Heart of Gold (6 page)

Madame Calvert nodded, as if she didn't trust herself
to speak, then she shepherded the doctor down the stairs.
Before Inspector Paul followed, he nodded at Aubrey and
George. 'You will remain, of course? I will have questions
for you.'

Monsieur Jordan had lapsed into silence. Aubrey studied
the flaccid face and saw no emotions.
Without them
, he
thought,
the human face might as well be made of wax
.

'Welcome to Lutetia,' Aubrey muttered and he sat on
the vacant chaise longue.

'I don't know about you, old man,' George said as he
joined him, 'but I was hoping for something a little less
exciting.'

Aubrey had the same regrets. In Lutetia for less than a
day and already being interviewed by police after being
assaulted by a citizen infected with something horrible.
So much for a discreet presence in the capital. He knew
he should contact the embassy and let the Ambassador
know what had happened, but decided that it could wait.

Inspector Paul reappeared, alone. He went to the
canvas bolster that had once been an artist.

'What about the doctor?' Aubrey asked. 'Monsieur
Jordan hit his head badly.'

Inspector Paul shrugged and Aubrey saw that the
gesture was a favourite of the dapper police officer.
He
probably practises it in front of a mirror
, Aubrey thought.

'He doesn't need a doctor,' Inspector Paul said. 'It is
very difficult to hurt them when they're in this state.'

'What state would that be? And who are "they"?'

'Nothing to interest a young visitor from Albion.'
Inspector Paul smiled. 'Madame Calvert told me you
arrived very recently. I hope you enjoy your time in the
City of Lights.'

Aubrey knew a dismissal when he heard one. 'I'm sure
we will.'

Madame Calvert passed Inspector Paul on the stairs.
'This just came for you,' she said to Aubrey and she held
out a large, cream envelope.

At first, Aubrey didn't want to take it. It had all the
signs of official correspondence. His experience
suggested that such items rarely contained good news.

George saw his hesitation and reached for the
envelope, but Aubrey overcame his reluctance and took
it before his friend could. Madame Calvert lingered a
moment, then left while Aubrey opened the letter.

'It's your father's stationery, isn't it?' George said.
'What's it say?'

Aubrey scanned the letter. His heart sank. 'No, it's not
my father's. It's from the office of the Prime Minister.'

'Same thing, isn't it?'

'Not really. This is official, and probably not written by
him.'
It's not a note from a father to his son, in other words.
'It's
to let me know that the Prime Minister of Albion will be
in Lutetia soon for an official meeting with his Gallian
counterpart.' He tapped the paper with a forefinger. 'My
father is going to be here on the twenty-sixth, George.'

George stood back, trying gauge Aubrey's reaction.
'Nearly two weeks away.'

'I thought it too good to be true, you know.'

'What is?'

'Their letting me go on a holiday like this, by myself.'

'I'm with you, old man.'

'I mean, without them.' Aubrey folded the letter and
put back in the envelope. 'He's coming to check on me.'

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, A
UBREY DRAGGED OPEN THE
curtains, then the windows. Their fifth-floor
position may have been awkward for toting luggage, but
it did provide a glorious aspect of the city.

The room faced the apartments opposite, but their
building was taller so that Aubrey had a clear view south
toward the river. Between the river and his vantage point,
he could make out the bordering greenery of the trees
along the riverside gardens.

When he leaned out of the window, he could see that
the city was stirring. In the distance to the south-west,
over the river, the Exposition Tower stood proudly. Not
far to the east of the tower, he made out the gold spire of
the church of St Ambrose. He looked west, trying to find
the heights of the Haltain district, but the early morning
haze obscured the view. He took in Lutetia, his gaze
roaming across parks, bridges and streets crowded with
narrow buildings. He itched to grab his guidebook and
use the map to work out which stately building was
which, where museums, galleries and archives were, the
best way across the river to the university, but he decided
simply to enjoy the vista, revelling in the unknown,
tantalising city spread out in front of him.

Looking closer, he sought the ornate cast-iron entrance
of the underground railway on the street corner. Having
found it, the river and – by craning his neck and looking
south – the university, Aubrey felt oriented.

Below, in front of a tobacconist, he noticed a man in a
grey flannel suit. Unlike all the others on the street, he
wasn't hurrying. He was studying Madame Calvert's
building and scribbling in a notebook. Street names?
Numbers? Aubrey tried to get a better look, but the man
snapped his notebook closed and strode off.

He remembered the words of the Scholar Tan.
On the
battlefield, the enemy will watch you as you watch him.
He
snorted. He wasn't on a battlefield; he was on holiday.

His bedroom was sunny, with an angled roof and two
windows, one of which Aubrey had been using for his
reconnaissance. Striped wallpaper, a washstand, a large oak
wardrobe that looked as if it was being strangled by a
thousand wooden vines, a tall, standard mirror, and a brass
gaslight hanging from the ceiling made the room comfortable,
while a door led to a small study with a desk and
a bookshelf full of classic Gallian philosophical works.

A horrible groan made the good spirits shrivel inside
him. He spun and saw George in the doorway, staring at
him with baleful eyes. He wore his favourite old
dressing-gown, and his hair was dishevelled. 'It's a holiday,
old man,' he mumbled. 'Go back to bed.'

Aubrey grinned. He felt good – strong and healthy
after a full night's sleep. It seemed his condition had
steadied, thanks to his innate stubbornness and a small
strengthening spell he'd tried. 'I don't think so. We have
so much to do.'

'Sleep is high on my list, as it should be on yours.'
George went to trudge back to his room.

'Food, George,' Aubrey said softly. 'A Lutetian breakfast
awaits us. Pastries. Fresh bread. Jam and cream. The kind
of hot chocolate that angels weep for.'

George stopped in his tracks. He turned. 'On the other
hand, a man who sleeps too much fritters his life away,
I always say. Which way is breakfast?'

A
UBREY BATHED FIRST THEN TOOK THE STAIRS TO THE
breakfast room to wait for George. The windows were
open and, along with the sounds of horses' hooves on
cobblestones, Aubrey thought he could smell apple
blossom. It was difficult to tell, as a platter of freshly
baked pastries was waiting on a sideboard. Their aroma
filled the high-ceilinged room.

Madame Calvert was the only other person at breakfast,
even though a dozen other tables were set. She was
sitting at a table by a window, reading and sipping a cup
of coffee.

Aubrey bowed. 'Madame.'

'Ah, Mr Fitzwilliam.' She closed her book.

'Is there any news of Monsieur Jordan?'

'Nothing. There rarely is in these cases, or so I hear.'
She gestured at the sideboard. 'Please help yourself.'

Aubrey took a plate and selected a rolled-up chocolate
construction and a curly jam-filled masterpiece. He
didn't have a sweet tooth, normally, but Lutetian baking
was hard to resist. He poured a cup of chocolate and
joined Madame Calvert at her table. 'You don't mind?'

She gave a slight inclination of her head that indicated
she was not inconvenienced by Aubrey's company at
this time, but in other circumstances it may be different.
Aubrey thought it an eloquent – and economical – gesture.

He sipped his very fine hot chocolate. 'You said "these
cases". What did you mean by that?'

Madame Calvert considered her answer before
speaking. 'It is not widely reported, but lately the city has
seen many like poor Monsieur Jordan. People have been
found wandering the streets, assaulting passers-by, and
all as mindless as you saw.' She made an expression of
polite distaste. 'I never thought I'd see one in my establishment.'

'I see. And this is the stuff of rumour?'

She fixed him with a look. 'It is true.'

'And what happens to these unfortunates?'

'A police facility. It was once a hospital. Much has been
tried to cure them, but nothing has worked. They are
monitored, now, that is all.'

'How many times has this happened?'

'Who knows? Dozens, most certainly. Dozens of
people who have been transformed from normal
Lutetians into husks.' She shuddered, elegantly. 'It is
distressing. Monsieur Jordan was a wonderful artist. A
fine watercolourist and just starting to become well
known. Why, the Society of Artists had even commissioned
a photograph of him for their journal.'

George entered, fresh from bathing, his hair brushed,
his cheeks ruddy. He rubbed his hands. 'Excellent!
Good morning, Madame Calvert.' He arrowed toward
the sideboard and stood for a moment, entranced by
the variety, before taking a plate and building a tower
of pastries.

Madame Calvert rose and clasped her book under her
arm. Aubrey stood, remembering to clutch his napkin
before it fell from his lap. 'Madame.'

She left. George joined Aubrey at the table. 'Plans, old
man?' he said in between bites of a custard-filled delicacy.
'You'll want to do some magic or whatnot to find out
what's ailing our Monsieur Jordan?'

'I don't think so. The police seem to have that matter
well in hand.'

'That hasn't stopped you in the past.'

'Be that as it may. Today is a day to stroll around our
neighbourhood at leisure, enjoying the sights. I need to
do some shopping, odds and ends, that kind of thing.'

'You want to see Caroline, don't you?'

Aubrey adopted an expression of what he hoped was
haughty disdain. 'If we happen to bump into her, I won't
be displeased.'

George tackled another sugar-encrusted work of art.
'Remarkable young lady, wouldn't you say? I mean,
coming over here to study and all that. Keen intellect.'

'George, you don't have to convince me. I think highly
enough of her as it is.' He rubbed his cheek. 'We're in
Lutetia, she's in Lutetia. She's at the university, we're close
by. I'm sure an opportunity will arise.'
An opportunity this
time
, he thought,
not a crisis
.

'Excellent.' George dusted sugar from his chin. 'She
said she'd teach me that shoulder rolling thing, the one
where you send an attacker flying through the air.'

'A person of many talents is our Miss Hepworth.'

T
HE SUMMER MORNING WAS BRIGHT AND SUNNY, WITH A
cloudless blue sky welcoming them. The streets were
busy with carts, carriages, bicycles and motorcars. Pavements
thronged with pedestrians, some ambling along,
others walking briskly. Aubrey felt he could tell the
tourists from the natives by the velocity of their gait.

As he studied the passers-by, he thought he had
another way to pick the local citizens: their garments.
By and large, the clothes of the Lutetians were well cut
and smart.

The women wore long dresses that were softer and less
bulky than the fashion in Albion. Hats were large, often
fastened under the chin with a scarf, but they avoided the
extravagant feather and flower adornments that always
puzzled Aubrey at home.

He paid close attention to the garments the men
wore. Suits for the men were trim and comfortable,
and it seemed as if the Lutetians had done away with
high, starched collars, a trend Aubrey was in favour of.
Hats seemed to signify the demeanour of the wearer –
jaunty straw boaters, cheery bowlers, as well as more
sombre homburgs and even some top hats on the older
gentlemen.

The Lutetians wore their clothes with taste and style,
often adding a brooch or a silk handkerchief to an outfit
to add a touch of individuality. This approach appealed to
Aubrey and he made a note to see what he could do in
that department.

Having gained directions from Madame Calvert,
Aubrey steered their way toward the Central Market.
He'd mapped the day carefully; the market was between
their apartment and the university.

Aubrey smelled and heard the market long before
he saw it. Shouting, cackling, sizzling and braying
announced its location, and then he smelled hot food and
farm animals. When they turned off the Boulevard of
Honesty and saw the market precinct, the assault on the
senses was complete.

Rows of stalls stretched out in front of them, with
barrows doing their best to push through the mass of
people. Most of the customers were laden with bags
crammed full of fruit, vegetables, and mouth-wateringly
fragrant wrapped packages.

They stood near the base of a monument, an ancient
stone cross. George sniffed the air. 'These Lutetians know
a thing or two about food.'

'It's a way of life,' Aubrey said. He stood on tiptoes and
tried to see over the heads of the crowd. 'Buy some
cheese, if you like. Have it sent back to our rooms.'

'Excellent idea. Any preferences?'

'Not for me, thanks, George. I'm making preparations.'

George raised an eyebrow. 'What are you expecting?'

'It's the unexpected I'm preparing for, not the
expected.'

'Splendid, old man. What if I take responsibility for
buying edibles so you can concentrate on your stuff?'

'Excellent idea.'

In truth, Aubrey wasn't sure what he was after. 'Useful
Purchases' was how he thought of this sort of provisioning.
With George ploughing a way through the crowd,
he ignored the shouts of the stallholders, instead drifting
along and letting his gaze roam over the offerings from
across Lutetia.

After seeing all manner of fruit, vegetables, cheese,
meat and fish, they pushed into the part of the market
that was dominated by garment and cloth merchants.
He stopped at a stand with second-hand clothes neatly
hanging from racks. 'Wait here a moment,' he said to
George.

'Certainly. Would you like a peanut?'

George held out a paper bag. The aroma of warm nuts
rose from it. 'I didn't see you buy these,' Aubrey said as he
took a few. They were fresh, salty and very good.

'You have to be quick around here.' George shook the
bag into his hand and then threw the nuts into his
mouth.

'So I see. No more left?'

George crumpled the bag in his fist and shook his
head. 'Sorry, old man.'

Once Aubrey had inspected the clothes and convinced
himself they were clean, he bargained his way into a
reasonable price for an assortment of vests, trousers and
caps. Then he negotiated a fee to have them delivered to
their rooms. The gnome of a stallholder grinned broadly
when they were finished and Aubrey realised this was a
sure sign he'd paid much more than he needed to.