, except on a London theatre bill promoting the magical feats of a Mr Foo Ping-Ting, ‘Imperial Enchanter of the Orient’. This man looked disappointingly ordinary. He did not have a pigtail, or flowing silk robes and a pointy hat, and was dressed the same as any manufactory worker.

  His eyes darted towards the alleyway, where the pony waited by the wagon. Perhaps he was expecting someone. In any case, it could not be long before they were interrupted. Pattern felt all the precariousness of their position, and all the frustration of having been dragged into this madcap scheme against her will.

  For Eleri, however, there were no misgivings. Everything was proceeding exactly as she had hoped. ‘Let us survey the enemy terrain!’

  The larder was one of a series of storage rooms. Prodding their captive with her pistol, Eleri herded him past sacks of salt and sand and other materials necessary for the manufacture of clay, through to the sturdy metal door at the end of the building. Unlike the others, it was locked. ‘And what have we here? A punishment cell, perhaps.’ She jangled the set of keys she had taken from the prisoner’s waist. ‘Which one?’ she demanded.

  Her expression was so exceedingly fierce the man did not hesitate long before waggling his eyebrows to indicate the correct key. In truth, Pattern expected to find nothing more remarkable than another supply cupboard. Yet the door opened on a small workroom stacked with wooden kegs and cases marked with Chinese characters. The shelves held slabs of slate and shallow earthenware dishes, and there was a bench set up with a mortar and pestle. Leather buckets filled with sand hung from hooks in the wall. There was a distinct whiff of rotten eggs – the sulphurous smell Pattern remembered from the crater at Caer Grunwald.

  ‘I don’t know for sure,’ she said, swallowing hard, ‘but it is very possible those kegs contain explosives. It is really not safe for us to be here. You must come back with a search warrant and armed men, and all the proper authorities.’

  ‘Yes, but what of the children?’ said Eleri impatiently. ‘We cannot leave before we have some sight of them.’ She closed the door on the kegs and marched their captive back the way they had come, to the small window in the larder. Outside, more Chinese men hurried back and forth loading and unloading clay into the kiln. The flaming oven mouth put Pattern uncomfortably in mind of the dragon; the men closest to them had scorched red faces from the heat.

  Eleri put the spy-glass to her eye, examining the cluster of red-brick warehouses and workshops beyond the kiln yard. ‘The children will be in the dipping house, I expect,’ she said. ‘Since the fumes from the lead-glaze are very noxious, skilled workers avoid it. Or else they will be employed as pattern-cutters. Their fingers are small, and so especially nimble with the scissors.’

  Pattern felt a rising twitch of exasperation. ‘Wherever they are kept, they will be locked up and under guard.’

  ‘No matter. We have a hostage. If he will not tell us where the children are himself, we will parade him at the point of my gun and demand to be taken to them.’

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing? This isn
’t a holiday camp! Get back to work!’

  It was a very large and angry Elffishman, wearing a foreman’s coat. Then he looked at them more closely. ‘Wait a minute – you don’t belong here. Who the hell are you, and how the blazes did you get in?’

  Eleri immediately pulled the prisoner in front of her and Pattern. ‘Stay back or I shoot!’

  But the foreman merely guffawed. ‘Go ahead. He’s only the quartermaster; we can easily find another one.’

  Eleri dug the pistol into the unfortunate quartermaster’s side, causing him to yelp, but her discomfiture was clear. The foreman advanced upon them, swinging a truncheon in his hands. His meaty red face was shiny with satisfaction.

  ‘Trespass is a criminal offence, my lad, and industrial espionage is more serious still. Or maybe you and your friend only meant to go as far as armed robbery. Either way, you’re in a world of trouble . . .’

  Pattern seized the handle of a loading-trolley and charged, running it into the foreman’s knees as hard and fast as she was able. Taken by surprise, the man stumbled, and almost fell.

  ‘Run!’ she shouted.

  Both girls pelted out into the alley. It led straight into the hot and smoky kiln yard. They skidded across the cobbles, tripping over wheelbarrows and workers alike, as the foreman charged after them.

  ‘Stop! There’s no way out; the gates are locked.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s trapped,’ Eleri retorted. ‘You won’t escape justice. I’m your Grand Duchess; no one can touch me!’

  It was perhaps just as well her boast was lost in the general uproar.

  She and Pattern bolted through the nearest doorway into a room full of churning vats of sloppy liquid clay and another clanking with mechanical presses, then through a workshop crammed with men hunched over potter’s wheels. It was there they nearly ran right into a couple of ragged little boys staggering under the weight of heavy plaster moulds. Their faces were wan and thin; their eyes red.