Blaze of Glory (20 page)

'Doesn't the military ordinarily do that?' George asked.

Caroline rolled her eyes. 'Mostly, the military chiefs are
doing well if they can plan what they're going to have for
lunch.'

Aubrey continued. 'These long-term planners, shall we
call them, may decide to ensure that the brightest brains
in the country are in the forces – have taken the King's
commission.'

'Oh,' Caroline said.

'Imagine,' Aubrey went on, 'a talented young magical
researcher, perhaps just married, certainly struggling for
money, being approached by a senior military man. Most
likely a war hero, but that may be just a nicety.'

'You're making this up,' Caroline accused.

'Yes,' George said. 'This is what he does. He thinks
about things and then spins stories to fit.'

'To go on,' Aubrey said, 'this military man would tell
our young researcher that he could undertake a special
short stint in the army – or navy, but I can't really see
Professor Hepworth at sea.'

Caroline shook her head. 'No. Chronic seasickness. He
suffers terribly. Suffered terribly.' Her chin quivered, but
she caught herself.

Aubrey resumed. 'The military man would persuade
our young researcher by leaning on his patriotism, his
duty to the country, and suggesting that a military record
would not go astray in applying for academic positions. It
would be an irresistible case. A short time in the service,
some useful pay, and then our young researcher forgets all
about his time in uniform because he finds an academic
post and his studies take over.'

'Just in time,' George said. 'Here's the train.'

With the stationmaster's help, they were able to negotiate
with the guard and the bicycles were safely stowed in the van.

After they had settled in their compartment, Aubrey
weighed up matters then took the chance to resume the
conversation. 'And what exactly were you doing out
there last night, Miss Hepworth?'

She looked out of the window before answering,
through the steam and smoke as the train eased out of the
station. 'I was waiting for the Black Beast. It killed my
father. I wanted to destroy it.'

George raised an eyebrow. 'With a shotgun?'

'A remarkable shotgun,' Aubrey said. 'Isn't that right,
Miss Hepworth?'

She nodded. 'I'm not as credulous as to believe the
thing that killed my father was really the Black Beast of
legend, but I knew it had to be something extremely
powerful, magically. In my father's workshop . . .' Her
voice caught a little in her throat. 'I found some magically
prepared shotgun shells and a gun. I thought it might
work against the creature.'

At the mention of Professor Hepworth's workshop,
Aubrey leaned forward. The workshop could hold some
useful information about what the professor was working
on, and his business with Banford Park. If Caroline had
access to the workshop, it could bear investigating.

'You know what the creature is?' George asked. The
train whistle screeched as they rounded the bend and
steamed up the hill away from Penhurst.

'No. Not really. Not entirely.'

'Tell me, Miss Hepworth,' Aubrey said, 'where did your
father work?'

She looked a little puzzled at the abrupt change of
direction in the conversation. 'At the research facility.
Banford Park.'

'Yes, but where exactly
is
the research facility?'

'Bordering Penhurst Estate, I think.' She pursed her
lips. 'I'm sure of it. Father was vague about directions,
but that was unsurprising. He was terrible at reading
maps and things like that, but he did say that he could
walk from the research facility to the Big House in an
hour or so, and had done so many times. After the Prince
visited their facility, he insisted that the researchers come
to Penhurst often. I think he was appalled at the living
quarters.'

'The Prince visited the research facility?' Aubrey asked
sharply.

'So Father said. I suppose he shouldn't really have talked
about all these things, but I'm sure the security people
were at their wits' end with the researchers. Researchers
simply couldn't understand what secrecy was for. They
were used to sharing their work, not hiding it.'

'And did your father happen to mention what
sort
of
work they were doing?'

'No. Even he must have realised that he shouldn't
discuss some things. All I can say is that, whenever I
managed to see him, he was either exhilarated or decidedly
unhappy. The exhilaration meant that his work was
stimulating, full of challenges and unexpected findings.
The unhappiness was the sort of unhappiness I'd only
seen once before, when the university forced him to
work on a project he didn't agree with, something to do
with magical experimentation on animals.'

'Jolly good of him,' George said.

Aubrey glanced at him. George had never approved
of such things as cruelty to animals, even in the name of
magical enquiry, a legacy of his heritage on the land. Over
the years Aubrey had seen the way his friend had made
pets of orphan lambs whenever he was on the farm.

'How did that project at the university go?' Aubrey
asked. 'The one he was forced to work on?'

Caroline smiled faintly. 'Terribly. With Father's heart
not in it, it dragged on and on. I don't think he consciously
sabotaged it, but the project went around in circles, mistakes
were made, results lost . . . It was eventually abandoned, and
I remember Father sheepishly telling us about the dean's
displeasure, but he couldn't stop smiling at the thought of
moving on to something he really wanted to do.'

Aubrey sat back in his seat and looked out of the window
for a time. He jiggled a leg, and began humming.

Caroline stared curiously at this display. 'It's all right,'
George said to her. 'He's often like this.'

'George,' Aubrey said, 'do you have your notebook?'

George plucked it from his jacket and produced a
pencil.

'Very good. Let us note what we have here.'

Aubrey cleared his throat and held up a finger. 'Firstly,
with respect, we have the death of two famous magical
researchers, Dr Tremaine and Professor Hepworth, one
by sorcerous means.'

Caroline's mouth firmed, but she nodded.

'Secondly, we have an attempt on the life of the Crown
Prince. Again, by sorcerous means. Thirdly, we have a
highly secret magical research facility near the site of all
three of these incidents.'

Aubrey looked at the three fingers he was holding up.
'Have I forgotten anything?'

'A reasonable explanation,' George said, staring at his
notes.

'George, simply because we can't see something doesn't
mean it's not there. I thought you'd know that by now.
Don't you agree, Miss Hepworth?'

She frowned. 'So you're saying, if I follow you correctly,
that the research facility may be involved in both sorcerous
attacks? The one on my father and the one on Prince
Albert?'

'Exactly.' Aubrey sat back and crossed his arms on his
chest, feeling reasonably smug.

'But why?'

Aubrey blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it
again. He held up a finger and started again. 'I will answer
a question with some further questions.'
That should give
me some time to come up with something
, he thought. 'Why
would someone want both Professor Hepworth and the
Crown Prince dead? What do they have in common?
Who could benefit from their deaths?'

'Not Banford Park. Father was the leading researcher.
He was vital for their work.'

Aubrey thought aloud. 'War work. Banford Park was
involved in work for the military.'

'How do you know that?' Caroline asked.

George snorted. 'He guessed when we met Dr
Tremaine. It fits, you know. Professor Hepworth's being
redrafted. Things are happening with Holmland. It makes
sense that we'd have top brains working on magical
means for defence.'

Caroline looked at both of them. 'The war.' She looked
grim, then distressed. 'That would be it.'

'The research facility could be there to find new
sorcerous means to defend the country,' Aubrey said. 'Or
it may be for magical offensive weapons, more work of
this long-range planning group of the military, no doubt.'

'The Black Beast?' George offered. 'Has someone been
using the guise of an old legend to hide these new sorcerous
weapons?'

'Perhaps. Imagine such a creature on the battlefield.
Panic, terror, troops throwing down weapons and running
away. It could be devastating.'

Aubrey stared out of the window at the green and
pleasant countryside. He hated to think of such a place as
the scene of battle.

He knew that Albion was in an exceedingly delicate
situation. It might be an island kingdom, but the continent
was only a few miles away. Following the manoeuvrings
between the countries and empires there was like trying
to keep track of clouds in a storm-driven sky. The Goltan
states were a powder keg of shifting alliances, with powerful
nations surrounding them and watching closely. It was
made even more complicated by the King insisting that his
many relations, on the many thrones on the continent,
were all to be trusted and supported.

Aubrey paid attention to his father's business inside and
outside Parliament and had come to the conclusion that
Holmland was the centre of much of the disquiet. It was
becoming increasingly warlike; recently, it had been
annexing small principalities under the flimsiest pretexts.
Now it was looking hungrily at the Goltan states. And
though the King had recently repeated his view that
Holmland was a harmless friend, a jolly empire which
made fine accordions, good beer and better sausages,
there were many who thought differently.

Aubrey's father was one. He was a strong proponent of
firm resistance, of facing up to bluffs and shows of force
from the increasingly strong Holmland. He was not one
for appeasement.

'Your father, Miss Hepworth,' Aubrey asked, 'what was
his view about the war?'

She was gazing through the window, her chin resting
on a long and elegant hand. She looked at Aubrey and his
heart turned an odd corner. 'He didn't have one. He dismissed
the continental situation as a lot of silly posturing.'

'There's quite a bit of that, but it does go deeper.'

'I'm sure,' she murmured and returned her attention to
the passing countryside.

Aubrey gazed at her for some time. 'What are your
plans, Miss Hepworth?' he eventually asked.

George raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

'Please call me Caroline. Both of you. "Miss Hepworth"
sounds unbearably old-fashioned.' She looked at
Aubrey evenly. 'I still aim to find out who killed my
father. Even if it is tangled up with warmongering.'

'Sounds rather dangerous,' George said.

'It's bound to be,' Aubrey said. 'You're going back to
Penhurst?' he asked Caroline.

She shook her head. 'I have to help my mother with
the funeral.' She paused and Aubrey was impressed again
by her calm. 'I thought I might go to look in Father's
workshop.' She sighed. 'There may be something, some
indication –'

'Your father's workshop?' Aubrey interrupted. 'At the
research facility? How will you get entry?'

She waved this away. 'His private workshop, nothing to
do with the research facility. At Greythorn. The university
paid the rent on it, hoping his secondment wouldn't
last long. He may have left something in his notebook
about what he was working on before he went.'

'Excellent!' Aubrey said. 'All we'd need would be a
clue, a hint . . .'

'We?' both Caroline and George echoed.

'You are making an assumption here,' Caroline said to
Aubrey.

He shrugged. 'I tend to. Forgive me. I feel this may be
important.' He grinned. 'I can be ready in a day. When
would suit you? The sooner the better, of course.'

Caroline stiffened.

'Aubrey,' George said, 'the funeral . . .'

'Ah.' Aubrey felt like kicking himself. He'd allowed his
enthusiasm to run away, again. 'Yes. I'm sorry.'

Caroline didn't look at him, or answer. She simply
turned to the window again.

The train whistle wailed and they hurtled towards the
city.

'I
'
M NOT SURE THIS IS A GOOD IDEA,'
G
EORGE SAID.
'It's the right thing to do, whether it's a good idea
or not,' Aubrey replied. 'Straighten up. Don't slouch.'

'I feel uncomfortable.'

'Sometimes you do things not because of how it makes
you feel, but because of how it makes other people feel.'

George scowled. 'I hate funerals.'

'Some people like them,' Aubrey mused. 'In a family
like mine, I've had third cousins and great-stepuncles
passing on quite regularly. I've been dragged to dozens of
funerals, ever since I was born. I'm sure there are people
who feel that a funeral is a fine day out, a good social
occasion, time to catch up and gossip.'

'Hush,' George said as they reached the stairs of the
church. 'Let's find a space in the back pews.'

Aubrey and George had arrived in Greythorn after an
early morning train trip from the city. The church was a
modest, blocky affair. It wasn't in the university proper,
but in a part of the town near a motorbus depot. Aubrey
wondered why the professor – or his wife – had chosen
this place and not one of the grand chapels at one of the
colleges.

He looked at the large congregation who'd assembled
to mark the professor's passing. To judge from the crowd,
he decided Professor Hepworth had been no academic
recluse. Relatives were easy to spot from familial resemblance,
and his colleagues were wearing formal academic
robes. But there were many others. Quite a few took
advantage of the motorbus station to arrive by public
transport, but while waiting outside Aubrey had seen a
butcher's cart pull up and disgorge half a dozen men, and
many bicycles were leaning against the fence.

He also saw famous faces. Phillips-Dodd, the Home
Secretary, was perfectly dressed as usual, his black morning
suit no doubt worth hundreds of pounds. Sir Guy Boothby,
the Foreign Secretary, was also present. Aubrey looked
for, but didn't see, Sir Philip Saxby, the Minister for Magic.

The service was difficult. Professor Hepworth was
obviously loved and respected, and the distress expressed
by many of the congregation was contagious. Aubrey felt
tears come to his own eyes as he reflected on mortality
and its frailties.

The eulogy was delivered by Sir Isambard Hammersmith,
the ancient and revered President of the Royal
Society for Magic. He spoke at length, detailing Professor
Hepworth's formidable intellect and energy and expressing
great sorrow at the loss to magic research. He
touched on the dual loss to the field, with the too-recent
passing of the Sorcerer Royal, Dr Tremaine. The old
man looked crushed.

Immediately after Sir Isambard had finished, the
minister signed to another man that it was his turn to
speak.

He was small and nervous, with sharp features, about
fifty years old – although Aubrey found it hard to guess.
He held a cloth cap in his hands and he continually
twisted it as if he were wringing washing.

He announced that his name was Charles Ob and then
told of how Professor Hepworth had been his drinking
companion for years.

Aubrey's eyes went wide. Professor Hepworth's
drinking
companion
?

This claim caused a mass shifting of position in the
congregation. Only the fact that it was a funeral service
prevented a buzz of puzzled conversation.

Mr Ob went on to tell how Professor Hepworth had
helped all six of his children through school. One of
them, he said proudly, had gone on to the university. As
an afterthought, Mr Ob added that Professor Hepworth
had done the same for many families he knew.

A
UBREY AND
G
EORGE SHUFFLED OUT WITH THE REST OF THE
congregation, following the pallbearers to the small
churchyard burial ground, when Lady Fitzwilliam
emerged from the crowd. 'Aubrey! George! I thought it
was you.'

Sir Darius appeared, looking unsurprised to see Aubrey
there, despite the fact that Aubrey hadn't told his parents
of his plans. 'Aubrey. George. A great loss.'

'It's good to see you paying your respects, Aubrey,' Lady
Fitzwilliam said as they walked with the congregation to
the graveside.

Aubrey had grown used to the fact that it was hard to
surprise his parents. To the best of his knowledge, they
hadn't known George and he had left Maidstone early in
order to get to Greythorn in time for the funeral. 'It's the
least we could do. He was a great man.'

'I wasn't aware you knew him,' Sir Darius said, voice
low, as they reached the grave.

'We met on the shooting weekend,' Aubrey said. 'But
I'd known
of
him for years. I've read his work.'

'Of course.'

The ceremony at the graveside was brief. Afterwards,
they joined the long line to pay their respects to Professor
Hepworth's widow.

Mrs Hepworth was tall and extremely beautiful, even
in her grief. Her long black hair was wound in an elaborate
knot at the back of her neck and she sat rigidly in a
chair as the mourners filed past. Caroline was at her side.

'Mrs Hepworth,' Aubrey murmured. 'So sorry. Miss
Hepworth.'

Caroline raised an eyebrow when she caught sight of
him. She nodded, but said nothing.

Sir Darius and Lady Fitzwilliam were speaking with
three older men Aubrey recognised as having visited
Maidstone in the past. The tall, lanky one was Admiral
Quist, head of the navy. The pot-bellied chap was
Thomas Dunleavy, editor in chief of
The Argus
. The one
who looked like he wanted to argue but thought it
might be a good idea if he didn't was the Dean of
St Stephen's College.

Aubrey didn't hesitate. He left George and went
straight over. He stood there and refused to be ignored.
Sir Darius smiled wryly. 'Gentlemen, you know my son
Aubrey?'

The three elders stared at Aubrey as if he were a
performing seal. He inclined his head. 'Admiral. Mr
Dunleavy. Dean.'

They huffed and harrumphed, acknowledging and
condescending to him in what they thought was the best
manly fashion, giving Sir Darius Fitzwilliam's son his due.

Aubrey kept smiling, even though his teeth were
gritted.
I'll make you notice me for myself
, he thought,
one day.

Aubrey's reward for his persistence was ten minutes of
extremely boring conversation, as each of the three tried
to either impress Sir Darius or enlist his assistance in a
home for invalid sailors, a committee on journalistic
ethics, and a building fund for St Stephen's College.
These proposals were met with interest, incredulity and
surrender, respectively.

Aubrey took the opportunity to file away details of the
three men, for future reference. He took note of any
mention of their backgrounds or family, especially. His
father was said to have a card index memory, and his
knack for remembering trivial details of people he'd only
met once was legendary. Aubrey aimed to be as good, if
not better, at this subtle art.

As he listened to the dean suggest that Sir Darius might
like to contribute to the college's building fund, he saw a
deacon working through the crowd. When the deacon
spied George, he hurried to him and thrust a piece of
paper into his hand.

Aubrey excused himself and made his way to his
friend's side. 'You're looking more than usually befuddled,
George. What's going on?'

George didn't say anything. He simply handed Aubrey
the piece of paper.

Fitzwilliam, Doyle, can you come to my house tomorrow
morning? Yours etc, Caroline Hepworth.

Aubrey was silent for a moment after reading it. He
looked at George. 'We can't disappoint the lady, can we,
George?'

'We will if we can't find her house. She didn't give
her address.'

'A trifle,' Aubrey said and he slipped into the crowd
that had gathered outside the church gates.

It wasn't long before Aubrey found the minister and
was able to extract the address of the Hepworth residence
after disclosing that he wanted to take some flowers to
the grieving family.

At that moment, Sir Darius and Lady Fitzwilliam
walked over, her arm in his. 'Aubrey, your mother and
I are staying here in Greythorn for a few nights. I have to
see some people. We can drop you at the railway station
if you like.'

'Where are you staying?'

'The Triumph Hotel,' Lady Fitzwilliam said.

'You wouldn't have a suite booked, would you? More
than one bedroom?'

Sir Darius stroked his moustache. 'Are you looking to
stay here, too?'

'George and I thought we might like to look around the
university tomorrow. You've told me so much about it.'

'Ah,' Sir Darius said. He looked at his wife. When she
didn't demur, he nodded. 'Very well. Let us go.'

The Triumph Hotel was a recent construction, a
monolith in the centre of the town. Eight floors, it
looked squat and solid and reputable. It reminded Aubrey
of a bank manager with a respectable firm who had a
sizeable pension awaiting his retirement.

Sir Darius didn't stay in the suite for long. The telephone
rang and, after answering, he excused himself,
saying some people had come to meet him already.
Aubrey noticed that he looked tense. Lady Fitzwilliam
had thrown off her hat and shoes and arranged herself on
the blue velvet of the chaise longue. She tapped the back
of the chaise longue with one finger as he left. 'I worry
about that man,' she muttered.

George having gone to buy a newspaper, Aubrey was
left alone with his mother for the first time since the
shooting weekend. 'What do you mean?' he asked.

She scowled at the door. 'I do wish these people could
come to an occasion like this and not indulge in politics.'
She sighed and waved a hand. 'I may as well tell fish not
to swim.'

'It does seem to be in their nature.'

'And is it in yours?' his mother said. 'I wonder.'

Aubrey waved a hand, precisely imitating his mother's
gesture. She laughed. 'Now, Aubrey, tell me what you're
up to.'

Aubrey stretched and laced his fingers behind his head,
even though relaxing was the last thing he felt like doing.
His mother was among the most perceptive people he
knew. She had an unerring gift for detecting falsehood.
Her innocent invitation to talk made him feel like he was
about to try to pick his way through a minefield.

'I'm well,' he ventured.

'Come now, Aubrey, I think I'm entitled to a little
more than that.'

'My studies are going smoothly enough. I'm reasonably
confident about the exams.'

'What about the Snainton Prize? I'd heard you were in
the running for it this year.'

You'd heard?
Aubrey thought.
So Duchess Maria isn't the
only one with a network of informants.
'I'm in the running,'
he confirmed. 'But with the school play, the cricket team,
the cadets . . .' He spread his hands.

'And what about that incident with Bertie? Has
anything come of that?'

Aubrey wondered how much his mother already knew.
He decided a partial telling of the truth would be best.
'George and I went up to Penhurst again last weekend,
to poke around. We didn't find anything useful.'
Not bad
,
he congratulated himself. Nothing he could be hanged
for there.

'You were a hero, saving Bertie like that. I was proud.'

Aubrey grinned. 'Thank you, Mother.'

'But be careful. The attention, the thrill of meeting
danger and besting it, can be addictive. One can grow
to like being a hero. The adulation, the praise . . .' She
paused, reflecting. 'Your father learned this. He understood
that you should make sure you do these things for
others, not for yourself.' She smiled. 'But it was well done,
just the same.'

His mother had a habit of doing this. She could go
straight to the heart of the matter and touch it lightly.
Sometimes it was dazzling, this ability, sometimes frustrating.
Aubrey knew that the only way she survived in
an atmosphere of constant politics and diplomacy was
through her work.

'You don't have to worry about me.'

She smiled, a little sadly this time. 'Aubrey, you can't tell
a mother not to worry about her children. I'm afraid it's
part of the role.'

'Well, children grow up.'

'Ask your grandmother. See what she says.'

'She worries about Father?'

'Constantly.' She drummed her fingers on the back of
the chaise longue and frowned. 'I'm frustrated at being
tied up here. I was doing some fascinating work at the
museum, classifying some new specimens from the east.
Extraordinary birds, they were.'

Aubrey admired his mother. She was a renowned field
naturalist, but she was equally at home in the back rooms
of museums arguing over taxonomy and out on expedition
in jungles. It had been on one of these expeditions
that she'd met the Marquis of Rimford – Aubrey's father
when he still had his title. His squad had become separated
from the regiment in a skirmish in the Mataboro jungle.
Rose Hannaford, as she was then, had led them back to
civilisation, making them carry specimens she picked up
along the way. It was after they married that her husband
renounced his title, becoming simply Darius Fitzwilliam,
intent on entering the Lower House and gaining the
prime ministership, as – according to law – the Prime
Minister had to have a seat in the Lower House of
Parliament, not be a peer in the Upper House.