To his disappointment, Aubrey couldn't see Miss Hepworth without turning his head one hundred and eighty degrees, something he thought even his Holmlander dining companion would be bound to notice.
He was, however, able to see the head table. Prince Albert was obvious from the throne-like seat he was installed in. Tallish and slim, dark-haired and with refined, thoughtful features, the Prince was the focus of attention of every unmarried woman in the room – and their mothers, who would give anything to match him with their daughters. He was quite unlike the ruddy-faced and extravagantly bearded King, having taken after his mother, who was from Torremain.
Aubrey recognised the dapper, languid Home Secretary, Phillips-Dodd, and several older military men. These bearded gents were doing their best not to be offended by the assortment of Holmland diplomats and generals who dominated the table. Sir Guy Boothby, the Foreign Secretary, was seated between the military and the Holmlanders, no doubt a deliberate arrangement by Sir William Brasingham.
Sir William was Prince Albert's equerry and the man responsible for the detailed planning and execution of the Prince's daily program. He was dressed in the uniform of the regiment from which he was seconded, the Midland Guards. His gaze was never still, but instead of roaming over the guests, as Aubrey's did, Sir William's attention was on the footmen, the servers, the major domo and anyone else involved in the running of the evening.
Aubrey could see, even from this distance, that Prince Albert was nodding his head and wearing the careful smile that was his standard expression on these occasions. It reinforced Aubrey's belief that the Crown Prince had one of the worst jobs in the country. It seemed to consist of innumerable dinners with guests not of his choosing, hundreds of openings of buildings he'd never seen and was likely never to see again, and making presentations to people he didn't know for doing things he'd been told about five minutes before the actual handing over of the diploma, medal, award or whatever it was that day.
Of course, all these duties had to be done with good grace, without the slightest hint of bad temper or boredom.
Aubrey shuddered. Even though Prince Albert had been brought up for this sort of thing, Aubrey didn't know how he managed it.
Between the first dessert course and the second, the major domo rang a small bell. It precipitated a mass turning of heads by those who knew what the signal meant and a delayed, consequent movement by those who followed their lead. The final effect was like a breeze blowing over a field of wheat.
It was time for the Prince to make a speech. Aubrey sent mental thanks heavenwards, for it meant that his Holmland dinner companion had to interrupt his litany of Holmland achievements, just as he was beginning to delve into pre-history.
'Lord Ambassador of Holmland,' the Prince began, nodding to the man on his right, 'lords, ladies, friends. I should like to welcome you here to Penhurst. I hope you are all comfortable in your rooms and that your stay here will be a pleasant one.
'I especially wish to welcome our friends from Holmland – the ambassador and the delegation who have just arrived from the court of our cousin the Elektor. It is good to have you here and I hope that I may be able to visit your country again one day soon.'
The reaction this seemingly bland statement caused was minute, but unmistakable. A slightly raised eyebrow here, a faint stiffening of posture there. Interesting, Aubrey thought as he tried to catalogue who reacted in what way. His father would want to know.
The Prince went on. 'I also wish to welcome our researchers from Banford Park, whom we've grown fond of in this last year. I'd especially like to welcome Professor Hepworth, who has stepped into the breach as the leader of this vital establishment since the death of Dr Mordecai Tremaine in a tragic ornithopter accident, something we are only now making public.'
This announcement created more consternation in the gathering, some mutters, a scene bordering on bad manners. Aubrey felt as if he'd been struck. Dr Tremaine dead? Stunned, he realised that this Banford Park must be the research facility Dr Tremaine had hinted at when at Stonelea School.
Aubrey rubbed his forehead. Magical studies would be put back decades by the loss of Dr Tremaine. It was a staggering blow.
He straightened in his seat and peered at the tall, lanky man the Prince indicated. The professor's dinner suit looked a little frayed around the edges. He had a large, round face, and he looked very, very serious. The Prince smiled at him. 'Professor Hepworth, I am assured that your researchers will not use their magic to assist them in any way in tomorrow's hunt.'
Professor Hepworth looked bemused for a moment, then frowned and dabbed at his lips with a napkin, oblivious to the polite laughter that this mild quip brought forth.
Prince Albert waited until the chuckles had died down. 'I must extend apologies to you on behalf of the Minister for Magic. Sir Philip is, naturally, bound up with sorting out the consequences of Dr Tremaine's passing.'
The professor waved a hand, almost knocking over a candlestick.
'And now,' the Prince continued, addressing the entire assembly, 'I wish you all the best of luck for the shoot and I thank you for coming.'
After the dinner had ended, the diners broke into smaller groups and took themselves off to private corners, nooks, corridors and rooms to discuss and dissect the evening and its announcements. Cigars were produced and servants rushed in all directions carrying decanters of port on silver trays, on occasion barely avoiding nasty collisions with each other. Intrigue, conspiracies and schemes were so prevalent it seemed as if they were necessary to sustain life.
Aubrey managed to disengage himself from his Holmland companion. George was still politely listening to the junior under-secretary, nodding as the undersecretary dropped name after name that Aubrey knew would mean nothing to him. The under-secretary seemed to be taking George's lack of reaction as a sign that he was unimpressed and was desperately trying to find the names of richer, more aristocratic or more powerful people he was friendly with.
Aubrey tapped George on the shoulder. ''Ere, young'un. Time you were a-bed. Stables'll need good mucking out in the morning.'
George blinked, but quickly saw the opening Aubrey had provided. 'Aye,' he said broadly. 'Muck waits for no man.' He thanked the under-secretary for his company.
Aubrey was pleased that they left the junior undersecretary displaying a mixture of bafflement, disdain and pique. The expression on his face nearly made Aubrey laugh out loud, but he whisked George away while managing to keep a straight face.
Eight
THE MORNING ANNOUNCED ITSELF WITH A KNOCK AT Aubrey's door. He sat up in the dark, rubbing his eyes and groping for the electrical light cord, just in time for George to burst in.
He was wearing a grey tweed outfit and stout boots. Leather gloves hung from the pocket of his Norfolk jacket. The whole ensemble looked as if it was well broken in, with genuine-looking stains and frayings that couldn't have been bought in any shop.
Aubrey stared at George through bleary eyes. Despite how much he enjoyed the experience, the journey to Penhurst and the stimulating surroundings had been an unexpected strain. This meant he was less able to resist the call of the true death. Alone in his room, he had felt the pain which signalled his soul was on the verge of separating from his body, succumbing to the ceaseless pull of the unknown. He had not slept very well, as his condition continued to deteriorate, no matter how much he tried to resist. Eventually, he was forced to use one of the spells he'd found, a counter-intuitive application of a minor aspect of the Law of Adherence. He was extremely careful to pronounce the elements with his best Chaldean intonation. For some time he was unsure whether it had taken effect, as the tugging on his soul continued, but gradually, as the night wore on, the sensation eased. His body and his soul settled. He slept. The last thing he wanted was for his control to fail while he was asleep.
'I thought I'd locked that door,' Aubrey mumbled.
'No.' George beamed. Aubrey thought he looked disgustingly healthy and rested. 'H
urry up. The shooting party's about to leave.'
'What about breakfast?'
'No thanks, I've already had it. Get dressed. I'll meet you downstairs.'
George slammed the door behind him. Aubrey winced.
It took him some time to get out of bed. His muscles complained and every movement was an effort. Getting dressed was another trial. He opened the wardrobe where the footman had neatly stowed his clothes. He glared at the racks of tweed his grandmother had packed. He felt sorry for the dozens of sheep who had gone cold to make the jackets, trousers, hats and unnameable oddments in front of him.
By the time he was dressed, Aubrey was beginning to feel better. He trotted down the stairs, whisking a slice of toast and marmalade from the tray of a startled maid. George leaped from a red leather chesterfield and bounded to the door. Aubrey followed, trying not to glower.
In the grey light of early morning they assembled at the rear of the Big House, near a large greenhouse that was misted so heavily that all Aubrey could see was a few palm fronds pressed close to the glass. He counted forty-three in the shooting group, both men and women. There were three times that many attendants, carrying guns, food hampers, spare boots and all manner of other things to make the time comfortable. The morning was crisp and Aubrey was grateful for his gloves, but the sky was clear and promised a sunny day ahead.
At that moment, Aubrey realised he hadn't rehearsed his aiming spell. His hand went to the inner pocket of his jacket, searching for the scrap of paper where he'd written down the spell, but came back empty.
How good was his memory? The awkward syllables came to mind, and he felt confident that he had all the elements in the correct order. A lingering doubt, however, hovered. The language of magic was like trying to make a pet of a wild animal – it was never fully tamed and always liable to turn on its master. Even familiar, well-worn spells sometimes twisted on the tongue and went awry. With this spell, he had to make sure that its parameters were clearly limited to the lead shot he'd be using. He didn't want other objects suddenly flying in unexpected directions.
Aubrey repeated the spell in his mind again, then once more, until he felt assured.
George nudged him. 'Fine bunch, wouldn't you say?'
Aubrey looked around. The kennel master was a thin, wiry chap. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, a leather vest and a dull bowler hat. He had three boys helping him. They were marshalling a dozen or so retrievers, all of which were glossy-coated, bright-eyed and eager to be off, straining at their leads and testing the resolve of the dog boys. The dogs whined, but didn't yelp. Aubrey approved of their good training.
Prince Albert emerged from the house, accompanied by Sir William. The equerry puffed steam through his grey whiskers as he surveyed the scene. He nodded to the Prince, the kennel master, and the stocky man Aubrey had noticed the day before at the site of his experiment with the falling branch. He decided that this was the man in charge of the Special Services squad.
Prince Albert tugged on a pair of fine leather gloves. He was dressed in brown tweed, but his hat had a jaunty red feather in it.
'The Prince doesn't look keen,' George said to Aubrey.
It was the sort of thing Aubrey had grown used to George noticing. A thousand people would have looked at the Prince and commented on how interested he looked. George had glanced at him and known differently.
'Why do you say that?' Aubrey asked him.
George shrugged. 'Little things. I don't know. Clasping his hands behind his back?'
'He could be cold.'
'So you think he's eager for some sport?'
'No. I'm sure he'd rather be in the library.'
George snorted. 'I thought so.' He pointed. 'Look. There's Miss Hepworth.'
She was with her father. Aubrey hazarded a guess that she was wearing a skirt and jacket combination suit sort of thing, in a pale grey. Her hat was small, with a high peak. Aubrey thought she looked fresh and alive, unlike some of the more jaded people around him, but her face was as solemn as the Prince's.
Her father was dressed in a baggy suit that looked as if he'd slept in it. He leaned on a walking stick and gazed at the throng, his forehead furrowed. He, too, looked like a man who wished he were somewhere else.
'I wonder if she'd like company,' Aubrey said. 'She looks a little lonely.'
'That Holmlander fellow seems to have the same idea. Nice moustache.'
Aubrey grimaced. 'Hugo von Stralick. The fellow next to me at dinner pointed him out. Couldn't stop talking about him. He's the junior attaché for cultural affairs at the Holmland Embassy.'
'Impressive title.'
'He's a spy, George.'
'What?' George stared until Aubrey nudged him.
'Junior diplomatic staff are always spies. It's well known. They meet people, look around and send lots of reports back to their own country.'
'But shouldn't the police do something about him? Or the Special Services?'
Aubrey shrugged. 'They're generally harmless and we know all about them. The dangerous spies are the ones we don't know about.'
'He should be deported.'
'Why? He's considered to be good company. He tells reasonable jokes, he plays excellent billiards and he enjoys watching cricket. Besides, he'll be back in Holmland in a year or two, having sampled the delights we have to offer here. We'll have a friend over there for life.'
A beefy man with a spectacularly red face strode around the corner. He caught the eye of one of the Prince's assistants and soon he was talking with the Prince himself, with Sir William in close attendance. From the mud on his boots and the direction he was pointing, Aubrey guessed he was the head gamekeeper.
The beefy man beamed, clapped his hands together and clumped off. The kennel master followed, with his dog boys and retrievers, and gradually the whole party fell in behind them. Aubrey looked for the Special Services commander and saw him at the rear of the party, with a dozen of the fit young men, while others of this type scattered themselves throughout the group. Aubrey nodded at this, noting the careful way they took up position near both the Prince and the Holmland Ambassador. Their eyes were constantly moving, watching members of the party as they milled around, and also peering into the distance, at hedgerows and the trees that surrounded the fields they soon found themselves in.
Aubrey looked at the sky. It was growing lighter as morning unfolded itself and he felt it was time for decisive action. He left George to his own devices, then, by carefully adjusting his pace and moving sideways through the crowd, he managed to bring himself close to Professor Hepworth and his daughter. It was a skilful manoeuvre, and he was quite proud of how accidental he made it look.
'Professor Hepworth!' he said as he came alongside. 'I didn't get a chance to speak to you last night.' Aubrey tipped his hat to the professor's daughter. 'Miss Hepworth.' She nodded, but her expression did not change. Aubrey had hoped for a more promising reaction, but he knew he was now committed.
'Eh?' said Professor Hepworth. He turned, almost tripping on his walking stick. 'Ah, it's Fitzwilliam's son, isn't it?'
'That's right, sir. My father sends his best wishes.' While this may not have been strictly true, Aubrey felt he would be forgiven for the white lie. Sir Darius was an admirer of Professor Hepworth's work in highly esoteric magical theory. Aubrey had heard him insist that people like Professor Hepworth should be supported, for the good of the country.
Aubrey was familiar with Professor Hepworth's name through his Advanced Magic class at Stonelea. It was often mentioned in conjunction with significant breakthroughs in magical theory, either alone or with other great thinkers. Unlike most of the brilliant men of his kind, Professor Hepworth roamed across disciplines. Aubrey had come across his name in areas as diverse as the Mental Domination Conjecture, Colour Transference and Transient Bodily Shaping. No-one else had made such a range of discoveries or advanced understanding in so many different areas.
The professor's frown relaxed for a moment. 'Ah, Sir Darius
. He was a rare one, Caroline. A politician who listened to experts, but didn't let them get away with balderdash. Asked damned good questions, he did. Brooked no nonsense.' He shook himself and blinked. 'You've met my daughter, have you, Fitzwilliam? Caroline?'
'She met us at the train. Lovely morning, isn't it, Miss Hepworth?'
'It's too fine to waste on foolishness like magical hunts.'
Aubrey almost smiled. A young woman of forceful opinions was Miss Hepworth. Aubrey was pleased that the forceful opinion agreed with his own. And yet, as his father's representative, he couldn't agree outright with her, not in public . . . Shooting was much too popular for that.
A hubbub went up. 'Reached a fence,' Professor Hepworth said, craning his neck. 'This should be chaotic.'
The head gamekeeper and squads of footmen were directing the party to a stile some fifty yards away. As they ambled towards it, Aubrey went on. 'Professor Hepworth, have you made any progress with your work on Uncertainty Theory?'
Professor Hepworth glanced sidelong at Aubrey. 'No.'
'Fascinating area of endeavour, I would have thought,' Aubrey continued. 'The possibilities – inducing effects at a distance, reversing cause and effect. It could have a great impact.'
'I'm not working on Uncertainty Theory any more,' Professor Hepworth jabbed at the ground with his walking stick. 'It was a dead end.'
Before Aubrey could tease out this intriguing hint, it was their turn to mount the stile.
Although it was only four steps high, footmen were struggling to help portly figures – both men and women – up and over. The simple fence crossing was fast becoming the equivalent of the journey over the mighty Tanskadi Ranges, complete with near disaster at every turn.
Professor Hepworth ignored the offers of help and mounted the stile as if it were a staircase. Aubrey stood back and held out a hand. 'Miss Hepworth?'
She looked at him, then at his hand, then at the stile. 'Thank you,' she said, then lifted her skirt a little and climbed the stile easily.
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