Heart of Gold (11 page)

'I can insist.'

Aubrey had some sympathy for Inspector Paul. He also
didn't want to make an enemy who could make his life
difficult in Lutetia. On the other hand, he had no desire
to subject himself to the notoriously labyrinthine Gallian
police procedures, where, it was rumoured, people had
died of old age waiting to be questioned.

He held up a hand and smiled with what he hoped
was the right amount of apology. 'I'm keen to help,
Inspector, but I'm sure this matter can wait, can it not?'

T
WENTY MINUTES LATER
, A
UBREY AND
G
EORGE WERE IN
an office on the third floor of the Lutetian Police Headquarters
with a stony-faced Inspector Paul tapping a pen
on an inkwell. The sound set Aubrey's teeth on edge.

'So, tell me again how your presence at three bizarre
disturbances is simply coincidence,' Inspector Paul said.
'And how you had nothing to do with any of them.'

'What can I tell you that I haven't told you already?'
Aubrey did his best to sound conciliatory. 'I'm as baffled
as you are.'

'And you?' Inspector Paul shot at George.

'Many strange things happen around Aubrey. I'm
accustomed to it.'

Before Inspector Paul could follow up this scrap of
information, the door to the office was flung open. A tall
woman in a flowing robe with an iridescent green belt
wafted in. She smiled at Aubrey and George.

'Mrs Hepworth,' Aubrey blurted, jumping to his feet,
quickly followed by George and the Inspector.

She addressed herself to Inspector Paul, in flawless
Gallian. 'I've come to take these two young men away.'

The police officer goggled, as well he might. Ophelia
Hepworth was a striking woman – tall, with glossy black
hair tumbling around her shoulders and only kept in
check by a carelessly tied strip of blue silk. She had huge,
dark eyes.

After several false starts, Inspector Paul managed to
form a complete sentence. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Your Director of Police.' She handed the Inspector a
letter. 'This is his stationery and signature, is it not?'

Inspector Paul nodded, not trusting his voice. He
stared at the letter, taking a few moments before he
remembered to read it.

'He thanks you for your diligence,' Mrs Hepworth
went on, 'and he's sure you'll come to the same conclusion
he has: that these two are unfortunates caught up in
events not of their making.'

'I see.' Inspector Paul straightened. He brushed at the
lapels of his jacket. 'Madame. They are yours.'

Mrs Hepworth swept out. Aubrey and George
followed, like acolytes attending their high priestess.
Outside, on a polished wooden bench, with the late afternoon
sun filtering through a grimy window, was Caroline.

She stood and pecked her mother on the cheek.
'Thank you.'

'My pleasure, darling.'

Caroline put her hands on her hips and shook her
head. 'Aubrey. George. What have you been up to?'

T
HE
H
EPWORTHS' APARTMENT WAS RIGHT BEHIND THE
Cathedral of Our Lady, and it was startling. Aubrey had
never been inside a Moorish villa, but he imagined that
if a sultan's inner sanctum was crossed with a stylish
Lutetian salon, the result would look rather like the place
where he was currently reclining.

Enormous stretches of coloured silk hung from the
ceiling. With the windows open to the evening air the
whole room rippled and sighed. It was like being inside
a very large, mostly quiescent, animal.

Beaded curtains hung over doorways, while incense
burned in brass pots on mantles and shelves. Small mirrors
on the walls glinted as the light caught them. Camphorwood
boxes served as low tables and rainbow-coloured cushions
were scattered between wicker chairs and velvet divans.
The room smelled of spice, sandalwood and rosewater.

In keeping with the Moorish theme, Mrs Hepworth
held a glass of peppermint tea in a silver zarf. She smiled
at Aubrey and George over the top of it. 'And so when
Caroline told me you were being held by the police
I contacted Louis. He was only too willing to help.'

Aubrey had grown used to Mrs Hepworth's habit of
referring to important people only by their first names.
'Louis is the Director of Police?'

'He's a cultured man for a Director of Police. He'd
much rather be in charge of the Opera than the constabulary,
but he's a servant of the people.'

George was lolling in the grasp of an enormous
apricot pillow. He nibbled on a chocolate truffle and
looked very pleased with himself. 'Thank him for us, will
you, Mrs Hepworth?'

'Ophelia, George dear.' She put her coffee cup on a
small lacquered tray. 'I like my name and I like others to
use it.'

George nodded. 'Good chocolate.'

Aubrey had been avoiding looking at Caroline, which
ran counter to his natural impulses. All the way in the cab
from the Police Headquarters to the Hepworths' residence
he'd been aware of her displeasure. Here, in her
own home, he felt like an insect about to be skewered on
a specimen board for eternity. He didn't like the feeling,
so decided to do something about it.

He turned to her. After enjoying the sight for a split
second, he ventured an opening gambit. 'How did you
know we were with the police?'
Good
, he thought.
Neutral,
intelligent, a fine start.

'It was Claude.'

'Claude?' Aubrey raised his eyebrows.

'Claude Duval, the director of the play. He saw you
being arrested.'

'We weren't arrested. I made sure of that by volunteering
to go with the Inspector. George? Is something wrong?'

'No, nothing.' George mopped his chin with a napkin.
'Piece of chocolate went down the wrong way.'

Caroline pressed on. 'You were saying that you volunteered
to go with the Inspector.'

'Yes. And you were saying that Claude was spending
some time with you.'

'I didn't. But he had. And it's none of your business.'

Aubrey and Caroline glared at each other. Mrs
Hepworth tut-tutted. 'Enough, enough.' She glanced at
George. 'My daughter has always been headstrong. And
your friend?'

'Aubrey? Headstrong? Only in every way imaginable.'

'It's like watching a duel, isn't it? But one that's not
over after a shot apiece.'

'Mother.' Caroline pursed her lips.

'Of course, darling.' Mrs Hepworth put her chin on
her hand. 'I was only too glad when Caroline wanted
to come to Lutetia. Since my dear Lionel passed away,
I'd been unable to paint at all. I felt Lutetia could start my
painting again.'

'And has it?' Aubrey asked, glad for the change of topic.

'Oh yes. I could hardly help but paint once we arrived.
Seeing so many of my old friends again, visiting the
galleries . . . Here, I inhale art with every breath.'

Aubrey softened. Mrs Hepworth, for all her airs, wasn't
a play-artist, a dabbler. She had a reputation as one of the
most original painters of her generation. 'It's good for
you, this city?'

'Oh yes. It has helped.' She turned away. 'With the
grief.'

Aubrey looked at Mrs Hepworth's striking profile,
then he glanced at Caroline. She was staring out of the
window at the bright lights of the Exposition Tower.

Mrs Hepworth's husband – Caroline's father – had
been an accidental victim of the tangled series of plots
within plots that Dr Mordecai Tremaine had constructed.
Professor Hepworth had died from the effects of Dr
Tremaine's concentrated terror magic. Aubrey had never
forgotten Dr Tremaine's chilling indifference over the
death of someone he'd once called a friend.

Mrs Hepworth's grief had always been apparent.
Caroline was more controlled, but Aubrey knew her
sorrow was as deep and as heartfelt. Her restraint was one
of the things about her that fascinated him.

Mrs Hepworth rose. 'I think it's time to retire. It's been
a full day.'

Aubrey and George stood. 'We should go.'

'I'll see them out, Mother,' Caroline said, and Aubrey
was pleased. He may have a chance to salvage the situation
before leaving.

Aubrey and George waited on the landing outside the
door to the apartment. The lift clanked and rattled its
way between floors. Aubrey couldn't tell if it was going
up or down, but he hoped it would take some time to
get there.

George snorted at the wrought-iron doors. 'I don't
trust these lift contraptions. I'll take the stairs. Meet you
at the front door, old man. Good night, Caroline.'

You're a brick, George
, Aubrey thought.
Now, one last try
.
He cleared his throat and smiled at Caroline. 'I didn't
thank you for getting us out of a sticky situation. At the
police station.'

'No, you didn't.'

Aubrey heard the steel in her voice, but ploughed on.
'Unforgivable of me. So I offer my thanks now.
Unreservedly.'

Caroline frowned a little, as if considering this. 'Very
well. I accept your thanks.'

'And now can we perhaps talk without hostilities?'

'Hostilities? I don't know what you're talking about.'

Let that one pass
, Aubrey thought. 'How are your
studies? Are you still corresponding with my mother?'

'I had a letter yesterday. She's well, if you're wondering,
and so is your father.'

'Good, good.' He wished he knew more about
taxonomy. 'What would you say is the most difficult area
of classification?'

'Don't worry, Aubrey.' She smiled, a brief sunburst that
made Aubrey take a sharp breath. 'No need to grope
around like that. Let it be said that I'm thinking harder
than I've ever done before, and I'm enjoying every
minute of it. It's challenging, daunting, overwhelming,
but rewarding.' Her face glowed. 'And what are you up
to?' she asked.

Aubrey blinked and realised he'd been staring at her.
'I beg your pardon?'

'Your plans. You're at leisure, so what are you planning
to do?'

Unprepared, he plucked for the first item that came to
hand from his to-do list. 'Church.'

'Church?'

'Cathedral of Our Lady.'

'Ah, I haven't visited, even though it's so close. They
say it has the finest stained glass in all Gallia.'

'Yes, well, as far as stained glass goes, it'd be hard to find
any that's finer. Very . . . transparent.'

'You're not interested in the stained glass, are you?'

'Not solely,' Aubrey said, and congratulated himself on
the retrieval. 'I'm more interested in tombs. Fascinated,
really.'

'I never knew.'

'One can learn a lot from tombs.' Aubrey warmed to
his subject. 'An entire education, most likely.'

'Such as?'

'Well, different sorts of marble, for a start.'
You've done
it again, Aubrey
, he thought,
painted yourself into a corner.
'Inscriptions. Heraldry. That sort of thing.'

'Really.'

He grinned. 'I wouldn't have a clue, actually.'

'That was fairly obvious, but I'm glad you admitted it.
I think you need to be reminded that you're fallible, at
least every now and then.'

Aubrey decided that he'd examine that later to determine
if it was a compliment or not. 'A friend asked me
to do some genealogy research for him. Our Lady's is a
good place to start.'

'May I join you?' Caroline asked, tentatively. 'When
you visit the cathedral?'

'What?' Aubrey composed himself. 'Of course. We'd
be delighted.'

'Good. It sounds as if it might be fun,' Caroline said.

'We'll pick you up at eight,' Aubrey managed to say. He
repeated the words to himself and was reasonably sure
he'd had them in the right order.

The lift arrived. Aubrey backed through the doors,
closed them, and waved foolishly at the gently smiling
and glorious Caroline Hepworth.

Aubrey found himself beaming all the way home.