Blaze of Glory (17 page)

'You could solve this?'

Aubrey closed his eyes. 'I've done some work with
ciphers in the past. It's diverting.'

'I see. This looks like a tricky one, doesn't it?' George
tore out the cryptic advertisement and dangled it in
front of Aubrey.

Aubrey opened one eye. 'Are you trying to challenge
me, George?'

'What do you think?'

He took it. 'Let me consider it. It will be a pleasant
change from thinking about the events of today.'

And the mysterious master of the golem
, Aubrey thought as
George went back to the paper. He gazed out of the
window at the countryside speeding by. While evening
was falling, and all good things were beginning to
drowse, somewhere out there was a powerful, elusive
adversary.

He turned away from the window and began to
consider George's cipher.

T
HE FOLLOWING WEEK AT
S
TONELEA
S
CHOOL WAS THE
last before the mid-year break. As was their usual
arrangement, George was going to stay with the Fitzwilliams
for the first part of the mid-year holidays, but
Aubrey saw little of him in that hectic final week of term.
George was busy with cornet practice for the mid-year
concert, and study, for once, had also kept his head down.

Aubrey was again in the thick of everything, trying to
devote his energies to a thousand different commitments.
He found himself rehearsing lines for his part as the
defence barrister in the school play while trying to
memorise formulae for his Advanced Magic exam at the
same time as he was practising his googly in the nets with
the First XI. On top of this, his batting had dropped off
and he had to spend some hours refining his late cut.

Aubrey had always been at the top of his class. It wasn't
simply because of native intelligence, but because he
approached his studies in a rigorously organised way,
almost as if study was a military campaign. He mapped
out his work, broke subjects down into sections and
segments, organised his attack on each one, took notes
that were concise but included everything important.

Cricket was different. While he had natural wiry
strength and quickness, he knew he wasn't the world's
most gifted athlete. So he watched and studied sports,
choosing things that would yield to his intellectual
approach. In cricket, that was leg spin. The art appealed
to him as a combination of guile and misdirection. The
complex variety of deliveries was perfect for the way he
approached the world in general.

Acting was something he found relaxing. With his
good memory, he had no trouble remembering lines and
he wasn't at all afraid of the limelight. In fact, walking out
on stage allowed him to be someone else for a time –
someone who wasn't Sir Darius Fitzwilliam's son.

The teachers and the boys at the school saw Aubrey
involved in all these things and wondered how he
managed to keep up such a high standard. What they
didn't see was the extra burden of struggling to stay alive.

During that last week of term, Aubrey felt the strain.
He forced himself to rest, to spend time attending to the
needs of his body. Where once he would simply have
driven himself to achieve, going without sleep if required,
he now imposed a regime of relaxation periods to ensure
his physical integrity. With care, he spent evenings
researching arcane texts for possible approaches to a
permanent solution to his plight.

With all this going on, Aubrey didn't have much time
to discuss the events of the shooting weekend with
George. They swapped a few thoughts and theories in
passing, but too many school commitments got in the
way for any detailed analysis.

It wasn't until the Friday afternoon, after the last examination
– mathematics – that they were able to turn their
minds to matters other than school.

They were sitting on a bench near the cricket nets.
No-one was practising, most having already left for the
holidays. A broken stump lay against the fence. The grass
needed cutting and swallows were swooping low over it,
snapping up insects.

Sitting there, basking in the sun, knowing that George
was happy reading his newspaper, Aubrey was able to
address matters he'd put to one side.

During his preparation for the examinations, he'd
stumbled on some decades-old research in an obscure
branch of magic concerned with bonding and unification.
Apparently the researchers had been convinced that
their work was proving barren, but Aubrey wasn't so sure.
He felt that this could be a useful avenue to explore for
stabilising his condition.

Time
, he thought, and rubbed his temples.
That's all I
need. About three lives' worth
.

He'd need to spend some of it at one of the big university
libraries, perhaps talk to some academics . . .

That made him think of Professor Hepworth and
this
made him think of Caroline.

She was one of the thousand things on his mind since
leaving Penhurst after the shooting weekend. He hadn't
had a chance to say goodbye to her. Or to arrange to meet
again. And that was something he desired. Very much.

Hanging over the memories of that weekend was the
great, unresolved question. Who was behind the golem
assassin? No-one had questioned Aubrey or George since
they'd left Penhurst, but it hadn't prevented Aubrey's
mind from circling around this question like a wasp
around fallen fruit. He had to admit, though, that he had
had no insights.

Intelligence
, he thought.
I need more intelligence.

'George,' he said suddenly, 'fancy a visit to Penhurst?'

George lowered the newspaper. 'Penhurst?'

'Bertie isn't there – he's in the city – but I thought it
might be a nice place for a few days' camping in the woods.'

The clock over the library sounded four o'clock and
Aubrey absently thought that there was nothing as empty
as an empty school. The bell echoed around the buildings
and quadrangles as if looking for company.

'Penhurst,' George said. 'Would we take the train?'

'Cycling, George. Haven't you ever been on a cycling
holiday?'

'Not really.'

'Jolly fun. Healthy exercise, life in the outdoors, a
chance to see the countryside.'

'Nothing to do with a chance to investigate the scene
of the crime?'

Aubrey grinned. 'Intelligence, George. That's what we
need.'

George snorted. 'Steady on, old man. You're heading
for the Snainton Prize as dux of the school. If you get any
more intelligence your head will explode.'

'Intelligence in the military sense, George. Information.
News. The stuff one needs to make decisions.'

George considered this. 'What about your parents?'

'Mother is away. She's gone up north to gather some
specimens. Father is always pleased when I get more
exercise. He'll be convinced once he sees you're going
along. He thinks well of you.'

'Does he?'

'Of course. You seem to make a good impression on
people. The Crown Prince. My father. Who knows
where it will end?' He rubbed his hands together. 'Now,
what do you say?'

George stood. 'I don't have a bicycle.'

'The least of our problems. Plenty of spare bicycles at
Maidstone.'

T
HEY SET OFF THE NEXT MORNING.

Aubrey had some difficulty extricating himself from
the clutches of the staff. Cook insisted on thrusting
bottles of ginger beer on him. Stubbs wouldn't let them
leave without taking one last look at the chains and gears
of both bicycles. Eventually, Aubrey was able to point out
that they couldn't carry any more without the bicycles
collapsing. Reluctantly, the staff withdrew and waved
them off.

They cycled out of the front gates of Maidstone, down
the Talavera Road, ready to leave Fielding Cross. George
swooped close to Aubrey. 'Sir Darius didn't see us off?'

'He was called to Parliament last night, after dinner.'

George nodded. 'Party business?'

'Party business.'

With the election only a month and a half away, Sir
Darius was neck deep in campaigning. Aubrey had grown
up with this and knew that politics wasn't just standing up
in Parliament and arguing. It was meetings – endless meetings
– negotiations, compromises, handshaking, alliances,
promises, paybacks, favours, disappointments and finding
out more about your fellow humans than you really
wanted to know. The hugger-mugger of politics was
where people were naked with their wants, desires, needs
and fears on display, if one only knew where to look.

Aubrey revelled in it. He loved it because it was subtle
and delicate at one moment, and blindingly explicit the
next. He loved it because he loved all games; he loved
the competition, the cut and thrust, the thrill that came
from risk and success, from besting one's opponent, from
planning, strategies and tactics.

The difference was that politics was the only real game.
It was the game that could change things, could alter the
very way people lived. With the right outlook, with
determination and clear sight, the game of politics could
change the world for the better.

Which was what Aubrey wanted to do.

As soon as he could, he turned off the main road and
into less busy side streets.

'You know the way?' George said as they cruised past
rows of elegant townhouses. A police officer on his
rounds gave them a nod as they went by.

'I have a map,' Aubrey said. 'I studied it last night. If we
leave the city on the Harnsby road, that should be best.'

They swept around a corner, skirting a pocket-sized
park. At this hour it was free of the nannies and children
who'd be gathering later in the day. The morning was
sunny, with few clouds in the sky. Aubrey was grateful
for the lack of wind. He knew wind was the enemy of
the cyclist, never seeming to be at one's back but always
in one's face.

After an hour they were out of the city and into the
hedgerows and fields of the countryside. They made
steady progress and Aubrey called a stop mid-morning.

'Ginger beer?' he offered as they sat with their backs to
the stump of an old poplar tree, the last in a once proud
avenue. Behind them, a solitary sheep stood in the middle
of a field, complaining. Aubrey thought it sounded peevish,
as if it had suddenly remembered that it hadn't been
invited to the party all the other sheep had gone to.

George shuddered. 'No, thank you. Ghastly stuff.' A
crow sat on a hedge nearby and eyed them. George broke
a corner off the shortbread biscuit he was eating and
flung it to him. The crow lurched into the air and flapped
off, cawing.

'George,' Aubrey said, 'there's something distinctly odd
about the affair last weekend.'

'A golem trying to assassinate the heir to the throne?
What's so odd about that?'

'I was thinking more of the people involved. A rather
strange bunch, wouldn't you say?'

'Well, I've never been to such a thing. You'd be more
of an expert than I would.'

Aubrey nodded. 'I've been at Penhurst a number of
times when weekend gatherings have been held. Some
of them were shoots.'

'You didn't go on the shoots?'

'Too young, the same as Bertie. I seemed to be there
to give him a companion. Chess, draughts, things like
that. And exploring the house, too. Fascinating stuff
stored there.'

'And this weekend was different?'

'Indeed. The researchers? The Holmlanders? Members
of the government?'

'People like the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the
Home Secretary?'

'The Chancellor was at Penhurst to discipline some
backbenchers who had let their private lives become
scandalous, shall we say. Not good just before an election.
The Chancellor's job was to get them to step aside
without a fuss, in favour of some new blood. He took the
Home Secretary for support.'

'How do you know this?'

'It's not too difficult to work out. When the
Chancellor of the Exchequer takes three long-time MPs
aside, it's not because he wants to wish them well. After
getting back last weekend, I made some enquiries about
what's been happening in Parliament. It was a matter of
putting two and two together.'

'And what about Boothby, the Foreign Secretary?'
George asked. 'What was he doing there?'

'Interesting, that. I happened to see him talking
earnestly with the Holmland Ambassador.'

'You didn't overhear?'

'No.' Aubrey scratched his chin. 'I wonder how talking
with the Holmland Ambassador furthers Sir Guy's aim to
become next Prime Minister.'

George started. 'Do you think that Sir Guy wants to be
Prime Minister?'

'I'm not alone. He's an ambitious one, that Sir Guy.'

'Rather like you?'

Aubrey grinned. 'But unlike Sir Guy, I have the advantage
of being on the side of righteousness and honour.'

'And modesty,' George pointed out.

Aubrey stood and started pacing. 'Come, George, tell
me what you thought of the researchers.'

'Those scruffy chaps? They didn't seem to fit in with
the others.'

'You've hit the nail on the head, George. They weren't
part of the usual crowd at all. That's what intrigues me.'

'The Prince feels sorry for them. That's what he said.'

'Yes, that's all well enough. He's a kind-hearted chap
and he most certainly does feel sorry for them. But
remember that Dr Tremaine told us he was in charge of
a top secret research facility and
then
we found out that
he was heading this Banford Park. He couldn't be
supremo of two research facilities.'

'You thought that he was in charge of something to do
with the military.'