Word of Honour

'What's going on?'

'I've given up magic. It seems like the only way to hold myself together.'

'Good Lord.' George digested this for a moment. 'Rather drastic solution, that.'

'A drastic solution for a drastic situation, my condition being the very definition of life and death.'

'Makes sense, then,' George said and Aubrey was surprised at how relieved he was to have his friend's support. 'Perhaps I should stay after all.'

'You're standing. Your legs know you should be off.'

George looked down and blinked. 'I say.'

'The motorcar is ready. Now go!'

A TELEPHONE CALL TO JACK FIGG WAS SOMETHING AUBREY always approached with trepidation. It was one of the more convoluted arrangements Aubrey ever entered into. The number Jack had given him was for a telephone in a sheet music shop near where he was currently living. If the shopkeeper was the only one on the premises – as was usually the case – after taking the call he held a gong out of the window and rattled it noisily. The family next door to the music shop then sent one of their numerous children down the street to Jack's small house. Alerted, he'd scurry back up to the music shop and take the call, assuming the caller hadn't died of old age in the meantime.

Aubrey thought it would have been quicker to send a message by carrier turtle.

When Jack eventually reached the telephone, he was able to tell Aubrey that Count Brandt and his friends were at the hall behind St Olaf 's in Crozier, conducting one of their Albionish language schools for their countrymen.

When Aubrey hung up the telephone, he stared it for some time, his chin on his fist. Then he looked out of the window. The study was one of three in Maidstone, and it was Aubrey's favourite not only because it contained a telephone, but because of the view. It looked out over a corner of the garden that was quite overgrown. An old pear tree, still alive but in its latter years, was in the middle of being swallowed up by a wisteria. The purple flowers hung in extravagant profusion, like astonishing mauve grapes. The smell drifted in through the window, which Aubrey had opened an inch or two.

He then wrestled with himself for seconds before he decided that he really must contact Caroline and ask her to accompany him. His reading – and experience – on information-gathering expeditions was that two people were less conspicuous than one. Two could talk to each other, naturally, whereas one tended to look as if he were skulking, no matter how harmless the intent.

It was all perfectly logical.

Aubrey was firm with himself. Just because Caroline and he had agreed, sensibly, that any deeper friendship was not wise, that didn't mean they couldn't see each other. As long as the understanding was clear that all was above board and sensible, no harm should come of it. Practicality was the key.

He rehearsed a few humorous opening remarks, scratching the best of them on the blotter in front of him.

Caroline's mother answered the telephone and all of Aubrey's preparations fell to pieces.

He hadn't spoken to Mrs Hepworth since the disastrous affair in Lutetia. He'd always liked her and she seemed both amused and intrigued by him, possibly because – some time ago – she had known his father well. Exactly how well was a little unclear, for Sir Darius tended to present a significant silence if that matter ever arose, while Mrs Hepworth simply smiled and kept things to herself.

'Ah, Aubrey, it's good to hear your voice again. Are you well?'

Aubrey closed his eyes with relief. No grudges, it appeared. 'Mrs Hepworth. Yes. Very well.'

'Aubrey, my dear, it's an ongoing battle, isn't it?'

Aubrey had scant belief in psychic powers, but at that moment he was ready to be convinced. 'Well, it has been difficult, but I wouldn't call it a battle, not exactly.'

Mrs Hepworth chuckled. She was one of the few women Aubrey knew who could chuckle stylishly. 'You're thinking of something else, aren't you? I shan't embarrass you by guessing what it is, either.' She chuckled again, but Aubrey thought he could detect affection rather than scorn. 'What I was referring to was the battle to get you to call me Ophelia.'

'Rather than Mrs Hepworth. Sorry.' Aubrey flailed around for a conversational prop and grabbed the first that came to hand. 'How's the painting?'

'Nicely done, Aubrey. Not a totally smooth conversational segue, but not far away from it at all. The painting? As I'm sure you're aware, I have an exhibition at the end of the month, at Greythorn.'

'I know. I'll be there.'

'I'm glad. But the end of the month means I have a great deal of work to do before then.'

'So I shouldn't keep you on the telephone?'

'Now, that was much more deft. You do learn quickly, Aubrey.'

'Well, I try hard. Sometimes it's the same thing.'

'I'll send someone for Caroline. She's in the garden, reading.'

A muffled moment and Mrs Hepworth was back. 'She won't be long. Now, while I have you here, Aubrey, I'm going to be direct with you.'

Aubrey's heart sank. 'Please do.'

'In Lutetia, something you did upset Caroline dreadfully. When she said she wanted to go away with your mother, I supported it. She needed some time to compose herself, but also to think about things.'

'I'm sorry.' It was all that Aubrey could manage.

'I think that's true, otherwise I wouldn't be talking with you. Caroline has told me something of what went on, and you have much to be sorry for.'

'Yes.' Aubrey was enjoying monosyllables. They had great attraction when lost for words.

'But also that all is not lost. I wanted to tell you that.'

'Not lost?'

'No. But here's Caroline.'

For once, Aubrey wanted to talk to her mother more than he wanted to talk to Caroline.

'Aubrey?'

'Yes.' Aubrey made a fist and hit himself on the forehead, once, reasonably firmly. If that response had been any lamer, it would have been taken out the back and shot.

'Good,' Caroline said. 'Now that we've established that you're you, what is it you want?'

'Can I ask a favour of you? Please?' Better. Polite, reasonable, neutral.

'What is it?'

'I need to do some more investigating of Count Brandt's people. Would you come with me, please?'

'When?'

'In an hour? I'll have a cab.'

'Well . . .'

'I'll take you to lunch. You name the place.'

'Marcel's. It will remind me of Lutetia.'

'Ah.'

'One hour. I'll be ready.'

She hung up. Aubrey stared at the handpiece, took some time to remember what it was, and then replaced it.

Caroline wanted to be reminded of Lutetia? What did she mean by that?

He groaned. The sooner he was immersed in international intrigue and espionage the better. It was much more straightforward than trying to understand people.