Three
Dawn had barely arrived when Aubrey woke. After he opened his eyes and saw the grey light that stole in around the curtains, it took him a moment to remember that he was in his college rooms. Then he touched the tiny Beccaria Cage and the events of the previous day came back to him.
Quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping George on the other side of the room, he sat up and held the cage between his thumb and forefinger to examine it.
The metal ball rolled about as he tilted the cage from side to side. It glided smoothly, and Aubrey found himself entranced by its movements and the solidity of its contact with the fine wires. He was always impressed by clever construction, and the neatness of this device was captivating – but he needed to know more about it.
After a time, he reluctantly tucked the cage back inside his nightshirt. Then he eased himself out of his bed, found his dressing gown and slippers, and tiptoed to the door that led to the small study attached to their bedroom.
An hour later, Aubrey was deeply immersed in research. His collection of books covering the history of magic was proving useful, as he’d already found a dozen references to the Beccaria Cage. Even in its earliest eighteenth-century developments, when Giovanni Beccaria had proposed a device that used some of the principles of electrical conduction as well as aspects of the Law of Entanglement, it had been a cunning melding of magic and technology. Aubrey’s particular device appeared to be a variation of the classical notion of a Beccaria Cage, however, with some embedded spells that he was having trouble identifying.
Intriguingly, none of the references mentioned a Beccaria Cage with a silver ball inside.
It was a mystery, but Aubrey loved a mystery.
He was reaching for Kuhn’s Magical Revolutions when a tap came from the casement windows to his left. Aubrey automatically glanced in that direction to see a pigeon fluttering with some agitation. As he stared, it pecked at the glass again.
Aubrey went to shout, to shoo it away, assuming it was tricked by its own reflection, then he remembered that George was still asleep. He sighed, put down his pencil and crossed the room.
At the window, the pigeon continued fluttering and pecking at the glass. Aubrey stood there, waved his arms and made a fierce face, but the pigeon ignored him and tapped furiously at the window.
Shaking his head, Aubrey unlatched the windows and pushed them out. The pigeon tumbled backward in a flurry of wings but instead of flying off as Aubrey had expected, it rallied and darted at him.
He jerked his head back as the pigeon hurtled into the room like a feathery cannonball. He spun to see it career off the side wall, then gather itself with more intent than he thought a pigeon capable of before alighting on the desk where Aubrey had been researching. It immediately worried at an errant feather before fixing him with a beady stare.
Aubrey glanced at the door to the bedroom, but the steady drone that came from that direction told him that George was still asleep.
Aubrey stared back at the bird. No sense in trying to chase it out of the window. Small-brained as pigeons were, it would probably flap around in every direction but the one he wanted. It would be much better to throw a blanket over it first, then empty it outside.
Before Aubrey could move, however, the pigeon bent its head and pecked at a leg. Aubrey narrowed his eyes when he saw that this leg had something attached to it– a small metal capsule.
Aubrey’s curiosity immediately scuppered his plan to get rid of the pigeon. At least, not before examining it. The bird must be a lost carrier pigeon, and who knew what message it contained in the capsule on its leg? If he could detach the capsule, he might be able to get the message to its owner.
Without looking, he reached behind himself and pulled the windows closed. Then he took off his dressing gown and held it in front of him, ready to stalk the pigeon.
Aubrey was glad no-one was around to see him as he advanced on the bird. He felt distinctly foolish, in nightshirt and slippers, holding a dressing gown as a net, inching toward a pigeon that was standing on his desk as if it belonged there.
He held his breath when the pigeon cocked its head, but it otherwise showed remarkable unconcern as he moved closer. He lifted the dressing gown, ready to cast it, then he peered around its edge. The pigeon was staring back at him with equanimity.
Aubrey lowered the dressing gown. He reached out, and the bird didn’t show any signs of alarm.
Of course, he thought, it must be accustomed to people. A carrier pigeon would have been handled from an early age to get it used to having capsules strapped to its leg.
With as much gentleness as he could muster, Aubrey took the pigeon in both hands. It nestled there quite happily, and he found the capsule attached to the bird’s leg with copper bands. He removed it easily.
The capsule was extremely light, made of thin aluminium, and only half an inch or so long. It didn’t take Aubrey long to see that it was of two halves fitted tightly together. With a twist and a tug, the halves separated and a scrap of folded rice paper dropped to the desk.
His curiosity was circling as he carefully unfolded the paper. The capsule had no markings, but could it be military? Could the message contain secret information? He snorted. It was more likely to be a pigeon fancier taunting another pigeon fancier about how well his birds raced.
Finally, he had the paper unfolded. He smoothed it on the desk and stared at the words written in black ink.
Palaver. Gastropod. Snood. Philtrum.
Aubrey’s brain turned to dust.
It was some time later when he realised that he was still standing at the desk. The pigeon was looking at him so he went to the window and opened it. After the pigeon flew out Aubrey threw the screwed-up scrap of rice paper out of the window and immediately forgot about it.
Quietly, with a nagging sense of urgency, he went into the bedroom and found his clothes. Without disturbing George, he dressed. Then the sense of urgency had him closing the door carefully behind him and sneaking down the stairs.
On the platform of Greythorn Station, Aubrey chafed while waiting with the morning passengers. He realised that he’d foolishly forgotten to bring a book, or even a newspaper, to fill in his waiting time, but soon found himself sitting on the hard wooden slats of a railway bench. He must have been more tired than he thought, for when the whistle announced the arrival of the train the station clock told him that nearly an hour had passed without his noticing.
While he searched for an empty compartment, this lapse of time gnawed at him. It was unlike him to be so unaware of his surroundings. His condition, balanced between life and death, had taught him about the value of every moment. Life was brief, a transient thing to be savoured, and even sitting on a station bench was something to be enjoyed.
It worried him, but the worry drifted away when he took his attention from it.
The train was crowded. Aubrey couldn’t find an empty compartment but after he settled himself he scarcely noticed the other passengers. They were indistinct presences – collections of vague sounds and smells, blurred movements – as he sat fidgeting in the corner, right by the window. He spent some time watching one knee as he bounced it up and down, the jiggling movement soothing in its rhythm. At times, he thought someone in the compartment spoke to him, but by the time he’d gathered himself enough to reply it seemed pointless, unhelpful to his task at hand, so he didn’t.
His earlier feeling of vigour had faded somewhat. He had a headache that was brooding right behind his forehead, a black presence that was threatening to grow. This concerned him, for he knew he had an important task – the responsibility was a fearsome jockey riding him with particularly sharp spurs – but he had trouble defining exactly what it was. It was as vague as the people in the compartment, shapeless as hunger, but just as demanding. He tried to concentrate, because he knew his task was important, but his attention had a tendency to wander and instead he found himself contemplating the wooden window frame. It was made of a mellow orange-brown timber, indifferently lacquered, and Aubrey spent a pleasant hour or two tracing the grain from one side to the other, a tricky task as the lines were fine and he often lost his place and had to start again.