Blaze of Glory (9 page)

The station was a tribute to the stationmaster's care,
with climbing roses growing along the picket fence and
up one side of the tiny house. The stationmaster himself
came bustling out, tucking his shirt into his trousers.
'Here, young sir,' he said to George. 'Let me take that.'

George happily relinquished the trolley. The stationmaster
took the handles, and it was only a short distance
through the gate before they found Miss Hepworth.

She was standing by a carriage, stroking one of the
matched pair of black horses that looked as if they'd been
prepared for dressage. The driver nodded approvingly at
her handling of the animals.

The stationmaster frowned at the lightly sprung
carriage and then at the luggage. He pushed back his cap,
scratched his head and then shrugged. 'You go ahead.
When you get there, tell them they'd better send the
wagon down.'

Aubrey offered his hand to Miss Hepworth, but she
climbed into the carriage unaided. Aubrey and George
sat opposite her. The driver clicked his tongue and they
moved off.

George waved a hand. 'You've been to Penhurst before,
I take it, Miss Hepworth?'

She had been studying the elms that lined the long
avenue leading from the station towards the house. She
looked at George and inclined her head a little. 'Father
has been working nearby. Prince Albert has made his
colleagues and him welcome a number of times. He says
that their living circumstances are too spartan.'

'And are they?' Aubrey put in, leaning forward.

'I wouldn't know.' Miss Hepworth returned her gaze to
the trees she obviously found more fascinating than
Aubrey and George. 'I haven't seen them.'

'Ah,' Aubrey said, his mind racing. His curiosity was
pricking at him. A number of things Miss Hepworth had
said – or not said – were intriguing, but Aubrey knew
better than to force matters. He sat back and let his
mind work.

After fifteen minutes travelling through woods and
well-kept fields, the avenue brought them to a large set of
gates in a tall stone wall that stretched as far as Aubrey
could see in either direction. The gates bore the coat of
arms of the Royal Family. 'The Big House,' Miss
Hepworth said, pointing.

Still some distance away, well inside the walls, was a
huge, rambling building, four storeys, brownish stone,
many windows looking outwards. A flag flew from the
tower, indicating the Prince was in residence.

Aubrey smiled, remembering the happy times he'd
spent at the Royal Family's favourite country estate. Its
popularity, no doubt, arose from the King's fondness for
shooting and Penhurst's possessing some of the finest
country in the land. Of course, the King had done a great
deal to improve its natural advantages. Much replanting
of coverts was undertaken, woods were cleared to suit
efficient beating, all with an eye to providing superlative
shooting opportunities for the King and his friends. No one
was considered a serious shooter until he or she had
scored a bag at Penhurst.

A dapper young man stepped briskly out of the
gatehouse. He was tall, lean and wore his hair and moustache
clipped short. 'Good morning, Miss Hepworth,'
he said, then he peered at Aubrey and George. 'Mr Fitzwilliam
and Mr Doyle?'

'That's right,' Aubrey said.

'We are expected,' George added.

'Of course,' the young man said. He gestured over his
shoulder and after a moment another young man left the
gatehouse and drew back the gates.

'Very good,' Aubrey murmured as the two young men
ushered the carriage through the gates. He leaned out
and watched them lock the gates behind.

Military men, both of them
, he thought.
No mistaking it. It
was all they could do not to salute.

He straightened to see Miss Hepworth looking quizzically
at him. 'Lovely gardens,' he said, gesturing at the
trees, the rolling expanse of lawn and the small, but
exquisite, lake, the result of a few centuries of dedicated
labour. 'Competence Rowe, if I remember correctly?'

'Yes,' Miss Hepworth said. 'It's said to be his best work.
See how the stone bridge over that end of the lake takes
you to the grove of linden trees? It's a fine place for
contemplation. Or so I'm told.'

George seemed to feel he should make some contribution.
'So, you like shooting, Miss Hepworth?'

He hadn't slapped her with a dead fish, but her face said
he might as well have. 'No,' she said. 'And it's only been
made barely tolerable by the banning of blood sports.' She
looked at Aubrey. 'That was your father's doing, wasn't it?'

'Yes. He pushed that bill through Parliament while he
was Prime Minister.'

'Not an easy task, that. Nor many votes in it, either.'

'He felt it was the right thing to do. He'd always been
sickened by fox-hunting and the like. He couldn't see
how a country could call itself civilised and still allow
such things.'

'Clever, though, how he managed to promote an alternative.
Without it he wouldn't have had a chance of
getting a ban on live hunting made into law.'

'The theory for magical hunts had been around for
ages,' Aubrey said. 'Father simply brought the right people
together and they perfected the spells needed, translating
some of the Traskentian elements into more modern
language.'

Miss Hepworth held her hands together tightly. Her
face was set, Aubrey noticed uneasily. 'And he made
quite a deal of money from it, didn't he?'

Ah, I see what's bothering you. You're an idealist.
'Yes,' he
said simply. Aubrey glanced at George. 'Scandal has a
habit of never going away, George, remember that. Even
if a Royal Commission clears your name.'

'I will.' George gave him a look that promised all sorts
of retribution if Aubrey didn't explain exactly what was
going on.

'Miss Hepworth,' Aubrey said, 'my father stepped down
as Prime Minister as soon as the Opposition raised the
issue of conflict of interest. Even though he'd
given
the magical hunt company to the university as soon as
it was making a profit, he
still
stepped down, confident
that the matter would be cleared up and he would be
able to return to his position.'

'But he didn't,' she said.

'My father has been involved in politics for years. This
means, through no fault of his own, he has made enemies.
Some of them were once his allies. It was people in his
own party, the Royalists, who conspired to keep him
from the leadership after the Royal Commission, saying
there was a cloud over his character and such. Then they
expelled him. For the good of the party, they said.'

She nodded carefully, thoughtfully. 'I see.'

I believe you do
, Aubrey thought. He decided to move
the conversation to something less prickly. 'And what are
we hunting this weekend? Gryphon? Manticore?'

'Stymphalian birds, I believe,' she said. 'And here's the
house.'

They were greeted by a regiment of the Prince's staff.
Footmen, stable boys, butlers and other indeterminate –
but obviously essential – helpers swarmed over them,
whisking them inside. Before he knew it, Aubrey had
been separated from George and Miss Hepworth and
deposited in a sunny bedroom.

He had barely sat down in the armchair when his
luggage arrived. The under-butler who delivered it was
young and dapper, and he carried Aubrey's trunk as if
it was a feather. 'Where'd you like this one, sunshine?'
he asked.

Sunshine?
Aubrey gestured at the expensive burl walnut
wardrobe, and the trunk was deposited next to it. The
under-butler ticked a merry half salute as he left, closing
the door behind him.

Aubrey stared at the door.
Another soldier
, he thought.
But in plain clothes. He rubbed his hands together.
Something interesting was going on at Penhurst.

He stood and walked around the room, examining
its expensive but far from gaudy furnishings. The single
bed was covered with a heavy, brocaded quilt. A dressing
table with a large oval mirror stood next to the window.
Aubrey parted the drapes and gazed down at the driveway
and the gardens beyond.

Immediately, he closed the drapes and stepped back
from the window. Not that he had anything to hide from,
he told himself. It was simply that he'd seen Sir Guy
Boothby – the Foreign Secretary – and the Holmland
Ambassador talking.

The brief glimpse he'd had was enough to make him
wonder, for the two men gave every indication that they
did not want to be seen. They were near the bridge over
the ornamental lake, by a copse of birch trees which –
Aubrey was sure – they felt screened them from the
house.

It was only that Aubrey's room was on the corner of
the house, and on the third floor.

Aubrey slipped off his boots and stretched out on the
bed. He put his hands behind his head.

It looked as if it was going to be a very interesting
weekend.

A knock came at the door. 'Yes?'

George walked in, smiling broadly. 'Friendly staff here,
Aubrey.'

Aubrey knew that look. 'We'd be talking about the
maids, the scullery girls and the like?'

'I think there are a few ladies-in-waiting, too, or
whatever they're called.'

'You've changed your mind about the weekend, then?'

'I'm suddenly looking forward to it. Like to go for a
walk?'

Aubrey rolled off the bed. 'Capital idea.'

The house itself was grand. Aubrey counted fourteen
doors on the floor where his room was, and this floor
looked over a vast entry foyer. Paintings and prints
covered almost all the available wall space. He saw a
Dellarte, a Carpenter, and a rather good Marceau that
hadn't been on display last time he was at Penhurst. He
didn't care for the rest.

Aubrey noticed small groups of people wherever they
went. Quite a few of the fit young men seemed to be
loitering, making desultory efforts at polishing furniture
or mopping floors. Aubrey was asked several times if they
were looking for anyone or anything, always in unfailingly
polite tones.

Discreet, well disciplined, watchful
, Aubrey thought as he
watched another of the young men leap up the stairs,
balancing a tray full of crystal glasses, a decanter and a soda
siphon.
And no shortage of them. Is someone expecting trouble?

It was the guests, however, who intrigued him most.
They were everywhere. Five serious-looking older men
were sitting in the billiard room, ignoring the tables that
looked like slabs of green turf. They stared at the two
intruders in the doorway, moustaches bristling. Aubrey
and George hurried out.

Half a dozen more were discussing matters in the
library. Weighty matters, to judge from their frowns and
the careful arrangement of standing shoulder to shoulder
to exclude anyone joining them. Elsewhere, some stood
in porticoes, others talked while they walked along the
colonnaded east wing, others sat in the conservatory
amid lush tropical plants and spoke in solemn voices that
stopped whenever Aubrey and George came close.

'The garden?' Aubrey suggested after they withdrew.
The voices in the conservatory resumed as he closed the
glass doors, but more softly, as if the guests were speaking
behind their hands.

It took a few false turns and a number of locked doors
but they managed to emerge into a small garden dominated
by a magnificent pin oak. The garden opened out
onto the grounds on the western side of the Big House
and a serene view presented itself. Aubrey went to the
bench beneath the tree and sat. He pursed his lips and
hummed tunelessly.

'You're thinking,' George said.

'That I am.' Aubrey glanced at him. 'How'd you know?'

'Your awful humming. You do that when something's
on your mind.'

'Nothing gets past you, does it, George?' Aubrey
crossed his arms and the humming resumed.

George sighed and sat on the seat next to Aubrey.

George was right. Bits and pieces were gnawing at
Aubrey, little fragments he'd heard and noticed since
arriving at Penhurst. But they were jumbled, unconnected,
and the harder he tried, the more the connections
eluded him.

He knew what to do. He had to distract himself.

He found he was staring at the house, and he let his
gaze roam over it. He felt odd calling it a house. 'House'
seemed too cosy, too domestic. The building before him
was as large as one of the best hotels in the city. Aubrey
could count twelve chimneys, just on the wing in front
of him. Castle wouldn't do, though. No battlements, nor
any crenellations. Mansion sounded too ostentatious.

But the King refused to call it a palace, even though
that probably was the best name for it.

Aubrey's gaze drifted away from the house. He
frowned.

'George,' he said, 'what do you make of that chap over
there?'

'The gardener?' Cloth-capped and gumbooted, the
man was raking leaves near a privet hedge thirty or forty
yards away. His sleeves were rolled up and he was taking
great sweeping strokes with the rake, side to side. 'He
seems to be enjoying his job.'

'It's interesting,' Aubrey said.

'What is?'

'You noticed his tattoo?'

George squinted. 'Let me guess, Aubrey, before you do.
A sailor?'

Aubrey nodded. 'Look how he's raking. Legs wide
apart, long strokes side to side. That's more like mopping
a deck than raking leaves.'

'What's a sailor doing here?'

'Whatever he's doing, he's not alone. See that fellow on
the roof mending the drainpipe?'

'Another sailor?' George said, shading his eyes against
the glare of the sky.

'Perhaps. Would you say he had anything in common
with the gardener?'

George looked at them both. 'I'm not sure what you
mean.'

Aubrey glanced at the roof and then at the hedge.
'I'll wager they can both whistle.'