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I’ll ask her where she gets her sausages. We had them last week and she was telling us how Holmland sausages are the best.’
    â€˜Woodley Lane in Little Pickling,’ came a voice from the top of the stairs. ‘Four of the best sausage-makers in one tiny stretch of street.’ George stood at the top of the stairs, beaming. ‘It’s the centre of the Holmlander community in Trinovant.’
    â€˜I should have asked you first, George,’ Aubrey said. ‘Food is your business.’
    â€˜We all have our specialities, old man. Let’s go. I might be able to pick up some of those delightful dumplings while we’re there.’

Six
    The Istros Coffee House was named after Holmland’s most famous river. It was right in the middle of a small cluster of shops that seemed to be dedicated to recreating Fisherberg in the heart of Trinovant. The sausage makers fought for business, and the trade was brisk. Sweet pastries were piled high in the windows of Holmlander bakeries. Waltz music seeped through doors and open windows.
    â€˜This seems like a good place to start,’ Aubrey announced after they’d studied the comings and goings for some time.
    â€˜It can’t hurt to make some enquiries,’ George said.
    Caroline looked doubtful. ‘I can imagine half a dozen ways this could go wrong.’ She sighed. ‘But I don’t have any other ideas.’
    Aubrey led the way. He pushed open the door and led the way into the warm, dark, splendidly aromatic interior. It took his eyes a few moments to adjust, and he was relieved to see that their entrance hadn’t excited any more than cursory glances from the patrons, who were far more interested in their refreshments. Aubrey’s Holmlandish was good enough for him to hear half a dozen different regional accents in the room. It seemed as if the Istros Coffee House drew its customers from all over Holmland.
    â€˜Do you recognise anyone?’ Caroline asked.
    He shook his head. He’d been hoping that someone they’d met in their time with Count Brandt would have remained behind in Albion instead of joining their comrades in their ill-fated mission back to Holmland.
    George nodded toward the back of the café. ‘Sounds as if there’s another room down there. I can hear accordion music.’
    â€˜Oh dear,’ Caroline said. They both looked at her. ‘I’m sorry. I have trouble with the accordion.’
    â€˜So does whoever’s trying to play it.’ George winced. ‘Still, it’s hard to tell the difference between an accordion played badly and an accordion played well.’
    Bemused, Aubrey led them to a door just to the left of the entrance to the kitchen. A hearty Holmlandish dance tune came from it as the accordionist worked up a good head of steam. Caroline grimaced. ‘I had a cat, once, who made that sort of noise when I accidentally stepped on his tail.’
    â€˜Steady, Caroline,’ George said. ‘Be brave.’
    Aubrey edged through the doorway but his entrance wasn’t discreet enough. A score of faces turned slowly to stare at the interlopers over their steaming coffee cups. The accordion player stopped mid-squeeze, much to Caroline’s relief.
    At the far end of the room, under the large portrait of the Elektor of Holmland, a lean, dapper man rose to his feet. He was dressed in a light grey suit, very stylish in a room full of heavy coats and scarves. He wore his hair long and over his ears. ‘Fitzwilliam. You’ve brought Miss Hepworth and the other one to see us.’
    Sitting on von Stralick’s right was a young bespectacled man with a look of absolute horror on his face. He groaned, clutched both sides of his wild-haired head and let it fall forward until it hit the table with a thud.
    Von Stralick looked down at him and sighed. ‘You’ve met my cousin, Mr Kiefer, I take it?’

    The inner sanctum of the Istros Coffee