Heart of Gold (29 page)

'In a tunnel, my good friend. Any more than that I
cannot say.'

'That's not very helpful,' George grumbled.

'I know this sort of tunnel,' von Stralick said with a
touch of irritation. 'It's a back-door escape, in case the
hideaway was compromised. If we follow it, we may find
where Muller and Schnagel went.'

'Just as long as there are no traps or pits,' George said.

They walked in silence for some time. Aubrey took
the chance to mull over the events of the past days. The
events at the Marchmaine printing works were still
puzzling him.

'Von Stralick.'

The Holmlander didn't turn around. 'Yes, my friend?'

'Why did Muller and his thugs attack the Marchmaine
printing works?'

Von Stralick chuckled. 'I was wondering when you
would ask about that.'

'Well?'

'Muller and Schnagel are rogues, out of control, but
they are still Holmlanders. I'd say they're still interested in
sowing strife between Marchmaine and the Gallian officials,
to encourage Marchmaine to break away from the
oppressors.'

It sounded plausible, but Aubrey knew enough not to
take von Stralick at face value. 'And that's all?'

'Who knows? Perhaps they were after you. The son of
the Albion Prime Minister, working for Marchmaine
independence? What a scandal! The alliance would be
under great strain, and with no alliance, do you think it
would take long before Holmland was marching on
Gallia?'

Aubrey went cold. He hadn't thought of that, and
it gave him much to contemplate as they trudged on
in silence.

By Aubrey's watch, they followed the blood trail for
nearly an hour.

When it finally gave out onto the open, he heaved a
great sigh and shaded his eyes from the sun. The fresh air
was sweet and invigorating after the dry dustiness of the
tunnel.

They were in a railway cutting, a few yards above a
double track that bent away from them to the north and
south. Aubrey examined the tunnel exit, which was
cleverly concealed by a false signal box.

George groaned as he stretched and straightened.
'My back.'

A train screamed past in a cloud of steam, disappearing
into the afternoon. 'We're near the Northside Station,'
Aubrey said, remembering their arrival in Lutetia. He felt
a tremor underfoot, but couldn't tell if it was caused by
a nearby train or not. 'The shunting yards are just over
there.'

Von Stralick kicked at the stone-covered ground with
frustration. 'Muller and Schnagel will be well away by
now.'

'Muller and Schnagel and one other man,' George
said.

'What?' von Stralick said.

George pointed at the ground. It was soft and covered
with boot prints. 'Definitely three pairs of boots here.
Two of the men are able-bodied, one is limping. And
bleeding.'

'Ah,' Aubrey said. 'Lion-induced injury?'

George shrugged. 'Probably.'

Aubrey studied the curved roofs of the station. 'The
blockade won't let them get beyond the city limits.'

Von Stralick snorted. 'These men are professionals.
They have a whole city to hide in.'

'I don't aim to search the whole city,' Aubrey said. 'Just
the parts where they are.'

A
T FIVE O'CLOCK
, C
AROLINE WAS WAITING FOR THEM
in front of Tontine Hall. Music came through the
open windows, the piano once more banging out one of
Ivey and Wetherall's finest.

Caroline scrutinised them as they drew closer. 'Aubrey.
George. I'm glad to see that you're both in one piece.'

George looked down and patted his chest. 'Why
wouldn't we be?'

'Whenever I leave you to your own resources, you
seem to come back damaged. I was worried about you all
afternoon.'

'You were worried about us?' Aubrey raised an
eyebrow.

'Concerned. Troubled, in a broad and general way.'

'We had a tough time of it, when's all said and done,'
George put in. 'We were attacked by a lion.'

'A lion?'

'We'll tell you later,' Aubrey said. 'What were you
saying about being worried about us?'

'Never mind that. Don't you want to know what I've
managed to find out today?'

'Of course,' he said. 'Did you find Dr Romellier?'

'I've found where he is, but I doubt if you'll believe
me.'

Aubrey had had much experience with the unbelievable.
People would never believe what I'm prepared to believe
,
he thought. 'Where is he?'

'The airfield.'

'What?' George said. 'The military field? St Martin?'

'The same.'

Aubrey rubbed his forehead. 'But what would an
ornithologist be doing at a facility for building dirigibles?
And why didn't we see him there?'

Caroline looked smug. 'Dr Romellier has been
seconded by the Gallian government. With his expertise
in wing structures, he's been asked to explore new airship
design, living at the base so he can oversee any construction.'

'Would he willingly work for the government on
something like this?' Aubrey said. 'It sounds a bit farfetched.'

'He apparently made his participation conditional. He
extracted a guarantee from the government to modify an
airship with a special observation platform and send it on
a bird-spotting expedition in Sahelia.'

'Crafty devil,' George said. 'Sounds a trifle obsessed,
though.'

'Birds are all he thinks about, apparently. That's how
I managed to find his whereabouts.'

'Birds?' Aubrey said.

'You told me about the pigeon loft on top of Dr
Romellier's last known residence. I wondered if the
keeper may still be in touch with the good doctor via
pigeon post.'

'You spoke to Moir without being abused?' George
asked.

'I found him to be a charming man. A little abrupt, but
perfectly polite when approached properly.'

Aubrey couldn't help but feel that being a startlingly
attractive young woman was a useful advantage in
approaching any Gallian. 'He volunteered all this information
about Dr Romellier? He said he didn't know
where Dr Romellier was.'

'I managed to convince him of my scientific credentials
by telling him about my studies on the taxonomy
of nudibranchs. He probed me about some niceties of
classification and, satisfied, he answered some questions.
Guardedly, after telling me his responsibility was to keep
busybodies away from Dr Romellier.'

It was George's turn to express disbelief. 'He talked
about science? He was just a crazy old man.'

'Professor Moir is the Emeritus Professor of Zoology
at the University of Lutetia.'

'I told you there was more to that crazy old man than
met the eye,' George said to Aubrey.

'Clever
and
eccentric,' Aubrey mused. 'I've never heard
of that before.'

Caroline favoured him with a mildly scathing look
that he quite enjoyed. She went on. 'He told me that he
had some pigeons from the airfield and could communicate
with Dr Romellier – and vice versa. Dr Romellier
is full of suggestions about the care and feeding of the
birds. Monsieur Moir ignores these, of course. They seem
to have a testy relationship.'

Aubrey considered this titbit. 'Did Professor Moir
mention when he had his last communication from Dr
Romellier?'

'I managed to prise that piece of information out of
him. Really, Aubrey, you seem to think you're the only
one with any brains at all.'

'Sorry.' He had a feeling he should get used to using
that word with Caroline. 'So Dr Romellier is still at the
airfield.'

'As of yesterday. That's when Professor Moir had a
message with a recommendation for adding malt to the
pigeon's feed if the weather starts to turn cold.'

'Not much chance of that,' George said. 'Sticky sweltering,
that's the way the weather's headed.'

'Are Renaissance men experts in Lutetian weather,
too?' Aubrey asked.

'Of course,' George said, beaming.

Aubrey hummed a little. It would be a relief to be able
to cross Dr Romellier off his list of things to do, and even
better if he could do it before his mother arrived. While
she was understanding, she also had high expectations.

He rolled his eyes. High expectations. He was surrounded
by people with high expectations, including
himself. One of his main challenges was finding a way to
deal with all these expectations without going mad.

'Thank you,' he said to Caroline. 'You've made more
progress in one day than I have in a week. I'm very
appreciative.'

Her face coloured, which took Aubrey by surprise. He
watched the process with fascination. 'It wasn't that difficult,'
she said.

'And the letters? I know it's much to ask, but were you
able to find anything regarding them?'

'Oh. The letters. Nothing there, I'm afraid. Not yet.'

Is she flustered?
Aubrey thought.
I thought that was my
role.
'Never mind.'

'The shop was closed, you see, and Monsieur Caron
hasn't been seen for days, according to a usefully nosy
neighbour. When I told Mother, she tried ringing a few
numbers she had, but no-one has seen him since
Monday. Mother was worried.'

Monday. That was when Aubrey had visited the
document shop. Monsieur Caron had promised to fetch
his letters concerning the Treaty of St Anne. A mysterious
disappearance, letters concerning Albion and
Marchmaine – Aubrey was intrigued and wished he'd
pressed Monsieur Caron for the letters. He was sure that
the document merchant would have responded quickly if
he was offered a good enough price.

No
, he ordered himself, knowing that if his curiosity
was roused he'd find himself wasting time on this wild
goose chase.
No. It's not important. We have more vital things
to do.

George saw Aubrey's preoccupied expression and took
the opportunity to tell Caroline of their escapade with
the lion.

'So you're both heroes?' Caroline said when George
finished. 'Tackling a lion with bare hands?'

Aubrey winced. 'Well, I wouldn't say "tackling".
Running away in terror would be more accurate.'

'While planning a way to trap the beast in a pit,
inventing a new spell for animal charming and coming
up with a novel way to use ancient Sanskrit in magic
casting, I'm sure.'

'Is that a compliment?' Aubrey asked.

'Take it how you will.' Caroline smiled and held
Aubrey's gaze for a moment. 'I think I've learned enough
about you to call that a reasonable description of your
usual method of operating.'

'She's spot-on there, old man,' George added. 'Summed
you up perfectly.'

Caroline covered her mouth with her hand, but her
eyes were merry. She coughed, delicately, then inclined
her head toward the hall. 'Claude is waiting for us.'

T
HE
A
LBION
F
RIENDSHIP
S
OCIETY'S RANKS HAD GROWN
since Aubrey had last joined them. He wondered if the
unrest was sparking interest in supporting Gallia's ally of
the moment. He supposed, if one couldn't fight, then
singing jolly songs of Albion was a reasonable alternative.

The hall was lit by gaslights. The temporary seating
was stacked against walls that were covered with posters,
several layers deep in some places. The cast was assembled
on the stage with the piano front and centre. While a
new pianist flailed away, Claude Duval stood, arms
crossed and frowning. With Gallian enthusiasm, the
chorus members clutched song sheets and tackled 'The
Shanty of a Salty Sailor'.

The song ended with reasonable proficiency. Duval
clapped his hands and congratulated his team. Then he
saw the newcomers.

'Caroline!' he cried. He leapt off the stage and ran to
them, eventually realising he should acknowledge the
others. 'Fitzwilliam. Doyle. Good to see you.'

He clasped Caroline's shoulders. 'Where have you
been? Your presence has been much missed.'

'Short on backstage crew, are you?' Aubrey asked.

Duval frowned, puzzled. 'What do you mean?'

'Never mind. It'd just explain why you're so pleased
to see Caroline.'

'Ah. Of course. Your Albionish sense of humour is
perplexing, sometimes.'

Caroline glanced at Aubrey, then shifted her attention
to Duval. 'I'm sorry, Claude. I've been busy.'

'Despite your not being able to pursue your beloved
taxonomy? What is filling your days?'

'Oh, this and that. Some modelling for Mother. Other
tasks.'

Claude took Caroline's hand. 'Have you heard about
the social occasion of the year? A great ball is to be held
to celebrate the great Albion–Gallia alliance!'

'I wasn't aware of a ball,' Caroline said, glancing at
Aubrey.

'As the president of the Albion Friendship Society, I
am sure to be invited. Would you like to accompany me?'

Caroline withdrew her hand. 'Ask me again when the
invitation arrives,' she said evenly.

Duval struck his forehead with an open palm. 'Of
course! How gauche of me! I should not be so forward
as to ask such a thing in anticipation. Please forgive me.'

'Of course.'

'But you will do me the honour of considering it,
when the invitation arrives?'

Aubrey cut in. 'Claude, old chap, the chorus is looking
lonely up there. They're missing your decisive direction.'

Startled, Duval turned to the stage. The players were
lounging, sitting on the floor, chatting. Several had taken
the chance to light up pungent Gallian cigarettes, and
four of them were playing cards. 'Thank you, Fitzwilliam.'
He made to bound toward the stage, but he paused. 'Your
role. Have you learned your lines? Your songs? The show
is depending on you as the Buccaneer King.'

'Er, not entirely, no.'

'Not to worry, Duval,' George said brightly. 'We put on
The Buccaneers
at school last year. Aubrey got good
reviews. He'll be splendid.'

It was the last thing Aubrey needed, taking on something
like this, but a commitment was a commitment. He
frowned. 'When is the show, exactly?'

'Next Sunday,' Duval said. 'The day after the embassy
ball. I thought we could invite some of the dignitaries
who attend the occasion. Your father, for instance.'

'Here?'

'It's all we have, but it will look good on the night,
I assure you.'

Aubrey stripped off his jacket. 'Well, let's run through
a few scenes, shall we?'

Two hours later and Aubrey was consumed by the
familiar exhilaration, terror and frustration that was
rehearsals. Most of the cast were competent. The chorus
wasn't a total shambles. The sets had nearly been started.
The new pianist was clever, and tireless. If Aubrey could
hold up his end, it would be a show of some sorts.

Duval called for a break. 'Coffee, I think.' His suggestion
was greeted with tired cheers.

Aubrey stretched and wandered across the stage to
where a youth and a young lady were arguing at the side
of the stage. The youth was at the top of the ladder,
swearing and fiddling with an arc lamp. The young lady
looked up angrily at him, hands on her hips.

Aubrey drifted closer. 'What's wrong?' he asked in
Gallian.

The young lady had long black hair, held back with a
jade comb. She wore an embroidered blouse with a black
artist's bow. 'Robert is pig-headed,' she said in good
Albionish. She glared up at him. 'You men simply do not
accept that a woman can do something you cannot.'

Caroline joined them. 'This is a problem for you as
well?' she asked.

'Yes. It's a constant battle. I fear that change will not
happen without a political struggle.'

Aubrey felt Caroline's gaze. He stared at the wall and
pretended he was interested in the cast of a long ago
performance of
Christian II
.

'I agree, wholeheartedly,' Caroline said. 'We need more
women in politics and fewer men.'

At that moment, Robert swore at the top of the ladder
and Aubrey could have kissed him. The young lady
stamped her foot. 'It is the screw. Robert always has
trouble with adjusting the rods on the flame arcs.'