Heart of Gold

Aubrey had to agree. When the prize was power, there seemed to be little that some people wouldn't do.

'George, I have a problem. A number of problems. But my main problem is which problem to worry about first.'

'You know, old man, Lady Rose would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you. It's my duty to keep an eye on you.'

George's devotion to Aubrey's mother was one of the few things left unsaid between the two friends. Aubrey was quite happy to let George mask it under the pretence of 'duty'.

'I need to find out more about the Marchmaine situation before I can make any meaningful enquiries. But I have those other tasks – for my grandmother, my mother, and myself.'

'And the Crown Prince. Don't forget him.'

Aubrey chewed his lip for a moment. 'What if we find this Dr Romellier for my mother, and while we're at the university I can look for the Faculty of Magic? After lunch we can make our way to the Cathedral of Our Lady. Bertie suggested I start there on this quest for his ancestors.'

'A full and fine day,' George said. He brushed crumbs off his chest. 'What about Caroline?'

'I didn't arrange this holiday solely as an excuse to see her, you know.'

'Really?

'Well, not entirely.' He stood. 'We may be able to catch up with her this evening, she said. She has a full day of practical work.'

'Lucky girl.'

THE UNIVERSITY OF LUTETIA WAS MUCH AS OTHER VENERABLE institutions of higher learning – a hotchpotch of buildings, paths, lawns and gardens that had grown in many different directions at many different times. As Aubrey walked around the perimeter of the large city block, he tried to judge from the architectural styles when each faculty had reached the height of importance. The Law Faculty was obviously one of the early achievers if its gaunt gothic-arched buildings were any guide. Theology, in the north-western part of the campus, harked back to an even earlier era, a blocky warren of buildings that Aubrey was sure would be dark inside. Its major feature was the belltower that had offended Dr Romellier. Science, Philosophy, Mathematics and Arts were all imposing, designed to impress and establish themselves as serious areas of scholarship.

Aubrey and George stood on the street with their backs to the Theology belltower. Aubrey kept an eye open for bicycles, which seemed to be ridden solely by maniacs to whom the difference between street and pavement meant nothing.

Across from the university, an unattractive tenement building faced them – about a hundred years old, four storeys of drab brick, rendered grey. Dozens of windows gazed down on them, mournfully. Aubrey thought it had all the architectural flair of a cliff.

'If Dr Romellier was disturbed by the Theology bells, then his rooms must be up there somewhere,' Aubrey said, pointing. He drew back his hand just in time to avoid decapitating a cyclist.

'I suppose we should just start knocking on doors,' George said. 'What's Gallian for "Hello, are you Dr Romellier?"'

Aubrey shrugged and winced at the dull pain in his shoulders. 'Perhaps we can find a porter or someone in charge.'

George tilted his head back and stared at the sky. 'I don't think we need to do that, old man.'

'What is it?'

'Bird expert, this Dr Romellier, isn't he?'

'That's what Mother said.'

'Now, if I were a renowned expert on birds, what do you think my hobbies would be if I lived in the middle of the city?'

Aubrey gazed upwards, shading his eyes. 'Hobbies?'

'Pigeons, old man. Let's go and see if Dr Romellier keeps a pigeon loft.'

THE ROOF OF THE TENEMENT BUILDING GAVE A FINE VIEW of the university grounds. Aubrey was pleased to see a few small patches of greenery that had escaped the urge to build bigger, taller faculty fiefdoms.

The pigeon loft was a substantial construction. No ramshackle assembly of cast-off building material, this large rectangular bird mansion looked as if it was strong enough to withstand a Force 10 storm.

George squinted through the wire. 'They're pigeons, all right. Lots of them.'

'I'm glad I brought an authority,' Aubrey said. He made sure he stood upwind of the loft. Even though it was well cared for, the smell of pigeon droppings was eyewatering.

'I had to learn something, being raised on a farm,' George said. 'Animals, birds, agricultural machinery, I'm your man.'

Aubrey scanned the surroundings. The rooftop sported pipes, ventilators, enigmatic shafts and doors that led to stairwells. Which would take them to Dr Romellier?

A whirring overhead made him look up. A flock of pigeons swooped low, then veered off again to circle the building. Aubrey shielded his eyes from the sun, but was startled by a barrage of angry shouting. He dropped his hand and saw a short, bald man hobbling toward them, waving a stick that would have been better used to help him walk.

George nudged him. 'What's he saying?'

'He's threatening to report us to the association.'

'What association?'

'The Pigeon Racing Association.'

The old man came closer, jabbing at them with his stick and keeping up a torrent of angry Gallian.

'He says that he's been waiting for us,' translated Aubrey, 'and now he's caught us red-handed.'

'How does he come to that conclusion? We could just pitch him off the roof.'

'He says he's been on the lookout for whoever's been nobbling – that's not the Gallian word for it, of course – his best birds. Oh, and the police have been called and we're not to move.'

The man's abuse wound down and he fixed them with a beady eye that looked remarkably like that of his charges. Aubrey took the opportunity to ask him if he knew Dr Romellier.

This set the pigeon man off in another torrent, but this time smiling broadly.

'It appears, George, that if we're friends of Dr Romellier, all is forgiven. This was the good doctor's loft and the home of his scientifically bred flock, which he gave to this man, Monsieur Moir. He asks forgiveness for his suspicions, but bad men have been poisoning his birds.'

'Does he know where Dr Romellier is?'

This query brought forth a shrug. Further questions revealed that Dr Romellier had disappeared some months ago. No goodbyes, no forwarding address.

They left Monsieur Moir berating a hungry-looking cat that had foolishly come within fifty yards of the pigeon loft. Aubrey didn't fancy its chances.

Back on the street, he looked up at the tenement again. The windows were identical, anonymous. 'To the university, George. Dr Romellier can wait for another day. Let's find this Faculty of Magic.'

'If we can cross the street without being run down,' George said as a pair of gowned cyclists careered around a corner and drifted toward them. They were conducting a heated argument and paying no attention to the road in front of them.