Blaze of Glory (25 page)

Of course, looking at Caroline, he quickly decided that
if one belonged to a part of society that had been systematically
excluded from power, the only courses of action
may be inefficient ones.

'Aubrey?'

'Sorry,' he said. 'I was just thinking. Women voting? Of
course. They should have had the vote a long time ago.'

'Well.' Caroline looked mollified, but she still regarded
him with narrowed eyes. 'What have you done about it?'

'What have I done about getting women the vote?' He
blinked. 'Me, personally?'

'And there lies the problem. I'm sure there are many well-meaning,
reasonable males out there like you, Aubrey,
who have never considered what they could do to right
an age-old wrong.'

'I'm sure.' This conversation had taken a turn in a
direction Aubrey hadn't anticipated. It was disconcerting
to be cast adrift like this. He tried to strike out in a new
direction. 'What have you done with the notebook?'

'I have it safe in my room. Father gave magical strongboxes
to both mother and me, for our valuables. It's well
protected.'

'I don't doubt it.'

Caroline studied him for a moment. 'Your parents
should be here any moment. Mother rang them last
night, and again this morning.'

'I doubt they'll come,' Aubrey said. 'They're most likely
to send a driver to fetch us.'

'Surely not.'

'They're both busy people.' He paused. 'Is that the
door?'

Aubrey's pessimistic prediction was correct. Mrs
Hepworth stood at the front door talking with Stubbs,
the driver, and George.

'Thank you, Mrs Hepworth,' Aubrey said when she
turned at the sound of their footsteps.

'Ophelia, please. I've managed to get George to use my
name, and insist that you do too.'

Aubrey could see that her eyes were red. She noticed
his regard. 'It will pass,' she said. 'The sorrow, the grieving.
The loss, though, that's another thing.'

She turned away. Caroline put an arm around her
shoulders.

Aubrey and George left.

In the motorcar, Stubbs informed them that Sir Darius
had been summoned to a hastily arranged meeting at the
nearby Grover Hotel. Lady Fitzwilliam had taken the
opportunity to visit someone at the university. 'Something
to do with birds,' was Stubbs's summation of the
purpose of this visit.

The outcome was that, once back at the hotel, Aubrey
and George had the rooms to themselves.

Aubrey threw himself on the chaise longue and draped
an arm over his face. 'I want to sleep for a century or
two.' He lay there for a moment. 'It was a near thing
last night.'

'We'd still be trapped in that workshop if not for you.'

'Not just that. I barely hung on, just before dawn.'
Aubrey put both hands on his face. His voice became
muffled. 'I could feel myself going. It was as if I were
turning to smoke and being blown away.'

'Perhaps it's time to seek help, old man.'

'No,' he said sharply. 'This is my struggle. I'll manage it.'

'No-one will think the less of you.'

'No? Not even when I explain what caused this sorry
state? How my own stupidity and bravado caused this?
Imagine the glee with which Father's enemies would
leap on such a thing.' He dropped his hands and looked
at George. 'I'm afraid I'm on my own.'

'I'll stand by you.'

'I know. I appreciate it.'

Embarrassed, George turned away. 'Rest. You need it.'

T
HE NEXT DAY, THEY WENT BACK TO THE CITY.
A
UBREY
felt tired, but his condition seemed steady. George sat
with his omnipresent newspaper, alternating between
chuckling and tsk-tsking. Aubrey's parents were quiet as
the motorcar rolled smoothly down the highway, which
suited Aubrey. However, he couldn't help wondering at
their silence. His father spent most of the journey staring
out of the window and frowning. His mother seemed
impatient, her hands never remaining still, tapping on the
door or on her bag. With every halt, she clicked her
tongue and looked through the window for the source of
the delay.

Aubrey rubbed his face with both hands and yawned.
Tired, but not dangerously so. His brief contact with
Professor Hepworth's notebook had prompted thoughts
in new directions, and he had a burning desire to look
more deeply into amalgamation as a possible solution, or
even some sort of spiritual barrier to prevent the true
death from taking him.

Then there was the mystery of the death of Professor
Hepworth and the attempt on the life of Prince Albert.
Aubrey was convinced there was a link between them,
and the presence of the deadly guardian in the professor's
workshop added another element to the mix. Who put
it there? Was it the same person who had sent the golem
after Prince Albert? Or another player in this complex
game?

On top of this was the extraordinary confrontation
between the Holmlanders and the unheard of collaboration
between the Magisterium and the Special Services.

Shadowy figures were at work, indistinct and ominous.
Aubrey wished for a bright light to throw on them, to
make them all stand out where he could see them.

With so many things to think through, so many challenges
in front of him, time was a precious commodity.

So he fell asleep.

They arrived at Maidstone after midnight. Aubrey
woke as they glided through the gates, stayed awake
until he entered his bedroom, then fell into a dreamless
slumber.

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
A
UBREY OPENED HIS EYES AND GROPED
for his pocket watch on the cluttered bedside table. It was
just after eleven o'clock.

He bathed. Then, as he brushed his hair, he looked in
the mirror.
Not too bad
, he thought as he studied his
reflection.

His skin was pale, but no paler than usual. His eyes
weren't dull, for which he was grateful. They did have
dark circles under them, but that was the only evidence
of strain that he could see.

On the way out of his room, he saw his jacket, thrown
across an armchair. He took the pamphlet he'd snatched
from the Society for Non-magical Fitness out of the
pocket, smoothed it out and stared at the crude lettering
that accused his father of being a traitor.

He wondered how it fitted in. He felt as if he were
adding another thread to a tapestry where the overall
design was hidden from him.

Aubrey hurried down the stairs just in time to run into
his father. Sir Darius stood inside the front door, handing
his hat and cane to Harris, the butler.

Sir Darius studied Aubrey for a moment, concern
struggling with his customary reserve. 'You've slept late.'

'Sorry, sir,' Aubrey said stiffly. He tugged at the bottom
of his jacket and straightened his tie.

'You're missing half the day, this way,' Sir Darius said.
He turned to the butler. 'Harris, I need a light lunch as
soon as possible. Once you've told cook, please make sure
the library is arranged for a meeting. Five people.'

'Yes, Sir Darius.' Harris hurried off.

'Sir?' Aubrey said.

'Yes?'

'I have something you should know about.'

He gave the battered pamphlet to his father.

Sir Darius held it at arm's length between his thumb
and forefinger, as if it were infectious. '"Darius Fitzwilliam,
Traitor to Albion." Where did you get this?'

Aubrey hesitated, then responded with caution. He
avoided recounting the sortie to Professor Hepworth's
workshop and concentrated on the battle at the Society
for Non-magical Fitness. Throughout, Sir Darius
remained silent.

When Aubrey finished, he pointed at the pamphlet.
'You've seen it before, haven't you?'

Sir Darius's mouth was set in a grim line. He folded the
pamphlet in half. 'I've seen others like it. My reputation
is under attack.'

Red, green and blue light was pouring through the
stained glass panels around the front door. Sir Darius was
outlined against it. Aubrey could see strength in his face
and the way he stood. But could such strength stand
against attacks like these?

'That's happened before,' Aubrey said.

'Yes. It should get easier to bear, but it never does. When
these times come, I always find that some I thought were
friends disappear.' He smoothed his moustache.

'They're not true friends, then.'

Sir Darius nodded and smiled crookedly. 'They're
political friends. Remember the Scholar Tan? "Political
friends are enemies in waiting."'

'But who do you think wrote this pamphlet? And
why?'

'Come now, Aubrey. I'm sure you can think of possible
suspects.'

Aubrey had thought, ever since he picked up the
pamphlet. 'The obvious answer is the Royalists. If they
can sully your reputation, the Progressives' chance of
winning the election will take a battering.'

'Good, but who else?'

'The Holmlanders. You're well known as being anti-Holmland. If they can disgrace you, it weakens Albion
and makes us vulnerable to Holmland plans.'

'It would be ironic if it were the Holmlanders, if their
way of disgracing me is to say I'm their ally. No, I think
this plan is too subtle for the Holmlanders. They'd try to
libel me some other way.'

'Who else?'

'Who indeed? I have many enemies. I'm afraid I'll just
have to keep my wits about me.'

'Who's coming to the meeting?' Aubrey asked
suddenly.

Sir Darius seemed to weigh up his response. 'The
Prime Minister rang, saying he wanted to see me. He's
bringing Craddock, our esteemed head of the Magisterium,
and some others.'

'What could they want?'

Sir Darius held out the pamphlet. 'I asked myself the
same question. After seeing your pamphlet and hearing of
your escapade last night, I think I know.'

A
UBREY TOOK LUNCH WITH HIS FATHER, THEN FOUND
George reading his newspaper in the conservatory and
together they went up to his room.

It was no coincidence that Aubrey's room overlooked
the front of the house. He'd chosen it for its direct view
of the entrance and the great curved driveway. From any
of the three arched windows, he could see who was
coming and who was going.

Maidstone was mostly fifty years old, extensively rebuilt
at the peak of the boom times. All the rooms were enormous
and Aubrey's bedroom was no exception. His bed
was neatly tucked into one corner, which left room for an
assortment of furniture that he'd chosen. It was, naturally,
an eccentric collection. Four overstuffed armchairs, a trio
of potted palms that nearly reached the ceiling, a long low
table with a glass top, several shelves that looked as if
they'd once been shop counters, a gun cabinet that he
used for antique wands (curios from the dark ages of magic),
a folding table that he'd never got around to unfolding,
a red velvet settee, three or four scattered ottomans, vases
with dried arrangements of leaves and feathers, a large set
of brass scales for weighing horses, and several paintings
on the walls, some ugly, some not, but all of Aubrey's
ancestors. 'The Starers', Aubrey had called them ever since
he was a small boy, when he'd been half-fascinated, half-afraid
of their imperturbable expressions.

Aubrey was seated at a large table in the middle of
the room. The table was on an oval rug the colour of the
sea. On the table was an untidy arrangement of books,
pencils, inkpots and newspapers. For a whim, he was
wearing an elaborately brocaded smoking jacket, a riot of
purple peacocks and Far Eastern bridges. It had belonged
to his grandfather.

'Sit down, George. You're making me dizzy, with your
pacing like that.'

George went to the window. 'I wonder what the Prime
Minister wants,' he murmured. A greengrocer's cart
rumbled past the front gate, but apart from that the street
was quiet.

'To discuss the events of last night?' Aubrey said
without lifting his gaze from the newspaper he was
reading. 'And the pamphlet, no doubt.'

'Hmm. Can you remember exactly what was in it?'

'Better than that. I copied it out before I gave it to
Father.' He sifted through the paper on the table. 'Here.'

George crossed the room. 'Appalling handwriting,
Aubrey. You need to do something about that.' He
wandered back to the window and divided his attention
between the pamphlet and peering through the gauze
drapes.

'Rubbish,' he snorted. 'Rabble-rousers, the lot of them.'

'Yes, George?'

'Listen to this: "Sir Dandy Darius has betrayed us all!
His speeches are nothing but a false front! His companies
are working with the Holmland military might to crush
the workers of Albion! He betrays us all! He grows fat
on the blood and sweat of the ordinary working man!"
What complete nonsense.'

'It's actually like a hundred pamphlets out there on the
street. Did you notice the way every sentence ends in an
exclamation mark?'

'But aren't you outraged?'

Aubrey frowned. 'You haven't seen many of these
pamphlets before, have you, George?'

'I've seen plenty in the gutters with the other rubbish.
Never read any.'

'They're all this passionate, this strident.' He tapped his
pencil on the table. 'Sometimes I think they're a sign of
the times. It's astonishing, really, the way technology has
advanced. We now possess the means for everyone to
write, print and publish their thoughts, their creeds, their
cries for justice, their rants.'

'And just about every crackpot does.'

'True. But genuine social reformers use this method,
too. It's a way of getting their voices heard. Sometimes, it
can start a small ripple that becomes a great wave.'

'But this is poppycock! Your father hasn't colluded
with Holmlanders at all!'

'Of course not. But whoever wrote this pamphlet has
perfectly caught the flavour of pamphlet writers, the
anger, the fire. It sounds genuine. People will listen.'

George frowned. 'You don't think it's real?'

'No. It's part of a plot to disgrace my father.'

'By whom?'

'That's what I want to know. And to help me sort
out the possible perpetrators, I'm doing some research.'
He poked at the piles on the table. 'I'm not simply reading
these journals and newspapers for entertainment. I
want to see what forces are at work. Care to help?'

George grimaced, but at that moment the grinding of
gears and the crunch of tyres on gravel announced that a
motorcar had arrived.

Aubrey came to the window in time to see a short,
squat man with a dull bowler hat emerge from the
motorcar. 'The Prime Minister looks happy,' he observed.

Sir Rollo Armitage was joking with the driver, who
held open the motorcar door. His smile split his greying,
muttonchop whiskers and made the pince-nez bounce
on his nose.

Aubrey knew that his father had little respect for Sir
Rollo. After all, Sir Rollo had been Deputy Prime Minister
but had not supported Sir Darius during his leadership
crisis. When Sir Darius had lost the prime ministership
and was expelled from the Royalist Party, it was Sir Rollo
who had assumed the position of leader – and had thus
become Prime Minister without facing an election.

When Sir Darius founded the Progressive Party and
rallied the huge range of disorganised groups together,
it was Sir Rollo Armitage who became his greatest political
foe.