Seventeen

THE NEXT DAY, THEY WENT BACK TO THE CITY. AUBREY felt tired, but his condition seemed steady. George sat with his omnipresent newspaper, alternating between chuckling and tsk-tsking. Aubrey's parents were quiet as the motorcar rolled smoothly down the highway, which suited Aubrey. However, he couldn't help wondering at their silence. His father spent most of the journey staring out of the window and frowning. His mother seemed impatient, her hands never remaining still, tapping on the door or on her bag. With every halt, she clicked her tongue and looked through the window for the source of the delay.

Aubrey rubbed his face with both hands and yawned. Tired, but not dangerously so. His brief contact with Professor Hepworth's notebook had prompted thoughts in new directions, and he had a burning desire to look more deeply into amalgamation as a possible solution, or even some sort of spiritual barrier to prevent the true death from taking him.

Then there was the mystery of the death of Professor Hepworth and the attempt on the life of Prince Albert. Aubrey was convinced there was a link between them, and the presence of the deadly guardian in the professor's workshop added another element to the mix. Who put it there? Was it the same person who had sent the golem after Prince Albert? Or another player in this complex game?

On top of this was the extraordinary confrontation between the Holmlanders and the unheard of collaboration between the Magisterium and the Special Services.

Shadowy figures were at work, indistinct and ominous. Aubrey wished for a bright light to throw on them, to make them all stand out where he could see them.

With so many things to think through, so many challenges in front of him, time was a precious commodity.

So he fell asleep.

They arrived at Maidstone after midnight. Aubrey woke as they glided through the gates, stayed awake until he entered his bedroom, then fell into a dreamless slumber.

THE NEXT MORNING, AUBREY OPENED HIS EYES AND GROPED for his pocket watch on the cluttered bedside table. It was just after eleven o'clock.

He bathed. Then, as he brushed his hair, he looked in the mirror. Not too bad, he thought as he studied his reflection.

His skin was pale, but no paler than usual. His eyes weren't dull, for which he was grateful. They did have dark circles under them, but that was the only evidence of strain that he could see.

On the way out of his room, he saw his jacket, thrown across an armchair. He took the pamphlet he'd snatched from the Society for Non-magical Fitness out of the pocket, smoothed it out and stared at the crude lettering that accused his father of being a traitor.

He wondered how it fitted in. He felt as if he were adding another thread to a tapestry where the overall design was hidden from him.

Aubrey hurried down the stairs just in time to run into his father. Sir Darius stood inside the front door, handing his hat and cane to Harris, the butler.

Sir Darius studied Aubrey for a moment, concern struggling with his customary reserve. 'You've slept late.'

'Sorry, sir,' Aubrey said stiffly. He tugged at the bottom of his jacket and straightened his tie.

'You're missing half the day, this way,' Sir Darius said. He turned to the butler. 'Harris, I need a light lunch as soon as possible. Once you've told cook, please make sure the library is arranged for a meeting. Five people.'

'Yes, Sir Darius.' Harris hurried off.

'Sir?' Aubrey said.

'Yes?'

'I have something you should know about.'

He gave the battered pamphlet to his father.

Sir Darius held it at arm's length between his thumb and forefinger, as if it were infectious. '"Darius Fitzwilliam, Traitor to Albion." Where did you get this?'

Aubrey hesitated, then responded with caution. He avoided recounting the sortie to Professor Hepworth's workshop and concentrated on the battle at the Society for Non-magical Fitness. Throughout, Sir Darius remained silent.

When Aubrey finished, he pointed at the pamphlet. 'You've seen it before, haven't you?'

Sir Darius's mouth was set in a grim line. He folded the pamphlet in half. 'I've seen others like it. My reputation is under attack.'

Red, green and blue light was pouring through the stained glass panels around the front door. Sir Darius was outlined against it. Aubrey could see strength in his face and the way he stood. But could such strength stand against attacks like these?

'That's happened before,' Aubrey said.

'Yes. It should get easier to bear, but it never does. When these times come, I always find that some I thought were friends disappear.' He smoothed his moustache.

'They're not true friends, then.'

Sir Darius nodded and smiled crookedly. 'They're political friends. Remember the Scholar Tan? "Political friends are enemies in waiting."'

'But who do you think wrote this pamphlet? And why?'

'Come now, Aubrey. I'm sure you can think of possible suspects.'

Aubrey had thought, ever since he picked up the pamphlet. 'The obvious answer is the Royalists. If they can sully your reputation, the Progressives' chance of winning the election will take a battering.'

'Good, but who else?'

'The Holmlanders. You're well known as being anti-Holmland. If they can disgrace you, it weakens Albion and makes us vulnerable to Holmland plans.'

'It would be ironic if it were the Holmlanders, if their way of disgracing me is to say I'm their ally. No, I think this plan is too subtle for the Holmlanders. They'd try to libel me some other way.'

'Who else?'

'Who indeed? I have many enemies. I'm afraid I'll just have to keep my wits about me.'

'Who's coming to the meeting?' Aubrey asked suddenly.

Sir Darius seemed to weigh up his response. 'The Prime Minister rang, saying he wanted to see me. He's bringing Craddock, our esteemed head of the Magisterium, and some others.'

'What could they want?'

Sir Darius held out the pamphlet. 'I asked myself the same question. After seeing your pamphlet and hearing of your escapade last night, I think I know.'

AUBREY TOOK LUNCH WITH HIS FATHER, THEN FOUND George reading his newspaper in the conservatory and together they went up to his room.

It was no coincidence that Aubrey's room overlooked the front of the house. He'd chosen it for its direct view of the entrance and the great curved driveway. From any of the three arched windows, he could see who was coming and who was going.

Maidstone was mostly fifty years old, extensively rebuilt at the peak of the boom times. All the rooms were enormous and Aubrey's bedroom was no exception. His bed was neatly tucked into one corner, which left room for an assortment of furniture that he'd chosen. It was, naturally, an eccentric collection. Four overstuffed armchairs, a trio of potted palms that nearly reached the ceiling, a long low table with a glass top, several shelves that looked as if they'd once been shop counters, a gun cabinet that he used for antique wands (curios from the dark ages of magic), a folding table that he'd never got around to unfolding, a red velvet settee, three or four scattered ottomans, vases with dried arrangements of leaves and feathers, a large set of brass scales for weighing horses, and several paintings on the walls, some ugly, some not, but all of Aubrey's ancestors. 'The Starers', Aubrey had called them ever since he was a small boy, when he'd been half-fascinated, half-afraid of their imperturbable expressions.

Aubrey was seated at a large table in the middle of the room. The table was on an oval rug the colour of the sea. On the table was an untidy arrangement of books, pencils, inkpots and newspapers. For a whim, he was wearing an elaborately brocaded smoking jacket, a riot of purple peacocks and Far Eastern bridges. It had belonged to his grandfather.

'Sit down, George. You're making me dizzy, with your pacing like that.'

George went to the window. 'I wonder what the Prime Minister wants,' he murmured. A greengrocer's cart rumbled past the front gate, but apart from that the street was quiet.

'To discuss the events of last night?' Aubrey said without lifting his gaze from the newspaper he was reading. 'And the pamphlet, no doubt.'

'Hmm. Can you remember exactly what was in it?'

'Better than that. I copied it out before I gave it to Father.' He sifted through the paper on the table. 'Here.'

George crossed the room. 'Appalling handwriting, Aubrey. You need to do something about that.' He wandered back to the window and divided his attention between the pamphlet and peering through the gauze drapes.

'Rubbish,' he snorted. 'Rabble-rousers, the lot of them.'

'Yes, George?'

'Listen to this: "Sir Dandy Darius has betrayed us all! His speeches are nothing but a false front! His companies are working with the Holmland military might to crush the workers of Albion! He betrays us all! He grows fat on the blood and sweat of the ordinary working man!" What complete nonsense.'

'It's actually like a hundred pamphlets out there on the street. Did you notice the way every sentence ends in an exclamation mark?'

'But aren't you outraged?'

Aubrey frowned. 'You haven't seen many of these pamphlets before, have you, George?'

'I've seen plenty in the gutters with the other rubbish. Never read any.'

'They're all this passionate, this strident.' He tapped his pencil on the table. 'Sometimes I think they're a sign of the times. It's astonishing, really, the way technology has advanced. We now possess the means for everyone to write, print and publish their thoughts, their creeds, their cries for justice, their rants.'

'And just about every crackpot does.'

'True. But genuine social reformers use this method, too. It's a way of getting their voices heard. Sometimes, it can start a small ripple that becomes a great wave.'

'But this is poppycock! Your father hasn't colluded with Holmlanders at all!'

'Of course not. But whoever wrote this pamphlet has perfectly caught the flavour of pamphlet writers, the anger, the fire. It sounds genuine. People will listen.'

George frowned. 'You don't think it's real?'

'No. It's part of a plot to disgrace my father.'

'By whom?'

'That's what I want to know. And to help me sort out the possible perpetrators, I'm doing some research.' He poked at the piles on the table. 'I'm not simply reading these journals and newspapers for entertainment. I want to see what forces are at work. Care to help?'

George grimaced, but at that moment the grinding of gears and the crunch of tyres on gravel announced that a motorcar had arrived.

Aubrey came to the window in time to see a short, squat man with a dull bowler hat emerge from the motorcar. 'The Prime Minister looks happy,' he observed.

Sir Rollo Armitage was joking with the driver, who held open the motorcar door. His smile split his greying, muttonchop whiskers and made the pince-nez bounce on his nose.

Aubrey knew that his father had little respect for Sir Rollo. After all, Sir Rollo had been Deputy Prime Minister but had not supported Sir Darius during his leadership crisis. When Sir Darius had lost the prime ministership and was expelled from the Royalist Party, it was Sir Rollo who had assumed the position of leader – and had thus become Prime Minister without facing an election.

When Sir Darius founded the Progressive Party and rallied the huge range of disorganised groups together, it was Sir Rollo Armitage who became his greatest political foe.

The second man who emerged from the motorcar was not smiling, even when Sir Rollo – apparently – repeated the joke.

It was Craddock.

He stood there next to the Prime Minister wearing his customary black suit and wide-brimmed black hat. Tall, spare, he stood with his hands behind his back, his gaze on the ash trees in the front garden. He stood remarkably still, as if he were balanced so perfectly that he could not be moved by earthly forces.

Aubrey wondered how a man could become feared. Was it by committing fearful deeds? Or was it by ordering others to do fearful deeds? Reputation may be enough, he decided, and he knew he didn't want to put this theory to the test.

Two more men alighted from the motorcar, the driver saluting them both. One was beautifully dressed in a grey suit and gloves, his homburg a grey of such an understated nature that it caressed the eye. He carried a brass-topped cane and his shoes shone in the sunlight.

'Phillips-Dodd,' Aubrey said, when he saw George frowning. 'The Home Secretary. In charge of the police, among other things. Loves his racehorses and the theatre and keeps his tailor very, very wealthy.'

'And who's the old fellow?' George pointed at the final member of the visiting party, an old man with a pointed beard. He looked about impatiently as the driver shut the door of the motorcar.

'Come now. Use your powers of observation.'

'Upright stance. Wearing boots. His hand is on his belt, feeling for something that isn't there. A sword?' George looked at Aubrey. 'He was a soldier?'

'Very good, George. He was General Arthur Codlington. Now he's the Minister for Defence.'

'I'd love to be a fly on the wall in that meeting,' George murmured.

Aubrey grinned. 'George, you know I hate to disappoint you.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'This way.'

Aubrey went to the long, glass-topped table. He dragged over a three-legged stool and motioned for George to do the same. 'I'll let you in on a secret,' he said and he wiped the tabletop with his sleeve. 'I've been in a few scrapes over the years.'

'That's no secret.'

Aubrey ignored this. 'Mother and Father always used the library to discuss what to do with me. Naturally, I didn't like to be left out of such talks.'

He placed the palm of his hand against the glass and muttered a few words. The tabletop clouded and suddenly it was like looking through a window onto a foggy day. Aubrey leaned over; the tabletop cleared and the fog was replaced by a bird's-eye view of a table, with five men gathered around it.

'My eye into the library,' Aubrey said. 'A novel variation on the Law of Transference, paying particular attention to the area of effect of the spell. It's very tightly contained so as not to draw any attention.' He tapped his chin. Some of the elements he'd used to shield the fly from magical detection were of his own devising; he'd never seen them used elsewhere. He wondered if the shielding aspect could be used to assist his condition.

'I say, old man, isn't this spying?' George looked troubled. 'It's the Prime Minister, Aubrey. It's not finding out what your Christmas presents are.'

'George, there's something going on here. I'm involved. My father is involved. I won't sit around and be a spectator. If I wish to do anything, I must know what's going on.' He shrugged. 'It's a fine line between spying and intelligence-gathering.'

He tapped the tabletop with a finger. Voices swam up through the glass and Aubrey studied the scene.

One man at the table was still wearing his wide-brimmed black hat. Craddock. The Home Secretary and the Minister for Defence were sitting opposite each other. The Prime Minister's bald head and cigar were unmistakable. Aubrey's father was sitting upright, opposite the PM. His hands were clasped on the table in front of him.

'You have our every confidence,' the Prime Minister said in his fruity voice. It was the voice he used in public meetings and in Parliament. Aubrey had never warmed to it. It sounded too much like an actor from one of the less successful repertory companies.

The Prime Minister, before he entered Parliament, had been a very prosperous scrap metal merchant. His business background had made him perfect for the Royalist Party, with its belief that healthy businesses meant a healthy country and that anything that helped business was good.

He was widely admired as a self-made man. He was friends with the rich and powerful throughout the length and breadth of the land, but he was notorious as a hard customer, one who never forgot a slight and never failed to exact his revenge for it. His roly-poly exterior had led many people to underestimate him. All of them regretted it.

'Every confidence, Fitzwilliam,' the Prime Minister repeated. He waved his cigar at Sir Darius. 'Of course we don't believe the nonsense in those pamphlets. You? A Holmland sympathiser? Someone's obviously setting out to traduce you and to blame the Holmlanders at the same time. One of those agitator groups like the People's League or the Army of New Albion, most likely. They produce enough pamphlets to wallpaper the Palace!'

Sir Darius did not sound reassured. 'It would suit the Royalist Party if I were discredited.'

'Of course, dear boy, of course. But not like this! Shabby stuff, all round. Bad form.'

'So you'd be willing to denounce the pamphlet and its writers?'

The Prime Minister tilted his head and studied the cigar in his hand. He rolled it between his fingers and Aubrey could see that it was unlit. He lifted his head. 'If that's what you want, Fitzwilliam, I'd be happy to do it. Talk to the press, set the record straight, that sort of thing. Let everyone know that you're not a traitor.'

'I can hear it already,' Sir Darius said. He didn't sound as if he relished the prospect. 'I'll consider your offer.'

The Home Secretary spoke up. 'The police are at work, trying to get to the bottom of the situation but, I must admit, they're having trouble. They've been thwarted in their investigations as to who leased the property. They've stumbled into a maze of false names, empty companies and post office boxes, but it seems as if the place was a base for Holmlander espionage.'

'Special Services?' Sir Darius asked. 'Have they had any success?'

The Home Secretary waved a hand. 'A little. Tallis and his men are pursuing shipping records, consular movements and suchlike.'

The Minister for Defence growled a short, hard laugh. 'Bad lot, these Holmlanders. Below the belt, this. Underhand. I've never trusted them.'

Sir Darius turned to the black-hatted man. 'Your people? The Magisterium?'

Craddock cleared his throat. 'We've been working with Special Services. They handled the mundane matters, my people the magical. Naturally. Once Tallis's men had stumbled on to the organisation that the Holmlanders were using as a front, this Society for Non-magical Fitness in Greythorn, I swung in my magical investigators. They confirmed that powerful magic has been present in the building. Magic of a hitherto unknown sort. Unfortunately, all of the staff had disappeared and our ambush failed to capture any of the people who arrived later.' He paused. 'Your son happened to be there. I'd like to talk to him about it.'

'I know,' Sir Darius said. 'He told me of the events. It was the only way I found out about last night's debacle.'

Phillips-Dodd, the Home Secretary, smiled. 'We were going to let you know. Things became rather busy rather quickly, I'm afraid. The Holmlanders and whatnot.'

The Prime Minister jabbed his cigar at Sir Darius. 'I told you those Holmlanders had something under their hats. Put this with their machinations in the Goltan states and there's a bad smell all around. They're up to something, mark my words.'

'As I've been saying for some time,' Sir Darius replied. He crossed his arms on his chest. 'You'll speak against them while you're campaigning, then? We can have a united front against their aggression. It will force them to back down on the Continent, knowing we're united.'

The Minister for Defence pounded the table. 'Capital idea! Show them we won't put up with any of their nonsense! That's what we should have done after they sank the Osprey!'

The Prime Minister looked as if he'd bitten into an apple and found a worm. 'Fitzwilliam, dear boy, you know I can't do that. With the King so pro-Holmland, the leader of the Royalist Party can't come out suddenly and announce the party is anti-Holmland. Impossible, I'm afraid.'

The Home Secretary shook his head. 'Besides, this could simply be the work of some rogue elements in Holmland. I hear they have difficult groups of their own.'

The Minister for Defence snorted and glowered through his beard, but didn't speak against his colleagues.

Craddock held up a finger. 'One more item. We've reason to believe that some of the Holmlanders at this affair were also present at the royal shooting party, the attempted assassination.'

'Who were the Holmlanders at that disaster?' the Minister for Defence barked.

The Home Secretary had no notes but did not hesitate. 'We have our eye on von Stralick, one of their spies. He's disappeared.'

'Find him, will you?' the Prime Minister said. 'We need to speak to the fellow.'

'We're doing our best, Prime Minister.'

'Naturally, news of this won't become public,' the Home Secretary said, his voice as smooth as butter. 'Tallis and his Special Services men have seen to that. One of the newspapers had wind of what went on in that confrontation, but we've managed to bring some pressure to bear there. The managing editor's brother has some business dealings that the managing editor would rather not come to light. Needless to say, we've burned all those dreadful pamphlets.'

'I see,' said Sir Darius. 'To spare my reputation, you're going to cover this up.'

The Prime Minister sat back in his chair and tucked his thumbs in his braces. 'Don't mention it, dear boy, don't mention it. I know you'd do the same for me.'

'Some things the people don't need to know,' the Home Secretary said.

The Prime Minister jammed the cigar into his mouth, clasped his hands, put them on the table in front of him, and leaned forward. 'We don't want this sort of thing out there, do we? After all, with the election only a few weeks away, your party would be ruined by a resignation and the taint of scandal.'

'And you don't want that.'

'Of course not,' the Prime Minister chuckled. 'We aim to beat you fair and square, not through your party collapsing. It wouldn't feel right.'

'I see.' Sir Darius nodded. He stood. 'I'm glad you came, Prime Minister.'

'Don't mention it, Fitzwilliam. Only too pleased to help.'

The meeting broke up quickly after that and, after bidding the vistors farewell, Sir Darius sat down again at the table. He folded his arms on his chest, put his head down, and did not move. Then he tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling.

'He's going through the meeting again in his head,' Aubrey said to George. 'He's trying to work out what went on.'

George looked at Aubrey. 'What did go on?'

Aubrey wiped his sleeve across the tabletop. Clouds rolled across, then vanished and they were looking, once again, at a glass tabletop. 'I think the Prime Minister was enjoying his position immensely.'

'He did sound rather pleased with himself.'

'Why wouldn't he be? He has his greatest political enemy at a great disadvantage. He didn't come here to pledge support; he came here to crow.'

'And your father knows this? That's why he wasn't happy at the PM's offer?'

'Of course. The Prime Minister is master of the politics of deceit. Say one thing, mean another.'

'And this is the man who runs our country?'

Aubrey was silent for a moment. 'There are good people in politics, George, many of them, trying to do the best for everyone. Then there are those like Sir Rollo.' He sighed. 'Politics is dangerous, I think. Only the strong can resist being corrupted by the power.'

'I can't imagine why anyone would look for a career as a politician, that's certain.' George stopped. 'Oh. Sorry, old man.'

Aubrey shrugged. 'It's in the blood, George. It's either academia, politics or the military, and the military seems to be doubtful for me at the moment, with my condition.'

Of course, Sir Darius Fitzwilliam had managed to combine both careers, a voice nagged at the back of Aubrey's mind, but he put it aside.

'And what was Craddock doing there?' George asked.

'That's a puzzle,' Aubrey admitted. 'He's not the Prime Minister's man. At least, I don't think so. His motives aren't easy to guess.'

'Unlike yours at this minute.'

'I'm sorry, George?'

'You want to go out and find this Holmlander, this von Stralick.'

Aubrey grinned. 'You know me too well. Of course I aim to find von Stralick. And, thanks to you, we have a means of doing so.'

'How so?'

'The Society for Non-magical Fitness. Craddock implied it was a Holmland sham. No doubt the Magisterium and the Special Services were trying to ambush the Holmlander spies.' He grinned. 'They said they'd stumbled onto the society, but we happen to know how they arrange their meetings.'

'The agony column code,' George said slowly.

'Precisely. All we need to do is wait until another meeting is planned via the agony columns and there we have them.'

'I suppose it would be too much to hope that you want to tell someone about this?'

'Whom can we trust, George? The Prime Minister? Craddock?'

'What about your father?'

'I can't tell him, George. Not right now. Involving him in this may compromise his position.'

'And having his son caught up with Holmland spies won't?'

Aubrey grimaced. 'You're right.' He got to his feet. 'I'll go and tell him now.'

'Would you like some support?'

Aubrey smiled. 'George, you're a marvel.'

When they entered the library, they found Sir Darius still seated at the table. He looked up as they entered. 'Well?'

'Sir?' Aubrey said.

'What did you think of the Prime Minister's performance? Perhaps you noticed something I didn't.'

Aubrey's stomach sank. 'I was up in my room, Father.'

'I know,' Sir Darius said. 'I also recognise your work when I see it.'

He pointed at the ceiling. There, directly above the table, was a fly. 'You were watching the entire meeting, weren't you?'

Aubrey searched for a plausible story, found none, stood straighter. 'Yes, sir.'

Sir Darius sighed. 'Sit. Both of you. Where I can see you.' He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose while they drew up chairs.

'I could have you both imprisoned for spying.'

Aubrey nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

'But I don't suppose that would stop you at all, Aubrey. In a few weeks you'd have organised the inmates into an amateur dramatic society which would put on an operetta climaxing in a mass escape.' He shook his head. 'And you, George, would be by his side, making sure no prison thugs damaged him, while reading the newspaper in between cornet solos.'

George opened his mouth and then closed it again.

'You let us watch the entire meeting,' Aubrey said.

Sir Darius lifted an eyebrow. 'I didn't see your blasted contrivance until after the meeting had ended. And I want it removed immediately.'

'Yes, sir,' Aubrey said, then added, 'I have something that may be useful to you.'

Sir Darius drummed his fingers on the table. 'It can wait. I need to consider an appropriate punishment for you. Leave. And take that damned fly with you.'

Aubrey stood and pointed a finger at the fly. It immediately detached itself from the ceiling and flew to his outstretched hand.

With the door to the library closed behind them, George dared look at Aubrey. 'Well? What now?'

'I'd say we're left with no choice. We have to find von Stralick ourselves.'

THEY SPENT THE NEXT FEW HOURS EXAMINING NEWSPAPERS.

After some time Aubrey thought that George must be mad. Reading the agony columns was, frankly, agony.

Having to read them all carefully and then test the coded messages one by one was brain-numbingly tedious. They found many codes, most so simple that a child could decipher them. Backwards writing, simple alphabet–numeral substitutions, shifted alphabet ciphers, and many more.

In the end, it was fruitless. They uncovered five liaisons, two assignations and something that sounded suspiciously like an elopement, but nothing that looked even remotely like a meeting of spies.

Aubrey sat back in the late afternoon light. The drapes were moving slightly with the breeze. Outside, blackbirds squabbled in the ash trees as a steam motorcar chuffed past.

'You know . . .' he said. He was sitting in a wicker chair with his feet on a small sailor's trunk. 'They might have abandoned the agony columns method of communication. They may feel as if it's been compromised.'

George flung the newspaper he was reading onto the table. 'Well, that would leave us in a state.' He stood and roamed around the room, hands in his pockets. The sound of hooves on the driveway drew him to the window. 'It's your mother, Aubrey. She's home.'

They found her in the drawing room. When she saw Aubrey she turned, put her hands on her hips, and glared. 'Aubrey, what have you done to this poor girl?'

There, behind Lady Fitzwilliam, stood Caroline Hepworth, looking partly embarrassed, partly cross and, Aubrey thought, wholly, undeniably attractive.