A chorus of delight brought Aubrey back to the here and now. With dismay, he realised the sound had followed the rattle of the stumps behind him. The professor of Jurisprudence peered down the pitch. ‘Out?’ he ventured.
Aubrey was on his way.
He trudged toward the pavilion, bat under his arm, but he was oblivious to the laughter from the crowd. The mix-up of sensory experience just before he was bowled was a tell-tale sign of strong magic. But where was it? He peered at the surroundings, the treetops, the river, the nearby colleges.
‘Well done, old man,’ George Doyle said as he hurried past to take up his post at the wicket. ‘A nicely compiled six runs, that.’
Aubrey snorted. His friend was rolling his sleeves up as if he were heading for a paddle at the beach. ‘So that would make me the second top scorer?’
‘For now.’ George grinned. He took off his cap and tossed it to Aubrey. ‘Take care of this, would you? It’ll only get in the way.’
‘You’re sounding confident for a number nine batsman.’
‘They won’t be expecting anything. I’ll take them by surprise.’
George strode off, whistling, leaving Aubrey shaking his head. George had a habit of taking people by surprise, but he wasn’t sure that cricket was the time for it.
Caroline Hepworth was waiting for him at the gate. She was dressed in a long skirt and blouse, fresh and white. The blouse was fastened at her neck with an onyx brooch. Her hair was pinned, or layered, or constrained in some way that Aubrey admired but would never have ventured an opinion on exactly how it was done.
Caroline’s hair had been the cause of much thought on Aubrey’s part. When he’d first met her, he’d thought it was the colour of chestnuts – deep, glowing brown with touches of burnished gold. But he was constantly revising his opinion. Sometimes it was more golden than brown, sometimes the other way around. And he’d never been able to work out how curly it was. It wasn’t straight – at least, he thought not. But it wasn’t crinkled like a Bedlington terrier. It was shoulder-length, give or take, and he’d settle for calling it wavy.
It was just that she did different things with it. Tied it. Rolled it up. Twisted it. Sculpted it. Constructed elaborate phantasmagoria with it. All depending on the occasion, and her mood.
‘You should have played forward instead of back,’ she said. She held a lace parasol. It dappled her face with shadow.
‘I didn’t play anything at all,’ he said. ‘I was distracted. Any chance of a drink?’
‘Here.’ A tall glass of cold lemon squash was thrust into Aubrey’s hand. It slopped over the side. ‘Ach, sorry!’
Aubrey shook off the sticky yellow liquid and wondered who his embarrassed benefactor was.
He was a tall youth, about Aubrey’s age. He wore his striped blazer, white trousers and boater as if totally unfamiliar with them. His wild black hair surrounded a face that featured round spectacles and a beaky nose. He was all arms and knees, possibly the most stork-like person Aubrey had ever seen.
Caroline made the introductions. ‘Aubrey, this is Otto Kiefer. He’s says he’s desperate to meet you.’
‘Kiefer,’ Aubrey said. He transferred his glass of squash to his left hand and shook. Kiefer was oblivious to the stickiness of the handshake, and performed his part of the transaction with considerable enthusiasm, pumping up and down as if he were trying to crank a stubborn motorcar.
‘Fitzwilliam. Finally.’
Aubrey raised an eyebrow. Kiefer had a Holmland accent. While Albion and Holmland weren’t at war – yet – Aubrey was always cautious when meeting Holmlanders. Albion was seething with Holmland intelligence operatives, espionage agents and straight-out spies. Aubrey often thought he couldn’t turn around without tripping over one.
Being the son of the Prime Minister added a certain piquancy to this ubiquity. Holmland had never been above a spot of strategic assassination, so Aubrey kept his wits about him.
‘Finally?’ he echoed.
Kiefer nodded, furiously. ‘I have been at this university for some time, but I couldn’t find you. I searched many places until I saw Miss Hepworth.’ He took a moment from his nodding to beam at Caroline. She smiled back serenely. ‘From her mother, I know her. Painting exhibition. I had heard that she is your friend so I asked her where you were. Cricket, she said, so I am here.’
A cheer went up and Aubrey turned to see the umpire signalling four runs. ‘George?’
‘A remarkably fine cover drive,’ Caroline said. ‘Raced to the boundary.’
Kiefer tugged on Aubrey’s arm. ‘Fitzwilliam. I have something I must discuss with you. It is vital.’
Before Aubrey could respond, the sound of willow on leather was followed by more cheering. ‘Another four,’ Caroline observed. ‘George is batting well.’
Aubrey wanted to see his friend’s innings and tried to think how to put off the insistent Kiefer. ‘I’m happy to chat.’ He looked past the Holmlander’s shoulder to where George took a mighty swing and dispatched the ball past point for another four. The crowd was in ecstasy, cheering for all it was worth.
‘Good, good,’ Kiefer said. He peered over the heads of the excited spectators. ‘Where will we go?’
‘Not now,’ Aubrey said. ‘What about–’
He broke off. Once again, a wrong-way-around smell came to him. This time, he wrinkled his nose at the bizarre sensation of roughness, something that his sense of touch should be bringing to him. He grimaced and looked around, searching for its source.
‘Look out,’ Caroline said.
‘What?’
She didn’t repeat herself. She simply took his shoulder, moved him aside, then darted out a slender hand. She caught the cricket ball easily, despite the solid smack it made.
She was immediately the heroine of the moment. A storm of applause erupted, and more than a few appreciative whistles, as she flung the cricket ball back to the panting fieldsman who was slumped on the fence. ‘I didn’t know George could bat,’ she said. ‘That was a fine six. Took it right off his nose.’
‘Did he?’ Aubrey said distantly. He looked upriver, past the dense line of willow trees, toward Canon’s Bridge. The clouds, gathering in that direction...
George’s next six landed ten yards away, right in the middle of a tea-set spread in front of an elderly clergyman, then rebounded into a refreshment tent before coming to rest in a bowl of ginger punch.
Aubrey didn’t notice. He’d left the confused Kiefer behind and pushed through the crowd in the direction of Canon’s Bridge. He wanted a better view of the unusual cloud formation, and he was tasting discordant music at the back of his mouth as he went. A small terrier cocked its head as he slipped past a betting tent (the odds on St Alban’s College were tumbling as George cracked another boundary). The dog looked up at the sky and whined. ‘You feel it too?’ Aubrey muttered. He frowned at the cricket bat in his hand and the pads on his legs. It took him a moment to remember why they were there. The dog looked at the sky to the north, whimpered, then ran off through the crowd, tail between its legs.
Animals run away from danger, Aubrey thought. Perhaps it knows something I don’t.
The river bent around the back of the cricket oval, making the sort of ridiculously picturesque scene that usually had a score of artists battling each other for easel space, the better to sketch the trees and ducks and Saturday afternoon rowing boats full of bright young things. Aubrey found it to be strangely quiet.
He came to Canon’s Bridge and the road to the town. With his view clear of the willows he could see that the weather was turning alarmingly bad – a fact that would concern the spectators and cricketers, rain being the natural enemy of the game. Clouds had heaped up to the north like immense grey gunboats, a fleet of them stretched out across the sky and streaming toward the oval with malign intent.