Word of Honour

Aubrey's thoughts turned to wondering how the authorities were going to get the train out of the mess it had wound up in. Magic, muscle or machinery? Or a combination of all of these?

The leader of the navvies was a middle-aged man, bewhiskered and wearing a bowler hat that had seen better days. He swung a pick lazily in his left hand as he listened to the engineer sound forth on the poor quality of the new tunnelling works. When the engineer finally petered out, the navvy boss leaned his pick against the locomotive's bumper and led the applause.

Just the sort of man who knows what's going on, Aubrey thought. The navvies had broken up their admiring circle and were trudging to the front of the locomotive. Aubrey fell in beside the boss. 'Can I help?'

The bewhiskered man glanced sideways. Aubrey saw him take in his clothes, his soft hands, his youth. 'Thank you, young sir. Best if you don't get in the way.'

'Last thing I want to do. I was in the train, though, when it happened. I thought I could tell you what went on.'

'No need for that, no disrespect intended. It's pretty clear, it is.'

'Is it? What happened?'

The look the navvy boss gave him wasn't contempt. Not quite. 'Fell in a bloody big hole, begging your pardon.'

'Of course, of course.' Aubrey realised he was doing a fine job of confirming every low opinion the navvy boss had ever held about the well-off. 'This sort of thing happen often, does it?'

Contempt shifted to a strange sort of pity. 'Not really, no.' He shot a look at the sleepers and ballast under the tracks. 'Though I'm not surprised on one of Rokeby-bloody-Taylor's jobs, begging your pardon.'

Mild interest suddenly became a raging curiosity. 'Rokeby-Taylor? What do you mean?'

'It's his company as what's put in this stretch of track, and the tunnel, from here to Brown Box Hill. Just like the Southern Line tunnel under the river. Made himself a lot of money, I'm sure, but not by overspending on planning or materials, if my meaning is plain enough, begging your pardon.'

'Quite plain enough.' Aubrey stared at the locomotive. The engine was still steaming, but Aubrey could see the boiler was cracked. The locomotive would require a great deal of work before it would run the tracks again.

Rokeby-Taylor. The cost-cutter. The pocket-liner. The gambler. A man whose affairs were catching up with him, if Aubrey's father could be believed. But a man still well embedded in Albion society.

The thought leaped into his head, unbidden and unanticipated. What a perfect target for Holmland blackmail.

A loan from an agreeable foreigner at first, then a larger one, and before he'd know it, he'd be enmeshed. Then how would it go? 'Well, Mr Rokeby-Taylor, if you can't pay back your money, how would you like to clear your debt by doing us a little favour? Nothing difficult. Just some papers we'd like to see.'

At first.

'Platform's that way, young sir,' the navvy boss said. 'And thanks for your help.'

'I . . . well . . .'He shrugged. 'Sorry. I was getting in the way, wasn't I?'

The navvy boss pushed back the brim of his hat and scratched his brow. He looked thoughtful for a moment. 'That's not what I meant, Mr Fitzwilliam. Was talking about your Broad Street Clinic, the one your family set up. Saw you there when it opened. Dr Wells saved my daughter, he did, young Dorothy, when she had the gripe.'

Aubrey thrust out his hand. 'She's well now, I hope.'

The navvy boss's hand was huge, but his grip was gentle. 'Thriving and singing like a bear.'

'Bird.'

'No, a bear. Joy of our life, but not much of a singer, is our Dorothy.' He turned Aubrey's hand over and inspected it. 'Not done much shovelling lately, I see.'

'No, not lately.'

'Then leave this to us.' He put his fingers to his lips and whistled, one short, hard blast. 'Come now, boys, let's see what we can do to save bloody-Rokeby-bloody-Taylor's train line.'

A derisive cheer greeted this and the gang of navvies surged past, with wheelbarrows, picks, shovels, planks, crowbars, ropes and lanterns. Aubrey wanted to stay, but he minded the boss's words. These men had a job to do.

BACK AT THE STATION, AUBREY AND THE OTHER PASSENGERS were directed to another platform. The roundabout remedy took them via underground to Knoxton station, north of the disaster zone, where a new Greythorn train was waiting for them. Their luggage, they were assured, would follow them. Aubrey was sceptical, but didn't say anything. The authorities were doing their best.

This time, he did manage to sleep.

WHEN AUBREY FINALLY GOT TO HIS ROOMS, AN HOUR OR so after an uninspiring railway lunch, George was waiting for him.

He let his newspaper sag. 'You look in one piece, at least. Thank goodness.'

'Hello, George. It's good to see you, too.' Aubrey stared. His travelling bag was on the floor next to his bed. 'When did that get here?'

'Railways chap delivered it an hour ago.'

Aubrey made a mental note not to be so sceptical about Albionite railways. He yawned. 'How are things at the farm?'

'They've been better,' George said shortly. He started to add to this and then appeared to change his mind. 'Caroline rang and left a message. She said that your train had been involved in some sort of accident or other.'

'She was worried?'

'Hard to say. She wanted more information, is how I'd put it.'

'Oh.' Aubrey threw himself on his bed. He lay with his arms behind his head. 'I feel like a chef, George, with a pudding of many parts. It hasn't quite come together yet, but I think with some brisk beating and a good, hot bake in the oven, it might reveal itself.'

'That'd be a metaphor, I take it,' George said. He stood, stretched, then spun around one of the wooden chairs and sat with his chin resting on his hands.

'Indeed. I thought I was looking for Dr Tremaine, but it turns out that things are much more complicated than that.'

'Hmm. That's a change.'

'I know, I know. But remember the Scholar Tan: A forest is not always a forest. It is a thousand different plants of a hundred different types. But sometimes, it's just a forest.'

'You know I can't remember the Scholar Tan, never having read him. In fact, I sometimes wonder if you don't make up half of the things you say he said.'

'I don't tell you half of what he said because I don't think you'd believe me.'

Aubrey sat up. 'George, I'm sorry. I've done my usual thing here. I've bustled in, full of my concerns and thoughts, and simply assumed that they're the most important in the world.'

'Don't worry, old man. I'm used to it.'

'But you were saying that things weren't good at home and I let it go straight through to the keeper. Tell me what's happened.'

'Caroline is having an effect on you, isn't she? Good show.'

'Caroline. My mother. My father. You. You're all having an effect on me for the better.'