It looked every inch a gymnasium, but something about it made Aubrey uneasy.
He leaned against one of the climbing frames, clinging with one hand. He felt weak, as if he'd been ill for a month with a fever. The worse he felt, the more he felt the tugging on his soul. The more he felt this, the more his body deteriorated. Until he could rest, he was trapped in a cycle that was undoing him.
Struggling, he tried to decide what was wrong with the place. He turned his head slowly, trying to think through the pounding.
Then he had it.
'George,' he croaked, 'tell me what you smell.'
'Are you all right, old man?'
'Please.'
George looked askance, but took a deep sniff. 'Rope. Floor wax. That's all.'
'It's not a proper gymnasium,' Aubrey said. 'It hasn't been used.'
'How do you know?'
'It doesn't smell of sweat.'
Every gymnasium Aubrey had been in at school or elsewhere, no matter how old or how new it was, had had the indelible, ingrained smell of sweat underlying everything, sour and sharp. It was absent from this place – it was for show.
Voices came from below, raised and angry. Captain Tallis was immediately alert. 'Stay here,' he ordered. He left, shutting the door behind him.
'This way,' George said immediately. He took Aubrey's arm while Caroline darted ahead.
'Thanks,' he said as they tottered across the floor to the other exit. 'I know I'm being such a bore.'
'Never mind, old man. You'd do the same for me.'
Caroline was waiting for them on a landing outside the door. 'Here,' she said, pointing down the dark stairwell. 'Servants' stairs, most probably. I'm sure we'll come out near the back door.'
Just then, the sound of a pistol shot came from the front of the building.
'Hurry!' George exclaimed.
'Wait,' Caroline said. She stepped back into the gym. When she emerged again, she handed Aubrey and George an Indian club each.
Aubrey stared at it. 'It's the nearest thing to a weapon at hand,' she said and she brandished her own. She glanced at him. 'You don't look well.'
'I'll be fine,' he said, even though he'd slumped against the railing. His chest creaked as he breathed and it felt as if hot needles were being stuck between his ribs.
'I see,' Caroline replied, but her face said she didn't believe a word.
'We'll make it,' George said. 'But we shouldn't linger here.'
Another shot rang out, then another, then a fusillade of gunfire. Aubrey could hear at least three different firearms, then breaking glass and heavy footsteps, more gunshots, shouts and wordless threats.
Has the war started? Aubrey wondered, then George dragged him away from the door.
Caroline was already halfway down the darkened stairs. She went quickly, but stopped frequently to look ahead and listen for anyone in the vicinity. She'd lifted the hem of her skirt to allow easy movement, but hair kept escaping from the tight chignon on the back of her head. She batted it away, and Aubrey could see from the gesture that unruly hair was a long-time problem.
She led them to the ground floor which was, mercifully, in darkness. At that moment Aubrey heard footsteps overhead, a dozen or more heavily booted people running along the corridor. Loud crashes seemed to indicate bodies falling or being thrown against walls.
They set out along a corridor, past five doorways, two on one side of the corridor, three on the other. Aubrey paused at the third, which was open and full of wooden crates. 'A minute.' He stood straight and took a deep breath.
Caroline hissed with irritation as Aubrey lurched into the small room. 'What are you doing?'
Aubrey came back with a pamphlet. 'I couldn't leave without seeing what this society has to offer.'
Caroline stared at him. 'You're insane.'
Aubrey considered this. 'No, I don't think so.'
George snorted. Caroline turned and hurried towards the door at the end of the corridor. Aubrey grimly struggled after her, tossing his Indian club aside and stuffing the pamphlet into his jacket pocket. He was in pain, but determined not to lag behind.
The corridor led to a kitchen, lit only by a dim street lamp in the lane behind the house.
'Not used,' Aubrey observed before Caroline found the door to the outside. 'The kitchen,' he added.
He put a hand to the back of his neck. It was itching. He closed his eyes and felt a magical upwelling in the vicinity. He stiffened. 'Close your eyes!' he cried.
He saw Caroline turn, irritated, about to argue. George dropped his Indian club, leaped, clapped his hand over her face and dragged her to the ground.
A flash of brilliant light lit the night. Aubrey could see it through the hands he'd clamped over his eyes. It left red spots dancing in his vision.
'Is it safe, Aubrey?' George said after a moment.
'Yes, I think so.'
He looked up to see Caroline glaring at George. 'What was that?' she demanded.
Aubrey chose to interpret her question carefully. 'Magic. Someone upstairs has unleashed a spell.'
She narrowed her eyes.
'Aubrey knows what he's talking about,' George said.
'Doesn't he always?' she said.
'I beg your pardon?' Aubrey said, but she deflected this with an impatient hand and eased open the outside door.
The back garden was overgrown. In the darkness, trees and bushes loomed over shadowy shapes. Grass had swallowed up garden beds and was knee-high elsewhere.
George peered through the darkness. 'There's a gate in the back fence.'
'It will do,' Caroline decided.
A window broke overhead. They ran along the path through the jungle-like growth. Aubrey was startled to see that the shapes poking through the wilderness were rusty farm machinery: harrows, scarifiers, headers, ploughs. They looked as if they had been there for years.
They'd nearly reached the gate when Caroline glanced back. 'Hide!'
Together, all three tumbled behind the remains of an ancient seed drill. Lying on his stomach and peering through the rusty metal flanges and wheels, Aubrey looked towards the house in time to see figures pouring through the rear door. At that moment, a man leaped from a window on the first floor and landed on the back of another below. A third man ran around the side of the house and tackled two others. It rapidly became a melee.
The overgrown garden became a battleground. Men were brawling, standing toe to toe, trading blows, wrestling on the ground. Some had ripped palings off a fence and were belabouring each other. It was hard to say how many there were, but Aubrey guessed twenty, perhaps more.
A gun fired from a window on the first floor. In return, light suddenly erupted from a figure on the ground. It struck the window, sending glass into the air. In that glaring moment, Aubrey stared. The figure standing at the window was von Stralick, the Holmland spy. He cursed, blood pouring from the side of his head.
Von Stralick awkwardly lifted his pistol but before he could shoot again, a flock of tiny bats appeared from nowhere and descended on him, shrieking and clawing. He lurched backwards, still cursing, and disappeared.
'It's von Stralick,' Aubrey whispered to George.
'You're sure?'
'No doubt.' In the distance, Aubrey could hear police whistles. 'Best to get away from here.'
George looked at him. 'Can you run?'
'If I have to.' He took a deep breath. 'You first, Caroline. Can you get to the gate and hold it open?'
'Yes.'
She moved like a cat, slipping through the shadows, flitting between the skeletons of the farm machinery. She reached the gate and crouched by it.
'Ready?' Aubrey said to George, who nodded.
They went as silently as they could, crouching behind bushes, rushing across the gaps.
The gate opened onto a lane which, after fifty yards or so, took them back to the street. As they emerged from the lane, a dozen police officers were running towards the scene of the uproar, and a police v
an raced past. They turned and walked in the other direction, trying not to look as if they had just been involved in a desperate escape.
A few streets on, Aubrey took out his stolen pamphlet. He held it in the light of a street lamp.
'You've become a convert to physical excellence?' George asked him.
'No.'
He held it out. George took it and read aloud the large title: 'Darius Fitzwilliam: Friend of Holmland. Traitor to Albion.'
Sixteen
AUBREY WAS SEMI-CONSCIOUS, HALF-SUPPORTED BY George, as they staggered through the front doorway of the Hepworth house.
Caroline's mother stood just inside. She was still wearing the long, trailing robe and her hair was down. 'Where have you been?' she asked, but then she saw Aubrey. 'Bring him in here, into the parlour.'
The parlour was brightly lit by gas jets. Aubrey winced and shaded his eyes as he was helped onto the leather settee.
He felt as if he were falling apart. His joints were hot nuggets of pain and his head pounded. His soul gave small wrenches, heaving against its confinement. Each wrench was a wave of sickening agony.
Mrs Hepworth floated into his vision, which was blurry, with colour fading in and out. 'Here,' she said and held a glass to his lips.
He swallowed, coughed and pushed the glass away. 'Brandy?' he gasped.
'Yes.'
'Oh.' Aubrey closed his eyes for a moment, then he felt his face being bathed. He opened his eyes to see Mrs Hepworth holding a flannel. Behind her, George and Caroline were looking at him with expressions of concern.
'Better?' Mrs Hepworth asked.
'A little.' He didn't know if it was the washing, the brandy, or simply being able to lie down, but the thumping in his head had diminished. The light did not hurt his eyes as much.
While Mrs Hepworth turned away to talk to Caroline and George, Aubrey sought to gather himself. He made an effort to slow his breathing, and he felt his racing heart begin to steady. If he could steady his physical condition, he would be able to hold body and soul together, he was sure. But the spells he was relying on were losing their battle against the pull of the true death. He had to find a better solution.
He sat up. Mrs Hepworth looked at him. 'Now, what happened? Were you assaulted?'
Aubrey was impressed by her calm. She didn't seem unduly fazed by her daughter appearing out of the darkness with two dishevelled youths in tow, one of whom looked as if he were seriously ill, or beaten, or both.
'Not exactly,' he said. 'We managed to avoid that.'
Mrs Hepworth looked at George, who shrugged. Then she turned to her daughter. 'Caroline?'
Caroline was standing by the upright piano and had been working at her hair, removing her hat. She flung the hat at a table in the corner. It nearly knocked over a vase full of irises. 'Mother, we found Father's notebook.'
'I see.' She frowned. 'That explains a good deal. Come here, Caroline.'
Caroline sighed, but complied. 'Let me see your face,' her mother said. After a quick study, she frowned. 'You'll have a bruise on your cheek.'
Mrs Hepworth looked at George. 'You seem not to have suffered.'
'I'm well enough.'
'It was foolish going there,' Mrs Hepworth said. 'Lionel's protective spells always were efficient.'
Aubrey thought back to the terror that had swamped them; how small and helpless he'd felt. 'Efficient, yes.'
'But we still managed to get the notebook,' Caroline said.
'I thought it lost forever after your father died.' Mrs Hepworth turned away for a moment, but when she looked back her face was composed. 'You managed to penetrate the defences?'
'Not easily,' Caroline said. She sat in one of the armchairs. 'It was at some cost.'
She glanced at Aubrey and her mother followed the look.
'I see. Young Fitzwilliam, you have some of the magical arts about you?'
Aubrey nodded. 'I manage.'
'Don't be so modest,' George said. He addressed Mrs Hepworth. 'He's quite good in the magic area. Top notch. Has a few tricks up his sleeve.'
'George,' Caroline said. 'You're repeating yourself.'
'Sorry,' he said. He sat in another of the armchairs. 'It's been rather a dramatic day.'
'Indeed,' Mrs Hepworth said. 'And I think you'd best be staying here tonight. Have you eaten?'
'I beg your pardon?' George said, suddenly alert.
'Food, George,' Caroline said. 'I don't know about you, but I'm famished.'
At the mention of food, Aubrey's mouth suddenly filled with saliva. Visions danced in front of his eyes – plates laden with roast meat and vegetables, followed by rich puddings, jam tarts and orange ice. He dabbed at his chin, certain he was drooling.
'I'll use the telephone to inform your parents of your whereabouts. They're probably fretting at this very moment. They're staying here in Greythorn?'
'The Triumph Hotel,' Aubrey said.
'Of course.' She swept from the room.
Caroline sat on the edge of her chair and watched her mother leave. Then she turned to Aubrey and George. 'I'm glad you've been able to see my mother like this.'
'I beg your pardon?' Aubrey said.
'This is her usual self. You'd only seen her grieving, which isn't fair.' She pushed back her hair with an impatient grimace. 'This is the woman who has an independent existence, a famous painter, a free thinker. This is the woman my father married.'
For a moment, her grief rose to the surface. Tears came to her eyes and she wiped them away without sobbing. 'I miss him,' she whispered.
Aubrey fumbled for words, an unaccustomed experience for him. Everything that came to mind sounded inadequate and he had the sudden understanding that nothing would be sufficient. 'I'm sorry,' he said and that would be the best he could do.
WHEN AUBREY WOKE THE NEXT MORNING, IT TOOK HIM some time to remember where he was. The walls were painted a soft blue and an intricate geometric stencil ran around the room above the picture rail. The colours, the decorations were quite unlike Maidstone. For a moment, he lay and enjoyed the sun spilling in through around the artfully pleated drapes, grateful that he was seeing another day.
The door to the bedroom opened and George stood there. He studied Aubrey for some time. 'You look horrible,' he finally said.
'Ah. An accurate reflection of how I feel, then.'
'You're holding yourself together?'
Aubrey sighed, stretched and put his arms behind his head. 'I woke in the middle of the night and felt myself slipping. For an awful moment I felt as if I'd lost hold.' He paused, remembering. 'I was desperate enough to try something I hadn't tested.'
'I thought you were going to be more careful with magic after –'
'The accident. You're right. I said I would be more cautious. But I was on the edge of despair, George. I was fraying.' He rubbed his chin and the simple physical sensation was reassuring. 'I'd read about some work in bonding and unification magic. I cast a spell and it brought my body and soul together with more stability than I've felt since I dropped myself into this mess.' It was a relief, but Aubrey was not entirely confident. Even when he was speaking the spell, he felt the language was not precise enough. Elements of intensity and duration were loose, probably due to the poetic nature of the Ilmyrian language from which they were derived. He desperately wanted to work on a more modern language for such magic to eliminate such uncertainties. It was already on his list of things to do, and – mentally – he underlined it twice.
George shuddered. 'You succeeded, it seems.'
'Barely.' He yawned. 'Not the most restful night I've had.'
'That's what you need, I'd say. Rest.'
'Yes, I know. But there's too much to do to spend time resting.'
'I can see your headstone, old man: "But there are still things to do!"' George clapped his hands together and rubbed them. 'Stay here for a while, at least. I'll fetch you some breakfast. No servants here, you know. Mrs Hepworth doesn't believe in them.'
When Geo
rge came back he was carrying a tray with porridge, toast, marmalade and a mug of milky cocoa. He also wore a bemused expression.
Aubrey sat up in the bed. 'What is it, George?'
'Breakfast. I said I'd get it for you, remember?'
He handed the tray to Aubrey, who sighed and tried again. 'Why are you looking so baffled, George?'
'Mrs Hepworth. She asked me to call her Ophelia.'
'It's probably her name, George. No need to be upset at that.'
'She's an unusual lady.' George sat in the only chair in the room. 'She asked about you. And your father.'
Aubrey chewed on some toast. 'I see. Anything in particular?'
'Just about what Sir Darius has been up to in the last few years. The way she spoke about him, I had the impression that she knew him well. Or had known him well. She seemed surprised when I told her about the way he'd lost the prime ministership. I don't think she follows politics very closely.' He stared at the ceiling.
The porridge was hot. Aubrey decided to let it cool. 'I see. So you're not the only one, then?'
George ignored the jibe. 'She was crying, Aubrey, when I was talking to her. Not outrageously, nothing like that. Tears simply kept coming to her eyes and rolling down her face. She hardly noticed.'
'She's still grieving. She's lost her husband.'
George was silent for a time. 'We all grieve in different ways, I suppose.' He stood. 'I'll see you downstairs. Bring your tray when you're finished.'
Aubrey sipped his cocoa. George, he thought, you still manage to surprise me.
Some time later, he dressed and took the tray down to the kitchen only to find Caroline dipping toast into a boiled egg.
'Sit down, Aubrey,' she ordered. 'I need to talk to you.'
'Ah,' he said. He looked for George, but his friend was nowhere to be seen. He busied himself with unloading the tray and placing the dishes in the sink. He took as long as he could, hoping someone would join them and forestall what promised to be an inquisition.
Caroline finished her egg and waited. Aubrey finally gave up and sat across the table from her. 'All done?' she said.
'I think so. Your mother was kind to let us stay.'
Aubrey found that he was admiring the way she'd arranged her hair. It hung in soft curls around her ears.
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