'Ah. He wanted you to arrest the New Albionites. He saw them as a loose cannon, no doubt, liable to disrupt Holmland's own plans.' Sir Darius frowned.
'Von Stralick was remarkably forthcoming when he telephoned the Special Services. Said he was in need of a good rest and he was going back to Holmland. Before he hung up, he told Tallis to thank someone he called "young Fitzwilliam" for doing him a great favour.' Craddock studied Aubrey and waited for his response.
'A favour?' Aubrey said. 'Well, we did run into von Stralick, and he was injured. I suppose I patched him up –'
'He nearly died,' Caroline put in. 'Without Aubrey, he would have.'
'I see,' Craddock said, and Aubrey knew the head of the Magisterium was filing this away for later consideration. 'Sir Darius, I think it fair to tell you that the Magisterium has had its eye on your son since the failed attempt on Prince Albert's life. He has shown a penchant for becoming involved in dangerous matters.'
'I'm aware of that, Craddock,' Sir Darius said. 'He causes me no end of worry, even though he usually contrives to fall on his feet.'
Craddock nodded. 'Resourceful chap. He managed to get to you well before we did, and he held off Tremaine. Who knows what Tremaine would have done to you, given more time? It may have been another long-term plot of his.' Craddock looked at Aubrey. 'Remarkable lad you have here, Sir Darius.'
'I know.'
Craddock took off his hat and brushed some invisible lint from it. 'I wonder if he's ever thought of a career in the Magisterium?'
Aubrey's mouth dropped open. Sir Darius raised an eyebrow. 'Craddock, I do believe you've managed to surprise my son. And me.' He looked at Aubrey. 'My son's magical ability is a wonder to me. He can do things I've never dreamed of. His horizons are vaster than mine ever will be. I'm proud of him – and I envy him.'
Aubrey's knees felt weak. He sat on the chair by the bedside, humbled. He thought he'd known where he stood, but the rug of certainty had been pulled out from beneath his feet. Craddock's offer was unexpected, and his father's words had caught him utterly unawares. Perhaps he'd been guilty of making assumptions. Again.
Craddock gave a small movement of the lips that – on another person – could have been called a smile. 'You'll consider my offer, Fitzwilliam?'
Aubrey nodded. 'I have much to consider.'
Twenty-Three
WITH LESS THAN TWO WEEKS BEFORE THE ELECTION, Aubrey found that twenty-four hours was not enough time in a day.
Despite George's reluctance to become involved in politics, Aubrey dragged him in to help with the campaign. Together they organised the distribution of pamphlets and the hanging of posters, as well as helping to arrange public rallies and meetings. Aubrey's arms grew sore from cranking printing machines, and ink became ingrained under his fingernails. His hands were red and sore from clapping during his father's numerous speeches. He met with Jack Figg and gained his assistance in rallying workers behind the Progressive Party.
Aubrey also assumed a key role in scrutinising and editing Sir Darius's speeches. 'Adding a touch of theatre,' was how he explained this contribution to George.
Aubrey tried to involve Caroline, but she declined. Then Lady Fitzwilliam invited her, telling her of the Progressive Party's commitment to giving women the vote. After that, Caroline made sure Sir Darius and his colleagues addressed Suffragette rallies, which provided a sharp distinction from the Prime Minister and his Royalist cronies, who refused invitations from Suffragette leaders and, at times, heaped scorn on Suffragette hopes.
Sir Darius campaigned vigorously on a platform of a strong Albion. With news of more Holmland aggression in the Goltans, this resonated with the public. The Prime Minister tried to distance himself from the King, who had the extraordinary lack of both wit and tact to have Count Herman, the brother of the Elektor of Holmland, visit his country estate. The newspapers reflected the general unhappiness with this. George made a point of cutting out the best headlines and pasting them on the walls of the tiny office Aubrey and he worked from so that whenever Aubrey looked up from typing, telephoning or duplicating, he saw 'Is Our PM A Holmland Man?' in large, black letters all over the walls. Aubrey wondered if Bertie had had anything to do with the invitation to Count Herman.
The King's birthday parade went ahead, as tradition demanded, but the Prime Minister was not overly pleased with the result. The King insisted that the royal coach was full of his imaginary friends and that Sir Rollo had to walk behind. The sight of the red-faced, waddling PM trying to keep up with the royal coach caused gales of laughter along the entire parade route.
For Aubrey, election night was a mixture of relief, tension and detachment. The Progressive Party had booked the ballroom of the Burton Hotel, which was directly opposite the Electoral Board offices in Porter Street. While members of parliament, candidates, staff and families milled about, a constant stream of people crossed the street to bring the latest news on the counting.
Early in the evening, Aubrey felt as if he needed some solitude after the whirlwind of the previous fourteen days. He stood by a pillar, screened by a potted palm, and watched his father and mother greet people as they arrived. He was still there when he saw Caroline and her mother enter. Caroline was wearing a grey dress that made Aubrey feel as if he'd been struck, hard, in the stomach. Her face glowed as she smiled at Sir Darius. Her hair was arranged in a way that Aubrey guessed would have required a good structural magician. She wore a fine gold chain around her neck and small diamond earrings.
She looked beautiful. Her mother was with her and wore something or other. Aubrey had no idea what.
He leaned against the pillar, making sure Caroline and Mrs Hepworth didn't see him. He watched as they entered the room and quickly found George, who reluctantly bade farewell to a group of young women he'd spent much of the evening entertaining.
Aubrey took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Things were turning out well enough, he supposed. Caroline wasn't totally convinced that he was a dangerous lunatic, which was a good thing. The situation there was retrievable, given tenacity – of which he had an abundance.
The plot to propel Albion into war had been foiled. For now, he thought, and this cast a pall on his musings that was at odds with the optimism of the evening. The threat of war is going to be with us for some time, he thought, Dr Tremaine or no Dr Tremaine. He could see years of international tension while life tried to go on.
Then there was his 'condition'. He had steadied things, but it was temporary. It was as if he'd woven a cocoon around his united body and soul, but death was still waiting for him, a gaping maw that was calling, calling . . .
More research, more experimentation, that was his only answer. What he'd done so far had spurred his thinking about development of a modern language for magic and he had some inklings that his solution would be dependent on this, too. Along the way, he was bound to grapple with the fundamental question of the Nature of Magic as well. He needed time, more time! If only he could get hold of Professor Hepworth's notebook.
Which brings us back to Dr Tremaine, in more ways than one, he thought and he patted his fob pocket, where an irregular lump lay, a reminder of unfinished business.