She stood with her case in one hand and her other hand on her hip, and regarded him with amusement. 'Ancient Languages? I do a handful of lectures for you first-year Magic students in a few weeks time.'
'A handful of lectures? What if it's not enough?'
'Ah, bitten by the language bug?'
It was one way of putting it. Aubrey was thinking in more practical terms. 'The better I can handle these ancient languages, the better I can work spells.'
The lecturer put down her case and threw up her hands. She addressed the lofty ceiling. 'How long have I been waiting to hear someone say that? How long have I been saying it to those fusty Magic dons?' She dropped her gaze and smiled warmly at Aubrey. 'You'll have to give up one of your magical subjects, but I can get you into my Introduction to Ancient Languages. If you're keen.'
'Aubrey!' George said. He strolled over, looking most content with life. 'You've met Professor Mansfield, have you?'
'Mr Doyle,' Professor Mansfield said. 'You've completed all your reading on early Latin?'
George made an oddly indeterminate hand gesture – a flapping, twiddling motion. 'Not entirely, no. I've made a good dent in it, though. Fascinating.'
'I'm sure.'
'Professor Mansfield?' Aubrey said.
'Professor of Ancient Languages. And I hope you're not going to ask me how a woman my age happens to be a professor.'
'Wouldn't have dreamed of it,' Aubrey said truthfully. Knowing his mother and Caroline meant that he didn't find competent women a shock, unlike many of his contemporaries. 'I wanted to ask for a reading list.'
She smiled again, with dimples, and Aubrey was tempted to revise his age estimate downward considerably. 'Good lad. I'll get one to you. What college are you at?'
'St Alban's.'
'Name?'
'Aubrey Fitzwilliam.'
'Fitzwilliam. St Alban's.' She looked up from her notebook. 'You're not related to Rose Fitzwilliam?'
'My mother.'
She tapped her nose with her pencil, thoughtfully. 'Wish her the best from me when you see her next. Anne Mansfield. Oh, and your father.'
She picked up her case. 'See the secretary in the Languages school this afternoon.' She stopped at the door. 'We'll make all the necessary arrangements.'
When she'd gone, Aubrey was left with a feeling that he'd just complicated a life that had hitherto been marked by a distinct lack of simplicity. 'George,' he said, and he handed the letter to his friend, 'remind me never to act on impulse ever again.'
'Right you are, old man.'
George glanced at the handwriting on the envelope and frowned.
'Anything wrong?' Aubrey asked.
George didn't answer. He opened the letter and scowled as he read it.
'George?'
George sighed. He folded the letter and tucked it back in the envelope, then stared at it for a moment. 'Farming's a hard life,' he said eventually.
'A letter from home, was it? Your father is all right?'
'His health's improved, at least.' George slipped the envelope into the inner pocket of his jacket. 'You know, it's hard enough with the seasons and the crops and animals and all that. But do you know what worries farmers most?'
'No.'
'Money.'
Eight
THE NEXT MORNING, AUBREY CAME BACK FROM THE bathroom, still towelling his hair. George pointed at the teapot on the desk. 'Help yourself.'
'Excellent.'
'Caroline's left a note. She was wondering if we wanted to go down to the city with her.'
Aubrey took his head from the towel and stared. 'When?
'She wants to catch the half-past nine train.'
Tea forgotten, Aubrey was at his wardrobe in an instant. Then he turned back to his friend. 'George?'
'What is it?'
'How do you know what was in the note that was left for me?'
George grinned. 'Interesting. You're assuming it was a note for you. It simply said "Room 14" on the envelope.'
'Well, when I said "for me", I actually meant "for us". Of course.'
'That makes no sense at all. You're asking me how I know what was in a note addressed to us.'
'Correct.'
'University is addling your brain. Come on, get dressed.'
CAROLINE WAS WAITING ON THE STATION PLATFORM. SHE was comparing her watch – a man's wristwatch – with the station clock. Aubrey started to catalogue her clothing for later complimenting, but gave up and enjoyed the simple fact that Caroline Hepworth would be a couturier's dream; she made all clothes look good.
He hailed her and she glanced in his direction before returning her attention to her watch. For an instant he was miffed that he was less interesting than a timepiece, but he decided that would be reading too much into things.
'Hello, Aubrey, George,' she said when she'd finished her inspection. Aubrey had the distinct impression that she was annoyed with neither the watch nor the clock, but with time in general, there being so little of it.
'Hello, Caroline,' he said. 'How's Science been?'
'Challenging. And Magic?'
'Exhilarating.'
'You're fortunate. And how's History, George?'
'Splendid. I've met some jolly interesting people.'
'Any of them male?'
'None come to mind. Unmemorable lot, History men.'
'And the Magisterium, Aubrey. Is it keeping you busy?'
Aubrey flinched, and was glad to see they were alone on the platform. 'Magisterium?'
'Commander Tallis told me that Craddock was recruiting you, temporary duty or something like that.'
'Tallis? Craddock?'
'Aubrey, you've lapsed into your parrot impersonation again, which is hardly useful. Now, why hasn't Jack Figg been able to contact you?'
'Jack –' Aubrey began, then he bit his tongue. 'He's been trying to contact me?'
'All week.'
'Ah. I've been busy.'
Caroline rolled her eyes. 'And you're the only one who's been busy?'
Aubrey had the distinct feeling that he was on a very rapid slippery dip. 'Ask George.'
'Very busy, he's been,' George said. 'Didn't even see the notes on his desk.'
'Apparently not. That's why Jack contacted me, to contact you, to contact him. If you see what I mean.'
'Perfectly,' Aubrey said faintly. He was still trying to sort out the barrage of information. 'Commander Tallis?'
Caroline snorted. It would have been unladylike in anyone else. 'He's been promoted. To match Craddock, they say. Keeps the Special Services and the Magisterium balanced against each other.'
'You've been speaking with him?'
A whistle sounded. Caroline looked down the track. 'Right on time.' She glanced at Aubrey. 'You mightn't be the only one on special detachment, you know.'
Their gazes met. Caroline smiled, just a little, and Aubrey immediately knew how a lump of wax felt when it's held over a candle flame.
Then, as one, they turned to look at George. He returned their regard evenly. 'Special detachment? Of course I am. Apart from my standard brief to keep an eye on you two – son of PM and daughter of one of the country's most famous artists – a representative of the Press is vital in these times. Who else can we trust if we can't trust the newspapers?'
Aubrey and Caroline burst out laughing. George couldn't keep a straight face, and the other passengers waiting on the platform stared at them with puzzlement.
The seats in the first-class compartment were roomy and comfortable. Aubrey and George were sitting opposite Caroline. Aubrey had been torn over the seating configuration. He much preferred sitting so he was facing the direction of travel – sitting with his back to the engine seemed unnatural, somehow, going backward into the future. But Caroline took the window seat – once again, Aubrey's preference – on this side of the compartment, so Aubrey had to decide whether to sit next to her – delightful – or sit opposite where he could see her without moving his head – perhaps even more
delightful. The permutations were so labyrinthine that at first he stood in the middle of the compartment, unable to move until George nudged him. Aubrey let the direction of the nudge make the decision for him, and so he ended up travelling backward, but with the agreeable compensation of having Caroline in his sight the whole way.
After they'd settled into the clacketty-clack rhythm of the train, Aubrey felt as if things were resolved. Caroline still had a distance about her, but she smiled and joked merrily. If she had been a favourite cousin or a sister, all would be well, but Aubrey still harboured feelings for her that – it seemed – would go unrequited.
'So, what did Jack Figg want?' he asked, mainly to distract himself from that line of thought.
'Jack?' Caroline's chin was resting on the back of her hand as she gazed out of the window. A ghost of a reflection hovered in the glass, and Aubrey wished he were a painter. 'He wanted you, is all he'd say.'
'I hope he's not in trouble.'
'Don't be so gloomy,' George said. 'P'raps he's found the perfect solution for poverty and wants to share it with you.'
'Possibly.' It was the sort of thing Jack Figg would come up with, Aubrey decided. The plan would assume endless goodwill from everyone, plus absolute rationality to boot, where the entire population would collectively strike their foreheads and exclaim 'Of course! Why didn't we think of this before?'
And Jack would get dreadfully disappointed when flaws in his plan were pointed out to him, but it wouldn't stop him from organising, lecturing, arguing and simply badgering those around him into good works.
Jack Figg was one of the few truly humane human beings Aubrey had ever met. Aubrey did worry about him, living and working in some of the worst, most crime-ridden parts of the city, but Jack never faltered in his efforts to improve the lot of those around him.
Caroline still gazed dreamily through the window. George had unfolded one of his beloved newspapers and was immersed in the minutiae that so intrigued him. Aubrey was left alone with his thoughts.
Some time later, George nudged him. Aubrey started. 'What?'
'You were asleep.'
'No I wasn't.'
'No, of course not. You snore when you're awake, just to keep everyone on their toes.'
'And the closed eyes,' Caroline said. 'To keep out the sunlight?'
'I wasn't snoring, was I?'
'No,' Caroline said. 'Not really.'
George held the paper under Aubrey's nose. 'Like to go to a show while we're in town?'
'I don't think so. I've had enough of shows for a time.'
'Look again, old man.' George shook the newspaper significantly. 'Wouldn't you like to go to a show?'
Aubrey started to bat the newspaper aside, then his gaze landed on the advertisement in the middle of the page. 'Oh.'
'I thought so,' George said smugly.
'What on earth are you two going on about?' Caroline asked.
'Nothing,' Aubrey said.
'Nothing,' George said.
Caroline narrowed her eyes. 'Why do I suddenly feel as if I'm a headmaster? Come now, out with it.'
'Arturo Spinetti,' George said. 'Lovely tenor. Good reviews, too. "A fine repertoire, excellent control, first class presentation."'
'It doesn't sound like your sort of thing, Aubrey.'
'It's not, exactly.'
'Then what is it?'
Aubrey hesitated. Caroline's father had been killed by Dr Tremaine. Should he tell her of his suspicions? Would it be kinder to shield her until he knew more?
If she finds out later that I suspected and didn't tell her . . . 'You deserve to know.' He leaned forward and put his hands together. 'I think Dr Tremaine is back.'
All the blood ran from Caroline's face. Her eyes became diamond-hard points. 'Dr Tremaine,' she breathed in a voice that was full of such loathing, such fury that Aubrey almost felt sorry for the man.
He also thought it wise not to point out that it was Caroline who was now echoing. 'Yes. At least, I think so.' He glanced at George. 'George isn't sure.'
'Not sure?' she snapped. 'Either you saw him or you didn't.'
'I saw him. George didn't. Or George didn't think it was him.'
'Tell me everything.'
So Aubrey recounted the fiasco at the awards ceremony. When he paused, George filled in and Aubrey was grateful for his friend's impartiality. Listening to him, it didn't sound as if he were a complete raving fool.
Caroline sat silently, but Aubrey saw how the clenched hands in her lap went whiter and whiter as the story unfolded.
When Aubrey finished the account, she groped for words for a moment. 'And you weren't going to tell me this?'
He sighed. 'I considered it. But lessons learned and all that. This is the first chance I've had – we've had – to tell you.'
'I see.' She gazed out of the window again. 'This changes things. We must put it to rest once and for all. Is this Spinetti Dr Tremaine or not?'
'You really think he might be?' Aubrey asked.
'Magic, Aubrey,' she said. 'It's you who should know that just about anything can happen where magic is concerned. Some sort of disguising spell or other, I'd imagine.'
'One that I can see through but no-one else can?'
'I'll leave that for you to work out.'
Aubrey opened his mouth and then closed it again.
'Excellent.' Caroline regarded Aubrey with a steely ferocity. 'Is there anything else you're not telling me?'
JACK FIGG HAD ASKED TO MEET AT THE HALL IN LENNOX Street, the headquarters of the Society for the Preservation of Manners. The last two members of the fading society – a Miss Alwyn and her cousin Mr Renshaw – were on the Continent and had let Jack Figg have the use of the almost pristine building.
The hall was narrow, sandwiched between a barber and a boot repair shop. Jack Figg was standing on the stairs, leaning against one of the pair of fluted pillars, waiting for them in the morning sunshine.
He brightened when he saw them approach. 'Aubrey! Caroline! George! At last!'
Jack Figg was tall and thin. He stooped and his shoulders were rounded. He wore battered spectacles, a dark blue waistcoat, and a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looked harassed, but Aubrey knew it was his customary expression. Like him, Jack had many things he wanted to do with life and felt that there simply weren't enough hours in a day.
'Sorry, Jack.' Aubrey shook his friend's hand. 'Things have been hectic.'
'Saving the country again, I suppose?'
'No, not for a while, I haven't. I'm at Greythorn now, you know. Busy.'
'Ah, and how is the featherbed of the elite? Full of lotus eaters whiling their lives away?'
'Not exactly. I haven't had a lotus all the time I've been there. Have you, George? Caroline?'
'No,' George said. 'I had a good pork pie just yesterday, though.'
'Hmph,' Jack said. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his waistcoat. 'Still, it's hardly an open institution. I don't suppose you saw many miner's sons there. Or daughters,' he hastened to add when he saw Caroline bridling.
'You know I agree with you, Jack,' Aubrey said. 'There's a long way for the country to go. We've made some progress, but some things move slowly.'
George shrugged. 'Well, here's one farmer's son who's managed to wind up at Greythorn.'
'Should be more of it, is all I'm saying,' Jack said.
'And I'm sure that's not why you've asked us here,' Aubrey said. He gazed up at the neoclassical façade of the building. The pediment was severe, looking down on the portico like a judge on the accused. 'What have you got set up in here? A soup kitchen? A workers' reading room?'
'We've got a co-operative running inside, lacemaking.'
'Jack, I didn't think you were the textiles type.'
'We've had a number of families come down from the north, turned out of their houses when the mills expanded. The old women used to make lace by hand, so I've set them up here, teaching others. Output is increasing and we've got more o
rders than we can fill.'
'You never cease to amaze me, Jack,' Aubrey said. 'But what's this got to do with me?'
'Nothing. The lacemakers use the auditorium, but this place has a set of offices too. Someone has asked to meet you.'
THE OFFICE HAD ONE SMALL WINDOW, AND THE GENERAL gloom this created wasn't helped by the decor. The walls were panelled with black wood, the desk and chairs were heavy and equally dark. Two large filing cabinets – in dark wood – stood like sentinels in one corner. In front of the desk, a long table stretched toward the door.
Two men and a woman looked up when Aubrey, Jack, Caroline and George entered. The men stood, tall and straight. Aubrey knew military bearing when he saw it, and suspected the origin of these strangers even before he heard them speak.
Jack addressed himself to the older of the two men. 'Count Brandt, this is Aubrey Fitzwilliam, who you've heard me talking about.'
'At last,' Count Brandt said, bowing slightly, and his accent confirmed Aubrey's suspicions. 'I get to meet your Prime Minister's son.'
Aubrey was accustomed to this sort of greeting. It ranked him somewhere between the Prime Minister's fourth assistant secretary and the Prime Minister's cufflinks. 'Count Brandt.'
While Jack introduced Caroline and George, Aubrey studied the Holmland count.
He was in his fifties, Aubrey guessed, from the grey that sprinkled his otherwise black hair and beard. Tall, powerful, but definitely starting to lose the muscularity he had once had. Too much good living? His hands were blunt, well-manicured, but Aubrey could see several scars that must have come from nasty wounds. A military background, without question, from his posture. His suit was expensive, from Maitland's, one of Old Street's finest tailors, if Aubrey was any judge.
His Albionish was excellent – precise, fluent, with a good grasp of idiom. Aubrey wondered how much time he'd spent in the country.
Brandt waited until Jack had finished his introductions and took his turn. 'These are my good friends, Mr Rudolf Bloch and Miss Anna Albers.'
Aubrey glanced at George and received a merest hint of a wink in return. 'So,' George said, 'lacemaking is popular in Holmland?'
Brandt stared at George. Bloch and Albers looked at each other, worried, and Aubrey was pleased to have them on the back foot.
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