Heart of Gold

'I know. None of my friends understands me.'

Monsieur Caron nodded sympathetically. 'Ah, I see. What is your specialty?'

'Letters.'

'Excellent. I have some interesting correspondence between one of your playwrights and a famous Gallian actress a hundred years ago. Good friends, they were.'

'Of course. But I'm more interested in recent history, politics, diplomacy, that sort of thing. But they must concern Albion.'

'It is a time to be aware of such things,' Monsieur Caron murmured. He tapped his chin with a finger. 'Do you realise that you have competition?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You're not the first to ask about such letters. A gentleman was in yesterday. He was particularly keen to see anything to do with the Treaty of St Anne.'

A peaceful, restful holiday, Aubrey thought as his head whirled with possibilities. That's all I wanted. He touched his forehead and winced.

'Are you unwell?' Monsieur Caron asked, concerned.

'No, no, just a little tired.'

Caron nodded. 'Many people are complaining about fitful sleep. Quite strange.'

Aubrey nodded. 'And this man asking about the Treaty of St Anne. Did he purchase anything?'

'No, for I didn't have anything to sell him. Not here. I keep my Albion items elsewhere.'

'May I see them? Tomorrow?'

'I'd be happy to bring them. My other customer didn't come back when we made similar arrangements.'

Aubrey took a wild guess. 'Holmlander, was he?'

Monsieur Caron looked startled. 'Why, no. Northerner, from his accent. From the look of him, I doubted if he had enough cash for such items, but he assured me that he had money.'

'A northerner? You mean from Marchmaine? Can you describe him?'

'Red hair, red beard. Stern, if scruffy.'

Aubrey had much to mull over after he left Monsieur Caron's establishment. Another thread had been thrown into the tangled mess that he was trying to unravel, and he felt all thumbs at the moment.

He trudged up the street, wanting nothing better than to lie down and close his eyes for an hour or two, but as he drew closer to Madame Calvert's residence, his spirits sank. Two police officers were waiting at the entrance.

They stood with their hands behind their backs and watched as he approached. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and waited as they shared significant glances. 'May I enter?' he asked.

They both nodded.

Waiting inside was Madame Calvert. Her hands were clasped, mouth pursed. 'I protect my guests, but this police officer was very insistent.' She nodded toward her sitting room.

Aubrey sighed. 'I'm sorry.'

'Do you need help? I have friends.'

'Thank you. No. Not yet.'

Aubrey went into the sitting room. Inspector Paul was holding his cap in his hands and was using a mirror to tend to his hair. George was sitting on the sofa and drumming his fingers on the armrest. A bruise was blooming on his cheek. 'Aubrey, old man!' he said, jumping to his feet. 'Good to see you!'

Inspector Paul turned smartly. 'Enough. Sit,' he said to George, in Albionish.

'What is going on?' Aubrey asked.

'I have arrested this person,' Inspector Paul said, indicating George, 'for acting suspiciously near a national monument.'

George grunted unhappily. 'Can't a chap do some genealogy business without being set upon?'

Inspector Paul drew himself up. 'We have just had an assault in our most sacred place. These are not happy times.'

George addressed himself to Aubrey. 'I wasn't doing anything, old man. Took some notes, rubbed some brass. Thought I was making good progress, even though I found quite a few buildings roped off and I couldn't get into them.'

'Skulking around tombs,' Inspector Paul put in, 'refusing to identify yourself.'

'I didn't know they were speaking to me,' George said. 'They kept talking in Gallian.'

Aubrey's head was pounding, red-hot spikes driving into his skull. He shouldn't have sent George off alone. He should have realised that Lutetia would be on edge after the theft of the Heart of Gold. 'I'm sorry, Inspector. It appears we've had a misunderstanding.'

'I felt that may be the case,' the Inspector said, frowning. 'That is why I brought him here instead of directly to Police Headquarters.'

'I appreciate it.' Aubrey felt it might be useful to return the favour. 'Inspector, are you still looking for the Soul Stealer?'

The police officer's face hardened. 'Soul Stealer? That is street gossip. I don't know what you mean.'

Tiptoeing around national pride and professional dignity, Aubrey tried again. 'The catatonics, the blank ones. I understand that more have been found.'

'We are dealing with the problem.'

'I may have a line of inquiry for you.'

Inspector Paul considered this, then tilted his immaculate head. 'Of course, it is my duty as an officer of the law to listen to any possible information that a member of the public may have.'

'I have reason to believe that someone has formed a magical method of stealing people's souls. A photographer may be involved.'

'A photographer? You expect me to find a photographer? The city is full of them, ever since the Great Exposition. Every second fool thinks he can point a camera and turn into a genius.'

'I'm sorry, Inspector. I thought it might help.'

'I should ask how you came by such knowledge, but I already think I know enough to realise that the story you would tell me would be long-winded, plausible, and impossible to disprove.'

'The truth can be hard to disprove.' He hoped this didn't sound as nonsensical to Inspector Paul as it did to him.

Inspector Paul studied him for long enough that Aubrey felt uncomfortable. 'Very well,' the Gallian said. 'You are free, Mr Doyle. Do not act suspiciously in future.'

The Inspector left. George raised an eyebrow at Aubrey. 'Do I look suspicious to you?'

Aubrey rubbed his temples. 'George, at the moment everything looks suspicious to me. Now, I need to lie down for a while.'

Nine

AUBREY SPENT MUCH OF THE AFTERNOON TRYING TO sleep, but a gnawing discomfort – a deep-seated throbbing inside his bones – wouldn't allow him to drop off. After lying on his bed, trying to find a comfortable position, he sat up and used a hand mirror to examine his hair. He wasn't vain – at least, he didn't think so – but the notion of losing his hair depressed him. It was dull, but he could hide that with discreet application of hair oil. If it continued to fall out, that was another matter.