Word of Honour (14 page)

'When I look at him, I see Dr Tremaine.'

Craddock grasped his chin and frowned. 'None of
my operatives has reported anything so definite. Suspicions,
only.'

'One thing is for certain,' Aubrey said. 'If it is him, he's
not here just for his singing.'

'Of course.' Craddock made a quick note. 'Anything
interesting to report from the university?'

'No. Especially since I'm not sure what you're after.'

'Have you encountered the foreigner, Lanka Ravi?'

'Lanka Ravi? No-one has. He's been locked away with
the bigwigs. Surely you don't suspect him of spying.'

'No, I'm interested in the quality of his magic. If you
can, I'd like your assessment of it.'

'I'd like to, but there's no telling when he's going to
give a public lecture.'

'Now, how are you getting on with the refugee
Holmlanders? Count Brandt and his friends?'

Aubrey wasn't surprised by Craddock's knowledge.
'Harmless? Nefarious? Talkers? Plotters? Who knows?'

'We need to know. Get close to them. Find out their
links in Holmland. Report back.'

W
HEN
C
RADDOCK USHERED
A
UBREY TO A ROOM OVER-
looking
Grainger Square, he realised they were in
Darnleigh House, the headquarters of the Magisterium.
Waiting for him, with different levels of patience, were
Caroline and George.

George looked up from his cup of tea. 'Fine biscuits,
Aubrey. We really should come here more often.'

Caroline stood. 'Good. We can leave now. How's
your head?'

Aubrey touched the lump and winced. 'Feeling better
and better.'

'He has been of some use to us,' Craddock said. 'Thank
you for waiting.'

'We didn't have much choice, did we?' Caroline said.

'I hope you weren't inconvenienced too much.'

'We wasted our tickets,' George said. 'And an evening.'

'Of course. May I offer you some tickets to another
show, one that's sure to be rather safer?'

'What is this?' George said. 'Is the Magisterium turning
into an booking agency now?'

'We have our eye on another performer. One of
ours this time. He's generously given us some tickets.'
Craddock produced tickets from the inner pocket of his
long coat. 'Perhaps you've heard of him? The Great
Manfred?'

'The Great Manfred?' Aubrey would have reeled with
surprise, but he was too tired. 'One of yours?'

'We've seen him already,' George complained. 'Haven't
you got something with dancing in it?'

'He's very talented,' Craddock said. 'But his major
role is counter-espionage. We're making sure he's seen
with influential Albionites – newspapermen, politicians,
decision-makers of all kinds.'

Aubrey thought he was accustomed to the shifting sands
that were the world of intrigue, but he felt positively dizzy
at the way things were moving. Craddock had certainly
expanded his brief, edging into counter-espionage. He
was sure that Commander Tallis, the head of the Special
Services, wouldn't be altogether happy about that.

'You're using him as bait,' Caroline said. 'You want the
Holmlanders to recruit him.'

'His grandmother was Albionish,' Craddock said. 'He's
happy to help.'

Aubrey suddenly saw Craddock's work as a complicated
dance – a dance in a smoke-filled room, where the
dancers could only glimpse each other, and each of them
could hear different music.

While across the Continent, in Holmland, Craddock's
equivalents were planning their plans, scheming their
schemes and staying awake at night wondering what
Craddock was doing.

They left Darnleigh House in a cab. Caroline waited
until the Magisterium headquarters had been left far
behind before she spoke. 'Did you see who was just ahead
of us in the queue for Spinetti's show?'

'Lots of people there,' George said. 'Didn't see anyone
important.'

'Important, perhaps not. But interesting? Indeed.'

'Who?' Aubrey asked.

'Count Brandt and his friends. Our refugee Holmlanders.'

T
HE NEXT DAY, BACK AT
M
AIDSTONE
, A
UBREY WOKE
feeling rested and whole. Political machinations,
spying, counter-spying and plots were all manageable when
life was non-magical, he decided. He lay in his bed a while,
hands behind his head, listening to the early morning
sound of the gardeners clipping the cypress hedge.

It was good not to wake feeling as if he were on the
edge of falling apart. The struggle to keep body and
soul together often meant sleepless nights, which meant
exhaustion, which meant matters only grew worse.

Lying there in the dim light, he realised that over the
last few months he'd been losing the battle. He'd tried to
convince himself otherwise, full of desperate confidence.
He'd been sure that finding an answer to his condition
was just a matter of working harder at it.

Stopping magic was the simplest solution. After a
week of not casting any spells at all, he understood that
he should have tried it earlier. He felt well, hearty,
complete.

An image came to him unbidden – a fish, refusing to
swim, sinking slowly into the depths of the ocean – but
he shook it off.

He sprang out of bed, ready to meet the day.

A
UBREY FOUND
G
EORGE IN THE DINING ROOM WITH THE
remains of his breakfast on the table in front of him.
He was stirring a cup of tea, but his blank gaze was on
the window.

'What's wrong, George?' Aubrey asked.

George blinked and then looked at his cup. 'I'll have to
get another. This one's cold.'

'Which means you've been stirring a cup of tea so long
that it's gone cold. Something must be seriously wrong.'

George frowned. He put down the teaspoon, picked it
up again, then thought better of it and placed it on the
saucer once more. 'It's Father.'

Aubrey's good humour vanished. 'He's all right, isn't he?'

'Not exactly. A letter arrived here this morning.'

'Sunday?'

'That's part of the problem. It went to college, but I've
been gallivanting around with you and Caroline. Luckily,
I'd mentioned a thing or two to the head porter about
how things were going at home. He recognised the
return address and organised a messenger to bring it here.
Dashed decent of him.'

'Is it your father's health? He hasn't taken a turn for the
worse, has he?'

'No, nothing like that. The ulcer's under control. It's
something else.'

'What?'

George pushed the cup of tea aside with an expression
of distaste. 'I can't tell you. Not just now. And don't pester
me either.'

The horde of questions that had leaped to Aubrey's lips
had to be dragged back with some force. 'All right. But
you must tell me later.'

'Of course I will. If I can.'

Aubrey didn't like the sound of that. 'Go home. Stubbs
will drive you, then wait. If all is well, he'll bring you
back to college by this evening.'

'And if it isn't?'

'Stay there. Telephone the Rector. Let me know.'

George swept the tablecloth with his hand, without
looking up. 'D'you think it's a good idea?'

Sometimes, Aubrey knew, people wanted someone
else to say what they were thinking. 'Of course. Get your
things. The motorcar will be at the front door.'

George rose, but stopped halfway, in a semi-crouch.
'And what are you up to today, old man?'

'Oh, this and that.'
A visit to our Holmland friends, for one
.
'I might ask Caroline if she's free.'

George looked doubtful. 'Perhaps I should stay.'

'Don't be ridiculous. You have more important things
to attend to.'

George stepped away from the table. 'Thank you,
Aubrey. I appreciate this.'

'Family is important, George. We do what we can.'

George noddedly sombrely. 'One other thing. Something
I've been meaning to ask you.'

'What is it?'

'Is your condition affecting your magic? Couldn't help
but notice, last night, when that Magisterium operative
started a spell. I thought that you were about to do something,
but nothing happened.'

Aubrey should have known. 'You don't miss much,
do you?'

'What's going on?'

'I've given up magic. It seems like the only way to hold
myself together.'

'Good Lord.' George digested this for a moment.
'Rather drastic solution, that.'

'A drastic solution for a drastic situation, my condition
being the very definition of life and death.'

'Makes sense, then,' George said and Aubrey was
surprised at how relieved he was to have his friend's
support. 'Perhaps I should stay after all.'

'You're standing. Your legs know you should be off.'

George looked down and blinked. 'I say.'

'The motorcar is ready. Now go!'

A
TELEPHONE CALL TO
J
ACK
F
IGG WAS SOMETHING
A
UBREY
always approached with trepidation. It was one of the
more convoluted arrangements Aubrey ever entered
into. The number Jack had given him was for a telephone
in a sheet music shop near where he was
currently living. If the shopkeeper was the only one on
the premises – as was usually the case – after taking the
call he held a gong out of the window and rattled it
noisily. The family next door to the music shop then
sent one of their numerous children down the street to
Jack's small house. Alerted, he'd scurry back up to the
music shop and take the call, assuming the caller hadn't
died of old age in the meantime.

Aubrey thought it would have been quicker to send a
message by carrier turtle.

When Jack eventually reached the telephone, he was
able to tell Aubrey that Count Brandt and his friends
were at the hall behind St Olaf 's in Crozier, conducting
one of their Albionish language schools for their
countrymen.

When Aubrey hung up the telephone, he stared it for
some time, his chin on his fist. Then he looked out of
the window. The study was one of three in Maidstone,
and it was Aubrey's favourite not only because it contained
a telephone, but because of the view. It looked
out over a corner of the garden that was quite overgrown.
An old pear tree, still alive but in its latter
years, was in the middle of being swallowed up by a
wisteria. The purple flowers hung in extravagant profusion,
like astonishing mauve grapes. The smell drifted
in through the window, which Aubrey had opened an
inch or two.

He then wrestled with himself for seconds before he
decided that he really must contact Caroline and ask her
to accompany him. His reading – and experience – on
information-gathering expeditions was that two people
were less conspicuous than one. Two could talk to each
other, naturally, whereas one tended to look as if he were
skulking, no matter how harmless the intent.

It was all perfectly logical.

Aubrey was firm with himself. Just because Caroline
and he had agreed, sensibly, that any deeper friendship
was not wise, that didn't mean they couldn't see each
other. As long as the understanding was clear that all was
above board and sensible, no harm should come of it.
Practicality was the key.

He rehearsed a few humorous opening remarks,
scratching the best of them on the blotter in front of him.

Caroline's mother answered the telephone and all of
Aubrey's preparations fell to pieces.

He hadn't spoken to Mrs Hepworth since the disastrous
affair in Lutetia. He'd always liked her and she
seemed both amused and intrigued by him, possibly
because – some time ago – she had known his father
well. Exactly how well was a little unclear, for Sir Darius
tended to present a significant silence if that matter ever
arose, while Mrs Hepworth simply smiled and kept
things to herself.

'Ah, Aubrey, it's good to hear your voice again. Are you
well?'

Aubrey closed his eyes with relief. No grudges, it
appeared. 'Mrs Hepworth. Yes. Very well.'

'Aubrey, my dear, it's an ongoing battle, isn't it?'

Aubrey had scant belief in psychic powers, but at that
moment he was ready to be convinced. 'Well, it has been
difficult, but I wouldn't call it a battle, not exactly.'

Mrs Hepworth chuckled. She was one of the few
women Aubrey knew who could chuckle stylishly.
'You're thinking of something else, aren't you? I shan't
embarrass you by guessing what it is, either.' She
chuckled again, but Aubrey thought he could detect
affection rather than scorn. 'What I was referring to was
the battle to get you to call me Ophelia.'

'Rather than Mrs Hepworth. Sorry.' Aubrey flailed
around for a conversational prop and grabbed the first
that came to hand. 'How's the painting?'

'Nicely done, Aubrey. Not a totally smooth conversational
segue, but not far away from it at all. The painting?
As I'm sure you're aware, I have an exhibition at the end
of the month, at Greythorn.'

'I know. I'll be there.'

'I'm glad. But the end of the month means I have a
great deal of work to do before then.'

'So I shouldn't keep you on the telephone?'

'Now, that was much more deft. You do learn quickly,
Aubrey.'

'Well, I try hard. Sometimes it's the same thing.'

'I'll send someone for Caroline. She's in the garden,
reading.'

A muffled moment and Mrs Hepworth was back. 'She
won't be long. Now, while I have you here, Aubrey,
I'm going to be direct with you.'

Aubrey's heart sank. 'Please do.'

'In Lutetia, something you did upset Caroline dreadfully.
When she said she wanted to go away with your
mother, I supported it. She needed some time to compose
herself, but also to think about things.'

'I'm sorry.' It was all that Aubrey could manage.

'I think that's true, otherwise I wouldn't be talking
with you. Caroline has told me something of what went
on, and you have much to be sorry for.'

'Yes.' Aubrey was enjoying monosyllables. They had
great attraction when lost for words.

'But also that all is not lost. I wanted to tell you that.'

'Not lost?'

'No. But here's Caroline.'

For once, Aubrey wanted to talk to her mother more
than he wanted to talk to Caroline.

'Aubrey?'

'Yes.' Aubrey made a fist and hit himself on the
forehead, once, reasonably firmly. If that response had
been any lamer, it would have been taken out the back
and shot.

'Good,' Caroline said. 'Now that we've established that
you're you, what is it you want?'

'Can I ask a favour of you? Please?'
Better. Polite, reasonable,
neutral.

'What is it?'

'I need to do some more investigating of Count
Brandt's people. Would you come with me, please?'

'When?'

'In an hour? I'll have a cab.'

'Well . . .'

'I'll take you to lunch. You name the place.'

'Marcel's. It will remind me of Lutetia.'

'Ah.'

'One hour. I'll be ready.'

She hung up. Aubrey stared at the handpiece,
took some time to remember what it was, and then
replaced it.

Caroline wanted to be reminded of Lutetia? What did
she mean by that?

He groaned. The sooner he was immersed in international
intrigue and espionage the better. It was much
more straightforward than trying to understand people.