Twelve

'I 'M NOT SURE THIS IS A GOOD IDEA,' GEORGE SAID. 'It's the right thing to do, whether it's a good idea or not,' Aubrey replied. 'Straighten up. Don't slouch.'

'I feel uncomfortable.'

'Sometimes you do things not because of how it makes you feel, but because of how it makes other people feel.'

George scowled. 'I hate funerals.'

'Some people like them,' Aubrey mused. 'In a family like mine, I've had third cousins and great-stepuncles passing on quite regularly. I've been dragged to dozens of funerals, ever since I was born. I'm sure there are people who feel that a funeral is a fine day out, a good social occasion, time to catch up and gossip.'

'Hush,' George said as they reached the stairs of the church. 'Let's find a space in the back pews.'

Aubrey and George had arrived in Greythorn after an early morning train trip from the city. The church was a modest, blocky affair. It wasn't in the university proper, but in a part of the town near a motorbus depot. Aubrey wondered why the professor – or his wife – had chosen this place and not one of the grand chapels at one of the colleges.

He looked at the large congregation who'd assembled to mark the professor's passing. To judge from the crowd, he decided Professor Hepworth had been no academic recluse. Relatives were easy to spot from familial resemblance, and his colleagues were wearing formal academic robes. But there were many others. Quite a few took advantage of the motorbus station to arrive by public transport, but while waiting outside Aubrey had seen a butcher's cart pull up and disgorge half a dozen men, and many bicycles were leaning against the fence.

He also saw famous faces. Phillips-Dodd, the Home Secretary, was perfectly dressed as usual, his black morning suit no doubt worth hundreds of pounds. Sir Guy Boothby, the Foreign Secretary, was also present. Aubrey looked for, but didn't see, Sir Philip Saxby, the Minister for Magic.

The service was difficult. Professor Hepworth was obviously loved and respected, and the distress expressed by many of the congregation was contagious. Aubrey felt tears come to his own eyes as he reflected on mortality and its frailties.

The eulogy was delivered by Sir Isambard Hammersmith, the ancient and revered President of the Royal Society for Magic. He spoke at length, detailing Professor Hepworth's formidable intellect and energy and expressing great sorrow at the loss to magic research. He touched on the dual loss to the field, with the too-recent passing of the Sorcerer Royal, Dr Tremaine. The old man looked crushed.

Immediately after Sir Isambard had finished, the minister signed to another man that it was his turn to speak.

He was small and nervous, with sharp features, about fifty years old – although Aubrey found it hard to guess. He held a cloth cap in his hands and he continually twisted it as if he were wringing washing.

He announced that his name was Charles Ob and then told of how Professor Hepworth had been his drinking companion for years.

Aubrey's eyes went wide. Professor Hepworth's drinking companion?

This claim caused a mass shifting of position in the congregation. Only the fact that it was a funeral service prevented a buzz of puzzled conversation.

Mr Ob went on to tell how Professor Hepworth had helped all six of his children through school. One of them, he said proudly, had gone on to the university. As an afterthought, Mr Ob added that Professor Hepworth had done the same for many families he knew.

AUBREY AND GEORGE SHUFFLED OUT WITH THE REST OF THE congregation, following the pallbearers to the small churchyard burial ground, when Lady Fitzwilliam emerged from the crowd. 'Aubrey! George! I thought it was you.'

Sir Darius appeared, looking unsurprised to see Aubrey there, despite the fact that Aubrey hadn't told his parents of his plans. 'Aubrey. George. A great loss.'

'It's good to see you paying your respects, Aubrey,' Lady Fitzwilliam said as they walked with the congregation to the graveside.

Aubrey had grown used to the fact that it was hard to surprise his parents. To the best of his knowledge, they hadn't known George and he had left Maidstone early in order to get to Greythorn in time for the funeral. 'It's the least we could do. He was a great man.'

'I wasn't aware you knew him,' Sir Darius said, voice low, as they reached the grave.

'We met on the shooting weekend,' Aubrey said. 'But I'd known of him for years. I've read his work.'

'Of course.'

The ceremony at the graveside was brief. Afterwards, they joined the long line to pay their respects to Professor Hepworth's widow.

Mrs Hepworth was tall and extremely beautiful, even in her grief. Her long black hair was wound in an elaborate knot at the back of her neck and she sat rigidly in a chair as the mourners filed past. Caroline was at her side.

'Mrs Hepworth,' Aubrey murmured. 'So sorry. Miss Hepworth.'

Caroline raised an eyebrow when she caught sight of him. She nodded, but said nothing.

Sir Darius and Lady Fitzwilliam were speaking with three older men Aubrey recognised as having visited Maidstone in the past. The tall, lanky one was Admiral Quist, head of the navy. The pot-bellied chap was Thomas Dunleavy, editor in chief of The Argus. The one who looked like he wanted to argue but thought it might be a good idea if he didn't was the Dean of St Stephen's College.

Aubrey didn't hesitate. He left George and went straight over. He stood there and refused to be ignored. Sir Darius smiled wryly. 'Gentlemen, you know my son Aubrey?'

The three elders stared at Aubrey as if he were a performing seal. He inclined his head. 'Admiral. Mr Dunleavy. Dean.'

They huffed and harrumphed, acknowledging and condescending to him in what they thought was the best manly fashion, giving Sir Darius Fitzwilliam's son his due.

Aubrey kept smiling, even though his teeth were gritted. I'll make you notice me for myself, he thought, one day.

Aubrey's reward for his persistence was ten minutes of extremely boring conversation, as each of the three tried to either impress Sir Darius or enlist his assistance in a home for invalid sailors, a committee on journalistic ethics, and a building fund for St Stephen's College. These proposals were met with interest, incredulity and surrender, respectively.

Aubrey took the opportunity to file away details of the three men, for future reference. He took note of any mention of their backgrounds or family, especially. His father was said to have a card index memory, and his knack for remembering trivial details of people he'd only met once was legendary. Aubrey aimed to be as good, if not better, at this subtle art.

As he listened to the dean suggest that Sir Darius might like to contribute to the college's building fund, he saw a deacon working through the crowd. When the deacon spied George, he hurried to him and thrust a piece of paper into his hand.

Aubrey excused himself and made his way to his friend's side. 'You're looking more than usually befuddled, George. What's going on?'

George didn't say anything. He simply handed Aubrey the piece of paper.

Fitzwilliam, Doyle, can you come to my house tomorrow morning? Yours etc, Caroline Hepworth.

Aubrey was silent for a moment after reading it. He looked at George. 'We can't disappoint the lady, can we, George?'

'We will if we can't find her house. She didn't give her address.'

'A trifle,' Aubrey said and he slipped into the crowd that had gathered outside the church gates.

It wasn't long before Aubrey found the minister and was able to extract the address of the Hepworth residence after disclosing that he wanted to take some flowers to the grieving family.

At that moment, Sir Darius and Lady Fitzwilliam walked over, her arm in his. 'Aubrey, your mother and I are staying here in Greythorn for a few nights. I have to see some people. We can drop you at the railway station if you like.'

'Where are you staying?'

'The Triumph Hotel,' Lady Fitzwilliam said.

'You wouldn't have a suite booked, would you? More than one bedroom?'

Sir Darius stroked his moustache. 'Are you looking to stay here, too?'

'George and I thought we might like to look around the university tomorrow. You've told me so much about it.'

'Ah,' Sir Darius said. He looked at his wife. When she didn't demur, he nodded. 'Very well. Let us go.'

The Triumph Hotel was a recent construction, a monolith in the centre of the town. Eight floors, it looked squat and solid and reputable. It reminded Aubrey of a bank manager with a respectable firm who had a sizeable pension awaiting his retirement.

Sir Darius didn't stay in the suite for long. The telephone rang and, after answering, he excused himself, saying some people had come to meet him already. Aubrey noticed that he looked tense. Lady Fitzwilliam had thrown off her hat and shoes and arranged herself on the blue velvet of the chaise longue. She tapped the back of the chaise longue with one finger as he left. 'I worry about that man,' she muttered.

George having gone to buy a newspaper, Aubrey was left alone with his mother for the first time since the shooting weekend. 'What do you mean?' he asked.

She scowled at the door. 'I do wish these people could come to an occasion like this and not indulge in politics.' She sighed and waved a hand. 'I may as well tell fish not to swim.'

'It does seem to be in their nature.'

'And is it in yours?' his mother said. 'I wonder.'

Aubrey waved a hand, precisely imitating his mother's gesture. She laughed. 'Now, Aubrey, tell me what you're up to.'

Aubrey stretched and laced his fingers behind his head, even though relaxing was the last thing he felt like doing. His mother was among the most perceptive people he knew. She had an unerring gift for detecting falsehood. Her innocent invitation to talk made him feel like he was about to try to pick his way through a minefield.

'I'm well,' he ventured.

'Come now, Aubrey, I think I'm entitled to a little more than that.'

'My studies are going smoothly enough. I'm reasonably confident about the exams.'

'What about the Snainton Prize? I'd heard you were in the running for it this year.'

You'd heard? Aubrey thought. So Duchess Maria isn't the only one with a network of informants. 'I'm in the running,' he confirmed. 'But with the school play, the cricket team, the cadets . . .' He spread his hands.

'And what about that incident with Bertie? Has anything come of that?'

Aubrey wondered how much his mother already knew. He decided a partial telling of the truth would be best. 'George and I went up to Penhurst again last weekend, to poke around. We didn't find anything useful.' Not bad, he congratulated himself. Nothing he could be hanged for there.

'You were a hero, saving Bertie like that. I was proud.'

Aubrey grinned. 'Thank you, Mother.'

'But be careful. The attention, the thrill of meeting danger and besting it, can be addictive. One can grow to like being a hero. The adulation, the praise . . .' She paused, reflecting. 'Your father learned this. He understood that you should make sure you do these things for others, not for yourself.' She smiled. 'But it was well done, just the same.'

His mother had a habit of doing this. She could go straight to the heart of the matter and touch it lightly. Sometimes it was dazzling, this ability, sometimes frustrating. Aubrey knew that the only way she survived in an atmosphere of constant politics and diplomacy was through her work.

'You don't have to worry about me.'

She smiled, a little sadly this time. 'Aubrey, you can't tell a mother not to worry about her children. I'm afraid it's part of the role.'

'Well, children grow up.'

'Ask your grandmother. See what she says.'

'She worries about Father?'

'Constantly.' She drummed her fingers on the back of the chaise longue and frowned. 'I'm frustrated at being tied up here. I was doing some fascinating work at the museum, classifying some new specimens from the east. Extraordinary birds, they were.'

Aubrey admired his mother. She was a renowned field naturalist, but she was equally at home in the back rooms of museums arguing over taxonomy and out on expedition in jungles. It had been on one of these expeditions that she'd met the Marquis of Rimford – Aubrey's father when he still had his title. His squad had become separated from the regiment in a skirmish in the Mataboro jungle. Rose Hannaford, as she was then, had led them back to civilisation, making them carry specimens she picked up along the way. It was after they married that her husband renounced his title, becoming simply Darius Fitzwilliam, intent on entering the Lower House and gaining the prime ministership, as – according to law – the Prime Minister had to have a seat in the Lower House of Parliament, not be a peer in the Upper House.

She rose from the chaise longue. 'Aubrey, I may rest a little before supper. Will you be happy here on your own?'

'George will be back soon. I'll be fine.'

Aubrey was dozing lightly when George came back. 'I say, old man,' his friend said as he burst into the room, 'I think you're right about this code business. Look at this corker!'

George spread the newspaper on one of the side tables, then dragged it to where Aubrey was sitting. Aubrey blinked away sleep and found George was pointing at some lines in his beloved agony columns. 'Well, ' he said, 'it definitely looks like a cipher to me.'

In the bottom corner of the page, surrounded by curt and plaintive messages, were four solid lines of garbled letters.

George beamed. 'Yes. I've been trying to solve the dashed thing. Devilishly tricky.'

Aubrey ran his fingers through his hair and yawned. 'That? Oh, I solved that last week.'

George stared at him. 'You solved it?'

'If it's the same cipher as you showed me on the way home from Penhurst, I'm sure I have.'

'Aubrey,' George said, exasperated, 'when do you find the time to do all these things?'

He looked up. 'Hmm? Time?' He looked back to the newspaper. 'I invented the seventy-minute hour, George. I get more done that way.'

'I see.'

'This cipher took me a while, though,' he said, tapping the newspaper. 'It was devilishly tricky, as you say.'

'I tried everything I could think of.'

'Well, yes. It wouldn't yield to straightforward frequency analysis, I found that out quite smartly.'

'Frequency analysis,' George repeated. 'I see.'

Aubrey snorted. 'I can always tell when you don't know what you're talking about. "I see" is a giveaway.'

George was not a good actor. He tried to look wideeyed and innocent, but instead looked as if he had heartburn. 'Tell me about frequency analysis.'

'The most commonly used letter in the language is?'

'E.'

'Correct. So we look for the most commonly used letter in the coded message and assume that's e. The same works at the other end of the scale.'

'So uncommonly used letters like q, x and z would appear least frequently?'

'Indeed.' Aubrey rubbed his chin. 'But this method didn't work. The gibberish remained gibberish. I had to think of something else.'

'Some other pattern?'

'Almost. I put it aside for some time and then, while I was rehearsing for the school play, it struck me. If the frequency of single letters wasn't revealing anything, perhaps I should be looking at the digraphs.'

'Digraphs? Pairs of letters?'

'Exactly. In order of frequency, the way we use the language, the most common digraph is th, then he, an, in and so on. The message you showed me last time was a long one, with plenty to work with. By concentrating on the digraphs I was able to uncover enough to read the message.'

'Astounding, Aubrey, simply astounding. What did the message say?'

'Nothing of any real account. Something like "Tomorrow night no good. Wait until Friday. Give the present to my friend at the station. He will have news for you." And so on. Quite banal.'

'Oh,' George said, crestfallen. 'I'd been hoping for something more dramatic. Well, what about this one?'

Aubrey studied it for a moment, then pulled up a chair. 'Pencil, please?'

It took fifteen minutes of effort, with much scribbling and crossing out, but finally Aubrey sat back with a look of satisfaction on his face. 'There.'

'You're done?'

'Now, you can never be totally sure, but I think it reads like this: "Meet at fitness society this Friday. Plans are on course. We are not suspected. The way forward clear. Proceed." Of course, I inserted the punctuation.'

'Hmm. Rather prosaic. It could be a young couple, planning elopement. See where it says "our plans are on course".'

'That could mean anything. And why would a couple who are running away to get married meet at a fitness society?'

'No idea. Another mystery, it looks like.'

At that moment, Lady Fitzwilliam appeared at the door to her bedroom. 'What will remain a mystery, gentlemen?'

Aubrey gestured at the newspaper. 'The agony columns, Mother.'

'Ah, spying on others' lives, are we?' She laughed. 'Your father hasn't returned, Aubrey?'

'No.'

'Well, I shall have two handsome young gentlemen take me to dinner. Aubrey, would you ring the hotel dining room and reserve a table for three?'

WHEN THE LIFT OPENED ON THE GROUND FLOOR, AUBREY was surprised to see Sir Darius waiting to enter. His face was distracted and serious, but it lightened when he saw his wife. 'Rose! I was coming to fetch you to dinner.'

'I couldn't wait,' she said. 'Luckily these two were able to escort me. But we've only reserved a table for three.'

'I'm sure they'll be able to accommodate us.'

As Sir Darius shepherded them towards the dining room, Aubrey's eye was caught by a tall, angular figure leaving the hotel through the revolving door. Once outside, he turned back briefly, much as one would when trying to fix a location in one's mind. In the instant he turned around, Aubrey recognised him.

It was Craddock, the head of the Magisterium.