Heart of Gold (38 page)

'Falling apart? But . . .'

'I don't think we have much time.' A sharp cracking
sound came from one of the upper storeys. Monsieur
Caron flinched. 'Tell us what you know, if you would.'

'Alphonse is not a bad man,' Mrs Hepworth said.
'Greed does tend to have a hold on him, however. When
I heard that he had disappeared, I knew he was in
trouble. I sought him out to see if I could help. He
suggested a walk in the park and here we are.' She
favoured Caron with a disapproving look.

'How do you know him, Mother?' Caroline asked.

'Oh, Alphonse used to be a painter. He's an old friend.
Aren't you, Alphonse?'

'Yes. And I am a proud Gallian,' Monsieur Caron said.
'Whatever else, do not forget that. I will defend the
republic.'

Aubrey had the distinct impression that Caron's nervousness
was not simply caused by the strange surroundings.
He wondered how far apart a document merchant
and a blackmailer were. After all, the correspondence of
the famous must contain some very interesting information.'
Let me know if anything untoward appears,' Aubrey
said to George.

'Shall do, old man.'

Aubrey left the window and went to the others. 'Now,
Monsieur Caron. You say you are a loyal Gallian.'

'I am.' Caron's voice was firm, but his hands would not
keep still. He adjusted his tie, then he stroked his beard,
then he adjusted his tie again.

'And yet you were prepared to help Gallia collapse by
selling crucial correspondence to the Marchmainers.'

'What? They are simply old letters. Nothing important.'
The tower jerked sideways. Aubrey steadied himself
by gripping the iron balustrade. Caroline and her mother
both swayed with the movement, but Monsieur Caron
stumbled backward a few steps before catching himself.
'This ridiculous place is what is falling apart,' he said.
'I demand that you take us back.'

'The correspondence, Monsieur Caron,' Aubrey said.
'How much were the Marchmainers going to pay you?'

Monsieur Caron glared for a moment, then his face
collapsed. He tottered a few paces and then sat on the
stairs. He put his head in his hands. 'A small fortune.
Every time I refused, they came back with a higher
price.'

'And you still think the letters were unimportant?'

'I'm a businessman. I'm interested in obtaining the
best price for my goods.'

'You had no suspicions?'

Monsieur Caron was silent. He dropped his gaze and
studied his hands. 'I cannot afford to have suspicions.
These letters are harmless.'

'You don't believe that.'

He looked away. 'They threatened me. They burnt
down my shop.'

We aren't dealing with amateurs here
, Aubrey thought. 'So
you went into hiding,' Aubrey said. Caroline's mother
was obviously fond of Monsieur Caron, but Aubrey was
sure the man knew more than he was telling. He glanced
at George, who was gazing ahead, unconcerned, even
though the glass in the window shook. 'Whatever price
they offered you, I will better it.'

Monsieur Caron brightened. 'It would be good for the
letters to return to their owner.'

'At a price,' Caroline said.

Monsieur Caron looked hurt. 'I have overheads to
consider.'

Mrs Hepworth sighed. 'Alphonse. Your greed will be
the death of you.'

He spread his hands. 'What can I do? I have commitments.'

'Tell me more about the Marchmainers,' Aubrey said.
'Did they discuss plans with you? Where were they going
next?'

'I do not know. They were customers, that was all.
They did not discuss anything with me other than price.
And the possibility of physical harm.'

'Their leader was a red-headed man?'

Monsieur Caron grimaced. 'Yes. Cold eyes.'

Gabriel.
'I think you were wise to offer the letters. And
to agree to meet him.'

'But Aubrey,' Mrs Hepworth said, 'the letters are
between your grandmother and your grandfather, are
they not? How could they possibly be of any use to
anyone else?'

'Well, they certainly seem to be of great interest to
Marchmainers.' Aubrey's brain, already whirring at high
speed, began to churn even faster. The letters were written
around the time of the Treaty of St Anne, which brought
Albion and Gallia together as allies. He shook his head. Such
an event wouldn't be of interest to Marchmainers. Except
if someone else was in the capital at the same time . . .

'Grandmother is an expert at meeting important
people,' he said slowly. 'Even more, she has perfected the
art of being remembered by them. She has vast networks
of friends, acquaintances and correspondents and she
never forgets a name.' He stared at Monsieur Caron. 'I'm
guessing that her letters talk about someone important
to the Marchmaine movement. Someone very, very
important.'

'Martin Victor,' Monsieur Caron confirmed. 'Apparently
he was a good friend of your grandfather. The
letters mentioned that they regularly played cards
together.' Monsieur Caron gave a small smile. 'Your
grandfather lost, most often.'

Caroline raised an eyebrow. 'The Steel Duke playing
cards with the founder of the Sons of Victor?'

'Useful, but not of earth-shattering importance. Was
there anything else?'

'Ah. Then perhaps you mean the fact that your grandfather
paid substantial sums of money to Martin Victor to
help fund his struggle for a Marchmaine homeland?'

'Ah,' Aubrey said, distantly. 'Yes. I think that would do
it.' He squeezed his hands together, hard, while he
thought through the implications of this. 'It's perfect,
really. Gabriel would love to have letters confirming a
link between Marchmaine and Albion, especially a link
of a monetary kind. In a stroke it would give some legitimacy
to the independence cause and also destabilise the
Albion–Gallian alliance.'

Caroline glanced at Monsieur Caron. 'Of course. Albion
could be seen to be supporting a breakaway province.'

Aubrey sighed. 'Naturally, if the alliance fails, the
Gallian government would be in great trouble. With it
already teetering, it could be just the push to send it over
the brink. Gallia in chaos would be the perfect time for
Marchmaine to declare its sovereignty.'

'A single letter could cause all that?' Mrs Hepworth
said. 'Alphonse, for shame.'

'How was I to know?' he pleaded.

'Don't be disingenuous,' Mrs Hepworth said. 'You
can't pretend to be ignorant. Your best sales come where
delicate political matters are concerned.'

'You have the letters, I presume,' Aubrey said, 'since
you were about to hand them over to the Marchmainers.'

Monsieur Caron reached inside his jacket and took
out a small packet of letters. The envelopes were crisp
and white. They were tied together with a mauve ribbon.
'I have a price in mind,' he said.

'So do I,' Aubrey said and he held out his hand. 'It will
be fair.'

Monsieur Caron looked pained, but surrendered the
bundle. 'I look forward to your payment.'

'No doubt.' Aubrey held the letters and was mildly
surprised that such important documents didn't weigh
more. They looked fresh and new, as if they had been
written yesterday. 'Mrs Hepworth, would you take care of
these for me?'

'Or course, dear boy. Your grandmother will be
grateful for your efforts.'

The tower shook, violently this time. George gave a
shout. 'Aubrey, look!'

Aubrey hurried to the window. Pylons, mooring
masts, airships. 'It's the St Martin airfield.' His mind
buzzed. Gabriel and Saltin had admitted that the Gallian
Dirigible Corps was full of Marchmainers. Von Stralick
had warned that the Marchmainers were after the Heart
of Gold.

It all fell into place. He stood, staring at nothing at all.
'I have it,' he said softly.

'Well, would you mind sharing it?' Caroline said.

'Remember when Gabriel took us to this airfield, on
Thursday? Saltin was waiting for him, airship ready.'

'Ready for what?' George asked.

'To take the Heart of Gold to Marchmaine, where the
Sons of Victor would restore it to its supposed rightful
place.'

'But Gabriel didn't have it,' George protested.

'He's spent the last few days getting it, I think.' Aubrey
pointed at the airfield ahead. 'From the way this tower is
heading, it looks as if he's been successful.'

Aubrey let his explanation sink in. George pursed his
lips thoughtfully, while Caroline seemed about to argue,
but then nodded, as if she'd checked his logic and been
convinced. Mrs Hepworth smiled, excited, but Monsieur
Caron simply looked as if he'd rather be somewhere else.

'Since we're heading towards a nest of fanatical
murderers,' Caroline said, 'do you think we could be a
little more circumspect in our approach?'

'Ah. Are you suggesting that it's difficult to creep up
on anyone in a five-storey tower?'

'Yes, that's just what I was suggesting.'

'Good point.' Aubrey remembered the woods that
bordered the airfield. 'Hold on to something. We need to
descend quickly.'

While he peered out of the window, he put a hand on
the brickwork of the ancient tower. His skin tingled
where it touched brick and mortar. It felt as if the old
tower was singing, alive with the thrill of magic. He
moved with the rhythm of power that was pulsing
through the structure, summoning the spell he'd used to
raise it from its slumber. Carefully, he inverted the inversion,
adding an element which would return the tower's
weight in a controlled fashion.

The tower dropped.

Amid a chorus of cries and gasps, Aubrey hissed, then
spat out two stone-hard Chaldean syllables. The tower's
plunge slowed, then stopped. It bobbed in place like a
soap bubble.

'Is everyone all right?'

One by one, the passengers admitted they were
unhurt. Aubrey rubbed his forehead and repeated the
spell, with special emphasis on the elements that
controlled the rate of descent. The tower slowed, then
descended in a steadier fashion.

'George,' he barked. 'Open the door. Let me know
how we're going.'

George wrenched the door open. 'Lots of trees, all
round. Large pine tree right below us, old man, about ten
feet. There's a bit of a space to the right.'

They were still drifting sideways, more slowly now that
Aubrey was returning the tower's proper weight to it.
He hoped it would be enough lateral movement to avoid
the pine tree. He whispered a few more syllables and the
tower inched lower, slowly settling. A woody crunching
noise came from below their feet and the rich scent of
pine wafted in. Monsieur Caron cried out as a large rock
punched up through the floor, and then they were down.

George signed to Aubrey. 'That was close.'

'How close?'

George stood back from the door. The trunk of the
pine tree was no more than a yard away.

'Good camouflage,' Aubrey said. 'Let's hope no-one
saw us.'

He started for the door. 'Where are you going?'
Monsieur Caron said. 'You have your letters. What more
do you want?'

Aubrey smiled a lopsided smile. 'The Heart of Gold.
Now, who wants to come and battle a band of fanatics
for it?'

A
UBREY LAY ON HIS BELLY AND PEERED AROUND THE
corner of the shed, minimising his profile and his
chances of being detected. Gravel bit into his chest, but
he ignored the discomfort and scanned the site of most
of the activity on the base: the largest hangar. Even
though it was the early evening, hordes of workers
streamed in and out of the facility.

Before leaving the tower, he'd had a moment of concern
when Mrs Hepworth volunteered to come with them. It
was only after Caroline had firm words with her that she
relented and stayed with a relieved Monsieur Caron.

The shed they were using for concealment was an
accommodation hut with wooden bunks and spartan
furniture, but no tenants. Aubrey took note that it had
room for twenty inhabitants.

Between them and the big hangar were twenty or
thirty such huts constructed of corrugated iron. On the
other side of the gravel road were similar structures,
larger and with all the appearance of workshops or warehouses.
Those closest to the hangar had open doors, and
a constant flow of workers hauled heavy boxes and
lengths of metal between these buildings and the hangar.

Two lorries pulled up in front of the hangar and
discharged a dozen men each. The sound of heavy
construction came from it: metallic screeches and the
relentless pounding of heavy machinery.

Half a mile or more past the last hangar, a single airship
was moored to its mast. More men were clustered around
armed with rifles, and a lorry was beetling back across the
tarmac.

Aubrey reached into his pocket.

'Opera glasses, Aubrey?' Caroline said.

He shrugged. 'Madame Calvert lent them to me. I
applied a spell that uses the Law of Intensification to
enhance their powers.' Aubrey didn't add that he hadn't
been able to prevent a side-effect that meant that the
glasses occasionally flashed images from operas that
Madame Calvert had seen over the years. It was disconcerting
when a large, mail-clad tenor suddenly appeared
in his field of vision.

None of the men on the tarmac was wearing a
uniform. They looked more like farm labourers than
soldiers, but the way they carried their weapons was
definitely military.

Slowly, he pulled his head back. 'Well?' George said.

'Plenty of activity all around. It looks as if the airship
is nearly ready to fly to Chrétien.'

'How are we going to get the Heart of Gold back from
them?' Caroline asked.

Excellent question
, Aubrey thought. 'Subterfuge. We have
to be clever rather than strong.'

'Would seem to be the best approach,' George said, 'a
frontal assault being rather out of the question, with just
the three of us.'

Aubrey had an idea. 'Caroline, didn't you say that Dr
Romellier was working from here?'

She brightened. 'He was put here to advise on airship
structures. He's stayed here since. Perhaps he likes the
solitude.'

'Perhaps,' Aubrey said, but he wasn't convinced. The
airfield was a busy place, and all the more so since the
sabotage attack. Reconstruction, police, special investigators
. . .No, St Martin airfield wouldn't be quiet at all.
'Why don't the Marchmainers move him out? He must
be a nuisance.'

'I can't imagine that a bird man would be much
trouble,' George said. 'Fussing about with feathers and
beaks can't be too much of a nuisance.'

Aubrey was troubled by this, but he knew that while
some knots untied when pulled, most only became
knottier. He put it aside. 'He could help us, if we could
find him.'

'Where would he be, then?' George asked. 'This is a
big place.'

'Tell me, Caroline,' Aubrey said. 'Do you think a
researcher like Dr Romellier would appreciate the sort of
noise that's coming from the hangar over there?'

'Unlikely,' Caroline said. 'It would drive him to distraction.'

'So, if he had a choice, he'd find somewhere distant
from actual construction work.'

'Back toward the main gate,' George suggested.

'But not too close. All the traffic goes through the gate.
He'd find that irritating as well.'

Aubrey crawled to the rear corner of the hut. A lane of
bare earth between the two rows of huts had become a
de facto drain.

'This way,' he hissed to his friends. When they joined
him, he paused. 'We know Dr Romellier was communicating
with Monsieur Moir via pigeon, don't we?'

'That's what Monsieur Moir told me,' Caroline said.

'Then let's see which of these huts has a pigeon loft
nearby.'

The three moved through the shadows, avoiding the
drain. Despite the lack of rain, it was muddy and rank.

The pigeon loft they found was small, only large
enough for half a dozen birds, and it was empty – but
bowls of seeds and fresh water showed that it was still
in use.

Aubrey moved to the hut nearest the loft, listening
carefully. If anyone was inside, they were keeping very
quiet. Then again, a research scientist immersed in his
work would hardly make a din, he reasoned.

He beckoned to the others. They crouched at the side
of the stairs.

'One at a time,' he whispered, then he slipped under
the handrail of the stairs and onto the covered porch.
Hidden from view of the hangar, he waited for George
and Caroline to join him. When they did – and no alarm
went up – he opened the door to the hut and, together,
they crept inside.

At first, Aubrey thought it was dim because of the
dozens of stuffed birds that were hanging from the
ceiling. Then he realised that the windows were draped
with gauze.

The hut was one large room. A camp bed took up the
left-hand corner, but it looked as if it hadn't been used
for a long time. Most of the rest of the room was filled
with steamer trunks and packing cases, all of them
bearing labels indicating their exotic origins: Nippon, the
South Sea Islands, the Arctic, and a number of Oriental
nations Aubrey had only heard of as synonyms for 'the
ends of the earth'. A long bench took up the wall
opposite, under the gauze-swathed windows. A man sat
at a desk in the far corner, his back to them, his bald head
reflecting the glow of an electrical lamp.

'Close the door,' the man said in clipped Gallian. 'And
be quick about it.'

'Sorry,' Aubrey replied in the same language. The man's
accent made Aubrey pause, frowning. 'I didn't realise
there was a draught.'

The figure at the desk turned and put an elbow on the
back of the chair. An enormous black beard jutted from
his chin. 'It isn't the draught, it's the light.' He cocked his
head on one side. 'You're from Albion, aren't you?' he said
in Albionish. 'What are you doing here?'

'You are Dr Romellier?'

The bald-headed man nodded once, sharply. 'Of
course.'

'My mother sends you greetings.'

'Your mother?'

'Lady Rose Fitzwilliam. The naturalist.'

'Ah.' Dr Romellier's expression changed from guarded
wariness to shrewd calculation. 'So you would be the son
of the Prime Minister of Albion, then.'

Dr Romellier stood. He was wearing a white shirt, but
no tie. His sleeves were rolled up, showing forearms as
brawny as a blacksmith, even though the doctor wouldn't
have been much more than four feet tall. Aubrey had
never given much consideration to what an ornithologist
looked like, and was glad he hadn't gone to the trouble
of working up a preconception.

'My mother is an admirer of your work, Dr
Romellier,' Aubrey said after he made introductions, to
which the ornithologist responded coolly.

'She should be.' He crossed his arms on his broad chest.
He stood with his back to his desk, keeping himself
between his work and visitors. 'I am a genius.'

No false modesty here
, Aubrey thought.

'D'you mind if we have a seat, doctor?' George asked,
looking around.

'Yes. I didn't invite you here.'

George was startled, but Aubrey cut in before his friend
could argue. 'My mother is keen to get a copy of your
monograph on flightless birds of the southern oceans.'

'My monograph?' Dr Romellier cocked his head.
'That's what you're here for?'

Aubrey decided flattery was probably the most useful
approach, especially with a self-declared genius. 'Of
course. My mother feels your ground-breaking work
deserves the widest audience possible.'

Dr Romellier studied Aubrey for some time, in silence.
Aubrey felt as if he were being sized up for dissection. 'It
is as I thought, then.'

Caroline and George looked at Aubrey. He shrugged,
minutely. 'Dr Romellier? On another matter, we need to
ask for your help.'

'My help?' Dr Romellier smiled a little, but Aubrey
was concerned at the wintriness of that smile. 'What is it
you want?'

'We need to get to the airship hangar.'

'The place with all the noise?'

'You haven't been there?'

'Not recently. They said they wanted my help to design
ships with more lift.' He scowled. 'The fools. I could have
created a profile that would save them money and make
their airships the most dynamic in the world. I discard
them, now. I will leave, soon, and go where I am appreciated.'
He glared at the wall closest the hangar.

Caroline cleared her throat.

'Dr Romellier, if you help us, we can help you.'

'How can you help me?'

'You want to go where you are appreciated. I happen
to know that Lady Fitzwilliam is equipping an expedition
to the Arctic and is looking for expert colleagues.'

Aubrey stared. This was news to him.

'Lady Fitzwilliam,' Dr Romellier repeated.

'We're seeing her this weekend, you know,' Caroline
said.

Aubrey saw where Caroline was leading. He chimed
in. 'We could talk to her, if you like, if you're interested
in being part of her expedition. Or I could introduce you
and you could ask her yourself.'

'So, if I get you into this hangar, you'll introduce me
to your mother.'

'Gladly.'

Dr Romellier studied Aubrey again, in the same
clinical manner as before. He nodded, once, like an axe
chopping. 'I'll take you straightaway.'

'Steady on, old chap,' George said. 'Don't you want to
know what's going on?'

'Politics, I imagine,' Dr Romellier said. 'Parlour games
for the rich and idle. I have more important things to
think about.'

'Hear that, Aubrey?' George said. '"Parlour games for
the rich and idle".'

Aubrey ignored this. 'We're grateful, Dr Romellier.'

Dr Romellier took them to the gap between his hut
and the next. Wedged there was a dogcart, low, twowheeled,
with battered wooden panels.

The ornithologist dragged a tarpaulin out of the cart.
'Here. Lie down. I'll get you in.'

Aubrey eyed the cart, then Dr Romellier. 'Do you
often use this?'

'Often enough,' the ornithologist said. 'As you saw,
I have many deliveries. Those in charge here say they
can't spare anyone to help me, so I help myself. Get in,
get in.'

Aubrey climbed into the back of the cart with
Caroline and George. With some awkwardness, they
managed to arrange themselves.

Dr Romellier inspected them. 'Don't make a sound.'
He drew the tarpaulin.

The heavy cloth smelled of paint. Aubrey concentrated
on taking shallow breaths as the cart jolted and
began to move. It rumbled along easily enough, but he
was glad that the journey was only a short one as every
stone and every bump seemed to be magnified by the
lack of springs. He could hear Dr Romellier's heavy
breathing and the noises of the hangar growing louder
and louder.

In the dim light under the tarpaulin he gave George
and Caroline the thumbs up just as the cart swung
around and bumped once, hard. From the smoother
rolling, Aubrey guessed that they'd reached the concrete
apron in front of the hangar. The noise intensified again,
with great whooshing sounds overlapping with the hiss
and pungent smell of welding. Chains were rattling in
the near distance, with men shouting over the top of
loud grinding.

The cart juddered over metal grates and past something
that hummed with the relentless sound of an electrical
motor. Aubrey heard a door roll shut and then they
were in relative quiet.

The tarpaulin was dragged back. Aubrey blinked in the
harsh, actinic light. Three men were standing next to Dr
Romellier. Two held revolvers. The other was Gabriel,
the leader of the Sons of Victor.

Dr Romellier scowled at Gabriel. 'Dr Tremaine was
right,' he said in Gallian, 'these thieves came to steal my
monograph.'

Gabriel slapped the ornithologist on the back and
grinned. 'Don't worry. We'll take care of them.'

Aubrey heard Gabriel's threat, but only distantly. He
was still stunned at what Dr Romellier had said.

Dr Tremaine. He's mixed up in all this!

Aubrey feverishly began to rethink all his suppositions
and assumptions about the events of the past few weeks
– but this time factoring in the malevolent involvement
of the ex-Sorcerer Royal of Albion.

Things were much, much worse than he'd thought.