start.
'I can insist.'
Aubrey had some sympathy for Inspector Paul. He also
didn't want to make an enemy who could make his life
difficult in Lutetia. On the other hand, he had no desire
to subject himself to the notoriously labyrinthine Gallian
police procedures, where, it was rumoured, people had
died of old age waiting to be questioned.
He held up a hand and smiled with what he hoped
was the right amount of apology. 'I'm keen to help,
Inspector, but I'm sure this matter can wait, can it not?'
T WENTY MINUTES LATER , A UBREY AND G EORGE WERE IN an office on the third floor of the Lutetian Police Headquarters
with a stony-faced Inspector Paul tapping a pen
on an inkwell. The sound set Aubrey's teeth on edge.
'So, tell me again how your presence at three bizarre
disturbances is simply coincidence,' Inspector Paul said.
'And how you had nothing to do with any of them.'
'What can I tell you that I haven't told you already?'
Aubrey did his best to sound conciliatory. 'I'm as baffled
as you are.'
'And you?' Inspector Paul shot at George.
'Many strange things happen around Aubrey. I'm
accustomed to it.'
Before Inspector Paul could follow up this scrap of
information, the door to the office was flung open. A tall
woman in a flowing robe with an iridescent green belt
wafted in. She smiled at Aubrey and George.
'Mrs Hepworth,' Aubrey blurted, jumping to his feet,
quickly followed by George and the Inspector.
She addressed herself to Inspector Paul, in flawless
Gallian. 'I've come to take these two young men away.'
The police officer goggled, as well he might. Ophelia
Hepworth was a striking woman – tall, with glossy black
hair tumbling around her shoulders and only kept in
check by a carelessly tied strip of blue silk. She had huge,
dark eyes.
After several false starts, Inspector Paul managed to
form a complete sentence. 'I beg your pardon?'
'Your Director of Police.' She handed the Inspector a
letter. 'This is his stationery and signature, is it not?'
Inspector Paul nodded, not trusting his voice. He
stared at the letter, taking a few moments before he
remembered to read it.
'He thanks you for your diligence,' Mrs Hepworth
went on, 'and he's sure you'll come to the same conclusion
he has: that these two are unfortunates caught up in
events not of their making.'
'I see.' Inspector Paul straightened. He brushed at the
lapels of his jacket. 'Madame. They are yours.'
Mrs Hepworth swept out. Aubrey and George
followed, like acolytes attending their high priestess.
Outside, on a polished wooden bench, with the late afternoon
sun filtering through a grimy window, was Caroline.
She stood and pecked her mother on the cheek.
'Thank you.'
'My pleasure, darling.'
Caroline put her hands on her hips and shook her
head. 'Aubrey. George. What have you been up to?'
T HE H EPWORTHS' APARTMENT WAS RIGHT BEHIND THE Cathedral of Our Lady, and it was startling. Aubrey had
never been inside a Moorish villa, but he imagined that
if a sultan's inner sanctum was crossed with a stylish
Lutetian salon, the result would look rather like the place
where he was currently reclining.
Enormous stretches of coloured silk hung from the
ceiling. With the windows open to the evening air the
whole room rippled and sighed. It was like being inside
a very large, mostly quiescent, animal.
Beaded curtains hung over doorways, while incense
burned in brass pots on mantles and shelves. Small mirrors
on the walls glinted as the light caught them. Camphorwood
boxes served as low tables and rainbow-coloured cushions
were scattered between wicker chairs and velvet divans.
The room smelled of spice, sandalwood and rosewater.
In keeping with the Moorish theme, Mrs Hepworth
held a glass of peppermint tea in a silver zarf. She smiled
at Aubrey and George over the top of it. 'And so when
Caroline told me you were being held by the police
I contacted Louis. He was only too willing to help.'
Aubrey had grown used to Mrs Hepworth's habit of
referring to
'I can insist.'
Aubrey had some sympathy for Inspector Paul. He also
didn't want to make an enemy who could make his life
difficult in Lutetia. On the other hand, he had no desire
to subject himself to the notoriously labyrinthine Gallian
police procedures, where, it was rumoured, people had
died of old age waiting to be questioned.
He held up a hand and smiled with what he hoped
was the right amount of apology. 'I'm keen to help,
Inspector, but I'm sure this matter can wait, can it not?'
T WENTY MINUTES LATER , A UBREY AND G EORGE WERE IN an office on the third floor of the Lutetian Police Headquarters
with a stony-faced Inspector Paul tapping a pen
on an inkwell. The sound set Aubrey's teeth on edge.
'So, tell me again how your presence at three bizarre
disturbances is simply coincidence,' Inspector Paul said.
'And how you had nothing to do with any of them.'
'What can I tell you that I haven't told you already?'
Aubrey did his best to sound conciliatory. 'I'm as baffled
as you are.'
'And you?' Inspector Paul shot at George.
'Many strange things happen around Aubrey. I'm
accustomed to it.'
Before Inspector Paul could follow up this scrap of
information, the door to the office was flung open. A tall
woman in a flowing robe with an iridescent green belt
wafted in. She smiled at Aubrey and George.
'Mrs Hepworth,' Aubrey blurted, jumping to his feet,
quickly followed by George and the Inspector.
She addressed herself to Inspector Paul, in flawless
Gallian. 'I've come to take these two young men away.'
The police officer goggled, as well he might. Ophelia
Hepworth was a striking woman – tall, with glossy black
hair tumbling around her shoulders and only kept in
check by a carelessly tied strip of blue silk. She had huge,
dark eyes.
After several false starts, Inspector Paul managed to
form a complete sentence. 'I beg your pardon?'
'Your Director of Police.' She handed the Inspector a
letter. 'This is his stationery and signature, is it not?'
Inspector Paul nodded, not trusting his voice. He
stared at the letter, taking a few moments before he
remembered to read it.
'He thanks you for your diligence,' Mrs Hepworth
went on, 'and he's sure you'll come to the same conclusion
he has: that these two are unfortunates caught up in
events not of their making.'
'I see.' Inspector Paul straightened. He brushed at the
lapels of his jacket. 'Madame. They are yours.'
Mrs Hepworth swept out. Aubrey and George
followed, like acolytes attending their high priestess.
Outside, on a polished wooden bench, with the late afternoon
sun filtering through a grimy window, was Caroline.
She stood and pecked her mother on the cheek.
'Thank you.'
'My pleasure, darling.'
Caroline put her hands on her hips and shook her
head. 'Aubrey. George. What have you been up to?'
T HE H EPWORTHS' APARTMENT WAS RIGHT BEHIND THE Cathedral of Our Lady, and it was startling. Aubrey had
never been inside a Moorish villa, but he imagined that
if a sultan's inner sanctum was crossed with a stylish
Lutetian salon, the result would look rather like the place
where he was currently reclining.
Enormous stretches of coloured silk hung from the
ceiling. With the windows open to the evening air the
whole room rippled and sighed. It was like being inside
a very large, mostly quiescent, animal.
Beaded curtains hung over doorways, while incense
burned in brass pots on mantles and shelves. Small mirrors
on the walls glinted as the light caught them. Camphorwood
boxes served as low tables and rainbow-coloured cushions
were scattered between wicker chairs and velvet divans.
The room smelled of spice, sandalwood and rosewater.
In keeping with the Moorish theme, Mrs Hepworth
held a glass of peppermint tea in a silver zarf. She smiled
at Aubrey and George over the top of it. 'And so when
Caroline told me you were being held by the police
I contacted Louis. He was only too willing to help.'
Aubrey had grown used to Mrs Hepworth's habit of
referring to
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