Two police constables were on patrol at the entrance to Credence Lane, where it opened off busy Playford Street. Another sign of the times, Aubrey decided, and he nodded cheerfully to them as they passed.
Aubrey used the brass knocker to hammer on the door to No.4. The door opened. He’d been expecting one of the Prime Minister’s staff to answer, as in the past, but this time it was another police constable. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a small toothbrush moustache, he filled the doorway and stared down at Aubrey with professional scrutiny. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’
Aubrey recovered and didn’t show his surprise, even though he could make out the figure of another police office standing in the hall behind the door-filler. ‘I’d like to see the Prime Minister.’
‘You have an appointment?’
‘I’m his son.’
The constable grinned a little and relaxed. ‘You’d be Mr Aubrey, then? Come along. The PM has left orders that if you were ever to turn up, he’d see you straight away.’
Aubrey gestured at George. ‘This is...’
The constable nodded. ‘George Doyle. The PM said he was likely to be with you.’ The constable leaned out of the doorway and peered down the street. ‘And he said a Miss Hepworth may be with you. Not today?’
Aubrey was a little flustered by this. ‘No.’
‘A pity. I’m right in assuming she’s the daughter of Ophelia Hepworth? I wanted to chat with her about her mother’s work. Doing great things with redefining the relationship between perspective and meaning, she is.’
A voice came from over the constable’s shoulder. ‘Don’t forget that we could have asked about the incisive nature of her social commentary, Stan, mediated as it is in playful manipulation of artistic conventions.’
‘Oh, right, there is that too.’ Stan the constable nodded at Aubrey. ‘We would’ve appreciated that.’
‘I’ll try to bring her next time,’ Aubrey said faintly. The quality of the city constabulary was apparently climbing.
They were shown to a waiting room off the entrance hall. It was a serious space with four leather armchairs and a solid-looking clock on the mantelpiece over the sombre, unlit fireplace. The room was comfortable and afforded a fine view of the street outside.
Ten minutes by the clock and a door banged shut somewhere in the interior of the building. The sound of footsteps hurrying down stairs, then a well-dressed gentleman strode past the open doorway and left the building. Aubrey barely had time to realise who it was before his father appeared, looking spruce and well polished as always. ‘Aubrey. George. Excellent.’
‘Hello, Father. What were you doing talking to Stafford Bruce?’
Sir Darius looked pained. ‘There isn’t actually a law forbidding the Prime Minister from talking to the shadow minister for defence, you know.’
George stared at Sir Darius then toward the street, as if wondering whether he could run after Stafford Bruce to question him. ‘Dashed interesting, though, Sir Darius, don’t you think? Especially in these times.’
‘If you could take your journalistic hat off for a moment, George, I need to talk to you. Both. To ask a favour.’
Aubrey enjoyed it when his father asked him to help. He appreciated the tangible proof that his father trusted him – and that he was useful. And he also appreciated the peek behind the scenes of the operations of government. His father’s willingness to use unusual channels was something Aubrey noted, sure that it would come in handy when he eventually made his way into the world of politics.
Besides, it put him in a useful bargaining position.
‘Happy to help, sir,’ he said to his father. ‘What is it you want?’
‘Not here,’ Sir Darius said, glancing around. This startled Aubrey. If the waiting room in the Prime Minister’s own office wasn’t a safe place for discussion, what was?
Sir Darius led them deeper into the warren of rooms that the humble façade of No.4 concealed. Most of the doors were closed. Those that were open showed rooms that reeked of bureaucracy and paperwork – filing cabinets, manila folders, piles of papers overflowing from in and out trays. Harried-looking clerks didn’t even look up as they passed, frowning at ledgers or speaking earnestly into telephones.
Sir Darius took them through a door next to the rear stairs. Inside, it was windowless, but otherwise comfortable, with four of the same leather armchairs as in the waiting room. A low table took up the space in the middle of the room. On it was a large red book. A door on the right led further into the building and the walls were heavy with sporting prints: hunting dogs, racehorses.
Sir Darius waited until Aubrey and George had taken a seat. He stood easily, hands behind his back. ‘Fancy an overseas trip?’
Over the last few days, Aubrey had found that his anticipatory sense was humming on all cylinders. Looking at his father, he had a distinct sense what was coming. ‘I always enjoy travel,’ he said carefully.
‘Broadens the mind.’ George frowned thoughtfully. ‘Deepens it, too, I shouldn’t think, but I don’t know about lengthening the mind. Doesn’t sound right.’
‘Quite,’ Sir Darius said. ‘But I wasn’t thinking about an aimless outing. I need you to accompany your mother to Holmland.’
Aubrey blinked. ‘You know about the symposium?’
‘Don’t worry, Aubrey, I haven’t been spying. Something came up at the museum, so she couldn’t come to dinner. We had afternoon tea instead.’
Aubrey was already seeing an opportunity. After all, they’d just been planning a trip to Holmland. What did they say about two birds and a stone? ‘I’d be happy to.’
Sir Darius sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Aubrey then saw his father instead of the Prime Minister desperately doing what he could to avoid war. ‘A Holmland symposium. All open and above board. At least, that’s what they want us to think.’
‘And you think that it’s otherwise?’
‘It’s actually part symposium, part trade exhibition, and mostly a chance for the Chancellor to show how wonderful Holmland is.’ He touched his immaculate moustache with a finger. ‘A few token exhibitors will be there from Albion and other countries. Plenty of shady customers will be on the lookout for the latest developments. Bound to be an interesting place.’ He frowned. ‘If I didn’t take precautions and something happens, I wouldn’t forgive myself. If I take precautions and nothing happens, then nothing is lost.’
‘But you don’t want to make an issue of it,’ George said suddenly. ‘Not wanting to give the Holmlanders a chance to get offended.’
‘Precisely. I could send a troop of bodyguards. I could demand a Holmland military escort. I could insist on around-the-clock protective spells from a squad of never-sleeping, all-seeing oriental mystics. Any of which would enable the Chancellor and his government to display enormous huffiness and then refuse to appear at the talks we’ve invited them to in September.’
Aubrey straightened. ‘I hadn’t heard of any talks.’
‘I’m glad. I was starting to think that this office was leaking like a rusty sieve.’
‘Diplomatic talks aimed at anything in particular? Averting a war, for instance?’
Sir Darius’s face grew solemn. ‘We’ve stood up to their posturing over the Goltans. We’ve refused to be cowed by their bluster over the Marchmaine question and their designs on south Gallia. But it’s not enough to act as a bulwark against Holmland aggression. This is the modern era. Surely civilised people can sit down and talk through differences. And if talking is going to stop carnage on the Continent, I’m prepared to talk until the cows come home.’