Blaze of Glory (16 page)

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.'