‘But perhaps Maulberg wishes we would not make ourselves too obvious?’
‘You have it,’ Colonel Padfield said with a cautious smile.
Crowther rather liked the Colonel’s face. It was as weathered as a sailor’s with the bright eyes of a man used to looking far into the distance. He looked, in spite of the braid, more like a prosperous farmer than a functionary of the court.
‘May I ask, Colonel, how you came to be in Maulberg? And in the employ of the Duke?’
Colonel Padfield rapped his fingers on the mantelpiece. ‘I stand out a little among all this magnificence, don’t I?’ Crowther found the steady brown eyes were examining him carefully. Then the man seemed to reach some decision and nodded to himself. ‘I was in the Fifth Regiment of Foot. Fought in America. My family spent their last penny to get me my Colours, but once the fighting was done, I found England had little use for my skills. I was recruited in London to drill the Duke’s troops — been here near two years now.’
Crowther wondered if he had offended the man. ‘I hope you forgive my curiosity, Colonel.’
Padfield shook his head. ‘Nothing to forgive, Mr Crowther. Only it seems to me that here, no one asks a question or answers it without calculation, some hidden reasons of their own. I have grown suspicious of my own shadow.’
‘Your military concerns mean you spend a lot of time at court?’
‘They shouldn’t, but the Duke has taken a liking to me, it seems, so I have been forced to turn courtier. However, I have no complaint. He rewards his friends handsomely and I was lucky enough to marry a clever woman. She keeps an eye on the politics for me.’
His face softened as he spoke of his wife. Crowther looked away and tugged at his cuff.
‘And as I seem to be interrogating you, Colonel, may I ask your opinion of the case of Mr Clode? Rachel tells us there is a distressing lack of other suspects.’
Padfield straightened. It was lucky for him that his back was so broad; so much braid on a smaller man would have made him ridiculous.
‘I like Mr and Mrs Clode, but I am certain some madness took him at the Carnival and that he killed Lady Martesen. I hope you may throw up enough smoke and dust to confuse the authorities and steal him away back to England, but be careful. Lady Martesen was a favourite here, and no one will thank you for helping her killer to escape justice.’ The evenness of his tone made the verdict all the more damning. ‘You will be presented to the Duke this evening, and are invited to sup with the company. But after that … You have been provided with your own private dining room.’
‘We may have to ask some uncomfortable questions.’
‘Then, Mr Crowther, you may have to face some uncomfortable answers. If you require anything, you may send for me.’
He bowed and left Crowther to his papers and his thoughts.
Harriet came to a sudden halt and looked about her. ‘Good Lord,’ she said. She was apparently standing in the main square of a village. Or rather it seemed to be the drawing of a village square such as one might find in a child’s storybook. A well stood in the centre, complete with its own pitched slate roof. Elaborate wooden carvings of fruits and vines supported it. Four double-storeyed houses stood, neat sentinels at the compass points, facing the well. There was something wrong about them, something, for all their solidity, that looked false. Their half-timbering was too exact, their paint too neat and the signs that hung from them rather too extravagant in their metalwork curls. The balconies on each house were elaborately carved and lined with flower baskets. Harriet realised with a start that she was looking at a very expensive version of rural simplicity. She turned about. The square was surrounded by a mature copse through which she had just walked with Rachel. It hid the buildings from the palace, and the palace from the buildings. It was certainly impressive, but there hung over it the strange air of falseness such as a dream takes on just before a sleeper wakes.
‘The Duke developed a great passion for the rural some years ago,’ Rachel said, watching her sister’s confusion. ‘The courtiers would dress in peasant costumes and play skittles while the Duke poured beer. Then he learned that the Prince of Conde had created a larger village complete with a working mill on his estate, and this lost its appeal. He started work on his theatre to the west and these houses became workshops for some of the artists he keeps about the court.’
‘They do not appear to be neglected.’
‘He treats the artists he persuades here very well. And pays them large retainers just to live here. There is a portrait artist living there.’ She pointed to the north. ‘And in the east cottage lives a man called Julius, famous for his fine metalwork.’
Harriet shook her head. ‘How are we ever to make sense of such a place?’
Rachel hung her head. ‘Harry, I know I have said terrible things in the past about your actions …’
‘Rachel, we’ve spoken about this.’
‘We have, but I must say this, so do listen. You have a talent, Harry, for asking the right questions. And you read people the way Jocasta Bligh reads those cards of hers.’
‘I am so often wrong,’ Harriet said quietly.
‘And so often right. Please do not lose your nerve now, Harry. Don’t be blinded by all this glitter and show. They are still people under the powder and lace.’
The sound of a door opening came from their right and to her great surprise Harriet saw Michaels appear in his shirt-sleeves with his jacket over his arm.
‘Thought I heard yabbering out here.’
Harriet grinned, and Rachel dropped her sister’s arm and ran towards him.
‘Oh, Michaels!’ She stood on her tip-toes to kiss his cheek. ‘I heard you had come!’
He blushed and patted her shoulder. ‘There, Mrs Rachel. Wanted to get them to you safe.’
Harriet stepped forward. ‘Thank goodness. I thought they had stolen you away. You have found a bed here?’
‘I came to a friendly understanding with the head footman.’ He turned to Rachel again. ‘You’re not eating enough, girlie. I like your friends though, my neighbours.’
‘They are kind, aren’t they?’ She raised her voice. ‘Mr Al-Said? Mr Sami? I have brought my sister to you as promised!’
The door of the southern building was opened and a man also in shirt-sleeves emerged and approached them with his hands outstretched. ‘Mrs Clode! I am so happy you are come. If you did not visit us, we would think ourselves lost in the wilds.’
‘Harriet, this is Mr Adnan Al-Said. Mr Al-Said, this is my sister, Mrs Westerman.’
Harriet curtseyed and the gentleman bowed, still smiling. He had the same dark complexion as the Duke’s Turkish Hussars, though none of their bristling moustaches. He moved easily and there were laughter lines around his large dark eyes. Harriet guessed he was around forty, but there was something very youthful in his manner. He looked like the sort of man who found his life interesting.
‘I am delighted to meet you, Mrs Westerman.’
‘You speak excellent English, Mr Al-Said,’ she said.
‘But of course, I learned much of my trade in London in the workshop of James Cox. My brother and I have worked all over the continent in the last ten years. A man such as myself must be a linguist to sell to the limited number who can afford what we offer.’
The name of Cox sounded vaguely familiar to Harriet, something she had read in a newspaper. ‘What is your trade, sir? Rachel has refused to tell me anything on our way here, other than how helpful you have been to her.’
Al-Said smiled with genuine delight. ‘Come in and drink some tea with my brother and I, Mrs Westerman, and you shall see all. We are makers of automata. Come. Take some relief from your worries and see our work.’
‘I would be delighted. Michaels?’
He shook his head, smiling. ‘I’ve already seen the wonders. I aim to wash and sleep. You know where I am if you have need of me.’ He turned to Rachel again. ‘I am glad to see you, Mrs Clode. We will get you and your fella out of here safe if I have to tear down their castle with my bare hands.’