Heart of Gold (18 page)

As he went, Aubrey was alert for more signs that the
city was affected by the loss of the Heart of Gold. Apart
from the weather, he did come across a number of
backed-up drains and angry sewerage workers arguing
over the cause. A natural explanation could be behind it,
but the bafflement on the faces of the workers indicated
that this was no ordinary occurrence.

When he took a shortcut through an alley that promised
to take him from Providence Street to Lower
Hospitality Street, he came across a sight that gave him
pause. A mangy cat was backed against a wall, hissing, back
arched. On the other side of the alley the cobblestones had
collapsed and filthy water was flowing sluggishly from it.

The water was choked with dead rats.

Aubrey put a hand over his mouth, but forced himself
to examine the rodents. Thin, with weeping sores, it was
no wonder the cat didn't want anything to do with them.

All is not well, under the streets
, Aubrey thought as he
hurried from the alley. The possibilities made him cold.

Aubrey's destination proved to be an antique shop
with a window display that suggested it specialised in
documents. The window was lettered with discreet and
expensive gold. Behind it lay an arrangement of calling
cards, photographs and letters, all artfully ordered to
highlight the signatures. His eyes widened when he
recognised the name of at least one former king.

A voice from behind spoke in Gallian. 'Are you interested
in our wares?'

Aubrey straightened. A dapper, middle-aged man with
a pointed beard was smiling at him. His teeth were small
and white. 'I have a modest collection,' Aubrey said.

'Ah, you are from Albion! If you would like to come
inside, I have a number of items that you may find
intriguing.'

The man took out a key, removed his grey homburg
and unlocked the door. 'You are just opening?' Aubrey
asked.

The man tapped the 'A. Caron' on the window. 'It is
my shop. I open when I wish.' He stood on the threshold
and smiled. 'Like you, I have a collection. This shop
is merely an extension of it. I sometimes find it hard to
part with particular items, but it finances my purchase of
others.'

He stood back and gestured Aubrey inside.

'I understand.' Aubrey entered the shop. 'A collection
is an addiction.'

'Worse.' Monsieur Caron removed his leather gloves
and placed them with his hat on a glass-topped counter.
'A collection costs money in so many ways. It must be
housed, for example.'

He waved an arm around the shop. Aubrey saw the
walls were lined with drawers of many different sizes,
a ladder on wheels allowing access to those closest the
ceiling. Flat, glass-topped cabinets took up most of
the floor space. Monsieur Caron pulled a cord and the
room was flooded with electric light. He clucked his
tongue. 'I fear the electricity may be bad for my documents,
but what can be done? I keep most in the dark,
but there is no joy in that. I must be able to see my treasures.'
He cocked his head at Aubrey. 'If you will forgive
me, it is not usual to find a young person interested in
such items as these.'

'I know. None of my friends understands me.'

Monsieur Caron nodded sympathetically. 'Ah, I see.
What is your specialty?'

'Letters.'

'Excellent. I have some interesting correspondence
between one of your playwrights and a famous Gallian
actress a hundred years ago. Good friends, they were.'

'Of course. But I'm more interested in recent history,
politics, diplomacy, that sort of thing. But they must
concern Albion.'

'It is a time to be aware of such things,' Monsieur
Caron murmured. He tapped his chin with a finger. 'Do
you realise that you have competition?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You're not the first to ask about such letters. A gentleman
was in yesterday. He was particularly keen to see
anything to do with the Treaty of St Anne.'

A peaceful, restful holiday
, Aubrey thought as his head
whirled with possibilities.
That's all I wanted.
He touched
his forehead and winced.

'Are you unwell?' Monsieur Caron asked, concerned.

'No, no, just a little tired.'

Caron nodded. 'Many people are complaining about
fitful sleep. Quite strange.'

Aubrey nodded. 'And this man asking about the Treaty
of St Anne. Did he purchase anything?'

'No, for I didn't have anything to sell him. Not here.
I keep my Albion items elsewhere.'

'May I see them? Tomorrow?'

'I'd be happy to bring them. My other customer didn't
come back when we made similar arrangements.'

Aubrey took a wild guess. 'Holmlander, was he?'

Monsieur Caron looked startled. 'Why, no. Northerner,
from his accent. From the look of him, I doubted
if he had enough cash for such items, but he assured me
that he had money.'

'A northerner? You mean from Marchmaine? Can you
describe him?'

'Red hair, red beard. Stern, if scruffy.'

Aubrey had much to mull over after he left Monsieur
Caron's establishment. Another thread had been thrown
into the tangled mess that he was trying to unravel, and
he felt all thumbs at the moment.

He trudged up the street, wanting nothing better than
to lie down and close his eyes for an hour or two, but as
he drew closer to Madame Calvert's residence, his spirits
sank. Two police officers were waiting at the entrance.

They stood with their hands behind their backs and
watched as he approached. He stood at the bottom of the
stairs and waited as they shared significant glances. 'May
I enter?' he asked.

They both nodded.

Waiting inside was Madame Calvert. Her hands were
clasped, mouth pursed. 'I protect my guests, but this
police officer was very insistent.' She nodded toward her
sitting room.

Aubrey sighed. 'I'm sorry.'

'Do you need help? I have friends.'

'Thank you. No. Not yet.'

Aubrey went into the sitting room. Inspector Paul was
holding his cap in his hands and was using a mirror to
tend to his hair. George was sitting on the sofa and
drumming his fingers on the armrest. A bruise was
blooming on his cheek. 'Aubrey, old man!' he said,
jumping to his feet. 'Good to see you!'

Inspector Paul turned smartly. 'Enough. Sit,' he said to
George, in Albionish.

'What is going on?' Aubrey asked.

'I have arrested this person,' Inspector Paul said, indicating
George, 'for acting suspiciously near a national
monument.'

George grunted unhappily. 'Can't a chap do some
genealogy business without being set upon?'

Inspector Paul drew himself up. 'We have just had an
assault in our most sacred place. These are not happy
times.'

George addressed himself to Aubrey. 'I wasn't doing
anything, old man. Took some notes, rubbed some brass.
Thought I was making good progress, even though I
found quite a few buildings roped off and I couldn't get
into them.'

'Skulking around tombs,' Inspector Paul put in,
'refusing to identify yourself.'

'I didn't know they were speaking to me,' George said.
'They kept talking in Gallian.'

Aubrey's head was pounding, red-hot spikes driving
into his skull. He shouldn't have sent George off alone.
He should have realised that Lutetia would be on edge
after the theft of the Heart of Gold. 'I'm sorry, Inspector.
It appears we've had a misunderstanding.'

'I felt that may be the case,' the Inspector said, frowning.
'That is why I brought him here instead of directly
to Police Headquarters.'

'I appreciate it.' Aubrey felt it might be useful to return
the favour. 'Inspector, are you still looking for the Soul
Stealer?'

The police officer's face hardened. 'Soul Stealer? That
is street gossip. I don't know what you mean.'

Tiptoeing around national pride and professional
dignity, Aubrey tried again. 'The catatonics, the blank
ones. I understand that more have been found.'

'We are dealing with the problem.'

'I may have a line of inquiry for you.'

Inspector Paul considered this, then tilted his immaculate
head. 'Of course, it is my duty as an officer of the law
to listen to any possible information that a member of
the public may have.'

'I have reason to believe that someone has formed a
magical method of stealing people's souls. A photographer
may be involved.'

'A photographer? You expect me to find a photographer?
The city is full of them, ever since the Great
Exposition. Every second fool thinks he can point a
camera and turn into a genius.'

'I'm sorry, Inspector. I thought it might help.'

'I should ask how you came by such knowledge, but
I already think I know enough to realise that the story
you would tell me would be long-winded, plausible, and
impossible to disprove.'

'The truth can be hard to disprove.' He hoped this
didn't sound as nonsensical to Inspector Paul as it did
to him.

Inspector Paul studied him for long enough that
Aubrey felt uncomfortable. 'Very well,' the Gallian said.
'You are free, Mr Doyle. Do not act suspiciously in
future.'

The Inspector left. George raised an eyebrow at
Aubrey. 'Do I look suspicious to you?'

Aubrey rubbed his temples. 'George, at the moment
everything
looks suspicious to me. Now, I need to lie
down for a while.'

A
UBREY SPENT MUCH OF THE AFTERNOON TRYING TO
sleep, but a gnawing discomfort – a deep-seated
throbbing inside his bones – wouldn't allow him to drop
off. After lying on his bed, trying to find a comfortable
position, he sat up and used a hand mirror to examine his
hair. He wasn't vain – at least, he didn't think so – but the
notion of losing his hair depressed him. It was dull, but
he could hide that with discreet application of hair oil.
If it continued to fall out, that was another matter.

He found a loose clump the size of a threepenny piece
just behind his right ear. When it came free in his hand
he stared at it glumly. Careful brushing covered it up, but
the implications of the hair loss weren't so easily hidden.

In frustration, he took out Bernard's notebook in the
hope that it would have some clues to alleviating his
condition – or distract him, at least.

It achieved the latter, because the old magician's
writing was anything but straightforward. Even if it
hadn't been in Gallian, the task of reading it would have
been a challenge.

Aubrey quickly forgot about his bodily discomfort. It
didn't take him long to decide that Bernard had been a
mercurial character. His writing sped across the page,
often becoming blurred as he documented whatever
phenomenon he was currently investigating. He also had
a penchant for using different inks, often within the same
sentence. The rapid changing of colours made the
writing jump and dance.

Bernard's observations were eclectic. As well as whatever
he was examining, he commented on weather, light
levels, ambient sound, phases of the moon, and even
developments in politics. Aubrey appreciated the way
Bernard noted all factors influencing a magical experiment,
but the old magician's notes showed the signs of
obsession rather than care. When his jottings began to
include counts of dust density, Aubrey sighed and closed
the book.

He was sure some useful material lurked in the pages,
but finding it was going to take time. He wondered if
locating the Soul Stealer and prising some of his secrets
from him mightn't be a quicker way to search for a
remedy.

He went to the washbasin and splashed some water
on his face. After patting it dry with one of Madame
Calvert's wonderful towels, and ignoring his pale reflection,
he wandered into the small living room of their
apartment. George was stretched out on the chaise
longue, snoring, with a copy of the Lutetian
Sentinel
on
the floor beside him. A notebook with jottings from his
genealogical investigations was under his head. Aubrey
admired his friend's peace of mind, but it didn't stop him
from waking him.

'Wake up, George. Dangerous deeds to do.'

George opened one eye. 'I wasn't asleep, just resting.
Newspaper reading's a tiring task.' He reached behind
his head and extracted his notebook. He leafed through
it, frowning.

'Interesting?'

George grunted. 'Four churches, a converted monastery
and a small graveyard. I've reached two dead ends
in the family lines Prince Albert suggested, which will
save us work in the long run, and I have a few promising
leads to follow.'

Aubrey blinked. 'You did all that before you were
arrested? I'm impressed.'

George sat up and brandished his notebook. 'Dashed
interesting stuff, all of this. I'll need some help with dates
and the like, but this history business is like . . .' He
rubbed his nose, then brightened. 'Why, it's like what
you do. It's a big puzzle, with pieces and hints and trails all
over the place, and the challenge is to make sense of it all.'

Aubrey was cheered to see George so enthusiastic. 'So
you actually made some progress?'

'Rather, old man. A long way to go, though.'

'Luckily, we don't have far to go this evening.' Aubrey
held a finger in the air. 'Now, disguises.'

George swung his legs and sat up, groaning. 'Not
disguises again, old man. I'll be fine as I am.'

'Necessary, I'm afraid. We have to blend in with a
Marchmaine crowd this time.'

From his store of useful purchases, he assembled two
outfits: dark-blue serge trousers, tough cotton shirts,
woollen vests and cloth caps. He eyed them, chewing his
lip. 'Boots,' he said. 'I'm not happy about our boots.'

'I am with mine, old man. Very comfy.'

'Too new, George. They don't look like workers' boots
at all.'

'Well, surely not all these Marchmainers are hardhanded
tillers and workers of the soil. They must have
some educated types.'

'You're right. I've been stereotyping them.' He hated
doing that. It usually went hand in hand with underestimating
an opponent.

Eventually, Aubrey compromised. A second-hand pea
jacket over the serge trousers. No cap. If confronted,
Aubrey planned to claim they were university students
who supported the cause. It would explain their youth
and their city appearance.

On the way, they stopped at a café for a light meal
before the evening's exertions. George quickly ate a
sandwich and had another. Aubrey only ordered his
because he thought it would look suspicious if he didn't.
Nauseated, he stared sidelong at his ham and cheese
sandwich and knew he couldn't stomach a bite. He made
sure his sleeves were covering his forearms. He thought
the skin was beginning to slough away there too. He
tried to remember how many pairs of gloves he'd packed.
The fresh air outside the café revived him somewhat.

The evening was lingering, stretching out the day. The
light had a flat dullness about it, as if it were staying
beyond its time. In the growing shadows, Aubrey had the
uncomfortable feeling that the buildings on either side of
the street were leaning inwards, glowering at him.

Eventually, they reached the Hepworths' apartment.
Aubrey rang and Mrs Hepworth opened the door. 'Aubrey,
dear. You look most disreputable. You too, George.'

Aubrey bowed. 'Thank you.'

'Perfect for your escapade, I'd say. I'll get Caroline.
Come in, have a seat.'

George eyed Aubrey from the sofa. 'Disreputable, eh?'
He wriggled his shoulders. 'I think I like being disreputable.
It's probably wildly attractive to the ladies,
wouldn't you say?'

'What would I know?' Aubrey muttered. The closer
their rendezvous came, the more nervous he felt.

Caroline stepped into the room. Aubrey stood and, an
instant later, so did George.

'Shall we go?'

'I like the dress,' Aubrey offered. 'Most appropriate, that
shade of purple.'

'Mauve.'

'And the hat. Just perfect.'

'It's a bonnet.' Caroline looked at George. 'And what
do you have to say?'

George spread his hands, grinning. 'I know nothing
about women's clothes. I usually just say, "You look
wonderful", but I don't think it's entirely appropriate
here, since you're trying to look dowdy.'

'No.' Caroline bent and seized the hem of her dress.
She lifted it to her knee. Aubrey took a sharp breath.
'I have my fighting uniform on underneath, just in case.'

'Be prepared,' Aubrey croaked. 'Very good. Excellent.'

'Oh, don't be so silly,' Caroline said. 'And stop laughing,
Mother.'

Mrs Hepworth waved a hand. 'It's what I do when I
see something funny, my dear. I can't help it.' Her face
grew serious. 'You will be careful, though, won't you?'

'Of course.'

'And Aubrey, don't do anything reckless.' She paused.
'Don't do anything
too
reckless.'

'This is just information-gathering, Mrs Hepworth,
nothing to worry about.'

'Nothing to worry about? It's obvious you've never
been a parent.'

V
ON
S
TRALICK WAS WAITING AT THE BASE OF THE STATUE OF
Marshal Beaumain, as promised. He had a sketchbook
and pencil in hand, and was offering a quick portrait to
passers-by, for a price.

'Hello, von Stralick,' Aubrey said. 'What would you do
if someone took you up on your offer?'

Von Stralick snorted. 'Stand still for a moment.'

The Holmlander studied Aubrey for a moment, then
his pencil flew across the page. A quick glance and he was
off again, furiously scratching, his pencil whipping across
the paper with strong, assured lines. Five minutes later, he
held up the book.

'Very accurate,' Caroline said. 'I like the way you've
caught the vacant eyes.'

'The chin,' George said. 'Very good, that. Very . . .'

'Handsome?' Aubrey suggested. 'Forceful? Noble?'

'Very Fitzwilliam,' George finished, tactfully.

'Hmm. I didn't realise you were so talented, von
Stralick.'

The Holmlander shrugged. 'It's a handy skill and a
useful cover. I can sketch emplacements, faces, buildings.
It's strangely less suspicious than a camera.'

A crowd had gathered in front of the Academy of
Sciences. A robed figure of a woman representing Rational
Inquiry frowned down from the carvings of the triangular
pediment. She held a book, a globe and something that
was either a sextant or a bad model of a sailing ship.
Aubrey thought she seemed disapproving, as if rationality
were in short supply in the people below her feet.

Aubrey noted the police as well. At least a hundred
uniformed officers – and who knew how many plain
clothes detectives – were out, but standing well back and
allowing the Marchmainers and their sympathisers to
move unhindered.

Von Stralick surveyed the crowd. 'I haven't seen any of
the Sons of Victor.'

'They're sure to be here?' Aubrey asked.

'I've collected a number of handbills this week that say
they will be speaking.'

Aubrey gazed over the heads that were moving steadily
toward the entrance. At first he thought the crowd was
mostly men, but soon revised his opinion when he saw
more than a few women, perhaps making up a good third
of the audience.
Observe
, he thought.
Don't draw attention.
Keep a neutral expression. Be ready to report later
. Simple.

With a nod and a gesture, he gathered his friends and
von Stralick. Hands in the pockets of his jacket, eyes
down, he joined the throng.

A sharp right turn just inside the entrance, much shuffling
and a few oaths stemming from trampled toes,
through the wide doorway and they were inside the
lecture hall.

The stage was brightly lit by hissing gaslight. Several
straight-backed wooden chairs stood some distance
behind a lectern. The proscenium arch was a gilt allegory
detailing the role of science in agriculture and manufacturing.
Aubrey liked the donkeys, particularly.

All the seats in the lecture hall were taken and people
were still pouring through the doorway, so Aubrey and
his friends had to find standing room at the rear.

It was clear that the Marchmaine independence movement
was well supported.

More people crowded in, squeezing the already
minimal space. On the positive side it meant that Aubrey
was edged closer to Caroline. He could smell her
perfume – rising green notes with a touch of sandalwood
– and he reminded himself to compliment her on it later.
He felt her arm against his and was determined not to
move in any direction, unless it was closer.

He'd lost track of von Stralick, but George was on his
right. 'Cheer and applaud when everyone else does,' he
muttered. George nodded.

The murmuring around him rose and Aubrey saw six
men and a woman mount the steps to the stage, all
dressed in workaday clothes. The murmuring died down
when one – a tall, balding man with a thin moustache –
strode to the lectern.

For a moment the man stood there, surveying the
crowd. His face was sombre. When he spoke, it was with
the voice of a practised orator. 'Greetings, brothers and
sisters,' he said with the clipped north Gallian accent.
'It is reassuring to see so many of you here tonight,
especially after the dire events of our march.'

A growl went up from the audience.

'A dozen of our comrades are still in hospital,' the
speaker continued, 'but we will not be stopped.'

A roar greeted this declaration, accompanied by
stamping of feet and whistling.

The speaker waited for the din to die down. 'Events
are moving quickly. The National Assembly is meeting
tomorrow. The Prime Minister has called an emergency
session to discuss our cause. Not,' he stared balefully at
the crowd, 'to decide how best to move toward a free
Marchmaine, but how to declare our movement illegal!'

The tumult that rose made the previous din sound
like a tea party. Aubrey actually noticed dust drifting
down from the ceiling as the entire hall shook with
indignation.

'Your committee' – he swept an arm to encompass
those sitting on the stage – 'is preparing to meet with
Prime Minister Giraud to register our displeasure.'

Aubrey studied the others. They were uniformly
grim-faced, but one man, in particular, stood out. He was
the youngest of those on the stage. He had a close beard
so red it was orange, with eyebrows and hair to match.
He wore a distinctive scarf knotted around his neck –
blue and white checks, with a blue border. His arms were
crossed, his lips clamped shut and he greeted the speaker's
words with minute shakes of his head.