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.'
'I beg your pardon?'
Aubrey didn't say anything. Smiling, he stood and stretched. Then he put his hands in his pockets and strolled around the trunk of the tree, his attention on the ground. He didn't look at the two men and did his best to appear every inch an idle and vacant young man of breeding. Halfway around the tree he found what he wanted. He bent and re-tied the laces on his boot. 'Watch the two men, George,' he muttered without lifting his head. 'Be discreet about it.'
Aubrey stood and flexed the small twig he'd picked up from the ground. He sought in his memory for the spell he needed. He mumbled a string of syllables, making sure he limited the scope of the effect, then the twig split apart.
Immediately, a crack like gunfire came from overhead. A large branch tore from the oak tree and crashed to the earth.
George leaped to his feet. As he did, a chorus of whistles echoed from the walls of the house.
Aubrey watched carefully. He saw the gardener sprinting towards them, having abandoned his rake. The man on the rooftop had his fingers to his lips and was unleashing volley after volley of whistles.
'Watch, George. We'll compare notes later.' Aubrey put his hands back in his pockets.
'Sirs! Are you hurt?' The gardener stared at the enormous branch. He wasn't panting, despite running all the way in gumboots. His arms were spread and his gaze was darting from side to side. He was young, in his early twenties, Aubrey guessed.
'No harm done,' Aubrey said. 'Just frightened, that's all.'
George glanced incredulously at Aubrey.
'You were lucky,' the gardener said. He studied the oak branch, then pushed back his cloth cap and scratched his head. 'Never seen that happen before.'
More staff began to appear and several men appeared from inside, attracted by the commotion. 'Not in spring,' Aubrey said. 'I've only seen it happen in autumn, when the acorns are heaviest on the limbs.'
'Aye,' the gardener agreed, but his expression made it clear that Aubrey was speaking gibberish to him.
The whistling stopped. An older man hurried from the house. He was short, stocky and obviously in charge. He surveyed the scene, studied Aubrey and George for a moment, then caught the gardener's eye. As Aubrey and George left they were conversing in low voices. Others stared at the massive oak branch and the wound in the side of the tree. Nothing seemed to be happening until an ancient gaffer wheeled up a barrow and started pointing towards a shed in the distance.
Aubrey held the door open for George and they found ourselves in a corridor with a bare wooden floor. Their footsteps echoed. 'Well, Aubrey,' George said softly, 'how did you know they could whistle?'
'Wait a little, George. Let's go back to my room.'
AUBREY DROPPED INTO THE ARMCHAIR. 'LINE OF SIGHT, George,' he explained. 'That's what it was all about.'
'Line of sight?'
'Indeed. Our gardener who was a sailor, he was part of it.' He tapped his chin with a forefinger. 'At least, he had been a sailor. Until recently, given the suntan on his arms. He didn't know anything about gardening, judging from his reaction to my oaks in autumn story.'
'Naturally. The whistling?'
Aubrey nodded. 'I could see that the man on the roof had a clear line of sight right along the east wall. The gardener could see into the kitchen garden where the rooftop watcher couldn't. They were perfectly placed for observation. And what would observation be without some method of signalling what they saw?'
'The whistling.'
'George, do you remember at the gate, the two young men who greeted us?'
'Of course.'
'Military types. Ex-army, I'd say. Did you notice how the man who greeted us always stood to one side, never getting between us and the gatehouse?'
'Line of sight.'
'Exactly. The second young man in the gatehouse probably had a rifle on us the whole time, until he received a signal that we were all clear.'
George's eyes widened. 'Are you saying that there are guards everywhere here?'
'Special Services, I'd say. They're the only division that recruits from both the army and the navy.' Aubrey stood and began to pace the room. 'Not the Magisterium. I'm not sensing a trace of magic about these fellows. They're just good, honest servicemen, the best of the best, creamed off from the regular army and navy and recruited to do extraordinary duty.'
'And what's extraordinary about a shooting weekend?' George said.
Aubrey grinned wolfishly. 'That's what I'm curious about. I can't wait for dinner.'
Seven
AUBREY RAPPED ON GEORGE'S DOOR. WHEN IT OPENED, he put his hands on his hips and scrutinised his friend. George had dressed in his dinner suit, which the house staff had pressed. His shirt collar had been freshly starched and stood high and proud. He tugged at it, but Aubrey batted his hand away. 'Quite presentable, George.' He reached out and adjusted his bow tie. 'There. Perfect.'
'We're not late?'
'Nothing to worry about.'
'Let's go, then. I'm hungry. If it means getting some food, I'm prepared to sit next to a hundred boring Holmland diplomats.'
To Aubrey, the dinner was a vital chance to survey those invited to the weekend. All the guests would be in one place. By watching who sat next to whom and which direction the conversations flowed, he'd be able to determine some of the alliances, some of the tensions and some of the possibilities.
Since the King's eccentricities had become pronounced enough that he'd been effectively eased out of sensitive matters, Penhurst had become known as a place where political agreements were reached before they ever came to Parliament. Diplomatic agreements were also concluded here over a glass of port and a handshake, language differences disappearing in the convivial surroundings.
Aubrey also saw this as a sign of the Crown Prince's increasingly important role in matters of the nation. He grinned. This was the hurly-burly of upper echelon decision-making. He loved it.
Before they reached the stairs, George tugged at his elbow. 'Dash it all, Aubrey. I can't wait any longer. Tell me how you made the branch fall!'
'I knew you'd ask.' Aubrey reached into his pocket and pulled out a broken twig. 'A practical application of the Law of Sympathy.'
George grimaced. 'Like affects like?'
'Very good, George. You learned something before the masters gave up on you.' He held up the twig and pointed to where it had snapped in the middle. 'I picked up a twig from the oak tree and after the right spell to link it to one of the branches of the tree, I broke it. The branch had no choice but to snap. Like to like. In the dark ages, those poor misguided souls would hurt dolls to inflict injuries on their enemies. The principle is the same, but now we understand magic better we can control the spells, carefully delineating variables.'
'We could have been crushed.'
'Hardly. I chose my branch well.' Aubrey reached out and dropped the twig into a vase that was sitting on a spindly side table. 'Food is calling.'
A footman, his hair brilliantined until his head shone like a beacon, directed them to the main ballroom, which was being used as a banquet hall. It was large, with a lofty ceiling. Aubrey decided that grapes must have been the plasterer's forte, as vines snaked along the cornices and great bunches festooned the tops of the six mock pillars spaced along each wall. A gallery at one end of the room overlooked the throng, empty and somewhat ominous.
Two rows of tables stretched along the length of the room. A smaller table, obviously for the most important guests, was at right angles to them at the opposite end to the gallery. Modest bowls of chrysanthemums were arranged on the white linen tablecloths. Ranks of cutlery shone with the sheen that only comes from sterling silver. Five glasses of various sizes and shapes stood in front of each setting. It was a display of serious wealth that was meant to impress and the organisers had not missed any opportunity.
At the door, they handed their cards to the major domo and waited while he scanned his seating list. The major domo frowned and gestured to a footman.
A muttered discussion ensued, and Aubrey took the opportunity to study the guests who had already been seated.
At first glance, the only thing the guests had in common was that most of the men were old. At least in their forties, he guessed, from the grey hair and bald heads. The women were harder to gauge.
Aubrey blinked. Miss Hepworth. He almost didn't recognise her, sitting between a tall man with old-fashioned muttonchop whiskers and a woman who was wearing so many jewels that she looked as if she were carrying a chandelier.
Aubrey did his best to stop himself goggling. Miss Hepworth was wearing a black dress that was shaped in ways that defied his understanding, and her hair was piled up on top of her head in a braided curly arrangement that made her look quite different. However the effect was achieved, it made her look compellingly elegant and unapproachable.
She was speaking with animation, leaning towards the old gent as if she wanted every word to be as fresh as possible. The old gent listened to her with stunned attention. She didn't look in the least nervous to be in such company.
And such company. When Aubrey dragged his gaze away from her, he saw, a few places away, Wammersley, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, speaking to the owner of the largest steelworks in the country. Opposite them was an actress who was the current toast of theatreland; she'd captivated two of the most conservative peers in the land. They looked as though they wouldn't tear themselves away if someone told them they were on fire.
The major domo loomed. 'Young sirs? We have your places for you.'
Aubrey spent the next part of the evening listening to a Holmlander accounts clerk telling him of the glories of the fatherland and how the Holmlander way of life was the finest in the world. The accounts clerk seemed to be able to eat, talk and drink, all without interrupting his stream of praise for his country, its people, its leaders, its forests, its mountains and its cheese. Aubrey was unreasonably pleased to see that George was trapped with a junior under-secretary from the Royalist Party, a notorious bore who had obviously mistaken George for someone important, to judge from the way he was doing his best to impress.
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