It was a subterranean world Aubrey had never really contemplated. Pipes, wires, tunnels, it was a veritable jungle underneath the staid old city. 'I think Maggie had better look for a new headquarters,' he said. 'I don't think this one will be habitable for some time.'
Thirteen
BLEARY-EYED, AUBREY STAGGERED ONTO THE GREY-thorn train just before it left. He threw his hat and his travelling bag onto the luggage rack, hung his jacket on the hook by the door and blessed the designers of the first-class carriages for their forethought in providing seats that were plush, comfortable and conducive to sleep. An extra bonus, one that he couldn't attribute to the designers, was that he was alone in his compartment, with no-one he had to be polite to.
He ached from his battering in the underground flood and the pocket thunderstorm, but it was healthy bruising rather than the pernicious pain that came when his body and soul were drifting apart. He felt perversely satisfied after the subterranean adventure, glad he'd been able to help Maggie's Crew, and pleased that – with his surveillance in place – he was making a positive move in this strange struggle with Dr Tremaine. It was almost as if it were being conducted by correspondence – a move, then a lag, then a response.
But all the time, Aubrey had the feeling of forces being marshalled, battalions being manoeuvred and battlefields being chosen. A confrontation was looming, but when?
He settled himself in. A minute, he thought. I'll be asleep in a minute.
The train moved out of the station and Aubrey closed his eyes. He could feel the easeful embrace of sleep starting to enfold him.
The train dropped off the edge of the world.
Totally unprepared, Aubrey flew out of his seat. His stomach shot up, slammed off the roof of his mouth and smacked back down again. Desperately, he flailed for a handhold, and then – of all things – he banged his funny bone. He hissed as sparks of pain ran up and down his arm, turning it into a limp, fuzzy, useless object. Handholds forgotten, he landed back on the seat with enough force to wind him.
When his arm returned to normal, he noticed that the compartment was almost completely black. With the shouts and cries for help, Aubrey had an awful moment when he thought he was dreaming, taken back to the flood in the hydraulic railway station. Then a guard – tall, sandy-haired, missing his cap, but with a good, steady bullseye lantern – threw open the door. 'You all right, young sir?'
'I'm fine. Just a little shaken. Can I help?'
'Just make your way to the back of the carriage, sir, if you please.'
'What's happened?'
'Not sure, sir. Looks as if the train's fallen into a hole.'
Suddenly, the compartment dropped a further foot. Amid the renewed crashing and groaning, both Aubrey and the guard grabbed at the walls to steady themselves.
The guard grinned, nervously. 'Better step lively, sir.' The guard moved along the passage, offering his help to the other compartments in a solicitous, calm manner that made Aubrey proud to be a Albionite. In crisis or upheaval, the ordinary man in the street (or woman, he added mentally, hearing Caroline's voice in his head) could be relied on to button down and soldier on. It was part of the Albionite makeup, like knowing how to wait in a queue, enjoying the company of dogs and understanding the rules of cricket.
Another conductor was waiting at the end of the carriage. He held a lantern to help passengers off the train. When Aubrey alighted, he saw that they were in a tunnel, but the track directly under the locomotive had subsided. This meant that the first three carriages of the train – and the locomotive – were at a forty-five degree angle, more or less. The locomotive was canted to the right, but all its wheels were still on the track.
The conductor pointed Aubrey back toward the station, which was only a few hundred yards away. He looked at the line of passengers making their way in that direction, and he decided that a fortunate set of circumstances had come together to prevent a disaster. The train was still picking up speed after leaving the station and the subsidence occurred under a straight section of track. If either of this had been different . . .
He shuddered.
Navvies were already hurrying along the tracks, against the flow of passengers, carrying tools, ropes and lengths of heavy timber. Every second man had a powerful lantern. Aubrey stood for a moment, then turned away from the station and joined the first wave of heavy-booted labourers as they made their way to the distressed locomotive.
Last night's incident in the old hydraulic railway tunnel was on his mind. A second subterranean anomaly might be totally unrelated, but Aubrey couldn't let his curiosity go unsatisfied.
He searched in his pockets until he found an old railway timetable. With that folded over, and a pencil in his hand, it provided enough of George's protective colouration to allow him to mingle with the navvies unchallenged.
No need for an invisibility spell, he thought smugly as he pretended to scrutinise one of the driving wheels of the locomotive. No magic needed at all.
The engineer was uninjured, to judge from the wrathful indignation he was venting on the impressed navvies. The thoroughly soot-coated individual sitting on the ground had to be the stoker, Aubrey guessed. He was holding a startlingly white handkerchief to his forehead but otherwise seemed to be in fine fettle, joking with those around him.
Aubrey's thoughts turned to wondering how the authorities were going to get the train out of the mess it had wound up in. Magic, muscle or machinery? Or a combination of all of these?
The leader of the navvies was a middle-aged man, bewhiskered and wearing a bowler hat that had seen better days. He swung a pick lazily in his left hand as he listened to the engineer sound forth on the poor quality of the new tunnelling works. When the engineer finally petered out, the navvy boss leaned his pick against the locomotive's bumper and led the applause.
Just the sort of man who knows what's going on, Aubrey thought. The navvies had broken up their admiring circle and were trudging to the front of the locomotive. Aubrey fell in beside the boss. 'Can I help?'
The bewhiskered man glanced sideways. Aubrey saw him take in his clothes, his soft hands, his youth. 'Thank you, young sir. Best if you don't get in the way.'
'Last thing I want to do. I was in the train, though, when it happened. I thought I could tell you what went on.'
'No need for that, no disrespect intended. It's pretty clear, it is.'
'Is it? What happened?'
The look the navvy boss gave him wasn't contempt. Not quite. 'Fell in a bloody big hole, begging your pardon.'
'Of course, of course.' Aubrey realised he was doing a fine job of confirming every low opinion the navvy boss had ever held about the well-off. 'This sort of thing happen often, does it?'
Contempt shifted to a strange sort of pity. 'Not really, no.' He shot a look at the sleepers and ballast under the tracks. 'Though I'm not surprised on one of Rokeby-bloody-Taylor's jobs, begging your pardon.'
Mild interest suddenly became a raging curiosity. 'Rokeby-Taylor? What do you mean?'
'It's his company as what's put in this stretch of track, and the tunnel, from here to Brown Box Hill. Just like the Southern Line tunnel under the river. Made himself a lot of money, I'm sure, but not by overspending on planning or materials, if my meaning is plain enough, begging your pardon.'
'Quite plain enough.' Aubrey stared at the locomotive. The engine was still steaming, but Aubrey could see the boiler was cracked. The locomotive would require a great deal of work before it would run the tracks again.
Rokeby-Taylor. The cost-cutter. The pocket-liner. The gambler. A man whose affairs were catching up with him, if Aubrey's father could be believed. But a man still well embedded in Albion society.
The thought leaped into his head, unbidden and unanticipated. What a perfect target for Holmland blackmail.
A loan from an agreeable foreigner at first, then a larger one, and before he'd know it, he'd be enmeshed. Then how would it go? 'Well, Mr Rokeby-Taylor, if you can't pay back your mon
ey, how would you like to clear your debt by doing us a little favour? Nothing difficult. Just some papers we'd like to see.'
At first.
'Platform's that way, young sir,' the navvy boss said. 'And thanks for your help.'
'I . . . well . . .'He shrugged. 'Sorry. I was getting in the way, wasn't I?'
The navvy boss pushed back the brim of his hat and scratched his brow. He looked thoughtful for a moment. 'That's not what I meant, Mr Fitzwilliam. Was talking about your Broad Street Clinic, the one your family set up. Saw you there when it opened. Dr Wells saved my daughter, he did, young Dorothy, when she had the gripe.'
Aubrey thrust out his hand. 'She's well now, I hope.'
The navvy boss's hand was huge, but his grip was gentle. 'Thriving and singing like a bear.'
'Bird.'
'No, a bear. Joy of our life, but not much of a singer, is our Dorothy.' He turned Aubrey's hand over and inspected it. 'Not done much shovelling lately, I see.'
'No, not lately.'
'Then leave this to us.' He put his fingers to his lips and whistled, one short, hard blast. 'Come now, boys, let's see what we can do to save bloody-Rokeby-bloody-Taylor's train line.'
A derisive cheer greeted this and the gang of navvies surged past, with wheelbarrows, picks, shovels, planks, crowbars, ropes and lanterns. Aubrey wanted to stay, but he minded the boss's words. These men had a job to do.
BACK AT THE STATION, AUBREY AND THE OTHER PASSENGERS were directed to another platform. The roundabout remedy took them via underground to Knoxton station, north of the disaster zone, where a new Greythorn train was waiting for them. Their luggage, they were assured, would follow them. Aubrey was sceptical, but didn't say anything. The authorities were doing their best.
This time, he did manage to sleep.
WHEN AUBREY FINALLY GOT TO HIS ROOMS, AN HOUR OR so after an uninspiring railway lunch, George was waiting for him.
He let his newspaper sag. 'You look in one piece, at least. Thank goodness.'
'Hello, George. It's good to see you, too.' Aubrey stared. His travelling bag was on the floor next to his bed. 'When did that get here?'
'Railways chap delivered it an hour ago.'
Aubrey made a mental note not to be so sceptical about Albionite railways. He yawned. 'How are things at the farm?'
'They've been better,' George said shortly. He started to add to this and then appeared to change his mind. 'Caroline rang and left a message. She said that your train had been involved in some sort of accident or other.'
'She was worried?'
'Hard to say. She wanted more information, is how I'd put it.'
'Oh.' Aubrey threw himself on his bed. He lay with his arms behind his head. 'I feel like a chef, George, with a pudding of many parts. It hasn't quite come together yet, but I think with some brisk beating and a good, hot bake in the oven, it might reveal itself.'
'That'd be a metaphor, I take it,' George said. He stood, stretched, then spun around one of the wooden chairs and sat with his chin resting on his hands.
'Indeed. I thought I was looking for Dr Tremaine, but it turns out that things are much more complicated than that.'
'Hmm. That's a change.'
'I know, I know. But remember the Scholar Tan: A forest is not always a forest. It is a thousand different plants of a hundred different types. But sometimes, it's just a forest.'
'You know I can't remember the Scholar Tan, never having read him. In fact, I sometimes wonder if you don't make up half of the things you say he said.'
'I don't tell you half of what he said because I don't think you'd believe me.'
Aubrey sat up. 'George, I'm sorry. I've done my usual thing here. I've bustled in, full of my concerns and thoughts, and simply assumed that they're the most important in the world.'
'Don't worry, old man. I'm used to it.'
'But you were saying that things weren't good at home and I let it go straight through to the keeper. Tell me what's happened.'
'Caroline is having an effect on you, isn't she? Good show.'
'Caroline. My mother. My father. You. You're all having an effect on me for the better.'
'Now there's a change. No more complete confidence that you know everything?'
'It's a thing of the past. Mostly. Now, tell me about home.'
George's face fell. He stood and started to pace the length of the room. 'It's actually worse than I thought. They've been keeping things from me.'
'Parents have a habit of doing that,' Aubrey said, thinking about his mother's incidents in the Arctic.
'They certainly did in this case. Remember the landslip we had last year, where we lost those outbuildings down the side of the hill?'
'Of course.'
'We had to take out a loan to rebuild. Which we did, without much problem. But the harvest this year was poor, and cash has been hard to come by.' George sighed. 'The short story is that the bank wants money that we don't have.'
Aubrey swung his legs over the edge of the bed. 'You know my father would help.'
Aubrey's father and George's father had been in the same unit – Sir Darius as commanding officer, William Doyle as sergeant-major. Their closeness had resulted in their sons growing up together.
'I know that. You know that. Father knows that. But there is no way in the world that William Doyle would accept money from anyone, no matter how bad the situation is. Stiff-necked, proud buffer that he is, he has to find a way out of this mess himself.'
'George, this is horrible.'
'Oh, it is that. Makes me want to weep.'
'I wouldn't blame you.' Then, without realising it, Aubrey started to hum.
George looked at him sharply. 'Don't.'
'Don't? Don't what?'
'You're scheming. You're trying to devise a clever way to do something about the farm.'
Aubrey winced, but George was right.
This was a circumstance he could do something about. Without anyone knowing it, a quiet word with his father – or his mother – and the Doyles' financial situation would immediately be rectified. Aubrey knew that his family was rich. Not just comfortable, but wealthy. The amount of money needed to pay off the Doyles' debts wouldn't make a dent in the family fortune.
He'd already started thinking about the best way to go about it, to find a way to pay off the debt without Mr Doyle finding out who was responsible. Maybe getting the money directly into his hands so he could pay the bank. Burying a treasure trove where he'd be bound to find it? A long-lost relative dying in Antipodea? Or just work with the bank, who'd then let Mr Doyle know that the debt had disappeared.
'You've started again, haven't you?' George said gruffly.
'Me?'
'I know you, Aubrey. You can't help yourself. When you see a problem, you want to do something about it.'
'Well, yes.'
'It's more than that, though. It becomes a challenge, something personal. You can't leave things alone.'
'Ah. You're saying that I'm an interfering busybody.'
'That's a harsh description.'
'But accurate?'
'When you're at your worst, yes. But the trouble is, it's also you at your best. It doesn't seem as though we can have one without the other.'
'You don't know how comforting I find that.' Aubrey blew air in and out of his cheeks for a moment. 'I do want to help, you know.'
'I know. But you can't. It would break Father if you did.' George looked at him carefully. 'Look, Aubrey, I want you to promise me something.'
'What is it?'
'I want you to give me your word of honour that you won't interfere here.'
'All right.'
George stopped his pacing. 'No, Aubrey, that was too fast. I want you to think about this. I didn't ask you as a negotiating gambit, something for you to counter and then find a way around it. It's your honour that I'm relying on here. Your integrity. Your worth as a decent and trustworthy person. The person that I respect and admire.'
'Oh.' Aub
rey, once again, was humbled. He had been treating George's request as a feint. He had been thinking of ways around it.
He hadn't taken his best friend seriously.
'George,' he said. He sought for the words. 'I want you to know that I'm not doing this because I feel trapped into it, or that I feel shamed into it. I'm doing it because I think I understand and I want to do it.' He took a deep breath. 'George, I give you my word of honour that I won't interfere in your family's financial problems. And that I won't try to find a sneaky way around it, either.'
George held out his hand. 'Old man, I take you at your word.'
Aubrey shook and was grateful – for the ten thousandth time – that he had such a friend as George.
George shook himself, like a dog climbing out of a river, and sat again. 'Now, what's all this about a train accident?'
Aubrey told George about the mysterious subsidence and the interesting conversation with the navvy. Then, of course, he found he had to jump backwards and explain the whole business with Jack Figg, Maggie and her Crew. Then he had to backtrack and tell George all about the thunderstorm attack on Count Brandt's Holmlanders, which seemed a very long time ago.
'Busy weekend,' George said, when Aubrey finished. 'A lot to chew over there.'
'That'd be one of your metaphors, then?' Aubrey said.
George threw a book at him, without much malice or force. Then he straightened, eyes bright. 'I tell you what, this is dashed exciting stuff, when you look at it.'
'What is? The explosion? The Holmlanders? The hydraulic railway?'
'Well, all of it really. But I was most interested in the Rokeby-Taylor goings-on. I mean, everyone knows about Rokeby-Taylor, but all this about his shoddy business dealings is fascinating.'
'You're not thinking of your journalism again, are you?'
'It's the sort of hard-hitting stuff that makes reputations. Imagine the headlines! "Rich Dandy Betrays the Country by Not Doing the Right Thing".'
'I think they have people to do the headlines, fortunately,' Aubrey said. 'But let's not get too carried away.'
Word of Honour Page 17
