Monsieur Caron stood with Mrs Hepworth and Caroline, near the staircase. His face was pale. 'Where are we going? What is happening?'
'Gallia is falling apart, Monsieur Caron,' Aubrey said, without turning from the window. 'We're doing our best to stop it. Are you?'
'Falling apart? But . . .'
'I don't think we have much time.' A sharp cracking sound came from one of the upper storeys. Monsieur Caron flinched. 'Tell us what you know, if you would.'
'Alphonse is not a bad man,' Mrs Hepworth said. 'Greed does tend to have a hold on him, however. When I heard that he had disappeared, I knew he was in trouble. I sought him out to see if I could help. He suggested a walk in the park and here we are.' She favoured Caron with a disapproving look.
'How do you know him, Mother?' Caroline asked.
'Oh, Alphonse used to be a painter. He's an old friend. Aren't you, Alphonse?'
'Yes. And I am a proud Gallian,' Monsieur Caron said. 'Whatever else, do not forget that. I will defend the republic.'
Aubrey had the distinct impression that Caron's nervousness was not simply caused by the strange surroundings. He wondered how far apart a document merchant and a blackmailer were. After all, the correspondence of the famous must contain some very interesting information.' Let me know if anything untoward appears,' Aubrey said to George.
'Shall do, old man.'
Aubrey left the window and went to the others. 'Now, Monsieur Caron. You say you are a loyal Gallian.'
'I am.' Caron's voice was firm, but his hands would not keep still. He adjusted his tie, then he stroked his beard, then he adjusted his tie again.
'And yet you were prepared to help Gallia collapse by selling crucial correspondence to the Marchmainers.'
'What? They are simply old letters. Nothing important.' The tower jerked sideways. Aubrey steadied himself by gripping the iron balustrade. Caroline and her mother both swayed with the movement, but Monsieur Caron stumbled backward a few steps before catching himself. 'This ridiculous place is what is falling apart,' he said. 'I demand that you take us back.'
'The correspondence, Monsieur Caron,' Aubrey said. 'How much were the Marchmainers going to pay you?'
Monsieur Caron glared for a moment, then his face collapsed. He tottered a few paces and then sat on the stairs. He put his head in his hands. 'A small fortune. Every time I refused, they came back with a higher price.'
'And you still think the letters were unimportant?'
'I'm a businessman. I'm interested in obtaining the best price for my goods.'
'You had no suspicions?'
Monsieur Caron was silent. He dropped his gaze and studied his hands. 'I cannot afford to have suspicions. These letters are harmless.'
'You don't believe that.'
He looked away. 'They threatened me. They burnt down my shop.'
We aren't dealing with amateurs here, Aubrey thought. 'So you went into hiding,' Aubrey said. Caroline's mother was obviously fond of Monsieur Caron, but Aubrey was sure the man knew more than he was telling. He glanced at George, who was gazing ahead, unconcerned, even though the glass in the window shook. 'Whatever price they offered you, I will better it.'
Monsieur Caron brightened. 'It would be good for the letters to return to their owner.'
'At a price,' Caroline said.
Monsieur Caron looked hurt. 'I have overheads to consider.'
Mrs Hepworth sighed. 'Alphonse. Your greed will be the death of you.'
He spread his hands. 'What can I do? I have commitments.'
'Tell me more about the Marchmainers,' Aubrey said. 'Did they discuss plans with you? Where were they going next?'
'I do not know. They were customers, that was all. They did not discuss anything with me other than price. And the possibility of physical harm.'
'Their leader was a red-headed man?'
Monsieur Caron grimaced. 'Yes. Cold eyes.'
Gabriel. 'I think you were wise to offer the letters. And to agree to meet him.'
'But Aubrey,' Mrs Hepworth said, 'the letters are between your grandmother and your grandfather, are they not? How could they possibly be of any use to anyone else?'
'Well, they certainly seem to be of great interest to Marchmainers.' Aubrey's brain, already whirring at high speed, began to churn even faster. The letters were written around the time of the Treaty of St Anne, which brought Albion and Gallia together as allies. He shook his head. Such an event wouldn't be of interest to Marchmainers. Except if someone else was in the capital at the same time . . .
'Grandmother is an expert at meeting important people,' he said slowly. 'Even more, she has perfected the art of being remembered by them. She has vast networks of friends, acquaintances and correspondents and she never forgets a name.' He stared at Monsieur Caron. 'I'm guessing that her letters talk about someone important to the Marchmaine movement. Someone very, very important.'
'Martin Victor,' Monsieur Caron confirmed. 'Apparently he was a good friend of your grandfather. The letters mentioned that they regularly played cards together.' Monsieur Caron gave a small smile. 'Your grandfather lost, most often.'
Caroline raised an eyebrow. 'The Steel Duke playing cards with the founder of the Sons of Victor?'
'Useful, but not of earth-shattering importance. Was there anything else?'
'Ah. Then perhaps you mean the fact that your grandfather paid substantial sums of money to Martin Victor to help fund his struggle for a Marchmaine homeland?'
'Ah,' Aubrey said, distantly. 'Yes. I think that would do it.' He squeezed his hands together, hard, while he thought through the implications of this. 'It's perfect, really. Gabriel would love to have letters confirming a link between Marchmaine and Albion, especially a link of a monetary kind. In a stroke it would give some legitimacy to the independence cause and also destabilise the Albion–Gallian alliance.'
Caroline glanced at Monsieur Caron. 'Of course. Albion could be seen to be supporting a breakaway province.'
Aubrey sighed. 'Naturally, if the alliance fails, the Gallian government would be in great trouble. With it already teetering, it could be just the push to send it over the brink. Gallia in chaos would be the perfect time for Marchmaine to declare its sovereignty.'
'A single letter could cause all that?' Mrs Hepworth said. 'Alphonse, for shame.'
'How was I to know?' he pleaded.
'Don't be disingenuous,' Mrs Hepworth said. 'You can't pretend to be ignorant. Your best sales come where delicate political matters are concerned.'
'You have the letters, I presume,' Aubrey said, 'since you were about to hand them over to the Marchmainers.'
Monsieur Caron reached inside his jacket and took out a small packet of letters. The envelopes were crisp and white. They were tied together with a mauve ribbon. 'I have a price in mind,' he said.
'So do I,' Aubrey said and he held out his hand. 'It will be fair.'
Monsieur Caron looked pained, but surrendered the bundle. 'I look forward to your payment.'
'No doubt.' Aubrey held the letters and was mildly surprised that such important documents didn't weigh more. They looked fresh and new, as if they had been written yesterday. 'Mrs Hepworth, would you take care of these for me?'
'Or course, dear boy. Your grandmother will be grateful for your efforts.'
The tower shook, violently this time. George gave a shout. 'Aubrey, look!'
Aubrey hurried to the window. Pylons, mooring masts, airships. 'It's the St Martin airfield.' His mind buzzed. Gabriel and Saltin had admitted that the Gallian Dirigible Corps was full of Marchmainers. Von Stralick had warned that the Marchmainers were after the Heart of Gold.
It all fell into place. He stood, staring at nothing at all. 'I have it,' he said softly.
'Well, would you mind sharing it?' Caroline said.
'Remember when Gabriel took us to this airfield, on Thursday? Saltin was waiting for him, airship ready.'
'Ready for what?' George asked.
'To take the Heart of Gold to M
archmaine, where the Sons of Victor would restore it to its supposed rightful place.'
'But Gabriel didn't have it,' George protested.
'He's spent the last few days getting it, I think.' Aubrey pointed at the airfield ahead. 'From the way this tower is heading, it looks as if he's been successful.'
Aubrey let his explanation sink in. George pursed his lips thoughtfully, while Caroline seemed about to argue, but then nodded, as if she'd checked his logic and been convinced. Mrs Hepworth smiled, excited, but Monsieur Caron simply looked as if he'd rather be somewhere else.
'Since we're heading towards a nest of fanatical murderers,' Caroline said, 'do you think we could be a little more circumspect in our approach?'
'Ah. Are you suggesting that it's difficult to creep up on anyone in a five-storey tower?'
'Yes, that's just what I was suggesting.'
'Good point.' Aubrey remembered the woods that bordered the airfield. 'Hold on to something. We need to descend quickly.'
While he peered out of the window, he put a hand on the brickwork of the ancient tower. His skin tingled where it touched brick and mortar. It felt as if the old tower was singing, alive with the thrill of magic. He moved with the rhythm of power that was pulsing through the structure, summoning the spell he'd used to raise it from its slumber. Carefully, he inverted the inversion, adding an element which would return the tower's weight in a controlled fashion.
The tower dropped.
Amid a chorus of cries and gasps, Aubrey hissed, then spat out two stone-hard Chaldean syllables. The tower's plunge slowed, then stopped. It bobbed in place like a soap bubble.
'Is everyone all right?'
One by one, the passengers admitted they were unhurt. Aubrey rubbed his forehead and repeated the spell, with special emphasis on the elements that controlled the rate of descent. The tower slowed, then descended in a steadier fashion.
'George,' he barked. 'Open the door. Let me know how we're going.'
George wrenched the door open. 'Lots of trees, all round. Large pine tree right below us, old man, about ten feet. There's a bit of a space to the right.'
They were still drifting sideways, more slowly now that Aubrey was returning the tower's proper weight to it. He hoped it would be enough lateral movement to avoid the pine tree. He whispered a few more syllables and the tower inched lower, slowly settling. A woody crunching noise came from below their feet and the rich scent of pine wafted in. Monsieur Caron cried out as a large rock punched up through the floor, and then they were down.
George signed to Aubrey. 'That was close.'
'How close?'
George stood back from the door. The trunk of the pine tree was no more than a yard away.
'Good camouflage,' Aubrey said. 'Let's hope no-one saw us.'
He started for the door. 'Where are you going?' Monsieur Caron said. 'You have your letters. What more do you want?'
Aubrey smiled a lopsided smile. 'The Heart of Gold. Now, who wants to come and battle a band of fanatics for it?'
Twenty-
One
AUBREY LAY ON HIS BELLY AND PEERED AROUND THE corner of the shed, minimising his profile and his chances of being detected. Gravel bit into his chest, but he ignored the discomfort and scanned the site of most of the activity on the base: the largest hangar. Even though it was the early evening, hordes of workers streamed in and out of the facility.
Before leaving the tower, he'd had a moment of concern when Mrs Hepworth volunteered to come with them. It was only after Caroline had firm words with her that she relented and stayed with a relieved Monsieur Caron.
The shed they were using for concealment was an accommodation hut with wooden bunks and spartan furniture, but no tenants. Aubrey took note that it had room for twenty inhabitants.
Between them and the big hangar were twenty or thirty such huts constructed of corrugated iron. On the other side of the gravel road were similar structures, larger and with all the appearance of workshops or warehouses. Those closest to the hangar had open doors, and a constant flow of workers hauled heavy boxes and lengths of metal between these buildings and the hangar.
Two lorries pulled up in front of the hangar and discharged a dozen men each. The sound of heavy construction came from it: metallic screeches and the relentless pounding of heavy machinery.
Half a mile or more past the last hangar, a single airship was moored to its mast. More men were clustered around armed with rifles, and a lorry was beetling back across the tarmac.
Aubrey reached into his pocket.
'Opera glasses, Aubrey?' Caroline said.
He shrugged. 'Madame Calvert lent them to me. I applied a spell that uses the Law of Intensification to enhance their powers.' Aubrey didn't add that he hadn't been able to prevent a side-effect that meant that the glasses occasionally flashed images from operas that Madame Calvert had seen over the years. It was disconcerting when a large, mail-clad tenor suddenly appeared in his field of vision.
None of the men on the tarmac was wearing a uniform. They looked more like farm labourers than soldiers, but the way they carried their weapons was definitely military.
Slowly, he pulled his head back. 'Well?' George said.
'Plenty of activity all around. It looks as if the airship is nearly ready to fly to Chrétien.'
'How are we going to get the Heart of Gold back from them?' Caroline asked.
Excellent question, Aubrey thought. 'Subterfuge. We have to be clever rather than strong.'
'Would seem to be the best approach,' George said, 'a frontal assault being rather out of the question, with just the three of us.'
Aubrey had an idea. 'Caroline, didn't you say that Dr Romellier was working from here?'
She brightened. 'He was put here to advise on airship structures. He's stayed here since. Perhaps he likes the solitude.'
'Perhaps,' Aubrey said, but he wasn't convinced. The airfield was a busy place, and all the more so since the sabotage attack. Reconstruction, police, special investigators . . .No, St Martin airfield wouldn't be quiet at all. 'Why don't the Marchmainers move him out? He must be a nuisance.'
'I can't imagine that a bird man would be much trouble,' George said. 'Fussing about with feathers and beaks can't be too much of a nuisance.'
Aubrey was troubled by this, but he knew that while some knots untied when pulled, most only became knottier. He put it aside. 'He could help us, if we could find him.'
'Where would he be, then?' George asked. 'This is a big place.'
'Tell me, Caroline,' Aubrey said. 'Do you think a researcher like Dr Romellier would appreciate the sort of noise that's coming from the hangar over there?'
'Unlikely,' Caroline said. 'It would drive him to distraction.'
'So, if he had a choice, he'd find somewhere distant from actual construction work.'
'Back toward the main gate,' George suggested.
'But not too close. All the traffic goes through the gate. He'd find that irritating as well.'
Aubrey crawled to the rear corner of the hut. A lane of bare earth between the two rows of huts had become a de facto drain.
'This way,' he hissed to his friends. When they joined him, he paused. 'We know Dr Romellier was communicating with Monsieur Moir via pigeon, don't we?'
'That's what Monsieur Moir told me,' Caroline said.
'Then let's see which of these huts has a pigeon loft nearby.'
The three moved through the shadows, avoiding the drain. Despite the lack of rain, it was muddy and rank.
The pigeon loft they found was small, only large enough for half a dozen birds, and it was empty – but bowls of seeds and fresh water showed that it was still in use.
Aubrey moved to the hut nearest the loft, listening carefully. If anyone was inside, they were keeping very quiet. Then again, a research scientist immersed in his work would hardly make a din, he reasoned.
He beckoned to the others. They crouched at the side of the stairs.
'One at a time,' he wh
ispered, then he slipped under the handrail of the stairs and onto the covered porch. Hidden from view of the hangar, he waited for George and Caroline to join him. When they did – and no alarm went up – he opened the door to the hut and, together, they crept inside.
At first, Aubrey thought it was dim because of the dozens of stuffed birds that were hanging from the ceiling. Then he realised that the windows were draped with gauze.
The hut was one large room. A camp bed took up the left-hand corner, but it looked as if it hadn't been used for a long time. Most of the rest of the room was filled with steamer trunks and packing cases, all of them bearing labels indicating their exotic origins: Nippon, the South Sea Islands, the Arctic, and a number of Oriental nations Aubrey had only heard of as synonyms for 'the ends of the earth'. A long bench took up the wall opposite, under the gauze-swathed windows. A man sat at a desk in the far corner, his back to them, his bald head reflecting the glow of an electrical lamp.
'Close the door,' the man said in clipped Gallian. 'And be quick about it.'
'Sorry,' Aubrey replied in the same language. The man's accent made Aubrey pause, frowning. 'I didn't realise there was a draught.'
The figure at the desk turned and put an elbow on the back of the chair. An enormous black beard jutted from his chin. 'It isn't the draught, it's the light.' He cocked his head on one side. 'You're from Albion, aren't you?' he said in Albionish. 'What are you doing here?'
'You are Dr Romellier?'
The bald-headed man nodded once, sharply. 'Of course.'
'My mother sends you greetings.'
'Your mother?'
'Lady Rose Fitzwilliam. The naturalist.'
'Ah.' Dr Romellier's expression changed from guarded wariness to shrewd calculation. 'So you would be the son of the Prime Minister of Albion, then.'
Dr Romellier stood. He was wearing a white shirt, but no tie. His sleeves were rolled up, showing forearms as brawny as a blacksmith, even though the doctor wouldn't have been much more than four feet tall. Aubrey had never given much consideration to what an ornithologist looked like, and was glad he hadn't gone to the trouble of working up a preconception.
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