Heart of Gold

by Michael Pryor

  It was a challenge. Aubrey could feel excitement rising. If he could find the Heart of Gold before anyone else, it would be a coup. Such an achievement would impress important people.

  A sober voice inside him pointed out that he didn't need to prove anything, that his worth was known, that he was appreciated for what he was, and other dreary platitudes, but he managed to put the voice aside in that corner of his mind reserved for such solemn, careful and mature impulses.

  His blood was up. He needed to find the Heart of Gold.

  Then he remembered his other commitments.

  He felt Bernard's notebook in his inner jacket pocket. He wondered about George's progress with the Prince's ancestors. He had pangs of guilt when he thought of Dr Romellier and the quest for his grandmother's correspondence. The only real progress he'd made was in observing the Marchmaine Independence League – he at least had something to report on that front.

  'You're looking for my help,' he finally said.

  'You have the magical ability that I do not. In a situation like this, such skill is important. As you point out, recovering the Heart of Gold is in both our interests.'

  Aubrey sat back. For a moment, he saw his life as a giant chessboard. Von Stralick was a piece, recently moved, but Aubrey had many others he needed to manoeuvre to achieve his ends. He'd already moved George, while his mother and father were safe (he hoped) where they were. But one other piece needed to be moved.

  'I'll need assistance,' he said.

  'Of course. Doyle will be useful, limited though he is.'

  Good, Aubrey thought, underestimate George. It may prove handy. 'I'll need someone else.'

  'I'll leave that to you.' Von Stralick leaned forward. 'The Marchmaine Independence League is holding a public meeting this evening at the Academy of Sciences. I will meet you around the corner at eight. Look for me by the statue of Marshal Beaumain.'

  Von Stralick slipped out of the booth and was gone. Aubrey sat for a while, pondering the Holmlander's revelations and his future actions.

  When he went to go, the proprietor stopped him. Von Stralick had left without settling the bill. Aubrey paid and left, his wallet lighter and his demeanour both grim and exhilarated.

  HE MADE HIS WAY BACK TO THE UNIVERSITY AND FOUND THE Taxonomy Department. Summoning reserves of energy he didn't know he had, in a short space of time he'd blandished his way past an attractive secretary and into an unscheduled meeting with Professor Lavoisier, the head of the Department.

  Aubrey decided that Lavoisier was the sort of man who would be extremely difficult to see on a foggy day. He was grey, in hair, complexion, clothing and manner. He held his pince-nez in his hand and regarded Aubrey with the attitude of someone who was already trying to decide which regulation or by-law was being infringed just by his presence.

  'Now, young man,' Lavoisier said in impeccable Albionish, 'you're saying that this Miss Hepworth has been abusing our hospitality? In what way?'

  'Misusing personal information,' Aubrey said smoothly. 'I'm sorry to inform you of this, Professor, but I feel it's my duty.'

  'You don't mind if I take notes?' Lavoisier asked. It was one of the least question-like questions Aubrey had ever heard. The professor already had a fountain pen and a large ledger at hand even before Aubrey answered.

  'Please do.'

  Aubrey straightened his tie and hoped that Caroline would understand. An even better outcome would be if she never heard of this piece of subterfuge at all. Much better.

  He wanted her assistance in the tangled mess he'd found himself in, and not just because of her undoubted abilities – he wanted her by his side, and he knew that she wouldn't be able to devote the necessary time if she was still immersed in her taxonomy studies. So the obvious remedy was to relieve her of those duties. No more study meant she'd have the time to spend on other matters. It all seemed perfectly reasonable to him.

  He was sure he could get Caroline reinstated after he'd found the Heart of Gold. Public hero, friends in high places, a little string pulling should be straightforward. All would work out for the best.

  'What sort of personal information?' Lavoisier asked.

  'Apparently she's been inquiring after one of your correspondents, a Dr Romellier. Despite his need for privacy, she's been seeking his address.'

  'Intolerable. I will cancel her invitation immediately. She will be disgraced.'

  Aubrey blinked. 'Ah, not a wise course of action, I'd suggest. Especially since Albion–Gallian relations need to be kept warm. Miss Hepworth has influential friends.' He coughed behind a folded hand. 'The Prime Minister.'

  Lavoisier went from grey to wintry to outright frosty. 'Politics.'

  'A suggestion: cancel her position. Do it firmly but politely. Make bureaucratic excuses about resources or the like. That will be enough.'

  Lavoisier was no fool. 'And what is your interest in this matter, Mr Derringford?'

  When Aubrey had used the Ambassador's name as his own, he'd been anticipating this question. 'The Albion Embassy is concerned with the conduct of all Albion nationals who are in your country. If we can avoid scandal, so much the better. In these troubled times, if you take my meaning.'

  The professor pursed his lips. 'You are rather young for such delicate business, aren't you?'

  Aubrey smiled. 'I'm older than I look.'

  WHEN CAROLINE WALKED OUT OF THE TAXONOMY Building, Aubrey was there under the red-tiled portico to bump into her.

  'Caroline!' he said, doing his best to appear as if he wasn't on the verge of collapse. 'Good to see you!'

  Aubrey's intentions, schemes and strategies shrivelled when he saw Caroline's face. He could tell she'd been crying, not because of any red puffiness, but simply because tears still hung on her lashes as if unwilling to leave.

  'My position has been withdrawn,' she said. She waved a hand. It had a small, white handkerchief crushed within it. 'I no longer have a place to study.'

  She sat on the base of one of the pillars that held up the building's decorative arches. She gripped her handkerchief in both hands and gazed, disconsolately, at the flagstones a few feet in front of her.

  Aubrey's conscience took the opportunity to give him a substantial kicking. In quick succession, he felt regret, guilt and remorse and began to understand the fine distinctions between each of them. In the end, he abandoned such niceties and, simply, his heart went out to Caroline in her distress.

  I've done the wrong thing, he thought and he felt hollow inside, but he remembered the loss of the Heart of Gold – and what it could mean. Sometimes, sacrifices have to be made.

  'Tell me what happened,' he said.

  Caroline adopted a brisk, business-like tone, but didn't look at him. 'An administrative bungle, they said. They claim they have only one position, and it's needed for a Gallian student. Rather unapologetic, they were.' She stood and frowned at the door out of which she'd just come. 'I've a good mind to go straight back up there and take them to task. I came here in good faith and I don't think I should be treated like this.'

  Hastily, Aubrey took her by the arm and steered her in the opposite direction. 'Ah. Not a good idea, I'd say, things being a bit delicate between Gallia and us. We wouldn't want to confirm their suspicions that Albionites are all insufferable, would we?'

  'Aubrey?'

  'Yes?'

  'I can walk all by myself, you know. You can let go of my arm.'

  She set off. Aubrey fell in beside her. 'Your plans, then?'

  'I don't know. Mother is well entrenched here with her round of appointments and engagements.' She glanced at Aubrey. 'It seems I'm at a loose end.'

  'Loose end. Hmm.'

  'It could give me some time to help Claude with his production.'

  Aubrey nearly tripped on the smooth stone of the pavement, but gathered himself. 'Perhaps you'd like to come with George and me while we try to take care of those matters we discussed?'

  They'd reached the street that led to the Hepworths' apartment.
Caroline stopped and watched the traffic go by. 'I suppose I could find some time to help decide the fate of nations.' She lifted her eyes to the sky for a moment. 'It might give me a chance to see if I'm suited to this intelligence-gathering business.'

  'Good. I'd feel better if you would. You're very . . .' He groped for something that wouldn't make him sound like a complete dolt. 'Capable.'

  As soon as he said it, he felt the mantle of complete and utter dolthood settle on his shoulders. He accepted it.

  'Thank you, Aubrey.' She set off along the pavement. 'Every young woman strives to be capable.'

  'I –'

  'Never mind. I'm sure you meant it as a compliment.'

  As they walked, Aubrey explained about von Stralick and the meeting of the Marchmainers.

  'That sounds a sensible place to start. What should I wear?'

  'Dowdy would be good,' he suggested.

  'We have a laundress who visits. I'll see if I can borrow something from her.'

  Aubrey walked Caroline to her apartment, where Mrs Hepworth opened the door. She kissed her daughter on the cheek. 'Darling.'

  'Mother. I have to go to a meeting tonight. With Aubrey.'

  Mrs Hepworth considered this. 'A meeting. Why not a night at the ballet?'

  'It's a political meeting, Mrs Hepworth,' Aubrey said.

  She laughed. 'You are indeed your father's son, Aubrey.'

  Before he could query this, Caroline cut in. 'You must be busy, Aubrey. We shouldn't keep you waiting.'

  'Yes, but –'

  'And what are you up to this afternoon?' Mars Hepworth asked.

  From his list of urgent, pressing things to do, Aubrey plucked the first that came to mind. 'I have to find Alphonse Caron.'

  'The document merchant? He's an old friend of mine.'

  Sometimes things fall neatly, Aubrey thought. 'Do you know where he is?'

  'I haven't actually seen Alphonse for years, but the last I heard he had a shop near the Meron Bridge. Let me look in my address book.'

  She went into the apartment, leaving Caroline and Aubrey on the threshold.

  Caroline fidgeted with her bag. 'Mother knows many people in Lutetia.'

  'So I see. She's an intelligence operative of an altogether different kind.'

  'If you need to find an artist or a writer, ask her.' Caroline paused. 'She knows many politicians, too. And generals.'

  'I'm sure her address book is a veritable Who's Who.'

  Mrs Hepworth appeared and held out a scrap of lavender paper. 'Here, I've written down his address.' She held it out. 'Now, Caroline darling, you promised that you'd model for me after lunch. I do want to finish that painting.'

  Caroline sighed. 'Of course, Mother.'

  They made their farewells. Aubrey stood transfixed on the doorstep.

  Caroline? Modelling? He had difficulty in banishing some intriguing images from his mind.

  He made his way down to the street without really knowing how. He cleared his throat, straightened his hat and made himself shipshape. A good, solid task was what he needed, even though he was bone-weary. He convinced himself that his skin and his aching joints were minor discomforts, and he read the scrap of paper that was still in his hand.

  Always in favour of intelligence gathering before a frontal assault – or any assault, really – Aubrey saw that the address was only a few streets away. He resolved to investigate the address, then retire to the apartment to see what Bernard's notebook contained. And not forgetting the Heart of Gold, he thought, but he didn't even know where to start there.

  The address was in one of the side streets that guidebooks would normally describe as 'quaint' or 'charming'. Aubrey found it depressing, but it could simply have been the unseasonably chilly breeze that was whipping down the cobblestones. It made the striped awnings over the shops snap in an unsettling fashion. The streetside tables were empty, patrons having been driven inside by the weather. They huddled, casting furtive glances at the day.

  As he went, Aubrey was alert for more signs that the city was affected by the loss of the Heart of Gold. Apart from the weather, he did come across a number of backed-up drains and angry sewerage workers arguing over the cause. A natural explanation could be behind it, but the bafflement on the faces of the workers indicated that this was no ordinary occurrence.

  When he took a shortcut through an alley that promised to take him from Providence Street to Lower Hospitality Street, he came across a sight that gave him pause. A mangy cat was backed against a wall, hissing, back arched. On the other side of the alley the cobblestones had collapsed and filthy water was flowing sluggishly from it.

  The water was choked with dead rats.

  Aubrey put a hand over his mouth, but forced himself to examine the rodents. Thin, with weeping sores, it was no wonder the cat didn't want anything to do with them.

  All is not well, under the streets, Aubrey thought as he hurried from the alley. The possibilities made him cold.

  Aubrey's destination proved to be an antique shop with a window display that suggested it specialised in documents. The window was lettered with discreet and expensive gold. Behind it lay an arrangement of calling cards, photographs and letters, all artfully ordered to highlight the signatures. His eyes widened when he recognised the name of at least one former king.

  A voice from behind spoke in Gallian. 'Are you interested in our wares?'

  Aubrey straightened. A dapper, middle-aged man with a pointed beard was smiling at him. His teeth were small and white. 'I have a modest collection,' Aubrey said.

  'Ah, you are from Albion! If you would like to come inside, I have a number of items that you may find intriguing.'

  The man took out a key, removed his grey homburg and unlocked the door. 'You are just opening?' Aubrey asked.

  The man tapped the 'A. Caron' on the window. 'It is my shop. I open when I wish.' He stood on the threshold and smiled. 'Like you, I have a collection. This shop is merely an extension of it. I sometimes find it hard to part with particular items, but it finances my purchase of others.'

  He stood back and gestured Aubrey inside.

  'I understand.' Aubrey entered the shop. 'A collection is an addiction.'

  'Worse.' Monsieur Caron removed his leather gloves and placed them with his hat on a glass-topped counter. 'A collection costs money in so many ways. It must be housed, for example.'

  He waved an arm around the shop. Aubrey saw the walls were lined with drawers of many different sizes, a ladder on wheels allowing access to those closest the ceiling. Flat, glass-topped cabinets took up most of the floor space. Monsieur Caron pulled a cord and the room was flooded with electric light. He clucked his tongue. 'I fear the electricity may be bad for my documents, but what can be done? I keep most in the dark, but there is no joy in that. I must be able to see my treasures.' He cocked his head at Aubrey. 'If you will forgive me, it is not usual to find a young person interested in such items as these.'

  'I know. None of my friends understands me.'

  Monsieur Caron nodded sympathetically. 'Ah, I see. What is your specialty?'

  'Letters.'

  'Excellent. I have some interesting correspondence between one of your playwrights and a famous Gallian actress a hundred years ago. Good friends, they were.'

  'Of course. But I'm more interested in recent history, politics, diplomacy, that sort of thing. But they must concern Albion.'

  'It is a time to be aware of such things,' Monsieur Caron murmured. He tapped his chin with a finger. 'Do you realise that you have competition?'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'You're not the first to ask about such letters. A gentleman was in yesterday. He was particularly keen to see anything to do with the Treaty of St Anne.'

  A peaceful, restful holiday, Aubrey thought as his head whirled with possibilities. That's all I wanted. He touched his forehead and winced.

  'Are you unwell?' Monsieur Caron asked, concerned.

  'No, no, just a little tired.'

/>   Caron nodded. 'Many people are complaining about fitful sleep. Quite strange.'

  Aubrey nodded. 'And this man asking about the Treaty of St Anne. Did he purchase anything?'

  'No, for I didn't have anything to sell him. Not here. I keep my Albion items elsewhere.'

  'May I see them? Tomorrow?'

  'I'd be happy to bring them. My other customer didn't come back when we made similar arrangements.'

  Aubrey took a wild guess. 'Holmlander, was he?'

  Monsieur Caron looked startled. 'Why, no. Northerner, from his accent. From the look of him, I doubted if he had enough cash for such items, but he assured me that he had money.'

  'A northerner? You mean from Marchmaine? Can you describe him?'

  'Red hair, red beard. Stern, if scruffy.'

  Aubrey had much to mull over after he left Monsieur Caron's establishment. Another thread had been thrown into the tangled mess that he was trying to unravel, and he felt all thumbs at the moment.

  He trudged up the street, wanting nothing better than to lie down and close his eyes for an hour or two, but as he drew closer to Madame Calvert's residence, his spirits sank. Two police officers were waiting at the entrance.

  They stood with their hands behind their backs and watched as he approached. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and waited as they shared significant glances. 'May I enter?' he asked.

  They both nodded.

  Waiting inside was Madame Calvert. Her hands were clasped, mouth pursed. 'I protect my guests, but this police officer was very insistent.' She nodded toward her sitting room.

  Aubrey sighed. 'I'm sorry.'

  'Do you need help? I have friends.'

  'Thank you. No. Not yet.'

  Aubrey went into the sitting room. Inspector Paul was holding his cap in his hands and was using a mirror to tend to his hair. George was sitting on the sofa and drumming his fingers on the armrest. A bruise was blooming on his cheek. 'Aubrey, old man!' he said, jumping to his feet. 'Good to see you!'

  Inspector Paul turned smartly. 'Enough. Sit,' he said to George, in Albionish.