Maskerade

by Terry Pratchett

Page 31

 

  Thats right Mrs Ogg! Nanny picked up one of the sheaves of paper. Her lips moved as she read the meticulous copperplate writing. An opera about cats? she said. Never heard of an opera about cats. . . She thought for a moment, and then added to herself But why not? Its a damn good idea. The lives of cats are just like operas, when you come to think about it. She leafed through the other piles. Guys and Trolls? Hubwards Side Story? Miserable Les? Whos he? Seven Dwarfs for Seven Other Dwarfs? Whatre all these, Walter? She sat down on the stool and pressed a few of the cracked yellow keys, which moved with an audible creak. There were a couple of large pedals under the harmonium. You pedalled these and that worked the bellows and these spongy keys produced something which was to organ music what poot was to cursing. So this was where Wal. . . where the Ghost sat, thought Nanny, down under the stage, among the discarded wreckage of old performances; down under the huge windowless room where, night after night, music and songs and rampant emotion echoed back and forth and never escaped or entirely died away. The Ghost worked down here, with a mind as open as a well, and it filled up with opera. Opera went in at the ears, and something else came out of the mind. Nanny pumped the pedals a few times. Air hissed from inefficient seams. She tried a few notes. They were reedy. But, she considered, sometimes the old lie was true, and size really did not matter. It really was what you did with it that counted. Walter watched her expectantly. She took down another wad of paper and peered at the first page. But Walter leaned over and snatched at the script. That ones not finished Mrs Ogg!

  * * * The Opera House was still in uproar. Half the audience had gone outside and the other half was hanging around in case further interesting events were going to transpire. The orchestra was in a huddle in the pit, preparing its request for a special Being Upset By A Ghost Allowance. The curtains were closed. Some of the chorus had stayed on stage; others had hurried off to take part in the chase. The air had the excited electric feel it gets when normal civilized life is temporarily short-circuited. Agnes bounced frantically from rumour to rumour. The Ghost had been caught, and it was Walter Plinge. The Ghost had been caught by Walter Plinge. The Ghost had been caught by someone else. The Ghost had escaped. The Ghost was dead. There were arguments breaking out everywhere. I still cant believe it was Walter! I mean, good grief. . . Walter?

  What about the show? We cant just stop! You never stop the show, not even if someone dies!

  Oh, we have stopped when people died. . .

  Yes, but only as long as it took to get the body off-stage! Agnes stepped back into the wings, and trod on something. Sorry, she said automatically. It was only my foot, said Granny Weatherwax. So. . . how is life in the big city, Agnes Nitt? Agnes turned. Oh. . . hello, Granny. . . she mumbled. And Im not Agnes here, thank you, she added, a shade more defiantly. Its a good job, is it, bein someone elses voice?

  Im doing what I want to do, said Agnes. She drew herself up to her full width. And you cant stop me!

  But you aint part of it, are you? said Granny conversationally. You try, but you always find yourself watchin yourself watchin people, eh? Never quite believin anything? Thinkin the wrong thoughts?

  Shut up!

  Ah. Thought so.

  I have no intention of becoming a witch, thank you very much!

  Now, dont go getting upset just because you know its going to happen. A witch youre going to be because a witch you are, and if you turn your back on him now then I dont know whats going to happen to Walter Plinge.

  Hes not dead? No. Agnes hesitated. I knew he was the Ghost, she began. But then I saw he couldnt be.

  Ah, said Granny. Believed the evidence of your own eyes, did you? In a place like this?

  One of the stage-hands just told me they chased him up on to the roof and then down into the street and beat him to death!

  Oh, well, said Granny, youll never get anywhere if you believe what you hear. What do you know?

  What do you mean, what do I know?

  Dont try cleverness on me, miss. Agnes looked at Grannys expression, and knew when to fold. I know hes the Ghost, she said. Right.

  But I can see that he isnt.

  Yes?

  And I know. . . Im pretty sure he doesnt mean any harm.

  Good. Well done. Walter might not know his right from his left, but he does know his right from his wrong. Granny rubbed her hands together. Well, were already home and looking for a clean towel, eh?

  What? You havent solved anything!

  Course we have. We know that it wasnt Walter what done the murders, so now we just have to find out who it was. Easy.

  Wheres Walter now?

  Nannys got him somewhere.

  Shes all by herself?

  I told you, shes got Walter.

  I meant. . . well, hes a bit strange.

  Only where it shows. Agnes sighed, and started to say that it wasnt her problem. And realized it was useless even to try. The knowledge sat like a smug intruder in her mind. Whatever it was, it was her problem. All right, she said. Ill help you if I can, because Im here. But afterwards. . . thats it! Afterwards, youll leave me alone. Promise?

  Certainly.

  Well. . . all right, then. . . Agnes stopped. Oh, no, she said. That was too easy. I dont trust you.

  Dont trust me? said Granny. Youre saying you dont trust me?

  Yes. I dont. Youll find a way to wriggle around it.

  I never wriggle, said Granny. Its Nanny Ogg who thinks we ought to have a third witch. I reckon lifes difficult enough without some girl cluttering up the place just because she thinks she looks good in a pointy hat. There was a pause. Then Agnes said, Im not falling for that one, either. Its where you say Im too stupid to be a witch and I say, oh no Im not, and you end up winning again. Id rather be someone elses voice than some old witch with no friends and having everyone frightened of me and being nothing more than just a bit cleverer than other people and not doing any real magic at all. . . Granny put her head on one side. Seems to me youre so sharp you might cut yourself, she said. All right. When its all over, Ill let you go your own way. I wont stop you. Now show me the way to Mr Buckets office. . . Nanny smiled her jolly-wrinkled-old-apple smile. Now, you just hand it over, Walter, she said. No harm in letting me see it, is there? Not old Nanny.

  Cant see it till its finished!

  Well, now, said Nanny, hating herself for dropping the atom bomb, Im sure your main wouldnt want to hear that youve been a bad boy, would she? Expressions floated over Walters waxen features as he struggled with several ideas at once. Finally, without a word, he thrust the bundle at her, his arms trembling with tension. Theres a good boy, said Nanny. She glanced at the first few pages, and then moved them nearer to the light. Hmm. She treadled the harmonium for a while and played a few notes with her left hand. They represented most of the musical notes she knew how to read. It was a very simple little theme, such as might be picked out on the keyboard with one finger. Hey. . . Her lips moved as she read the narrative. Well now, Walter, she said, isnt this a sort of opera about a ghost who lives in an opera house? She turned a page. Very smart and debonair, he is. Hes got a secret cave, I see. . .

  She played another short riff. Catchy music, too. She read on, occasionally saying things like Well, well and Lawks. Every now and again shed give Walter an appraising look. I wonder why the Ghost wrote this, Walter? she said, after a while. Quiet sort of chap, aint he? Put it all into his music. Walter stared at his feet. Theres going to be a lot of trouble Mrs Ogg.

  Oh, me and Granny will sort it all out, said Nanny. Its wrong to tell lies, said Walter. Probably, said Nanny, whod never let it worry her up to now. It wouldnt be right for our mum to lose her job Mrs Ogg.

  It wouldnt be right, no. The feeling drifted over Nanny that Walter was trying to put across some sort of message. Er. . . what sort of lies would it be wrong to tell, Walter? Walters eyes bulged. Lies. . . about things you see Mrs Ogg! Even if you did see them! Nanny thought it was probably time t
o present the Oggish point of view. Its all right to tell lies if you dont think lies, she said. He said our mum would lose her job and Id be locked up if I said Mrs Ogg!

  Did he? Which “he” was he?

  The Ghost Mrs Ogg!

  I reckon Granny ought to have a good look at you, Walter, said Nanny. I reckon your minds all tangled up like a ball of string whats been dropped. She pedalled the harmonium thoughtfully. Was it the Ghost that wrote all this music, Walter?

  Its wrong to tell lies about the room with the sacks in it Mrs Ogg! Ah, thought Nanny. Thatd be down here, would it?

  He said I wasnt to tell anyone!

  Who did?

  The Ghost Mrs Ogg!

  But youre- Nanny began, and then tried another way. Ah, but I aint anyone, she said. Anyway, if you was to go to this room with the sacks and I was to follow you, that wouldnt be telling anyone, would it? It wouldnt be your fault if some ole woman followed you, would it? Walters face was an agony of indecision but, erratic though his thinking might have been, it was no match for Nanny Oggs meretricious duplicity. He was up against a mind that regarded truth as a reference point but certainly not as a shackle. Nanny Ogg could think her way through a corkscrew in a tornado without touching the sides. Anyway, its all right if its me, she added for good measure. In fact, he probly meant to say “except for Mrs Ogg”, only he forgot. Slowly, Walter reached out and picked up a candle. Without saying a word he walked out of the door and into the damp darkness of the cellars. Nanny Ogg followed him, her boots making squelching noises in the mud. It didnt seem like much of a distance. As far as Nanny could work out they were no longer under the Opera House, but it was hard to be sure. Their shadows danced around them and they walked through other rooms, even more dark and dripping than the ones theyd been in. Walter stopped in front of a pile of timber that glistened with rot, and pulled a few of the spongy planks aside. There were some sacks neatly piled. Nanny kicked one, and it broke. In the flickering candlelight all that she could really see were sparkles of light as the cascade poured out, but there was no mistaking the gentle metallic scraping of lots of money. Lots and lots of money. Enough money

  to suggest very clearly that it belonged to either a thief or a publisher, and there didnt seem to be any books around. Whats this, Walter?

  Its the Ghosts money Mrs Ogg! There was a square hole in the opposite corner of the room. Water glinted a few inches below. Beside the hole were half a dozen containers of various sorts-old biscuit tins, broken bowls and the like. There was a stick, or possibly a dead shrub, in each one. And those, Walter? What are those?

  Rose bushes Mrs Ogg!

  Down here? But nothing could gr- Nanny stopped. She squelched over to the pots. Theyd been filled with muck scraped from the floor. The dead stems glistened with slime. Nothing could grow down here, of course. There was no light. Everything that grew needed something else to feed on. And. . . she moved the candle closer, and sniffed the fragrance. Yes. It was subtle, but it was there. Roses in darkness. Well, my word, Walter Plinge, she said. Always one for the surprises, you are. Books were piled on Mr Buckets desk. What youre doing is wrong, Granny Weatherwax, said Agnes from the doorway. Granny glanced up. Wrong as living other peoples lives for them? she said. S matter of fact, theres something even worse than that, which is living other peoples lives for yourself. That kind of wrong? Agnes said nothing. Granny Weatherwax couldnt know. Granny turned back to the books. Anyway, this only looks wrong. Appearances is deceivin. You just pay attention to watching the corridor, madam. She riffled through the bits of torn envelope and scribbled notes that seemed to be the Opera Houses equivalent of proper accounts. It was a mess. In fact, it was more than a mess. It was far too much of a mess to be. a real mess, because a real mess has occasional bits of coherence, bits of what might be called random order. Rather, it was the kind of erratic mess that suggested that someone had set out to be messy. Take the account books. They were full of tiny rows and columns, but someone hadnt thought it worthwhile to invest in lined paper and had handwriting that wandered a bit. There were forty rows on the left-hand side but only thirty-six by the time they reached the other side of the page. It was hard to spot because of the way your eyes watered. What are you doing? said Agnes, tearing her gaze away from the corridor. Amazin, said Granny. Some things is entered twice! And I reckon theres a page here where someones added the month and taken away the time of day!