'Do you think that's wise?'
'My men are experienced. There will be no danger.'
Aubrey gathered himself and cast the short negation spell. Before the soulless woman could react, Inspector Paul's squad bound her until she couldn't move. With smooth efficiency, they lifted her and disappeared through the crowd.
'Now,' Inspector Paul said, 'I believe I will have to ask you to come with me to the police station. I have some questions that need to be asked.'
Not a good time, Inspector. 'I'm afraid I can't do that. Not at the moment. I have business to attend to.' Some rest and some restorative spells, for a start.
'I can insist.'
Aubrey had some sympathy for Inspector Paul. He also didn't want to make an enemy who could make his life difficult in Lutetia. On the other hand, he had no desire to subject himself to the notoriously labyrinthine Gallian police procedures, where, it was rumoured, people had died of old age waiting to be questioned.
He held up a hand and smiled with what he hoped was the right amount of apology. 'I'm keen to help, Inspector, but I'm sure this matter can wait, can it not?'
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, AUBREY AND GEORGE WERE IN an office on the third floor of the Lutetian Police Headquarters with a stony-faced Inspector Paul tapping a pen on an inkwell. The sound set Aubrey's teeth on edge.
'So, tell me again how your presence at three bizarre disturbances is simply coincidence,' Inspector Paul said. 'And how you had nothing to do with any of them.'
'What can I tell you that I haven't told you already?' Aubrey did his best to sound conciliatory. 'I'm as baffled as you are.'
'And you?' Inspector Paul shot at George.
'Many strange things happen around Aubrey. I'm accustomed to it.'
Before Inspector Paul could follow up this scrap of information, the door to the office was flung open. A tall woman in a flowing robe with an iridescent green belt wafted in. She smiled at Aubrey and George.
'Mrs Hepworth,' Aubrey blurted, jumping to his feet, quickly followed by George and the Inspector.
She addressed herself to Inspector Paul, in flawless Gallian. 'I've come to take these two young men away.'
The police officer goggled, as well he might. Ophelia Hepworth was a striking woman – tall, with glossy black hair tumbling around her shoulders and only kept in check by a carelessly tied strip of blue silk. She had huge, dark eyes.
After several false starts, Inspector Paul managed to form a complete sentence. 'I beg your pardon?'
'Your Director of Police.' She handed the Inspector a letter. 'This is his stationery and signature, is it not?'
Inspector Paul nodded, not trusting his voice. He stared at the letter, taking a few moments before he remembered to read it.
'He thanks you for your diligence,' Mrs Hepworth went on, 'and he's sure you'll come to the same conclusion he has: that these two are unfortunates caught up in events not of their making.'
'I see.' Inspector Paul straightened. He brushed at the lapels of his jacket. 'Madame. They are yours.'
Mrs Hepworth swept out. Aubrey and George followed, like acolytes attending their high priestess. Outside, on a polished wooden bench, with the late afternoon sun filtering through a grimy window, was Caroline.
She stood and pecked her mother on the cheek. 'Thank you.'
'My pleasure, darling.'
Caroline put her hands on her hips and shook her head. 'Aubrey. George. What have you been up to?'
THE HEPWORTHS' APARTMENT WAS RIGHT BEHIND THE Cathedral of Our Lady, and it was startling. Aubrey had never been inside a Moorish villa, but he imagined that if a sultan's inner sanctum was crossed with a stylish Lutetian salon, the result would look rather like the place where he was currently reclining.
Enormous stretches of coloured silk hung from the ceiling. With the windows open to the evening air the whole room rippled and sighed. It was like being inside a very large, mostly quiescent, animal.
Beaded curtains hung over doorways, while incense burned in brass pots on mantles and shelves. Small mirrors on the walls glinted as the light caught them. Camphorwood boxes served as low tables and rainbow-coloured cushions were scattered between wicker chairs and velvet divans. The room smelled of spice, sandalwood and rosewater.
In keeping with the Moorish theme, Mrs Hepworth held a glass of peppermint tea in a silver zarf. She smiled at Aubrey and George over the top of it. 'And so when Caroline told me you were being held by the police I contacted Louis. He was only too willing to help.'
Aubrey had grown used to Mrs Hepworth's habit of referring to important people only by their first names. 'Louis is the Director of Police?'
'He's a cultured man for a Director of Police. He'd much rather be in charge of the Opera than the constabulary, but he's a servant of the people.'
George was lolling in the grasp of an enormous apricot pillow. He nibbled on a chocolate truffle and looked very pleased with himself. 'Thank him for us, will you, Mrs Hepworth?'
'Ophelia, George dear.' She put her coffee cup on a small lacquered tray. 'I like my name and I like others to use it.'
George nodded. 'Good chocolate.'
Aubrey had been avoiding looking at Caroline, which ran counter to his natural impulses. All the way in the cab from the Police Headquarters to the Hepworths' residence he'd been aware of her displeasure. Here, in her own home, he felt like an insect about to be skewered on a specimen board for eternity. He didn't like the feeling, so decided to do something about it.
He turned to her. After enjoying the sight for a split second, he ventured an opening gambit. 'How did you know we were with the police?' Good, he thought. Neutral, intelligent, a fine start.
'It was Claude.'
'Claude?' Aubrey raised his eyebrows.
'Claude Duval, the director of the play. He saw you being arrested.'
'We weren't arrested. I made sure of that by volunteering to go with the Inspector. George? Is something wrong?'
'No, nothing.' George mopped his chin with a napkin. 'Piece of chocolate went down the wrong way.'
Caroline pressed on. 'You were saying that you volunteered to go with the Inspector.'
'Yes. And you were saying that Claude was spending some time with you.'
'I didn't. But he had. And it's none of your business.'
Aubrey and Caroline glared at each other. Mrs Hepworth tut-tutted. 'Enough, enough.' She glanced at George. 'My daughter has always been headstrong. And your friend?'
'Aubrey? Headstrong? Only in every way imaginable.'
'It's like watching a duel, isn't it? But one that's not over after a shot apiece.'
'Mother.' Caroline pursed her lips.
'Of course, darling.' Mrs Hepworth put her chin on her hand. 'I was only too glad when Caroline wanted to come to Lutetia. Since my dear Lionel passed away, I'd been unable to paint at all. I felt Lutetia could start my painting again.'
'And has it?' Aubrey asked, glad for the change of topic.
'Oh yes. I could hardly help but paint once we arrived. Seeing so many of my old friends again, visiting the galleries . . . Here, I inhale art with every breath.'
Aubrey softened. Mrs Hepworth, for all her airs, wasn't a play-artist, a dabbler. She had a reputation as one of the most original painters of her generation. 'It's good for you, this city?'
'Oh yes. It has helped.' She turned away. 'With the grief.'
Aubrey looked at Mrs Hepworth's striking profile, then he glanced at Caroline. She was staring out of the window at the bright lights of the Exposition Tower.
Mrs Hepworth's husband – Caroline's father – had been an accidental victim of the tangled series of plots within plots that Dr Mordecai Tremaine had constructed. Professor Hepworth had died from the effects of Dr Tremaine's concentrated terror magic. Aubrey had never forgotten Dr Tremaine's chilling indifference over the death of someone he'd once called a friend.
Mrs Hepworth's grief had always been apparent. Caroline was more controlled, but Aubrey knew her
sorrow was as deep and as heartfelt. Her restraint was one of the things about her that fascinated him.
Mrs Hepworth rose. 'I think it's time to retire. It's been a full day.'
Aubrey and George stood. 'We should go.'
'I'll see them out, Mother,' Caroline said, and Aubrey was pleased. He may have a chance to salvage the situation before leaving.
Aubrey and George waited on the landing outside the door to the apartment. The lift clanked and rattled its way between floors. Aubrey couldn't tell if it was going up or down, but he hoped it would take some time to get there.
George snorted at the wrought-iron doors. 'I don't trust these lift contraptions. I'll take the stairs. Meet you at the front door, old man. Good night, Caroline.'
You're a brick, George, Aubrey thought. Now, one last try. He cleared his throat and smiled at Caroline. 'I didn't thank you for getting us out of a sticky situation. At the police station.'
'No, you didn't.'
Aubrey heard the steel in her voice, but ploughed on. 'Unforgivable of me. So I offer my thanks now. Unreservedly.'
Caroline frowned a little, as if considering this. 'Very well. I accept your thanks.'
'And now can we perhaps talk without hostilities?'
'Hostilities? I don't know what you're talking about.'
Let that one pass, Aubrey thought. 'How are your studies? Are you still corresponding with my mother?'
'I had a letter yesterday. She's well, if you're wondering, and so is your father.'
'Good, good.' He wished he knew more about taxonomy. 'What would you say is the most difficult area of classification?'
'Don't worry, Aubrey.' She smiled, a brief sunburst that made Aubrey take a sharp breath. 'No need to grope around like that. Let it be said that I'm thinking harder than I've ever done before, and I'm enjoying every minute of it. It's challenging, daunting, overwhelming, but rewarding.' Her face glowed. 'And what are you up to?' she asked.
Aubrey blinked and realised he'd been staring at her. 'I beg your pardon?'
'Your plans. You're at leisure, so what are you planning to do?'
Unprepared, he plucked for the first item that came to hand from his to-do list. 'Church.'
'Church?'
'Cathedral of Our Lady.'
'Ah, I haven't visited, even though it's so close. They say it has the finest stained glass in all Gallia.'
'Yes, well, as far as stained glass goes, it'd be hard to find any that's finer. Very . . . transparent.'
'You're not interested in the stained glass, are you?'
'Not solely,' Aubrey said, and congratulated himself on the retrieval. 'I'm more interested in tombs. Fascinated, really.'
'I never knew.'
'One can learn a lot from tombs.' Aubrey warmed to his subject. 'An entire education, most likely.'
'Such as?'
'Well, different sorts of marble, for a start.' You've done it again, Aubrey, he thought, painted yourself into a corner. 'Inscriptions. Heraldry. That sort of thing.'
'Really.'
He grinned. 'I wouldn't have a clue, actually.'
'That was fairly obvious, but I'm glad you admitted it. I think you need to be reminded that you're fallible, at least every now and then.'
Aubrey decided that he'd examine that later to determine if it was a compliment or not. 'A friend asked me to do some genealogy research for him. Our Lady's is a good place to start.'
'May I join you?' Caroline asked, tentatively. 'When you visit the cathedral?'
'What?' Aubrey composed himself. 'Of course. We'd be delighted.'
'Good. It sounds as if it might be fun,' Caroline said.
'We'll pick you up at eight,' Aubrey managed to say. He repeated the words to himself and was reasonably sure he'd had them in the right order.
The lift arrived. Aubrey backed through the doors, closed them, and waved foolishly at the gently smiling and glorious Caroline Hepworth.
Aubrey found himself beaming all the way home.
Six
BREAKFAST AT MADAME CALVERT'S WAS SO FINE THAT George was extremely reluctant to miss it. Aubrey promised he'd make it up by selecting from the many cafés they passed. This mollified George and he treated the whole city as a gigantic buffet, choosing a pastry here, a hot chocolate there.
So, despite their early departure, they were actually late arriving at the Hepworths' apartment on the Isle of the Crown, right in the middle of the Sequane River.
Caroline was waiting on the doorstep. Aubrey saw she wasn't wearing a hat. Instead, her hair was caught up at the back of her head in a roll, pinned with a tortoiseshell comb that was carved with geometric interlacing. Her skirt was long and plain, with large buttons down the front, gathered with a white belt at her waist. At least, he told himself, that was all he noticed in the brief glance he gave her.
She wasn't tapping her foot, but she looked as if she wished to. 'Shall we go?'
Aubrey had had experience with Caroline's walking. When she was making for a specific destination, she didn't mince along, but strode purposefully. Aubrey had prepared himself for this eventuality by wearing his most comfortable boots instead of his most stylish. This helped somewhat, but this morning his knees were aching with a brittle, dreary pain that gnawed with each step. His weariness had not deserted him either, and George's gorging at breakfast had left Aubrey feeling slightly nauseated.
He admitted – to himself – that he was concerned over his physical condition, but he was reasonably confident that if things didn't worsen, he could manage. After all, he'd coped in the past.
Even though the Hepworths' apartment was close to Our Lady's, the maze that was the Isle of the Crown meant they had to take a circuitous route to get to the front of the cathedral. It was early and the narrow streets were already busy. Delivery carts, cabs and workers were making their way on their daily rounds. The aromas of coffee and baking bread signalled that a thousand breakfasts were being eaten in the cafés and apartments they passed.
'Remarkable place,' Aubrey said as they strode along, 'the Cathedral of Our Lady.'
'In what way?' Caroline glanced at him. 'Because it's the main cathedral of the city? Because the second crusade was launched from its steps? Or because it's hosted coronations, royal weddings and christenings for seven hundred years?'
'Don't forget that it's at the exact geographic centre of Lutetia.' He stepped around a street sweeper. 'It seems as if we've both read the same guidebook.'
Caroline gave a cheeky smile, taking Aubrey by surprise. 'We may have something in common, after all.'
Aubrey was about to begin itemising all the things he'd catalogued that they had in common when Caroline arched an eyebrow and resumed their journey.
Aubrey was taken aback at Caroline's unexpected playfulness, and rather enjoyed it. His spirits lifted and he found it easier to ignore the nagging pain in his back. He whistled a jaunty tune until George pointed out that he was scaring the stray dogs.
Besotted, he thought. He rolled the word around and accepted that it fitted. Besotted.
Ice-cream vendors wheeled their carts around the square in front of Our Lady's, optimistically looking for early business. Aubrey stood a moment and admired the steeples, the flying buttresses, the enormous rose window and the phlegmatic gargoyles who had little to do on the warm, cloudless morning.
The church doors were open. Aubrey's eyes took a moment to recover, moving from the bright daylight to the relative darkness of the interior, but once they had he stood just inside the narthex – the enclosed area before the church proper – marvelling.
At the eastern end, pews were arranged in front of the altar. A few worshippers were praying while visitors kept close to the walls, examining tombs and inscriptions, daunted by the immense space.
Aubrey shivered. This was a place where silent contemplation had gone on for centuries. For generations, people had spent time pondering the fate of their souls, wondering about life, death and what it held for them. Surrounded b
y this accumulation of introspection, Aubrey felt the transience of human existence. The solidity of every pillar, every block of stone, every tomb contrasted with it, remaining in place while thousands of lives passed.
He bowed his head. For a moment, he took time to consider the fate of his own soul. The nearness of the true death made him conscious of the importance of life and the need to amount to something. He was determined his existence wouldn't be a meaningless one.
I will make something of my life, he promised himself. And if I trip over feet along the way, they're going to be mine.
When he lifted his head he saw a group of visitors nearby. One of them appeared familiar, but Aubrey was more interested in the maps that several held, orienting themselves. 'I wonder where we can get one,' Aubrey muttered to George.
'One what?'
'A map. It'd be helpful. I don't know where to start. Bertie's notes are cryptic, to say the least.'
A voice came from Aubrey's left. He nearly jumped. 'My name is Sister Claire. Can I help you?'
The nun had been standing near the entrance, obviously with the duty of assisting bemused visitors. She was a young woman with arresting green eyes. Smiling at Aubrey, she continued in Albionish. 'From Albion, are you not?'
'Indeed, Sister.' Aubrey introduced himself and his friends.
'Would you like a tour? Or is there something in particular that you would like to see?'
Aubrey wasn't sure why he hesitated to reveal his plans. Perhaps caution was growing customary. 'A general tour would be helpful, Sister.'
'Excellent,' Sister Claire said. 'It's a marvellous cathedral. We're very proud of it, even though the upkeep is very, very costly.'
George was the first to take the hint. He reached inside his jacket for his wallet. 'I don't suppose there's anywhere to make a donation, is there, Sister? Can't have a place like this falling into ruin.'
'There is a donation box just inside the entrance.' Sister Claire smiled, dimpling.
Sister Claire was bright and chatty; Aubrey could see why she'd been chosen for visitor duty. She took them into the wide central aisle, pews stretching away on either side, and ushered them to a spot in the nave. 'Look up,' she said, and had them face the rose window over the entrance.
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