Heart of Gold

'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?'

THE HEPWORTHS' 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 important people only by their first names. 'Louis is the Director of Police?'

'He's a cultured man for a Director of Police. He'd much rather be in charge of the Opera than the constabulary, but he's a servant of the people.'

George was lolling in the grasp of an enormous apricot pillow. He nibbled on a chocolate truffle and looked very pleased with himself. 'Thank him for us, will you, Mrs Hepworth?'

'Ophelia, George dear.' She put her coffee cup on a small lacquered tray. 'I like my name and I like others to use it.'

George nodded. 'Good chocolate.'

Aubrey had been avoiding looking at Caroline, which ran counter to his natural impulses. All the way in the cab from the Police Headquarters to the Hepworths' residence he'd been aware of her displeasure. Here, in her own home, he felt like an insect about to be skewered on a specimen board for eternity. He didn't like the feeling, so decided to do something about it.

He turned to her. After enjoying the sight for a split second, he ventured an opening gambit. 'How did you know we were with the police?' Good, he thought. Neutral, intelligent, a fine start.

'It was Claude.'

'Claude?' Aubrey raised his eyebrows.

'Claude Duval, the director of the play. He saw you being arrested.'

'We weren't arrested. I made sure of that by volunteering to go with the Inspector. George? Is something wrong?'

'No, nothing.' George mopped his chin with a napkin. 'Piece of chocolate went down the wrong way.'

Caroline pressed on. 'You were saying that you volunteered to go with the Inspector.'

'Yes. And you were saying that Claude was spending some time with you.'

'I didn't. But he had. And it's none of your business.'

Aubrey and Caroline glared at each other. Mrs Hepworth tut-tutted. 'Enough, enough.' She glanced at George. 'My daughter has always been headstrong. And your friend?'

'Aubrey? Headstrong? Only in every way imaginable.'

'It's like watching a duel, isn't it? But one that's not over after a shot apiece.'

'Mother.' Caroline pursed her lips.

'Of course, darling.' Mrs Hepworth put her chin on her hand. 'I was only too glad when Caroline wanted to come to Lutetia. Since my dear Lionel passed away, I'd been unable to paint at all. I felt Lutetia could start my painting again.'

'And has it?' Aubrey asked, glad for the change of topic.

'Oh yes. I could hardly help but paint once we arrived. Seeing so many of my old friends again, visiting the galleries . . . Here, I inhale art with every breath.'

Aubrey softened. Mrs Hepworth, for all her airs, wasn't a play-artist, a dabbler. She had a reputation as one of the most original painters of her generation. 'It's good for you, this city?'

'Oh yes. It has helped.' She turned away. 'With the grief.'

Aubrey looked at Mrs Hepworth's striking profile, then he glanced at Caroline. She was staring out of the window at the bright lights of the Exposition Tower.

Mrs Hepworth's husband – Caroline's father – had been an accidental victim of the tangled series of plots within plots that Dr Mordecai Tremaine had constructed. Professor Hepworth had died from the effects of Dr Tremaine's concentrated terror magic. Aubrey had never forgotten Dr Tremaine's chilling indifference over the death of someone he'd once called a friend.

Mrs Hepworth's grief had always been apparent. Caroline was more controlled, but Aubrey knew her sorrow was as deep and as heartfelt. Her restraint was one of the things about her that fascinated him.

Mrs Hepworth rose. 'I think it's time to retire. It's been a full day.'

Aubrey and George stood. 'We should go.'

'I'll see them out, Mother,' Caroline said, and Aubrey was pleased. He may have a chance to salvage the situation before leaving.