Nine

A FEW HOURS LATER, AUBREY WAS WOKEN BY THE rumbling of motorcars. He lay on the bed for a moment, aware that – judging by the emptiness in his stomach – he'd missed lunch.

He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He was glad to see that they'd stopped trembling. The rest had gone some way to restoring his energy. His body and soul were settled, united; the pull of the true death was still there, but he was strong enough to stand firm against it.

It had been a near thing, out at the shooting ground.

Grappling with so much magic in such a short time had stretched him more than he'd been willing to admit. As his physical self weakened, the grip he had on his soul became more precarious. The remorseless summoning of the true death became stronger, harder to resist. All he could do was hold on. Back at the Big House, left in his bed, he spent some hours simply refusing to let go. Finally, the pull slackened and he slept.

He went to the window. The afternoon was well advanced. Four black motorcars were coming up the driveway, identical Eaton touring cars of the latest model.

Aubrey could make out shadowy forms in both front and back seats. When they drew up in front of the house, the chorus of doors slamming was like the footfalls of giants.

Aubrey took the knock at the door as a good sign. If he had been in serious trouble over the incident at the shooting ground, he had no doubt that such niceties would have been dispensed with.

The door opened and a footman poked his head through. 'Sir,' he said, and Aubrey relaxed even more, 'if you'd care to get dressed, Captain Tallis would like a word with you.' He looked embarrassed. 'I'll wait outside.'

The footman led Aubrey to a wing of the house he hadn't often been in before. They passed a number of the Special Services men. With no need to disguise their roles, they stood at attention as Aubrey and the footman passed.

At the end of a long, dimly lit corridor, George was waiting on a wooden bench. 'What took you so long, old man? I've been here for ages.'

'Sorry, George. I hope you used the time wisely.'

'I could have been sleeping,' George said mournfully.

The footman opened the door and ushered Aubrey and George inside.

The room had no windows. Dark wallpaper extended from ceiling to floor, which was covered with a thin, grey carpet. The room was lit by a number of hissing gas lantern sconces in the wall, electrical wiring obviously not having reached this part of the house yet.

Captain Tallis sat behind a long table. He looked as if he'd been sucking on a lemon and was trying to pretend it was the most enjoyable thing he'd ever tasted.

Prince Albert was next to him, along with Sir William. The fourth man sitting at the table was tall, gaunt and wore a severe black uniform with black buttons. Aubrey didn't recognise it, which immediately aroused his curiosity. He thought he knew the uniforms of all the regiments in Albion.

The man's face was striking. His lips were thin, his cheeks hollow. His nose was like a knife blade. His eyes were cold and grey, and glittered with iron intelligence.

'Sit down,' Captain Tallis said. Then, after a pause, 'Please.'

Everything's going to be all right, Aubrey thought, hearing the courtesy. He tried to catch Bertie's eye, but the Prince was looking at Captain Tallis, who cleared his throat.

'His Royal Highness has pointed out that neither you, Fitzwilliam, nor you, Doyle, has his parents here. Therefore it would not be proper to question you about the events of today. Furthermore, he has vouched for your characters and indicated that it is impossible that either of you would be involved in an attempt on his life.'

'Quite so,' Aubrey said. 'But all possibilities must be explored, isn't that correct, Captain Tallis?'

'Indeed, but this shall be done as soon as we can organise it with your parents.'

'By the Magisterium,' Aubrey said.

Captain Tallis glanced at the silent, black-uniformed man and went red in the face. 'What?'

'I saw them. Four motorcars full.' Aubrey nodded at Captain Tallis. 'It's always the way, isn't it? When there's a sniff of magic wrongdoing in the air, the Magisterium rides roughshod over the regulars and gets all the glory.'

From the corner of his eye, Aubrey was watching the black-uniformed man. He didn't change his expression and was watching this byplay as if it were only mildly interesting.

'Enough, Aubrey,' the Prince said. A smile hovered on his lips. 'Captain Tallis has done an excellent job, and our representative of the Magisterium,' he inclined his head to the black-uniformed man, 'has appreciated his thoroughness.'

Captain Tallis pursed his lips even more at this and Aubrey wondered if his face was going to disappear.

'Of course, of course,' Aubrey said. He stood. 'When the time comes, I'll answer every question they have, Captain Tallis, and I'll make sure you get a copy of the report.'

'Very good. You can go, then. But don't discuss this with anyone.'

Together, Aubrey and George left the room. Outside, Aubrey looked at George. 'You didn't say much.'

'Play to your strengths, old man, that's what I always say. One of your strengths is talking. One of mine is staying out of trouble by letting you do the talking.' He paused and looked at the ceiling. 'That last part hasn't always worked, though.'

In silence, they made their way back towards the busier part of the house.

Aubrey walked with his hands behind his back, turning over the events of the day in his mind. He sensed wheels within wheels. The whole weekend had been planned for a number of reasons, and Aubrey wasn't sure he had them all sorted out. Obviously, trying to patch up the differences between Albion and Holmland was high on the list, but politicians would never let such a meeting of the high and mighty go by without taking the opportunity to advance a few plans, to form a few alliances and to conclude ongoing business.

Then there was the presence of Professor Hepworth and his researchers. What on earth were they doing there?

Aubrey sighed and rubbed his temples. A golem assassin. No petty crime, this, and a petty criminal wouldn't be behind it. But who would benefit from the death of the Prince? Unless it wasn't the Prince who was the target of the assassin. There were plenty of other targets. The Holmland Ambassador, for example. Having him killed in Albion would heighten the tension between the two countries, perhaps even precipitate the war everyone feared. So who would benefit from that? Arms manufacturers? Speculators? What about the Goltans? If Holmland was at war with Albion, its attention would be drawn away from that troubled peninsula.

Aubrey rubbed his temples again. He was making himself giddy.

They emerged from a gallery and Aubrey brightened when they ran into Caroline.

'You two!' she said, glaring, and Aubrey's smile disappeared.' Where have you been?'

'Seeing what we could do to help,' Aubrey said.

'Help?' Caroline echoed. 'What did go on out there?'

'Shooting accident,' Aubrey said.

'One of the guards was killed,' George added and he frowned. Aubrey could see that his friend was still troubled by the incident. You're not alone, George, he thought, remembering the desolation of the young man lying in the pool of blood.

'Oh,' Caroline said. 'You saw this?'

'We found him,' Aubrey said.

'Who was responsible?'

'It's not clear,' Aubrey said. 'That's what we're trying to help with.'

She nodded, but her expression was thoughtful. 'I suppose the Magisterium is here to use magic to help investigate the circumstances?'

'The Magisterium is here?' Aubrey said. It wasn't a lie. Aubrey knew a question rarely was.

'Yes.'

'Interesting.'

She skewered him with a look. 'It's magic, isn't it? Something's gone wrong with your father's hunt magic and the Magisterium has been called in.'

Aubrey opened his mouth to answer, but they were rescued by the arrival of Professor Hepworth. 'Ah, Caroline! I've been looking for you!'

She studied both Aubrey and George for a long, cool moment. 'Father. I've been talking with these two gentlemen.'

'Ah! Fitzwilliam and Foyle! Dashed awful what happened, eh?'

'Doyle,' Caroline murmured.

'Sorry?'

'Never mind, Father.' She nodded at them both. 'We must be off.'

'Miss Hepworth,' Aubrey said. 'We must get together some time to discuss magical matters in more depth.'

Professor Hepworth looked at his daughter with surprise. 'Magical matters? Caroline? Well, well, well!'

Aubrey watched the Professor and Caroline as they left. 'Interesting young woman.'

'I suppose,' George said.

'You don't like her?'

'Her face is too symmetrical.'

Aubrey stared. 'George, you astound me.'

THE WEEKEND WAS CURTAILED, MUCH AS AUBREY HAD anticipated. That evening, another fleet of black motorcars arrived, this time to take the guests away. All of them were driven by members of Captain Tallis's Special Services squad.

Aubrey and George waited in one of the drawing rooms overlooking the immaculate gardens and driveway. Aubrey amused himself by trying to work out how long it would take to clip such perfect topiary platonic solids. The tetrahedron would be straightforward, but the dodecahedron . . .

His musings were interrupted when a long, silver Oakleigh-Nash Constellation glided around the fleet of anonymous black motorcars and pulled up right in front of the Big House.

Aubrey groaned when he saw it. George looked up from his newspaper. An under-butler appeared at the door. Small, balding, harried-looking, he was definitely not one of Tallis's people. 'Master Fitzwilliam, it's your parents.'

'Excellent!' George said, folding the newspaper and looking out the window. 'They've brought the Oakleigh- Nash. Very nice!' He rushed out of the room.

Aubrey was less pleased. He sagged into his chair, put one elbow on the armrest and rested his chin on his fist.

He'd failed. He'd been representing his father and had a chance to do something worthy, but with the weekend degenerating into such a fiasco, he accepted he hadn't managed to bring it off. After all, he knew a weekend of such diplomatic importance should be a quiet affair, and an attempted assassination of the Crown Prince would propel this occasion to the top of the list of fashionable gossip topics. Now, his father was coming to the rescue of a son who wasn't quite up to the mark.

The anxious under-butler appeared at the door again. 'Master Fitzwilliam? They're waiting.'

Sir Darius was standing by the motorcar talking with George and Stubbs, the driver. He looked alert, calm, and perfectly pressed, as if he'd just stepped out of the pages of a magazine. 'Aubrey,' he said when he noticed his son approaching, 'what's been going on here?'

Aubrey stiffened, then gave a faint smile. 'Father, a full report may take some time.'

The window of the motorcar slid down. Aubrey's mother smiled at him with an air of amused tolerance. 'Aubrey. Sorry to arrive like this. I realise how embarrassing it must be to be rescued by your parents. I wanted to wait for you to get home by yourself, but Darius wouldn't hear of it.'

Sir Darius brushed his moustache with his forefinger. 'I thought I might be able to be of assistance.' He signed to the driver. 'Stubbs, wait here.'

Stubbs was an older man, grey-haired but with the impeccable posture that was a legacy of his time in the army. He'd had been a corporal serving under Sir Darius and had followed him once he left the military.

Sir Darius strolled off. Aubrey and George fell in alongside him. 'A friend let us know what had happened,' Sir Darius said.

'A friend?' Aubrey said. 'Let me see, which one of your old political allies would that be?'

Sir Darius let that remark go by. 'Bertie isn't harmed, is he? My reports were a little vague on that score.'

'Not a scratch,' George volunteered. 'Thanks to Aubrey.'

'Ah,' Sir Darius said. He looked at Aubrey. 'I see.'

Aubrey looked for any sign of approval on his father's face, but saw only careful consideration. He stifled a sigh of disappointment. After all, he thought, we have a major diplomatic incident on our hands. Even if I did save Bertie, it's the sort of mess Sir Darius Fitzwilliam would never have allowed to happen.

Lady Fitzwilliam joined them. She took Aubrey's arm and then George's. 'Come, you fine gentlemen. I think there's a long story needing to be told. Do you think you can find a parlour in this great barn of a place? One that's a little private but near enough to food and drink?'

'I'm sure we can,' George said, enjoying both having Lady Fitzwilliam on his arm and the prospect of food. Aubrey nodded, but didn't say a word. He allowed his mother to whisk them off.

The day room they found was near the library. The chairs were upholstered in green velvet, and green velvet wallpaper covered the walls. A pair of framed lithographs hung over the mantelpiece of a fireplace that Aubrey thought was entirely too large for the tiny room.

Aubrey reported. He did his best to keep it concise, in military fashion. While he spoke, he watched his parents closely.

Sir Darius's face was grave when Aubrey had finished. 'I see,' he said. He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. His brow was furrowed.

'You're both well?' Lady Fitzwilliam asked.

'Just a sore shoulder,' Aubrey said.

Sir Darius snorted. 'You need to seat the gun more firmly, nestled right into your shoulder. Didn't you tell him that, George?'

'I did. He must have forgotten it in the heat of the moment.'

'Yes.' Sir Darius studied his son. 'Quite a moment it was, too.'

They were interrupted by Sir William looming in the doorway. 'Lady Fitzwilliam. Sir Darius. His Royal Highness would like to speak with you.'

'And the boys?' Lady Fitzwilliam asked.

Sir William frowned. Aubrey guessed Sir William would rather see him in a cage. 'I believe they may accompany us.'

They were taken to a day room on the first floor. It had a glorious view out over the gardens, but Prince Albert wasn't looking out of the window. He was standing near the piano, speaking with the tall, gaunt Magisterium representative Aubrey had seen earlier when questioned by Captain Tallis.

Sir Darius bowed and Lady Fitzwilliam curtsied – a mere bob, but she had observed the courtesy with a knowing smile. 'Your Royal Highness,' they said, almost in unison.

The Crown Prince smiled. 'Rose. Darius. It is good to see you. Sit, sit, we have much to discuss.' He gestured at Aubrey and George. 'And you two. Don't stand around. This concerns you as much as anybody.'

'Your highness,' George mumbled. Aubrey simply nodded and took a seat.

The Prince gestured towards the gaunt man. 'You know Craddock, don't you, Darius? Rose?'

Aubrey blinked. This is the legendary Craddock? Here?

Sir Darius nodded at him. It was a tiny nod, a mere inclination of his head. 'I was Prime Minister when Craddock was appointed head of the Magisterium.'

Craddock gave a wintry smile. 'An appointment you opposed.'

'Yes.' Sir Darius met Craddock's gaze with hard eyes. Aubrey had heard much in the tumultuous days following his father's resigning of the prime ministership. Something he'd never forgotten was that his father had suspicions about Craddock's part in his downfall. Apparently time had not lessened his concerns. 'Although how you know of the deliberations inside Cabinet baffles me.'

Craddock made a slight, flipping motion with one hand. 'It was a long time ago.'

Aubrey studied Craddock. He'd heard a hundred stories about the man. The mysterious head of the Magisterium, the man who had never had his photograph taken, who had no friends, no family, nothing to get in the way of his utter loyalty to the Crown. His ruthlessness was notorious, too. While the Magisterium was nominally an arm of the police, it acted as an independent body investigating magical misuse in the kingdom. Craddock, therefore, was an officer of the law, but rumours of the ways the Magisterium was willing to bend the law in pursuit of their aims were multitudinous.

Mention of Craddock's name was often enough to make hardened criminals confess, something that the police had been known to use to good effect. The threat to take miscreants to the Magisterium headquarters in sprawling Darnleigh House often worked wonders.

Prince Albert glanced at the man in black. 'Craddock isn't happy with what he's found here. The particular magic involved in the creation of the golem is something quite new.'

Craddock took this as his cue. He lifted a long, thin hand. 'His Royal Highness is quite correct.' His voice sounded as if the edges had been smoothed away from it, leaving nothing distinctive at all. It was a voice of everyman and no man, utterly unmemorable. 'This was no ordinary golem. This creature did not register at all on the magical detection devices we'd planted in the woods surrounding the shooting ground.' For an instant, Aubrey thought he saw Craddock's eyes flick towards him. 'Perhaps they need adjusting.'

'A stealthy creature,' Sir Darius said.

'Indeed. The Magisterium is very interested in finding out more about it. And its maker.'

'Of course,' Sir Darius said. He sat back in his chair, his expression neutral as he smoothed his moustache with his forefinger.

'Go on, Craddock,' the Prince said.

'There's little more to tell, your highness. The level of skill required to imbue a golem with marksmanship is extremely high. The planned self-destruction was also neat work.'

'Darius,' the Prince said, 'this contretemps is frightfully inconvenient.'

'Most contretemps are.'

'The Holmland delegation were most indignant at the turn of events,' Prince Albert added.

'Too indignant?'

'Darius,' Lady Fitzwilliam said, 'are you implying that the Holmlanders are responsible for the attempt on Bertie's life?'

'We're living in tangled times,' Sir Darius said. 'There are shifts and feints hiding behind blinds wrapped in mysteries. Are the Holmlanders responsible? I wouldn't discount the possibility.'

'Just as long as you're not jumping to conclusions about Holmlanders,' Lady Fitzwilliam said. 'Fine people, excellent scientists.'

The Prince looked amused. 'Rose, with our family connections, we surely can't be accused of bias against Holmland. Quite the contrary if you read some of the newspapers.'

'Or listen to some of the gossip,' Sir Darius added.

The Prince raised an eyebrow. 'Anything new around the traps, Darius?'

Sir Darius raised an eyebrow. 'Apparently you're going to marry the Elektor's daughter, rule our two countries and declare war on the Tartars. Or else you're going to abdicate and run off with Lily Hartington, if she can get away from her commitments in the world of aviation.'

The Prince seemed to consider this for a moment. 'The Elektor's daughter is how old?'

'Forty-eight,' Lady Fitzwilliam said. 'She's an authority on freshwater molluscs. I correspond with her regularly.'

'And this is what they're saying? Remarkable.'

Aubrey was struck by how reserved Bertie was. Everything was considered, careful, conscious of his position. The times the Prince and he had spent playing games in the succession of palaces – hours of hide and seek, horses and tin soldiers, books and country rambles – seemed centuries ago. Bertie wasn't a playmate any more. He was the king in waiting.

'Rumours,' Craddock said. 'Rumours, your highness. Vapour and fog.'

Sir Darius sighed. 'You'll be able to mollify the Holmlanders, Bertie?'

A smile quirked the Prince's lips. 'Well, this batch, anyway. Speaking their language goes a long way.'

Prince Albert stood and everyone got to their feet. 'We wanted to speak to you, Darius and Rose, to let you know that Aubrey was heroic today.'

'Of course,' Lady Fitzwilliam said. She smiled at her son. Sir Darius seemed to consider the matter.

'And that we appreciate his actions. Of course, we can't let the public know about this. Otherwise, some sort of medal would be in order.'

Craddock shook his head. 'Can't let news of this get out. The Crown Prince being shot at? Unthinkable.'

'Once, perhaps,' Sir Darius said. 'Times have changed.'

With that, they exchanged pleasantries and made to leave. Before they could go, the Prince coughed. 'Doyle. A moment.'

Aubrey raised an eyebrow, but was chivvied outside by his mother.

'What's that about?' he asked as the door closed.

'None of your business,' his mother said. 'You can ask George later. If he's willing to tell you, you'll learn about it then.'

Five minutes later, the door opened. George, looking dazed, was led out by Sir William.

Sir William frowned. 'Best to get back to the city, I'd say.' He shook his head. 'What a fiasco.'

The Oakleigh-Nash was waiting for them, all chrome and silver. Stubbs was polishing the sparkling headlights with a rag that disappeared when he saw them.

Aubrey was bursting with impatience, but he waited until they'd all settled in the motorcar and it had pulled away from the house before asking. 'Well, George? What did Bertie say?'

George blinked. 'Bertie? The Prince?'

'Of course! What did he want with you?'

George reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out an envelope. It bore the Prince's personal seal. George held it as if it were made of solid gold. 'He said I'd done a good job this afternoon, helping you. He said he appreciated it and would send a letter to my parents saying as much. This is a copy.'

Aubrey sat back on the long leather seat. 'Good for you.'

Lady Fitzwilliam leaned over and patted George on the arm. 'Well done, George.' She looked at her son. 'And well done to you, too, Aubrey. Saving the Crown Prince? Quite a feat.' She turned and nodded at her husband. 'Wouldn't you say, Darius?'

Sir Darius considered this. 'Well done, Aubrey,' he finally said. 'In difficult circumstances.'

'Thank you, sir. I did what I could.'

'My letter made it plain that you were representing me,' Sir Darius said. 'You did what you had to do.'

'The letter. Yes.' Aubrey felt his actions had earned him enough to ask something that had been niggling at him. 'If you don't mind, Father, why didn't you ask me in person rather than writing?'

Sir Darius started. 'Why, the matter came up after you'd left Maidstone. Otherwise I would have, naturally.'

Aubrey felt foolish. Where his father was concerned, he often found slights where none were intended. He wondered if he were overly sensitive about these matters and decided that in all likelihood he was – but only because it was important to him.

Aubrey had always thought that George had an exquisite, if erratic, gift for timing. On this occasion, he rose to the challenge beautifully. 'Is anyone reading this?' his friend asked, picking up a newspaper from the seat and unfolding it. 'Look, Aubrey, Dr Tremaine's passing is on the front page.'

Aubrey glanced at the large headlines. 'Well, he was the Sorcerer Royal.'

'Tributes, too, from all sorts of people. Even the PM.'

Sir Darius made a noise at that. It was meant to be ignored, and Aubrey did so. 'He was a great man.'

George folded the paper back. From the way he settled with an expression of great satisfaction, Aubrey knew he'd found his agony columns.

After some time, the drone of rubber tyres on macadam was hypnotic. Aubrey found it hard not to fall asleep in the fading light. His mother had already succumbed and his father was staring out of the window.

George grunted, and Aubrey glanced at him. 'Find something amusing, George?'

His friend held up the newspaper and pointed at an advertisement in a page full of tiny type. 'I feel sorry for the compositor who'll get roasted for this. It's just gibberish.'

'Some day you'll realise that there are more important things in the world than the agony columns.' Aubrey looked more closely. 'Well.'

'Someone must have fallen asleep while they were laying out the type. And while they were editing, too. Quite a cock-up.'

'George, do you know what we have here?'

'Rubbish, I would have said. But look at that one next to it. "Lost: one wooden leg." How'd you think that happened?'

'George, your gibberish advertisement is a cipher.'

'A cipher? Really?'

'You told me that people in these advertisements often used shorthand or subterfuge to hide their true intentions.'

'As in this one: "Meet me at St Giles' at noon. Bring your hat." St Giles' could mean St Alban's or St Catherine's.'

'Or it mightn't even be a church. It could stand for a bridge or a theatre.'

George tapped the paper. 'Noon could mean two o'clock.'

'The correspondents would simply have agreed that whatever time appeared in the advertisement would be two hours behind the real meeting time. Or three hours, or ten.'

'A hat could mean an agreed sum of money.'

'Or anyone of a thousand other things. "Bring your dog"?' Aubrey hummed a little. 'As long as the writer and the reader have agreed beforehand, the correspondence is completely opaque to the outside world.'

'And this gibberish?'

'It's the difference between a code and a cipher,' Aubrey said. 'A code is a secret communication where a word or phrase is replaced with a word, or a symbol or a number. A cipher is much more elegant and more flexible. A cipher replaces letters rather than words.'

'Hmm. Someone must have an important secret they want kept private.'

'Or simply something embarrassing. It seems like a commonsense approach to me.'

George stared at the string of letters. 'Very clever.'

'Mildly clever,' Aubrey disagreed. He sat back and crossed his arms on his chest. 'All ciphers can be broken, with enough time and effort.'

'You could solve this?'

Aubrey closed his eyes. 'I've done some work with ciphers in the past. It's diverting.'

'I see. This looks like a tricky one, doesn't it?' George tore out the cryptic advertisement and dangled it in front of Aubrey.

Aubrey opened one eye. 'Are you trying to challenge me, George?'

'What do you think?'

He took it. 'Let me consider it. It will be a pleasant change from thinking about the events of today.'

And the mysterious master of the golem, Aubrey thought as George went back to the paper. He gazed out of the window at the countryside speeding by. While evening was falling, and all good things were beginning to drowse, somewhere out there was a powerful, elusive adversary.

He turned away from the window and began to consider George's cipher.