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we have dinner at home at Maidstone. I have
special leave from the school and I asked for one for you,
too.'
    'Me? I can't go. I've got to study. I have cornet practice.
I've got something else to do.'
    'Good food at our table, George,' Aubrey purred.
'Succulent beef, roast potatoes, green beans. Nothing
overcooked, watery or cold.'
    George brightened. 'Pudding?'
    'Of course. Cook is superb at pudding. It'll probably
either be bread and butter custard or jam roly-poly.'
    'When do we leave?'

Four
    'H OW'S MY COLLAR?' G EORGE ASKED A UBREY AS THEY stood on the doorstep.
    'Perfect.'
    'The tie?'
    'Elegantly and firmly knotted.'
    'My hair?'
    'On top of your head, as it should be. Now, do you
want me to produce a full-length mirror?'
    The walk from Stonelea School to Maidstone, the
Fitzwilliams' city residence, hadn't taken long. On such a
pleasant summer's evening, many people were abroad.
Courting couples were strolling arm in arm, oblivious of
the passing parade. Families were walking with more
purpose, mostly led by parents whose faces seemed to
suggest that they knew the walk was a sound idea but that
they'd rather be at home with a good book.
    Maidstone was the house where Aubrey had grown up,
and where generations of Fitzwilliams had grown up. It
was one in a long, curving row of elegant three-storey
townhouses facing a small park in Fielding Cross. The
park was dominated by an ancient willow tree which
shaded a tiny pond. Aubrey had spent many hours there,
sailing wooden yachts and studying tadpoles.
    The entire neighbourhood was clean, quiet and reeked
of money.
    Wealth was in the discreet, but expensive, brass doorknockers.
It was in the uniformed domestic staff who
appeared at doors whenever they opened. It was in the
curtains, the clothes of the passers-by, the prize-winning
dogs being walked by anxious-looking kennel lads. It was
in the smoothly gliding prams pushed by pretty young
nannies.
    When growing up, Aubrey had taken some time to
realise that the whole city wasn't like this. Small things,
like the shabbiness of the visiting knife grinder and
wondering where he came from, had aroused Aubrey's
curiosity and sent him out of Fielding Cross and into the
sprawling streets of the city.
    He'd discovered the vast Newbourne railway yards and
the blunt engineers and navvies who worked there. He'd
found the Narrows, Newpike and Royland Rise, each
with their thriving communities so different from the
gentility of Fielding Cross, and visited Little Pickling,
Crozier, and even the Mire, despite its reputation.
    The city was a grubby, brawling conglomeration, and
Aubrey loved it, but Fielding Cross remained home.
    The entrance of the Fitzwilliam residence was grand.
A sandstone portico that would have done justice to a
minor pagan god sheltered the door from the elements.
The door itself was painted a glossy, dark blue. A bell pull
on the wall didn't draw attention to itself, but was there
for those who were brought up well enough to know
what to look for.
    Aubrey took a deep breath, bracing himself. It was
always tense, returning home. Sometimes it was like entering
a battleground and he knew he had to have his wits
about him.
    He reached out and rang the bell.
    'Ah! Master Aubrey! Master George!'
    The butler who answered the doorbell was tall, silver-haired
and ruddy-cheeked. The fact that Aubrey had
always thought he looked like a weary basset hound
didn't detract from the affection Aubrey felt for him.
'Harris. Good to see you. Is he in?'
    'Not yet, young sir. Something has come up in
Parliament. The PM's called an early election.'
    Aubrey whistled. 'An early election? Something must
be afoot. When?'
    'He's called it for just after the King's birthday.'
    'Very clever. No doubt he hopes the goodwill from the
King's Birthday procession will spill over to the election.'
He shook his head. 'What about Mother? She's not at the
museum, is she?'
    'No, sir. She's bathing. She said she stank of formaldehyde
and needed a good long