Word of Honour

'Right you are, old man.'

George glanced at the handwriting on the envelope and frowned.

'Anything wrong?' Aubrey asked.

George didn't answer. He opened the letter and scowled as he read it.

'George?'

George sighed. He folded the letter and tucked it back in the envelope, then stared at it for a moment. 'Farming's a hard life,' he said eventually.

'A letter from home, was it? Your father is all right?'

'His health's improved, at least.' George slipped the envelope into the inner pocket of his jacket. 'You know, it's hard enough with the seasons and the crops and animals and all that. But do you know what worries farmers most?'

'No.'

'Money.'

Eight

THE NEXT MORNING, AUBREY CAME BACK FROM THE bathroom, still towelling his hair. George pointed at the teapot on the desk. 'Help yourself.'

'Excellent.'

'Caroline's left a note. She was wondering if we wanted to go down to the city with her.'

Aubrey took his head from the towel and stared. 'When?

'She wants to catch the half-past nine train.'

Tea forgotten, Aubrey was at his wardrobe in an instant. Then he turned back to his friend. 'George?'

'What is it?'

'How do you know what was in the note that was left for me?'

George grinned. 'Interesting. You're assuming it was a note for you. It simply said "Room 14" on the envelope.'

'Well, when I said "for me", I actually meant "for us". Of course.'

'That makes no sense at all. You're asking me how I know what was in a note addressed to us.'

'Correct.'

'University is addling your brain. Come on, get dressed.'

CAROLINE WAS WAITING ON THE STATION PLATFORM. SHE was comparing her watch – a man's wristwatch – with the station clock. Aubrey started to catalogue her clothing for later complimenting, but gave up and enjoyed the simple fact that Caroline Hepworth would be a couturier's dream; she made all clothes look good.

He hailed her and she glanced in his direction before returning her attention to her watch. For an instant he was miffed that he was less interesting than a timepiece, but he decided that would be reading too much into things.

'Hello, Aubrey, George,' she said when she'd finished her inspection. Aubrey had the distinct impression that she was annoyed with neither the watch nor the clock, but with time in general, there being so little of it.

'Hello, Caroline,' he said. 'How's Science been?'

'Challenging. And Magic?'

'Exhilarating.'

'You're fortunate. And how's History, George?'

'Splendid. I've met some jolly interesting people.'

'Any of them male?'

'None come to mind. Unmemorable lot, History men.'

'And the Magisterium, Aubrey. Is it keeping you busy?'

Aubrey flinched, and was glad to see they were alone on the platform. 'Magisterium?'

'Commander Tallis told me that Craddock was recruiting you, temporary duty or something like that.'

'Tallis? Craddock?'

'Aubrey, you've lapsed into your parrot impersonation again, which is hardly useful. Now, why hasn't Jack Figg been able to contact you?'

'Jack –' Aubrey began, then he bit his tongue. 'He's been trying to contact me?'

'All week.'

'Ah. I've been busy.'

Caroline rolled her eyes. 'And you're the only one who's been busy?'

Aubrey had the distinct feeling that he was on a very rapid slippery dip. 'Ask George.'

'Very busy, he's been,' George said. 'Didn't even see the notes on his desk.'

'Apparently not. That's why Jack contacted me, to contact you, to contact him. If you see what I mean.'

'Perfectly,' Aubrey said faintly. He was still trying to sort out the barrage of information. 'Commander Tallis?'

Caroline snorted. It would have been unladylike in anyone else. 'He's been promoted. To match Craddock, they say. Keeps the Special Services and the Magisterium balanced against each other.'

'You've been speaking with him?'

A whistle sounded. Caroline looked down the track. 'Right on time.' She glanced at Aubrey. 'You mightn't be the only one on special detachment, you know.'

Their gazes met. Caroline smiled, just a little, and Aubrey immediately knew how a lump of wax felt when it's held over a candle flame.

Then, as one, they turned to look at George. He returned their regard evenly. 'Special detachment? Of course I am. Apart from my standard brief to keep an eye on you two – son of PM and daughter of one of the country's most famous artists – a representative of the Press is vital in these times. Who else can we trust if we can't trust the newspapers?'

Aubrey and Caroline burst out laughing. George couldn't keep a straight face, and the other passengers waiting on the platform stared at them with puzzlement.

The seats in the first-class compartment were roomy and comfortable. Aubrey and George were sitting opposite Caroline. Aubrey had been torn over the seating configuration. He much preferred sitting so he was facing the direction of travel – sitting with his back to the engine seemed unnatural, somehow, going backward into the future. But Caroline took the window seat – once again, Aubrey's preference – on this side of the compartment, so Aubrey had to decide whether to sit next to her – delightful – or sit opposite where he could see her without moving his head – perhaps even more delightful. The permutations were so labyrinthine that at first he stood in the middle of the compartment, unable to move until George nudged him. Aubrey let the direction of the nudge make the decision for him, and so he ended up travelling backward, but with the agreeable compensation of having Caroline in his sight the whole way.

After they'd settled into the clacketty-clack rhythm of the train, Aubrey felt as if things were resolved. Caroline still had a distance about her, but she smiled and joked merrily. If she had been a favourite cousin or a sister, all would be well, but Aubrey still harboured feelings for her that – it seemed – would go unrequited.

'So, what did Jack Figg want?' he asked, mainly to distract himself from that line of thought.

'Jack?' Caroline's chin was resting on the back of her hand as she gazed out of the window. A ghost of a reflection hovered in the glass, and Aubrey wished he were a painter. 'He wanted you, is all he'd say.'

'I hope he's not in trouble.'

'Don't be so gloomy,' George said. 'P'raps he's found the perfect solution for poverty and wants to share it with you.'

'Possibly.' It was the sort of thing Jack Figg would come up with, Aubrey decided. The plan would assume endless goodwill from everyone, plus absolute rationality to boot, where the entire population would collectively strike their foreheads and exclaim 'Of course! Why didn't we think of this before?'