‘Not really. Especially since by doing this I’ve just learned that Caroline is on her way to Fisherberg.’
Aubrey straightened so quickly that he banged his knee on the underside of the table – but he hardly noticed. ‘Caroline?’
‘A small article in the Arts section. It seems as if Ophelia Hepworth is on her way to this Fisherberg symposium, just like your mother.’
Aubrey remembered that Caroline had told him this. At the time, it was a two he hadn’t put together with another two and so missed out on coming up with four. ‘And Caroline is going with her?’
‘“Accompanying the influential artist on her Holmland sojourn is her daughter, Miss Caroline Hepworth.” Sounds like her, doesn’t it?’
‘It certainly does.’ Aubrey sat back, bruised knee forgotten. Caroline in Fisherberg? Excellent. Some time ago, he’d been surprised when she’d mentioned, quite offhand, that she’d visited Fisherberg before. But he could see this being extremely useful. If she could be persuaded to overlook his not asking her along, then persuaded to show them around, it was the sort of thing that could make a difference to their time in the Holmland capital. Of course, that would mean spending time together, which would be a fine thing. Enjoyable. Friendly. Most splendid.
‘I say,’ George said. ‘D’you think it might be time for a spot of early lunch?’
‘George, straight after breakfast is your notion of time for a spot of early lunch. I think we might wait until after we’ve joined the Transcontinental Express.’
‘In Lutetia?’ George thought for a moment, and Aubrey could see him weighing up having some solid, uninspiring food now, or waiting for the legendary offerings of the Transcontinental’s board of fare. ‘It’s not more than an hour away, you’d say?’
Aubrey glanced at the scene outside the window. ‘At the most.’
His estimate was almost exact. Fifty-five minutes later saw the train pull into St Remy Station and when it finally stopped the release of steam sounded like a sigh of relief.
Aubrey had never taken the fabled Transcontinental Express and, despite his misgivings about leaving Caroline behind, and despite taking his bodyguarding duties seriously, he was looking forward to it. Tales of intrigue and mystery had sprung up almost as soon as the Express completed its first journey, late last century, from Lutetia to Constantinople, the gateway to the Orient. Winding its way through a dozen countries – although that number was currently in flux with the shifts in national makeup – the Transcontinental Express was reputed to play host to smugglers, arms dealers, tragic refugees and dispossessed nobles. Plans were hatched in corridors, assignations made in corners, revolutions decided on platforms while waiting for stationmasters – who may or may not be counter-intelligence operatives – to give the all clear.
Aubrey couldn’t wait.
At St Remy Station, Lady Rose left Aubrey and George to wrangle with the Gallian porters and their plans to decant the luggage onto the Transcontinental. There was no shortage of willing hands, but Aubrey could see that actual organisation was thin on the ground. Each of the porters had his own idea of the best way to do things, and each of them had a different idea where the Transcontinental Express actually was. It took a giddy few moments before he and George were able to round up all the porters and herd them into a line. With this leadership, they then transported the bags to the next platform, a mere twenty yards or so away, and into the specially prepared carriage on which they’d spend the next twenty-four hours.
Aubrey lingered. He wanted to inspect the magnificent Transcontinental locomotive.
Gallian locomotive engineering was substantially different from Albion work, but he admired their approach. The locomotive was a 2-6-4 with a tapered boiler, beautifully suited for racing across flat country, but well able to cope with the steep mountain passages that were a major part of the journey. The engine cowling was a highly polished deep blue, with ‘Transcontinental Express’ emblazoned along its length. Near the driving wheels, he squatted to peer at the coupling rods and nodded in approval at the sound anti-hammering magic that he detected. It was a clever solution.
When Aubrey finally stepped into their special carriage, he removed his hat with some reverence. This was opulence more at home in a palace than in locomotive transport. It was like entering a lavish living room, rather longer and narrower than most, but impressive all the same. The windows were shaded with blue velvet curtains. Oriental screens, potted palms, gas lights on the walls, a discreet but thick Overminster carpet, a heavy sideboard and an absurdly comfortable sofa and chairs were closest to him, while the far half of the carriage was blocked off by what looked like a set of folding doors in strikingly grained ebony.
‘Four individual sleeping compartments at the rear,’ came a Gallian-accented voice at Aubrey’s shoulder. He jumped and whirled to see a dapper attendant, white coated, thinly moustached, reserved and ready. ‘A bathroom with full-sized bath – no shortage of hot water, piped directly from the locomotive – and a small library. Small, but well stocked.’
George appeared behind the attendant. ‘I say. This is just the ticket!’
‘I dare say,’ said the attendant, as if he had such approbation from every passenger. On reflection, Aubrey decided he probably did. ‘Is there anything you young sirs need before we leave the station?’
Aubrey shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. It seems as if you’ve catered for everything.’ He had a thought. ‘Is there a door at the rear of this carriage?’
‘Indeed. But your security men have made sure that it’s locked, bolted and chained.’
‘Good.’
‘Will there be anything else?’
George raised what was obviously a pressing question for him. ‘Lunch?’
‘Will be available as soon as we leave the station. Fifteen minutes.’
‘Excellent.’
It took some time to stow the appropriate luggage, dispatching the rest to the box car, and then it was a matter of setting up Lady Rose so she could continue her work. Absorbed in her presentation, she spoke little as Aubrey and George steered her toward a table in a corner of the carriage, near one of the large windows. She didn’t stop working for a second, reading from her papers, frowning and scribbling on them with a well-worn pencil.
Eventually, she was set up just as the train began to glide from the station. The whistle, when it sounded, was smooth and well modulated, far from the usual brazen shriek of a locomotive signal.
So Gallian, Aubrey thought. ‘Should we order you some lunch, Mother?’
‘Of course.’ His mother dashed something on the page she was reading, then she screwed it up and flung it at the waste paper bin that stood near the grand piano. It lobbed in perfectly.
‘Anything you’d like?’
He had to wait for some time before he had a reply: ‘I’ll leave it up to you.’
As they left, Aubrey wondered if she even knew they were there.
Fifteen
The restaurant car was two carriages towards the front of the train. Aubrey and George passed compartments which were sparsely populated; Aubrey amused himself by trying to tell the spies from the saboteurs from the international criminals. Most of them looked like solid business travellers with dark suits and glasses, and briefcases bulging with soap catalogues, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that that was a measure of their craft, adopting such a perfect disguise for crossing countries. Who would suspect a soap salesman of plotting international intrigue?
They also had to make their way through a lounge car, dimly lit even in the middle of the day thanks to the shades pulled down on most of the windows. Conversations here were studiously furtive, as if the few denizens were making a point of their raffish notoriety. A central bar stretched almost the entire length of the lounge car and had attracted a handful of determined-looking travellers, all of whom seemed to be experts at avoiding eye contact.