‘Here?’ George said. ‘Now?’
‘Can you manage it?’ Caroline asked.
Aubrey swallowed. His throat was raw and painful. ‘I think I must.’
Without a word, George reached over and slid the glass pane across, sealing off the rear compartment. Aubrey could see that the driver’s mirror was artfully angled to ensure he could see what was going on in the back, but at least he couldn’t eavesdrop.
The motorcar rumbled on. Outside, the business of the city streamed past. Carriages, cabs, motorcars, omnibuses. Shops, cafés, government buildings. Trinovantians, foreigners and some who were one pretending to be the other. Appearances and reality, Aubrey thought. Let’s take off the skin and see what lies beneath.
With a sigh, he lifted the Beccaria Cage again in his left hand. His vision blurred, he squinted, then rubbed his eyes. His eyesight cleared a little and he decided it wasn’t going to get any better than that.
He gripped the cage. The silver ball rolled then stopped dead and trembled, as if sensing something.
Concentrating gamely, Aubrey put the forefinger of his right hand up to the wire of the cage. The silver ball jerked and rolled to the far side, even though Aubrey was sure he’d held the cage level.
With an effort, he wedged the tip of his finger through the wire. It resisted, but he pushed until, with a grunt, he was through, bending the wire to allow access.
Inside, the silver ball began to roll about in erratic, wild movements, banging into one side of the cage and rebounding to the other like a mouse caught in a well with a cat.
Aubrey pushed his finger toward the silver ball. It froze for an instant, then quivered, before breaking left. Aubrey was ready for it, though, when it darted back to the right. He caught it against the wall of the cage, trapping it with his fingertip, and he hissed with satisfaction.
To his surprise, his fingertip sank into the surface of the ball as if it was a sponge. Before he could move, the ball clamped onto his finger with a razor-sharp grip.
Aubrey felt it sink into his flesh, but he didn’t flinch– despite the pain. He pushed through the wire from the other side, with his left forefinger and thumb, and caught the ball from behind. Ignoring the pain in his right finger, he brought his left thumb and forefinger together like pincers. At the first sign of pressure, the ball let go of his finger, but Aubrey caught it, crushing the ball like a walnut.
Immediately, the motorcar was filled with a hideous smell. It swerved sideways and the driver glanced over his shoulder, his face screwed up. Not expecting such a stench, Aubrey recoiled and threw up his hands, but because both hands were trapped in the cage all he succeeded in doing was hitting himself in the eye with it. He saw stars, blinked, let his hands fall to his lap and refused to look down – because he didn’t want to see what the ball had done to his finger.
George held his nose and slid open the window on his side, then leaned across and did the same on the other. ‘Good Lord,’ he said with some reverence. ‘You could use that smell as a weapon.’
Caroline frowned. She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at Aubrey’s brow.
Aubrey knew the silver ball had attacked his finger. How badly, though, he wasn’t sure. Still without looking, he tried to ease his finger out of the wire. Pain flared like a bright light. He drew in a sharp breath through his teeth.
Caroline was studying the cage dispassionately, but Aubrey knew her self-possession. ‘How bad is it?’ he asked.
‘Blood everywhere. You’ve ruined your suit.’
‘I knew it. I’ve lost my finger, haven’t I?’
‘I don’t think so.’
A sharp tug made Aubrey straighten in his seat. Tears came to his eyes and he had a brand-new appreciation of the virtues of a lack of pain. ‘Oh my.’
Caroline held up her hand. In it, she held his. Around the tip of his forefinger, just above the knuckle, was a thin band of red. A tiny trickle of blood was edging toward his knuckle. It looked as if he’d scratched himself with a fingernail.
‘It hurt,’ he said plaintively. ‘I was sure it was working its way to the bone.’
‘I’m sure it felt like that,’ Caroline said. ‘Here, wrap my handkerchief around it. It’s already got blood on it. From your eyebrow.’
Aubrey gingerly touched his brow and winced. ‘Hmm.’ He prodded at the Beccaria Cage. The wires were a little bent, but there was no sign of the silver ball apart from the ghost of the eye-watering stench. He pushed the wires back into place so the mesh was regular again. Then he relinked the chain and slipped it around his neck.
Immediately, his fatigue disappeared like smoke on a windy day. He straightened and massaged the back of his neck with both hands. After he rubbed his eyes, his vision was sharp; when he took a deep breath, nothing caught or pinched.
‘You’ve done something,’ Caroline said. ‘Your eyes are clearer.’
Aubrey glanced at the driver. His attention was entirely on the road ahead as they rolled past Barley Park, well on the way to Fielding Cross and Maidstone, the Fitzwilliam family home.
‘The Beccaria Cage,’ he explained. ‘It works, but it was booby-trapped by Dr Tremaine. He knew I’d be keen to get my hands on something that would assist my condition. The silver ball must have been a concealed spell, lurking ready to entrap me.’
George shook his head. ‘You were possessed.’
‘Something like that. Not mindless, not like those poor lost souls we ran into in Gallia.’ It was his turn to shake his head. The Soul Stealer of Lutetia had held the Gallian city in terror. ‘I was aware of everything around me, but it was like seeing life through a lens that made everything warm and good, as long as I was moving toward my goal.’
‘The Prince?’ Caroline asked.
‘Dr Tremaine hasn’t given up on his plan to plunge the world into war,’ Aubrey said. He put his hand over the Beccaria Cage as it lay against his chest. ‘Imagine it. The death of the Prince, an assassin who – it would be shown – was ensorcelled by a Holmlander who had been the source of the infernal device.’
‘Kiefer,’ George muttered.
‘Agreed.’ Aubrey pursed his lips. ‘Tomorrow, I think we need to pop up to Greythorn and have a chat with this Mr Kiefer.’
Five
The next morning, Tilly, one of the maids, knocked at the open door to Aubrey’s room. ‘Excuse me, sir. Telephone for you. It’s Miss Caroline. She’s ringing from her home.’
Aubrey had been assembling a few magical items in preparation for their trip to confront Kiefer but he immediately dropped everything. ‘Thank you, Tilly,’ he said as he bounded past.
‘Aubrey,’ Caroline said a split second before he spoke into the receiver.
‘Caroline?’ He made a mental note to himself: write down a list of clever greetings and store them by the telephone. That way he may have some chance of avoiding such a lame opening sally.
‘I’m glad we’ve sorted out who we are,’ she said. ‘Now, we’re not going to Greythorn.’
‘We’re not? What about Kiefer?’
‘Aubrey, what are we using to speak to each other?’
‘The telephone?’
‘Exactly. Instead of racing pell-mell up to Greythorn, I’ve been using the telephone to make some enquiries.’
‘I thought you were rearranging your schedule.’
‘I’ve taken care of that. Professor Ainsworth wanted me to help him with some phylogeny research, but I’ve asked for a postponement. And Mother can make her own travel arrangements for a change.’
‘Your mother is travelling?’ Aubrey said and he punched himself on the thigh. ‘Of course she is. That’s what you just said. Where’s she off to?’
‘Holmland. Some sort of symposium next week in Fisherberg, but that’s not important right now. I rang to tell you that Kiefer is no longer at Greythorn.’