'What is going on?' Aubrey asked.
'I have arrested this person,' Inspector Paul said, indicating George, 'for acting suspiciously near a national monument.'
George grunted unhappily. 'Can't a chap do some genealogy business without being set upon?'
Inspector Paul drew himself up. 'We have just had an assault in our most sacred place. These are not happy times.'
George addressed himself to Aubrey. 'I wasn't doing anything, old man. Took some notes, rubbed some brass. Thought I was making good progress, even though I found quite a few buildings roped off and I couldn't get into them.'
'Skulking around tombs,' Inspector Paul put in, 'refusing to identify yourself.'
'I didn't know they were speaking to me,' George said. 'They kept talking in Gallian.'
Aubrey's head was pounding, red-hot spikes driving into his skull. He shouldn't have sent George off alone. He should have realised that Lutetia would be on edge after the theft of the Heart of Gold. 'I'm sorry, Inspector. It appears we've had a misunderstanding.'
'I felt that may be the case,' the Inspector said, frowning. 'That is why I brought him here instead of directly to Police Headquarters.'
'I appreciate it.' Aubrey felt it might be useful to return the favour. 'Inspector, are you still looking for the Soul Stealer?'
The police officer's face hardened. 'Soul Stealer? That is street gossip. I don't know what you mean.'
Tiptoeing around national pride and professional dignity, Aubrey tried again. 'The catatonics, the blank ones. I understand that more have been found.'
'We are dealing with the problem.'
'I may have a line of inquiry for you.'
Inspector Paul considered this, then tilted his immaculate head. 'Of course, it is my duty as an officer of the law to listen to any possible information that a member of the public may have.'
'I have reason to believe that someone has formed a magical method of stealing people's souls. A photographer may be involved.'
'A photographer? You expect me to find a photographer? The city is full of them, ever since the Great Exposition. Every second fool thinks he can point a camera and turn into a genius.'
'I'm sorry, Inspector. I thought it might help.'
'I should ask how you came by such knowledge, but I already think I know enough to realise that the story you would tell me would be long-winded, plausible, and impossible to disprove.'
'The truth can be hard to disprove.' He hoped this didn't sound as nonsensical to Inspector Paul as it did to him.
Inspector Paul studied him for long enough that Aubrey felt uncomfortable. 'Very well,' the Gallian said. 'You are free, Mr Doyle. Do not act suspiciously in future.'
The Inspector left. George raised an eyebrow at Aubrey. 'Do I look suspicious to you?'
Aubrey rubbed his temples. 'George, at the moment everything looks suspicious to me. Now, I need to lie down for a while.'
Nine
AUBREY SPENT MUCH OF THE AFTERNOON TRYING TO sleep, but a gnawing discomfort – a deep-seated throbbing inside his bones – wouldn't allow him to drop off. After lying on his bed, trying to find a comfortable position, he sat up and used a hand mirror to examine his hair. He wasn't vain – at least, he didn't think so – but the notion of losing his hair depressed him. It was dull, but he could hide that with discreet application of hair oil. If it continued to fall out, that was another matter.
He found a loose clump the size of a threepenny piece just behind his right ear. When it came free in his hand he stared at it glumly. Careful brushing covered it up, but the implications of the hair loss weren't so easily hidden.
In frustration, he took out Bernard's notebook in the hope that it would have some clues to alleviating his condition – or distract him, at least.
It achieved the latter, because the old magician's writing was anything but straightforward. Even if it hadn't been in Gallian, the task of reading it would have been a challenge.
Aubrey quickly forgot about his bodily discomfort. It didn't take him long to decide that Bernard had been a mercurial character. His writing sped across the page, often becoming blurred as he documented whatever phenomenon he was currently investigating. He also had a penchant for using different inks, often within the same sentence. The rapid changing of colours made the writing jump and dance.
Bernard's observations were eclectic. As well as whatever he was examining, he commented on weather, light levels, ambient sound, phases of the moon, and even developments in politics. Aubrey appreciated the way Bernard noted all factors influencing a magical experiment, but the old magician's notes showed the signs of obsession rather than care. When his jottings began to include counts of dust density, Aubrey sighed and closed the book.
He was sure some useful material lurked in the pages, but finding it was going to take time. He wondered if locating the Soul Stealer and prising some of his secrets from him mightn't be a quicker way to search for a remedy.
He went to the washbasin and splashed some water on his face. After patting it dry with one of Madame Calvert's wonderful towels, and ignoring his pale reflection, he wandered into the small living room of their apartment. George was stretched out on the chaise longue, snoring, with a copy of the Lutetian Sentinel on the floor beside him. A notebook with jottings from his genealogical investigations was under his head. Aubrey admired his friend's peace of mind, but it didn't stop him from waking him.
'Wake up, George. Dangerous deeds to do.'
George opened one eye. 'I wasn't asleep, just resting. Newspaper reading's a tiring task.' He reached behind his head and extracted his notebook. He leafed through it, frowning.
'Interesting?'
George grunted. 'Four churches, a converted monastery and a small graveyard. I've reached two dead ends in the family lines Prince Albert suggested, which will save us work in the long run, and I have a few promising leads to follow.'
Aubrey blinked. 'You did all that before you were arrested? I'm impressed.'
George sat up and brandished his notebook. 'Dashed interesting stuff, all of this. I'll need some help with dates and the like, but this history business is like . . .' He rubbed his nose, then brightened. 'Why, it's like what you do. It's a big puzzle, with pieces and hints and trails all over the place, and the challenge is to make sense of it all.'
Aubrey was cheered to see George so enthusiastic. 'So you actually made some progress?'
'Rather, old man. A long way to go, though.'
'Luckily, we don't have far to go this evening.' Aubrey held a finger in the air. 'Now, disguises.'
George swung his legs and sat up, groaning. 'Not disguises again, old man. I'll be fine as I am.'
'Necessary, I'm afraid. We have to blend in with a Marchmaine crowd this time.'
From his store of useful purchases, he assembled two outfits: dark-blue serge trousers, tough cotton shirts, woollen vests and cloth caps. He eyed them, chewing his lip. 'Boots,' he said. 'I'm not happy about our boots.'
'I am with mine, old man. Very comfy.'
'Too new, George. They don't look like workers' boots at all.'
'Well, surely not all these Marchmainers are hardhanded tillers and workers of the soil. They must have some educated types.'
'You're right. I've been stereotyping them.' He hated doing that. It usually went hand in hand with underestimating an opponent.
Eventually, Aubrey compromised. A second-hand pea jacket over the serge trousers. No cap. If confronted, Aubrey planned to claim they were university students who supported the cause. It would explain their youth and their city appearance.
On the way, they stopped at a café for a light meal before the evening's exertions. George quickly ate a sandwich and had another. Aubrey only ordered his because he thought it would look suspicious if he didn't. Nauseated, he stared sidelong at his ham and cheese sandwich and knew he couldn't stomach a bite. He made sure his sleeves were covering his forearms. He thought the skin was beginning to slough away there to
o. He tried to remember how many pairs of gloves he'd packed. The fresh air outside the café revived him somewhat.
The evening was lingering, stretching out the day. The light had a flat dullness about it, as if it were staying beyond its time. In the growing shadows, Aubrey had the uncomfortable feeling that the buildings on either side of the street were leaning inwards, glowering at him.
Eventually, they reached the Hepworths' apartment. Aubrey rang and Mrs Hepworth opened the door. 'Aubrey, dear. You look most disreputable. You too, George.'
Aubrey bowed. 'Thank you.'
'Perfect for your escapade, I'd say. I'll get Caroline. Come in, have a seat.'
George eyed Aubrey from the sofa. 'Disreputable, eh?' He wriggled his shoulders. 'I think I like being disreputable. It's probably wildly attractive to the ladies, wouldn't you say?'
'What would I know?' Aubrey muttered. The closer their rendezvous came, the more nervous he felt.
Caroline stepped into the room. Aubrey stood and, an instant later, so did George.
'Shall we go?'
'I like the dress,' Aubrey offered. 'Most appropriate, that shade of purple.'
'Mauve.'
'And the hat. Just perfect.'
'It's a bonnet.' Caroline looked at George. 'And what do you have to say?'
George spread his hands, grinning. 'I know nothing about women's clothes. I usually just say, "You look wonderful", but I don't think it's entirely appropriate here, since you're trying to look dowdy.'
'No.' Caroline bent and seized the hem of her dress. She lifted it to her knee. Aubrey took a sharp breath. 'I have my fighting uniform on underneath, just in case.'
'Be prepared,' Aubrey croaked. 'Very good. Excellent.'
'Oh, don't be so silly,' Caroline said. 'And stop laughing, Mother.'
Mrs Hepworth waved a hand. 'It's what I do when I see something funny, my dear. I can't help it.' Her face grew serious. 'You will be careful, though, won't you?'
'Of course.'
'And Aubrey, don't do anything reckless.' She paused. 'Don't do anything too reckless.'
'This is just information-gathering, Mrs Hepworth, nothing to worry about.'
'Nothing to worry about? It's obvious you've never been a parent.'
VON STRALICK WAS WAITING AT THE BASE OF THE STATUE OF Marshal Beaumain, as promised. He had a sketchbook and pencil in hand, and was offering a quick portrait to passers-by, for a price.
'Hello, von Stralick,' Aubrey said. 'What would you do if someone took you up on your offer?'
Von Stralick snorted. 'Stand still for a moment.'
The Holmlander studied Aubrey for a moment, then his pencil flew across the page. A quick glance and he was off again, furiously scratching, his pencil whipping across the paper with strong, assured lines. Five minutes later, he held up the book.
'Very accurate,' Caroline said. 'I like the way you've caught the vacant eyes.'
'The chin,' George said. 'Very good, that. Very . . .'
'Handsome?' Aubrey suggested. 'Forceful? Noble?'
'Very Fitzwilliam,' George finished, tactfully.
'Hmm. I didn't realise you were so talented, von Stralick.'
The Holmlander shrugged. 'It's a handy skill and a useful cover. I can sketch emplacements, faces, buildings. It's strangely less suspicious than a camera.'
A crowd had gathered in front of the Academy of Sciences. A robed figure of a woman representing Rational Inquiry frowned down from the carvings of the triangular pediment. She held a book, a globe and something that was either a sextant or a bad model of a sailing ship. Aubrey thought she seemed disapproving, as if rationality were in short supply in the people below her feet.
Aubrey noted the police as well. At least a hundred uniformed officers – and who knew how many plain clothes detectives – were out, but standing well back and allowing the Marchmainers and their sympathisers to move unhindered.
Von Stralick surveyed the crowd. 'I haven't seen any of the Sons of Victor.'
'They're sure to be here?' Aubrey asked.
'I've collected a number of handbills this week that say they will be speaking.'
Aubrey gazed over the heads that were moving steadily toward the entrance. At first he thought the crowd was mostly men, but soon revised his opinion when he saw more than a few women, perhaps making up a good third of the audience. Observe, he thought. Don't draw attention. Keep a neutral expression. Be ready to report later. Simple.
With a nod and a gesture, he gathered his friends and von Stralick. Hands in the pockets of his jacket, eyes down, he joined the throng.
A sharp right turn just inside the entrance, much shuffling and a few oaths stemming from trampled toes, through the wide doorway and they were inside the lecture hall.
The stage was brightly lit by hissing gaslight. Several straight-backed wooden chairs stood some distance behind a lectern. The proscenium arch was a gilt allegory detailing the role of science in agriculture and manufacturing. Aubrey liked the donkeys, particularly.
All the seats in the lecture hall were taken and people were still pouring through the doorway, so Aubrey and his friends had to find standing room at the rear.
It was clear that the Marchmaine independence movement was well supported.
More people crowded in, squeezing the already minimal space. On the positive side it meant that Aubrey was edged closer to Caroline. He could smell her perfume – rising green notes with a touch of sandalwood – and he reminded himself to compliment her on it later. He felt her arm against his and was determined not to move in any direction, unless it was closer.
He'd lost track of von Stralick, but George was on his right. 'Cheer and applaud when everyone else does,' he muttered. George nodded.
The murmuring around him rose and Aubrey saw six men and a woman mount the steps to the stage, all dressed in workaday clothes. The murmuring died down when one – a tall, balding man with a thin moustache – strode to the lectern.
For a moment the man stood there, surveying the crowd. His face was sombre. When he spoke, it was with the voice of a practised orator. 'Greetings, brothers and sisters,' he said with the clipped north Gallian accent. 'It is reassuring to see so many of you here tonight, especially after the dire events of our march.'
A growl went up from the audience.
'A dozen of our comrades are still in hospital,' the speaker continued, 'but we will not be stopped.'
A roar greeted this declaration, accompanied by stamping of feet and whistling.
The speaker waited for the din to die down. 'Events are moving quickly. The National Assembly is meeting tomorrow. The Prime Minister has called an emergency session to discuss our cause. Not,' he stared balefully at the crowd, 'to decide how best to move toward a free Marchmaine, but how to declare our movement illegal!'
The tumult that rose made the previous din sound like a tea party. Aubrey actually noticed dust drifting down from the ceiling as the entire hall shook with indignation.
'Your committee' – he swept an arm to encompass those sitting on the stage – 'is preparing to meet with Prime Minister Giraud to register our displeasure.'
Aubrey studied the others. They were uniformly grim-faced, but one man, in particular, stood out. He was the youngest of those on the stage. He had a close beard so red it was orange, with eyebrows and hair to match. He wore a distinctive scarf knotted around his neck – blue and white checks, with a blue border. His arms were crossed, his lips clamped shut and he greeted the speaker's words with minute shakes of his head.
The speaker licked his lips. 'We will prevail. Our committees are planning more fundraising, greater membership drives and a better organisational structure. We will, in time, swell to numbers so vast that the government will not be able to ignore us.'
Aubrey had heard more inspirational speeches and, apparently, so had many of the audience. A stocky man in the front row stood and shook his fist. 'Committees!' he shouted in guttural Gallian. 'I spit on your committees!' He pointed
at the red-bearded man. 'Tell us about action, Gabriel! What do the Sons of Victor say?'
The red-bearded man grinned with a smile so ferocious that, for a moment, it seemed as if he were the only person on the stage. He strode to the lectern, which was quickly surrendered to him. He jabbed a finger at the audience. 'I say that the spirit of Martin Victor lives on! Marchmaine will be free!'
Aubrey started. For an instant, he'd been seized by an extraordinary sensation. He felt as if he were bobbing in the ocean and had risen up the face of a large swell, then dropped down the other side. He looked around, blinking, but no-one else seemed to have noticed a thing.
The rolling wave of magic came again. Aubrey's awareness nudged at him, painfully. He concentrated, and could feel that the magical pulse was ancient. It had a ponderous majesty that spoke of eons past. At first, he was worried that someone had set off another of the anger spells that had caused the riot at the Middle Bridge, but this magic was utterly different.
Someone screamed. Above, Aubrey saw the moon, half-hidden by clouds. A few stars were showing and he tried to make out the constellations to which they belonged. Then, with a shock that caught in his throat, he realised he was looking right through the ceiling of the Academy of Sciences.
He reached behind him and touched the wall, reassuring himself that the building was still there, because the walls of the auditorium were fading as he watched. It had become ghostly, insubstantial, in places as clear as glass, while in others it had become misty and translucent. When he pressed, his hand sank into the substance of the wall, and he jerked it out with a grimace.
Another scream cut through the hubbub, then shouts and cries of dismay as the audience took in what was happening. The walls, the stage, then the floor all began to grow fainter and fainter until the buildings and roads on either side of the Academy showed through.
A man shot to his feet. He clamped his cap on his head, then spun on his heel and ran up the aisle toward the rear doors. It was as if a signal shot had been fired. Pandemonium erupted. Everyone in the hall stood, shouting and pressing toward where they thought the exits were. A mass of humanity battered at the fading outline of the doors, thrusting them open.
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