She appeared to come to a decision. 'I don't know if I should be telling you this.'
'Ah,' Aubrey said. 'That's always a good start.'
She frowned, a crease dividing her eyebrows. 'Are you always flippant?'
'No,' George put in. 'Sometimes he's overbearing, sometimes he's rash, sometimes he's maddening, or arrogant. But he's rarely dull.'
'Thank you, George.' Aubrey clasped his hands together and glanced at Caroline. 'He knows me too well,' he said wildly.
She looked at him. He could see her weighing up whether they were worth talking to at all. Something about them must have reassured her, because she went on. 'My father was not happy,' she said. 'For some time before his death, he was trying to escape from his duty.'
'I'm sorry,' Aubrey said. 'His duty? What do you mean?'
'I'll have to go back some time,' Caroline said. She touched the ribbon at her neck, fingering the knot under her chin.
'By all means. We're in no hurry, are we, George?'
'Not at all.'
She put her hands in her lap and composed herself. 'Father was happiest at the university at Greythorn, away from the city. It was where he could talk with like-minded researchers in laboratories just down the hall from his, or over a pint in one of his favourite taverns in the town. The library facilities, the laboratory equipment, all were first class, but it was the people that Father loved. He said it was like being a coal in a furnace, where individual coals make the whole hotter and hotter, each feeding the other.'
'But he left,' Aubrey said.
'He didn't leave,' Caroline said, eyes flashing. 'His commission was activated.'
'He was in the army?' George said.
'He was an officer, a major.'
Aubrey was intrigued. He couldn't imagine Professor Hepworth in battle, leading men and issuing orders.
'It was before I was born,' she went on, 'and it was only for a short time, but apparently he never resigned. He was simply on reserve.'
'Ah,' said Aubrey. 'The military has ways of keeping a hold on valuable people.'
'What do you mean?' She frowned again. Aubrey found himself hoping that he would, one day, see her smiling more frequently than frowning.
He sat back in the armchair. He tilted his head, looked at the ceiling and steepled his fingers in front of his chin. Professor Hepworth in the army. Perhaps not the regular army . . .
'Imagine if certain people within the military had the task of taking a long view of things, charged with the safety of the country, but particularly with preparing for threats that may take years to appear.'
'Doesn't the military ordinarily do that?' George asked.
Caroline rolled her eyes. 'Mostly, the military chiefs are doing well if they can plan what they're going to have for lunch.'
Aubrey continued. 'These long-term planners, shall we call them, may decide to ensure that the brightest brains in the country are in the forces – have taken the King's commission.'
'Oh,' Caroline said.
'Imagine,' Aubrey went on, 'a talented young magical researcher, perhaps just married, certainly struggling for money, being approached by a senior military man. Most likely a war hero, but that may be just a nicety.'
'You're making this up,' Caroline accused.
'Yes,' George said. 'This is what he does. He thinks about things and then spins stories to fit.'
'To go on,' Aubrey said, 'this military man would tell our young researcher that he could undertake a special short stint in the army – or navy, but I can't really see Professor Hepworth at sea.'
Caroline shook her head. 'No. Chronic seasickness. He suffers terribly. Suffered terribly.' Her chin quivered, but she caught herself.
Aubrey resumed. 'The military man would persuade our young researcher by leaning on his patriotism, his duty to the country, and suggesting that a military record would not go astray in applying for academic positions. It would be an irresistible case. A short time in the service, some useful pay, and then our young researcher forgets all about his time in uniform because he finds an academic post and his studies take over.'
'Just in time,' George said. 'Here's the train.'
With the stationmaster's help, they were able to negotiate with the guard and the bicycles were safely stowed in the van.
After they had settled in their compartment, Aubrey weighed up matters then took the chance to resume the conversation. 'And what exactly were you doing out there last night, Miss Hepworth?'
She looked out of the window before answering, through the steam and smoke as the train eased out of the station. 'I was waiting for the Black Beast. It killed my father. I wanted to destroy it.'
George raised an eyebrow. 'With a shotgun?'
'A remarkable shotgun,' Aubrey said. 'Isn't that right, Miss Hepworth?'
She nodded. 'I'm not as credulous as to believe the thing that killed my father was really the Black Beast of legend, but I knew it had to be something extremely powerful, magically. In my father's workshop . . .' Her voice caught a little in her throat. 'I found some magically prepared shotgun shells and a gun. I thought it might work against the creature.'
At the mention of Professor Hepworth's workshop, Aubrey leaned forward. The workshop could hold some useful information about what the professor was working on, and his business with Banford Park. If Caroline had access to the workshop, it could bear investigating.
'You know what the creature is?' George asked. The train whistle screeched as they rounded the bend and steamed up the hill away from Penhurst.
'No. Not really. Not entirely.'
'Tell me, Miss Hepworth,' Aubrey said, 'where did your father work?'
She looked a little puzzled at the abrupt change of direction in the conversation. 'At the research facility. Banford Park.'
'Yes, but where exactly is the research facility?'
'Bordering Penhurst Estate, I think.' She pursed her lips. 'I'm sure of it. Father was vague about directions, but that was unsurprising. He was terrible at reading maps and things like that, but he did say that he could walk from the research facility to the Big House in an hour or so, and had done so many times. After the Prince visited their facility, he insisted that the researchers come to Penhurst often. I think he was appalled at the living quarters.'
'The Prince visited the research facility?' Aubrey asked sharply.
'So Father said. I suppose he shouldn't really have talked about all these things, but I'm sure the security people were at their wits' end with the researchers. Researchers simply couldn't understand what secrecy was for. They were used to sharing their work, not hiding it.'
'And did your father happen to mention what sort of work they were doing?'
'No. Even he must have realised that he shouldn't discuss some things. All I can say is that, whenever I managed to see him, he was either exhilarated or decidedly unhappy. The exhilaration meant that his work was stimulating, full of challenges and unexpected findings. The unhappiness was the sort of unhappiness I'd only seen once before, when the university forced him to work on a project he didn't agree with, something to do with magical experimentation on animals.'
'Jolly good of him,' George said.
Aubrey glanced at him. George had never approved of such things as cruelty to animals, even in the name of magical enquiry, a legacy of his heritage on the land. Over the years Aubrey had seen the way his friend had made pets of orphan lambs whenever he was on the farm.
'How did that project at the university go?' Aubrey asked. 'The one he was forced to work on?'
Caroline smiled faintly. 'Terribly. With Father's heart not in it, it dragged on and on. I don't think he consciously sabotaged it, but the project went around in circles, mistakes were made, results lost . . . It was eventually abandoned, and I remember Father sheepishly telling us about the dean's displeasure, but he couldn't stop smiling at the thought of moving on to something he really wanted to do.'
Aubrey sat back in his seat and looked out of the window
for a time. He jiggled a leg, and began humming.
Caroline stared curiously at this display. 'It's all right,' George said to her. 'He's often like this.'
'George,' Aubrey said, 'do you have your notebook?'
George plucked it from his jacket and produced a pencil.
'Very good. Let us note what we have here.'
Aubrey cleared his throat and held up a finger. 'Firstly, with respect, we have the death of two famous magical researchers, Dr Tremaine and Professor Hepworth, one by sorcerous means.'
Caroline's mouth firmed, but she nodded.
'Secondly, we have an attempt on the life of the Crown Prince. Again, by sorcerous means. Thirdly, we have a highly secret magical research facility near the site of all three of these incidents.'
Aubrey looked at the three fingers he was holding up. 'Have I forgotten anything?'
'A reasonable explanation,' George said, staring at his notes.
'George, simply because we can't see something doesn't mean it's not there. I thought you'd know that by now. Don't you agree, Miss Hepworth?'
She frowned. 'So you're saying, if I follow you correctly, that the research facility may be involved in both sorcerous attacks? The one on my father and the one on Prince Albert?'
'Exactly.' Aubrey sat back and crossed his arms on his chest, feeling reasonably smug.
'But why?'
Aubrey blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it again. He held up a finger and started again. 'I will answer a question with some further questions.' That should give me some time to come up with something, he thought. 'Why would someone want both Professor Hepworth and the Crown Prince dead? What do they have in common? Who could benefit from their deaths?'
'Not Banford Park. Father was the leading researcher. He was vital for their work.'
Aubrey thought aloud. 'War work. Banford Park was involved in work for the military.'
'How do you know that?' Caroline asked.
George snorted. 'He guessed when we met Dr Tremaine. It fits, you know. Professor Hepworth's being redrafted. Things are happening with Holmland. It makes sense that we'd have top brains working on magical means for defence.'
Caroline looked at both of them. 'The war.' She looked grim, then distressed. 'That would be it.'
'The research facility could be there to find new sorcerous means to defend the country,' Aubrey said. 'Or it may be for magical offensive weapons, more work of this long-range planning group of the military, no doubt.'
'The Black Beast?' George offered. 'Has someone been using the guise of an old legend to hide these new sorcerous weapons?'
'Perhaps. Imagine such a creature on the battlefield. Panic, terror, troops throwing down weapons and running away. It could be devastating.'
Aubrey stared out of the window at the green and pleasant countryside. He hated to think of such a place as the scene of battle.
He knew that Albion was in an exceedingly delicate situation. It might be an island kingdom, but the continent was only a few miles away. Following the manoeuvrings between the countries and empires there was like trying to keep track of clouds in a storm-driven sky. The Goltan states were a powder keg of shifting alliances, with powerful nations surrounding them and watching closely. It was made even more complicated by the King insisting that his many relations, on the many thrones on the continent, were all to be trusted and supported.
Aubrey paid attention to his father's business inside and outside Parliament and had come to the conclusion that Holmland was the centre of much of the disquiet. It was becoming increasingly warlike; recently, it had been annexing small principalities under the flimsiest pretexts. Now it was looking hungrily at the Goltan states. And though the King had recently repeated his view that Holmland was a harmless friend, a jolly empire which made fine accordions, good beer and better sausages, there were many who thought differently.
Aubrey's father was one. He was a strong proponent of firm resistance, of facing up to bluffs and shows of force from the increasingly strong Holmland. He was not one for appeasement.
'Your father, Miss Hepworth,' Aubrey asked, 'what was his view about the war?'
She was gazing through the window, her chin resting on a long and elegant hand. She looked at Aubrey and his heart turned an odd corner. 'He didn't have one. He dismissed the continental situation as a lot of silly posturing.'
'There's quite a bit of that, but it does go deeper.'
'I'm sure,' she murmured and returned her attention to the passing countryside.
Aubrey gazed at her for some time. 'What are your plans, Miss Hepworth?' he eventually asked.
George raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
'Please call me Caroline. Both of you. "Miss Hepworth" sounds unbearably old-fashioned.' She looked at Aubrey evenly. 'I still aim to find out who killed my father. Even if it is tangled up with warmongering.'
'Sounds rather dangerous,' George said.
'It's bound to be,' Aubrey said. 'You're going back to Penhurst?' he asked Caroline.
She shook her head. 'I have to help my mother with the funeral.' She paused and Aubrey was impressed again by her calm. 'I thought I might go to look in Father's workshop.' She sighed. 'There may be something, some indication –'
'Your father's workshop?' Aubrey interrupted. 'At the research facility? How will you get entry?'
She waved this away. 'His private workshop, nothing to do with the research facility. At Greythorn. The university paid the rent on it, hoping his secondment wouldn't last long. He may have left something in his notebook about what he was working on before he went.'
'Excellent!' Aubrey said. 'All we'd need would be a clue, a hint . . .'
'We?' both Caroline and George echoed.
'You are making an assumption here,' Caroline said to Aubrey.
He shrugged. 'I tend to. Forgive me. I feel this may be important.' He grinned. 'I can be ready in a day. When would suit you? The sooner the better, of course.'
Caroline stiffened.
'Aubrey,' George said, 'the funeral . . .'
'Ah.' Aubrey felt like kicking himself. He'd allowed his enthusiasm to run away, again. 'Yes. I'm sorry.'
Caroline didn't look at him, or answer. She simply turned to the window again.
The train whistle wailed and they hurtled towards the city.
Twelve
'I 'M NOT SURE THIS IS A GOOD IDEA,' GEORGE SAID. 'It's the right thing to do, whether it's a good idea or not,' Aubrey replied. 'Straighten up. Don't slouch.'
'I feel uncomfortable.'
'Sometimes you do things not because of how it makes you feel, but because of how it makes other people feel.'
George scowled. 'I hate funerals.'
'Some people like them,' Aubrey mused. 'In a family like mine, I've had third cousins and great-stepuncles passing on quite regularly. I've been dragged to dozens of funerals, ever since I was born. I'm sure there are people who feel that a funeral is a fine day out, a good social occasion, time to catch up and gossip.'
'Hush,' George said as they reached the stairs of the church. 'Let's find a space in the back pews.'
Aubrey and George had arrived in Greythorn after an early morning train trip from the city. The church was a modest, blocky affair. It wasn't in the university proper, but in a part of the town near a motorbus depot. Aubrey wondered why the professor – or his wife – had chosen this place and not one of the grand chapels at one of the colleges.
He looked at the large congregation who'd assembled to mark the professor's passing. To judge from the crowd, he decided Professor Hepworth had been no academic recluse. Relatives were easy to spot from familial resemblance, and his colleagues were wearing formal academic robes. But there were many others. Quite a few took advantage of the motorbus station to arrive by public transport, but while waiting outside Aubrey had seen a butcher's cart pull up and disgorge half a dozen men, and many bicycles were leaning against the fence.
He also saw famous faces. Phillips-Dodd, t
he Home Secretary, was perfectly dressed as usual, his black morning suit no doubt worth hundreds of pounds. Sir Guy Boothby, the Foreign Secretary, was also present. Aubrey looked for, but didn't see, Sir Philip Saxby, the Minister for Magic.
The service was difficult. Professor Hepworth was obviously loved and respected, and the distress expressed by many of the congregation was contagious. Aubrey felt tears come to his own eyes as he reflected on mortality and its frailties.
The eulogy was delivered by Sir Isambard Hammersmith, the ancient and revered President of the Royal Society for Magic. He spoke at length, detailing Professor Hepworth's formidable intellect and energy and expressing great sorrow at the loss to magic research. He touched on the dual loss to the field, with the too-recent passing of the Sorcerer Royal, Dr Tremaine. The old man looked crushed.
Immediately after Sir Isambard had finished, the minister signed to another man that it was his turn to speak.
He was small and nervous, with sharp features, about fifty years old – although Aubrey found it hard to guess. He held a cloth cap in his hands and he continually twisted it as if he were wringing washing.
He announced that his name was Charles Ob and then told of how Professor Hepworth had been his drinking companion for years.
Aubrey's eyes went wide. Professor Hepworth's drinking companion?
This claim caused a mass shifting of position in the congregation. Only the fact that it was a funeral service prevented a buzz of puzzled conversation.
Mr Ob went on to tell how Professor Hepworth had helped all six of his children through school. One of them, he said proudly, had gone on to the university. As an afterthought, Mr Ob added that Professor Hepworth had done the same for many families he knew.
AUBREY AND GEORGE SHUFFLED OUT WITH THE REST OF THE congregation, following the pallbearers to the small churchyard burial ground, when Lady Fitzwilliam emerged from the crowd. 'Aubrey! George! I thought it was you.'
Sir Darius appeared, looking unsurprised to see Aubrey there, despite the fact that Aubrey hadn't told his parents of his plans. 'Aubrey. George. A great loss.'
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