Time of Trial (4 page)

He could smell the furniture polish used on the table under the window. Eventually, he decided that it smelled like beeswax.

Dimly, he was aware of a voice, deep inside himself, that was doing its best to raise a hullabaloo. It was irksome, but only distantly, like a noisy neighbour in a district where the houses were five miles apart.

The business of the Palace went on around him, in the hushed and discreet way that the royal household staff had made a specialty. After someone placed a tea tray on the table by his side, he was left alone. Footsteps went past, soft conversations came from nearby, a muffled telephone rang. None of this bothered – or concerned – Aubrey. Periodically, he found he had to move position as his leg muscles were starting to cramp, and he had some notion that he was hungry, but these signs of physical discomfort were muted, as if they were happening to someone else.

The voice deep inside was doing its best to rattle the walls but it was easy to ignore.

One of the doors opened. Sommers entered. He was frowning, and Aubrey would have described him as looking troubled, if he'd been able to rouse enough interest to do so. Instead he smiled – something told him that smiling was good – and he stood.

‘His Highness will be with you in a minute,' Sommers said in a tight voice. Aubrey saw his hand was hovering over the pocket of his jacket, and for an instant he wondered what the chap had there, but no sooner had the thought flitted into his mind than it left. The matter had no impact on his mission.

‘Good, good,' Aubrey said. He bounced on his toes and realised that he was excited. His hands twitched, eagerly.

Sommers glanced over his shoulder, then toward the window. ‘Why don't you take a seat, Fitzwilliam? His Highness won't be long.'

‘I'll stand,' Aubrey said and had trouble smothering a laugh. What a time he was having! The way the light came in through the window, the sound of the motor traffic that echoed over the parade ground all made a delicious backdrop to his task.

A figure strode through the doorway. Aubrey's hand went to the inner pocket of his jacket only to realise, to his disappointment, that it wasn't the Prince.

‘Hello, old man,' George said.

Before Aubrey could frame a reply, he had to disengage his finger from the trigger of the pistol. This took more attention that he thought. In the meantime, George was joined by someone else and Aubrey forgot everything in his astonishment.

‘Caroline. What are you doing here?'

Caroline stood next to George. Her hands were clenched tightly together. ‘Wrong question, Aubrey. You need to ask yourself what
you're
doing here.'

Aubrey's astonishment was whisked away and replaced by his consuming sense of purpose, the one he'd had since waking up. He grinned and once again his hand stole to the pistol in his pocket. ‘What a ridiculous question.'

‘Is it?' Caroline demanded. ‘Think, Aubrey. Really think. Why have you come here at this hour? Why did you leave college so abruptly? Where have you been before you came here?'

Sommers coughed and looked significantly at Caroline. He was standing with his back against the wall, his arms folded on his chest, all friendliness gone. Aubrey would have been offended at this change, but he had other things to think about. ‘Sommers,' he said. ‘Where's Bertie?'

Sommers glanced at Caroline and George. ‘His Highness is on his way. Your friends have been chatting with me.'

The pistol was really a fine piece of work, Aubrey decided. Compact, neatly machined. He liked the grip, particularly, with its neat cross-hatching. ‘Sorry?' he said, realising that Somers had finished speaking. ‘I missed that.'

Nodding, George strolled across the carpet, advancing on Aubrey. ‘Time to go, old man. You're not yourself.'

This amused Aubrey. ‘Not myself? Then who am I?'

Caroline, too, made her way toward Aubrey, moving a little to his right. George's broad shoulders blocked Aubrey's view of her, which was disappointing, but other matters were crowding for his attention.

‘George was concerned about you,' Caroline said and he swung his head in her direction. ‘He saw you leave college and he telephoned me immediately.'

‘Lost you for a while,' George said, and Aubrey saw that his friend had moved to his left. He couldn't see both of them at once. He had to turn his head from side to side and was momentarily distracted by Sommers' scowling. ‘Caught you near the Mire after one of Maggie's Crew told us where you were.'

‘Maggie's Crew?' Aubrey frowned. This wasn't as much fun any more. Too many things to consider instead of the dreamy single-mindedness he'd enjoyed all morning.

‘We saw where you were headed,' Caroline said. With a start, he saw that she was standing next to a large armchair, only a few feet away.

‘How did you do that?' he asked.

‘You're preoccupied,' George said and Aubrey started again. George had crossed the open space and was standing an arm's length away. ‘You're having trouble focusing.'

‘No I'm not,' he said automatically. ‘I'm totally focused.'

At that moment, the door opened. Prince Albert stood there looking both shocked and angry, his distress showing in the way he straightened his jacket, then his tie, then his jacket again, a quick flurry of controlled, precise movements. ‘Aubrey. What on earth is going on here?'

Rational thought abandoned Aubrey. His body went into action, independent of anything that he wanted, while a horrified, tiny voice screamed in horror, a cry only he could hear.

He flung back his jacket and wrenched the pistol from the inner pocket. Smoothly, he snapped off the safety catch and brought the firearm to bear on the heir to the throne. Finally, he felt whole and complete, his purpose fulfilled. A radiance filled the room. Prince Albert was outlined with an almost unbearably bright nimbus and shone like a beacon.

Aubrey almost sobbed out loud with joy as his finger tightened on the trigger.

George roared and tackled him, sending Aubrey reeling. It was momentary, for Aubrey caught himself and swivelled, his pistol-laden fist searching for the Prince in a room that was in uproar.

By then, Caroline had come close. In a flurry of silk and perfume, she caught his outstretched arm and clamped it to her side. Using both hands she seized his gun-fist, twisted just so, pressed right there and bent his wrist like that. Aubrey had never had red-hot iron spikes driven into his hand, but at that moment he would have preferred it as Caroline's knowledge of pressure points went to work. He let loose a heartfelt howl of pain and, despite his best efforts, he dropped the pistol. Caroline kicked it away. Sommers was ready, scooped it up, broke it, and emptied the cartridges on the floor. Then he took out his own pistol and snapped off the safety catch.

Someone was snarling. Aubrey searched for the source before realising – with some surprise – that it came from him. Caroline let go, edging away warily. Aubrey's arm hung limply at his side with bright points of pain throbbing away, little metal cymbals clashing in his temples, but it was unimportant. The pistol. He must have the pistol.

Strong arms seized him from behind in a full nelson. ‘Easy, old man,' George growled in his ear.

Prince Albert approached, flanked by a grim Archie Sommers. ‘Aubrey,' the Prince said, then he turned away, upset. ‘You were right,' he said to Caroline. ‘I didn't believe it when you said that Aubrey was coming to assassinate me, but you were right.'

Assassinate the Crown Prince? To Aubrey, it sounded like a fine idea, a natural and inevitable thing. If only he could get free from George's grip, he was sure he could wrestle the pistol away from Sommers.

He struggled, then howled again when Sommers hurried Prince Albert away, shutting the door behind them. That was wrong, so wrong that Aubrey felt ill, his stomach a curdled mass inside him. He threw himself from side to side, but George held fast.

‘Steady, George,' Caroline said.

Caroline drew aside Aubrey's jacket. With her other hand, she held up a knife, right in front of Aubrey's eyes. It was small, barely as long as her hand, with a handle of mother-of-pearl and a pointed blade that looked sharp enough to slice steel.

She caught his gaze and held it evenly. Her eyes were calm, grey and icily determined. ‘I can do this while you're moving. But it's probably better if you don't.'

Aubrey went to answer, but the knife flashed before anything intelligible made its way to his lips.

He looked down. His shirt gaped. Caroline picked the last button from its thread and let it drop on the floor to join its mates.

The Beccaria Cage lay on Aubrey's bare chest. He suddenly realised that it was heavy, pressing on his skin hard enough to leave a red mark. It seemed heavier. It was warm, too, but was that simply through contact with his skin?

The knife had disappeared from Caroline's hand. She seized the Beccaria Cage and yanked.

The chain parted. Aubrey's eyes flew open wide, then his head spun, the entire room shuddered, and all existence twisted, wrenched, swirled away.

Some time later, Aubrey became aware that he was in a room that resembled the drawing room at the Palace. Caroline and George were there, and the furniture was the same, so he conceded that it could possibly, actually be the Palace drawing room. At a pinch.

Even sitting as he was on a plush, overstuffed armchair, his legs felt like tubes of soggy clay. His skin was clammy. His chest hurt, but all this physical discomfort was the least of his concern.

He'd tried to shoot Bertie.

The enormity of what he'd nearly done struck him hard. Bertie, his friend, the heir to the throne of Albion? What had he been thinking? He wanted to shudder, but he wasn't quite capable of it yet.

He worked his mouth and tried to apologise, to explain the strange state he'd been in, but all he could manage was something that sounded like, ‘Bleurgh.'

Caroline was sitting opposite, her hands clutched in her lap, and she was studying him closely. Blearily, he noticed that three armed guardsmen stood outside the window behind her. All of them were staring at him fixedly. He worked his jaw, then his mouth, until he was a little more confident. ‘Were they there?' he croaked. ‘All the time?'

George handed him a glass of water. ‘The prince wasn't happy about it, but Sommers insisted. He swore they were all crack shots and would only maim you. If things went wrong.'

Aubrey nodded, as if he found that reassuring. It was really only because he found it easier than talking.

‘It was the Prince who insisted that none of the agencies need be called,' Caroline said. She seemed balanced between anger and concern, and not quite trusting herself either way. ‘Not the police, not the Special Services, not the Magisterium.'

‘Come with us, old man,' George said. ‘I think everyone except the Prince will be happy when you're well away from here.'

A stony-faced guardsman chauffeured them in a discreet Charlesworth motorcar. He drove as if it were a tank, ignoring most of the other traffic about. Wedged between Caroline and George in the back seat, Aubrey did his best to regain his faculties, while simultaneously feeling ashamed and furious.

I nearly shot Bertie.

His too-active imagination conjured up images of giant newspaper headlines: ‘PRINCE SHOT BY PRIME MINISTER'S SON'. He saw grim police officers, handcuffs, magistrates, barred cells and judges. Judges with black caps, full of righteous wrath, condemning him to be hanged by the neck until dead.

He shuddered, successfully this time.

He saw his parents, grey and disbelieving, broken by the events. He saw Albion in turmoil as the Prime Minister resigned. He saw Holmland moving, the Continent at war with blood and flames and destruction. He saw one person, only one person, standing happy at the horror unleashed.

Dr Tremaine.

Hot anger slowly began to replace the sick hollow inside him.

‘I was up early,' George was saying. ‘Thought I'd dash off a few words about the affair at the old cricket game, mentioning the sterling work of a few individuals.' He looked pleased with himself. ‘When I saw you sloping off without me, I thought it odd, especially after you asked me to spend today with you in the city.'

‘George telephoned me at my college,' Caroline said. ‘Despite your confidence that you'd made the Beccaria Cage safe, I had my doubts. So did George. He followed you.'

‘How?' Aubrey's tongue still felt thick. Single words worked best.

‘A combination of stealth and uncanny ability, old man. By the time I dressed and ran to the main gates, you were still in sight, not making much of an effort to cover your tracks either. Whistling, too, if I wasn't mistaken.'

‘Ghastly?'

‘Pretty much, yes.' George smiled a little. ‘I was curious about your demeanour, so I decided to follow and observe you.' He shrugged. ‘I've learned a thing or two about odd situations, you see.'

‘Caroline?'

‘I missed the train George and you took, but I managed to catch up with him when he lost you in the Mire. He telephoned from there and I immediately bicycled to join him.'

‘We raced up and down the streets of the Mire looking for you,' George said. ‘I was ready to give up when we almost stumbled on your little transaction.'

‘George was very nervous,' Caroline said. ‘Especially when you started waving that pistol around.'

George rubbed his chin. ‘It became plain as day that you were heading for the Palace. We kept back until you were admitted, then we rushed over and managed to get to Sommers.'

‘I was going to shoot Bertie,' Aubrey said slowly.

‘So it appeared,' Caroline said. ‘Whatever were you thinking?'

‘Not much.' Aubrey remembered the blissful, purposeful state he'd been in. He closed his eyes as a wave of nausea rolled through him. ‘Trigger words. I was sent trigger words. After that, I surrendered everything.'

Aubrey was both angry and ashamed. He liked to think that he was responsible for his own actions, for better and for worse. Successes and failures belonged to him, and he was prepared to take the good with the bad. But propelled on his deadly mission, he'd been turned into an automaton, a puppet controlled by...

‘Dr Tremaine,' he said softly.

Caroline sat back and crossed her arms. ‘You're sure?'

‘Oh yes.'

He shivered, then the trembling seized his legs and quickly turned to cramp. He grimaced and massaged his calves, feeling the knots of muscle under his fingertips.

‘Are you all right?' Caroline asked.

‘No,' he said simply, for he could tell that – without the Beccaria Cage – his body and soul were once again at odds. The physical symptoms were dismayingly familiar: weakness, trembling, pain in his muscles and joints. He knew, if things went in their accustomed way, he'd soon start to feel feverish or experience double vision, or any one of a hundred bodily signs. If he couldn't stave off the disunification of his body and soul, the true death would soon draw closer.

George glanced at the driver and raised an eyebrow significantly. ‘Ah. Your condition?'

Through recent experience, Aubrey had learned that everyone had ears. The driver, perhaps, was under no orders to report any conversations, but that was extremely unlikely. ‘Indeed.' He grimaced. His feet hurt. ‘Do you have that contraption? The Beccaria Cage?'

Caroline produced it from her handbag. She held it in her open palm where it nestled, strangely repellent. The broken chain hung limply. He shook himself, fighting with his weariness, struggling for his words. ‘I think it works.'

‘What?' George said, startled. ‘Hold on a minute, old man. It turned you into a mindless assassin. If that's what you mean by “I think it works”, then I suppose you're right, but...'

‘It ... it glued me together.' Aubrey struggled for words. ‘I could feel its effect.'

‘Dr Tremaine, remember,' Caroline said. ‘The master of the hidden plot. Look inside the exterior.'

Aubrey cocked his head. Caroline was right. Dr Tremaine was the panjandrum of strategy, of the feint, of misdirection. Again and again, in Albion and in Lutetia, under the sea and under the city, he'd proved that his mind was capable of the most twisted, labyrinthine plots, where what was and what seemed to be swapped with such feverish regularity that one's own identity was seriously in question.

Aubrey took the Beccaria Cage and held it up to the window. Letting the light stream through it, he tilted it.

The tiny silver ball rolled and struck the edge of the cage. It made a dull, heavy sound, then it wobbled a little before it was still.

‘I need to do some magic,' he said, not taking his eyes from the cage.

‘Here?' George said. ‘Now?'

‘Can you manage it?' Caroline asked.

Aubrey swallowed. His throat was raw and painful. ‘I think I must.'

Without a word, George reached over and slid the glass pane across, sealing off the rear compartment. Aubrey could see that the driver's mirror was artfully angled to ensure he could see what was going on in the back, but at least he couldn't eavesdrop.

The motorcar rumbled on. Outside, the business of the city streamed past. Carriages, cabs, motorcars, omnibuses. Shops, cafés, government buildings. Trinovantians, foreigners and some who were one pretending to be the other.
Appearances and reality
, Aubrey thought.
Let's take off the skin and see what lies beneath.

With a sigh, he lifted the Beccaria Cage again in his left hand. His vision blurred, he squinted, then rubbed his eyes. His eyesight cleared a little and he decided it wasn't going to get any better than that.

He gripped the cage. The silver ball rolled then stopped dead and trembled, as if sensing something.

Concentrating gamely, Aubrey put the forefinger of his right hand up to the wire of the cage. The silver ball jerked and rolled to the far side, even though Aubrey was sure he'd held the cage level.

With an effort, he wedged the tip of his finger through the wire. It resisted, but he pushed until, with a grunt, he was through, bending the wire to allow access.

Inside, the silver ball began to roll about in erratic, wild movements, banging into one side of the cage and rebounding to the other like a mouse caught in a well with a cat.

Aubrey pushed his finger toward the silver ball. It froze for an instant, then quivered, before breaking left. Aubrey was ready for it, though, when it darted back to the right. He caught it against the wall of the cage, trapping it with his fingertip, and he hissed with satisfaction.

To his surprise, his fingertip sank into the surface of the ball as if it was a sponge. Before he could move, the ball clamped onto his finger with a razor-sharp grip.

Aubrey felt it sink into his flesh, but he didn't flinch– despite the pain. He pushed through the wire from the other side, with his left forefinger and thumb, and caught the ball from behind. Ignoring the pain in his right finger, he brought his left thumb and forefinger together like pincers. At the first sign of pressure, the ball let go of his finger, but Aubrey caught it, crushing the ball like a walnut.

Immediately, the motorcar was filled with a hideous smell. It swerved sideways and the driver glanced over his shoulder, his face screwed up. Not expecting such a stench, Aubrey recoiled and threw up his hands, but because both hands were trapped in the cage all he succeeded in doing was hitting himself in the eye with it. He saw stars, blinked, let his hands fall to his lap and refused to look down – because he didn't want to see what the ball had done to his finger.

George held his nose and slid open the window on his side, then leaned across and did the same on the other. ‘Good Lord,' he said with some reverence. ‘You could use that smell as a weapon.'

Caroline frowned. She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at Aubrey's brow.

Aubrey knew the silver ball had attacked his finger. How badly, though, he wasn't sure. Still without looking, he tried to ease his finger out of the wire. Pain flared like a bright light. He drew in a sharp breath through his teeth.

Caroline was studying the cage dispassionately, but Aubrey knew her self-possession. ‘How bad is it?' he asked.

‘Blood everywhere. You've ruined your suit.'

‘I knew it. I've lost my finger, haven't I?'

‘I don't think so.'

A sharp tug made Aubrey straighten in his seat. Tears came to his eyes and he had a brand-new appreciation of the virtues of a lack of pain. ‘Oh my.'

Caroline held up her hand. In it, she held his. Around the tip of his forefinger, just above the knuckle, was a thin band of red. A tiny trickle of blood was edging toward his knuckle. It looked as if he'd scratched himself with a fingernail.

‘It hurt,' he said plaintively. ‘I was sure it was working its way to the bone.'

‘I'm sure it felt like that,' Caroline said. ‘Here, wrap my handkerchief around it. It's already got blood on it. From your eyebrow.'

Aubrey gingerly touched his brow and winced. ‘Hmm.' He prodded at the Beccaria Cage. The wires were a little bent, but there was no sign of the silver ball apart from the ghost of the eye-watering stench. He pushed the wires back into place so the mesh was regular again. Then he relinked the chain and slipped it around his neck.

Immediately, his fatigue disappeared like smoke on a windy day. He straightened and massaged the back of his neck with both hands. After he rubbed his eyes, his vision was sharp; when he took a deep breath, nothing caught or pinched.

‘You've done something,' Caroline said. ‘Your eyes are clearer.'

Aubrey glanced at the driver. His attention was entirely on the road ahead as they rolled past Barley Park, well on the way to Fielding Cross and Maidstone, the Fitzwilliam family home.

‘The Beccaria Cage,' he explained. ‘It works, but it was booby-trapped by Dr Tremaine. He knew I'd be keen to get my hands on something that would assist my condition. The silver ball must have been a concealed spell, lurking ready to entrap me.'

George shook his head. ‘You were possessed.'

‘Something like that. Not mindless, not like those poor lost souls we ran into in Gallia.' It was his turn to shake his head. The Soul Stealer of Lutetia had held the Gallian city in terror. ‘I was aware of everything around me, but it was like seeing life through a lens that made everything warm and good, as long as I was moving toward my goal.'

‘The Prince?' Caroline asked.

‘Dr Tremaine hasn't given up on his plan to plunge the world into war,' Aubrey said. He put his hand over the Beccaria Cage as it lay against his chest. ‘Imagine it. The death of the Prince, an assassin who – it would be shown – was ensorcelled by a Holmlander who had been the source of the infernal device.'

‘Kiefer,' George muttered.

‘Agreed.' Aubrey pursed his lips. ‘Tomorrow, I think we need to pop up to Greythorn and have a chat with this Mr Kiefer.'