As you wish. The gold is now in your vaults.
‘You mean that it will shortly be in our vaults,’ said Downey.
No. It has always been in your vaults. We know this because we have just put it there.
Downey watched the empty hood for a moment, and then without shifting his gaze he reached out and picked up the speaking tube.
‘Mr Winvoe?’ he said, after whistling into it. ‘Ah. Good. Tell me, how much do we have in our vaults at the moment? Oh, approximately. To the nearest million, say.’ He held the tube away from his ear for a moment, and then spoke into it again. ‘Well, be a good chap and check anyway, will you?’
He hung up the tube and placed his hands flat on the desk in front of him.
‘Can I offer you a drink while we wait?’ he said.
Yes. We believe so.
Downey stood up with some relief and walked over to his large drinks cabinet. His hand hovered over the Guild's ardent and valuable tantalus, with its labelled decanters of Mur, Nig, Trop and Yksihw.[3]
‘And what would you like to drink?’ he said, wondering where the Auditor kept its mouth. His hand hovered for just a moment over the smallest decanter, marked Nosiop.
We do not drink.
‘But you did just say I could offer you a drink… ’
Indeed. We judge you fully capable of performing that action.
‘Ah.’ Downey's hand hesitated over the whisky decanter, and then he thought better of it. At that point, the speaking tube whistled.
‘Yes, Mr Winvoe? Really? Indeed? I myself have frequently found loose change under sofa cushions, it's amazing how it mou… No, no, I wasn't being… Yes, I did have some reason to… No, no blame attaches to you in any… No, I could hardly see how it… Yes, go and have a rest, what a good idea. Thank you.’
He hung up the tube again. The cowl hadn't moved.
‘We will need to know where, when and, of course, who,’ he said, after a moment.
The cowl nodded. The location is not on any map. We would like the task to be completed within the week. This is essential. As for the who…
A drawing appeared on Downey's desk and in his head arrived the words: Let us call him the Fat Man.
‘Is this a joke?’ said Downey.
We do not joke.
No, you don't, do you, Downey thought. He drummed his fingers.
‘There are many who would say this… person does not exist,’ he said.
He must exist. How else could you so readily recognize his picture? And many are in correspondence with him.
‘Well, yes, of course, in a sense he exists…’
In a sense everything exists. It is cessation of existence that concerns us here.
‘Finding him would be a little difficult.’
You will find persons on any street who can tell you his approximate address.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Downey, wondering why anyone would call them ‘persons’. It was an odd usage. ‘But, as you say, I doubt that they could give a map reference. And even then, how could the… the Fat Man be inhumed? A glass of poisoned sherry, perhaps?’
The cowl had no face to crack a smile.
You misunderstand the nature of employment, it said in Downey's head.
He bridled at this. Assassins were never employed. They were engaged or retained or commissioned, but never employed. Only servants were employed.
‘What is it that I misunderstand, exactly?’ he said.
We pay. You find the ways and means.
The cowl began to fade.
‘How can I contact you?’ said Downey.
We will contact you. We know where you are. We know where everyone is.
The figure vanished. At the same moment the door was flung open to reveal the distraught figure of Mr Winvoe, the Guild Treasurer.
‘Excuse me, my lord, but I really had to come up!’ He flung some discs on the desk. ‘Look at them!’
Downey carefully picked up a golden circle. It looked like a small coin, but -
‘No denomination!’ said Winvoe. ‘No heads, no tails, no milling! It's just a blank disc! They're all just blank discs!’
Downey opened his mouth to say, ‘Valueless?’ He realized that he was half hoping that this was the case. If they, whoever they were, had paid in worthless metal then there wasn't even the glimmering of a contract. But he could see this wasn't the case. Assassins learned to recognize money early in their careers.
‘Blank discs,’ he said, ‘of pure gold.’
Winvoe nodded mutely.
‘That,’ said Downey, ‘will do nicely.’
‘It must be magical!’ said Winvoe. ‘And we never accept magical money!’
Downey bounced the coin on the desk a couple of times. It made a satisfyingly rich thunking noise. It wasn't magical. Magical money would look real, because its whole purpose was to deceive. But this didn't need to ape something as human and adulterated as mere currency. This is gold, it told his fingers. Take it or leave it.
Downey sat and thought, while Winvoe stood and worried.
‘We'll take it,’ he said.
‘But—’
‘Thank you, Mr Winvoe. That is my decision,’ said Downey. He stared into space for a while, and then smiled. ‘Is Mister Teatime still in the building?’
Winvoe stood back. ‘I thought the council had agreed to dismiss him,’ he said stiffly. ‘After that business with—’
‘Mister Teatime does not see the world in quite the same way as other people,’ said Downey, picking up the picture from his desk and looking at it thoughtfully.
‘Well, indeed, I think that is certainly true.’
‘Please send him up.’
The Guild attracted all sorts of people, Downey reflected. He found himself wondering how it had come to attract Winvoe, for one thing. It was hard to imagine him stabbing anyone in the heart in case he got blood on the victim's wallet. Whereas Mister Teatime…
The problem was that the Guild took young boys and gave them a splendid education and incidentally taught them how to kill, cleanly and dispassionately, for money and for the good of society, or at least that part of society that had money, and what other kind of society was there?
But very occasionally you found you'd got someone like Mister Teatime, to whom the money was merely a distraction. Mister Teatime had a truly brilliant mind, but it was brilliant like a fractured mirror, all marvellous facets and rainbows but, ultimately, also something that was broken.
Mister Teatime enjoyed himself too much. And other people, also.
Downey had privately decided that some time soon Mister Teatime was going to meet with an accident. Like many people with no actual morals, Lord Downey did have standards, and Teatime repelled him. Assassination was a careful game, usually played against people who knew the rules themselves or at least could afford the services of those who did. There was considerable satisfaction in a clean kill. What there wasn't supposed to be was pleasure in a messy one. That sort of thing led to talk.
On the other hand, Teatime's corkscrew of a mind was exactly the tool to deal with something like this. And if he didn't… well, that was hardly Downey's fault, was it?
He turned his attention to the paperwork for a while. It was amazing how the stuff mounted up. But you had to deal with it. It wasn't as though they were murderers, after all…
There was a knock at the door. He pushed the paperwork aside and sat back.
‘Come in, Mister Teatime,’ he said. It never hurt to put the other fellow slightly in awe of you.
In fact the door was opened by one of the Guild's servants, carefully balancing a tea tray.
‘Ah, Carter,’ said Lord Downey, recovering magnificently. ‘Just put it on the table over there, will you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Carter. He turned and nodded. ‘Sorry, sir, I will go and fetch another cup directly, sir.’
‘What?’
‘For your visitor, sir.’
‘What visitor? Oh, when Mister T
eati—’
He stopped. He turned.
There was a young man sitting on the hearthrug, playing with the dogs.
‘Mister Teatime!’
‘It's pronounced Teh-ah-tim-eh, sir,’ said Teatime, with just a hint of reproach. ‘Everyone gets it wrong, sir.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘Pretty well, sir. I got mildly scorched on the last few feet, of course.’
There were some lumps of soot on the hearthrug. Downey realized he'd heard them fall, but that hadn't been particularly extraordinary. No one could get down the chimney. There was a heavy grid firmly in place near the top of the flue.
‘But there's a blocked-in fireplace behind the old library,’ said Teatime, apparently reading his thoughts. ‘The flues connect, under the bars. It was really a stroll, sir.’
‘Really…’
‘Oh, yes, sir.’
Downey nodded. The tendency of old buildings to be honeycombed with sealed chimney flues was a fact you learned early in your career. And then, he told himself, you forgot. It always paid to put the other fellow in awe of you, too. He had forgotten they taught that, too.
‘The dogs seem to like you,’ he said.
‘I get on well with animals, sir.’
Teatime's face was young and open and friendly. Or, at least, it smiled all the time. But the effect was spoiled for most people by the fact that it had only one eye. Some unexplained accident had taken the other one, and the missing orb had been replaced by a ball of glass. The result was disconcerting. But what bothered Lord Downey far more was the man's other eye, the one that might loosely be called normal. He'd never seen such a small and sharp pupil. Teatime looked at the world through a pinhole.
He found he'd retreated behind his desk again. There was that about Teatime. You always felt happier if you had something between you and him.
‘You like animals, do you?’ he said. ‘I have a report here that says you nailed Sir George's dog to the ceiling.’
‘Couldn't have it barking while I was working, sir.’
‘Some people would have drugged it.’
‘Oh.’ Teatime looked despondent for a moment, but then he brightened. ‘But I definitely fulfilled the contract, sir. There can be no doubt about that, sir. I checked Sir George's breathing with a mirror as instructed. It's in my report.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Apparently the man's head had been several feet from his body at that point. It was a terrible thought that Teatime might see nothing incongruous about this.
‘And… the servants…?’ he said.
‘Couldn't have them bursting in, sir.’
Downey nodded, half hypnotized by the glassy stare and the pinhole eyeball. No, you couldn't have them bursting in. And an Assassin might well face serious professional opposition, possibly even by people trained by the same teachers. But an old man and a maidservant who'd merely had the misfortune to be in the house at the time…
There was no actual rule, Downey had to admit. It was just that, over the years, the Guild had developed a certain ethos and members tended to be very neat about their work, even shutting doors behind them and generally tidying up as they went. Hurting the harmless was worse than a transgression against the moral fabric of society, it was a breach of good manners. It was worse even than that. It was bad taste. But there was no actual rule…
‘That was all right, wasn't it, sir?’ said Teatime, with apparent anxiety.
‘It, uh… lacked elegance,’ said Downey.
‘Ah. Thank you, sir. I am always happy to be corrected. I shall remember that next time.’
Downey took a deep breath.
‘It's about that I wish to talk,’ he said. He held up the picture of… what had the thing called him?… the Fat Man?
‘As a matter of interest,’ he said, ‘how would you go about inhuming this… gentleman?’
Anyone else, he was sure, would have burst out laughing. They would have said things like “Is this a joke, sir?” Teatime merely leaned forward, with a curious intent expression.
‘Difficult, sir.’
‘Certainly,’ Downey agreed.
‘I would need some time to prepare a plan, sir,’ Teatime went on.
‘Of course, and—’
There was a knock at the door and Carter came in with another cup and saucer. He nodded respectfully to Lord Downey and crept out again.
‘Right, sir,’ said Teatime.
‘I'm sorry?’ said Downey, momentarily distracted.
‘I have now thought of a plan, sir,’ said Teatime, patiently.
‘You have?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘As quickly as that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ye gods!’
‘Well, sir, you know we are encouraged to consider hypothetical problems.’
‘Oh, yes. A very valuable exercise—’ Downey stopped, and then looked shocked.
‘You mean you have actually devoted time to considering how to inhume the Hogfather?’ he said weakly. ‘You've actually sat down and thought out how to do it? You've actually devoted your spare time to the problem?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. And the Soul Cake Duck. And the Sandman. And Death.’
Downey blinked again. ‘You've actually sat down and considered how to—’
‘Yes, sir. I've amassed quite an interesting file. In my own time, of course.’
‘I want to be quite certain about this, Mister Teatime. You… have… applied… yourself to a study of ways of killing Death?’
‘Only as a hobby, sir.’
‘Well, yes, hobbies, yes, I mean, I used to collect butterflies myself,’ said Downey, recalling those first moments of awakening pleasure at the use of poison and the pin, ‘but—’
‘Actually, sir, the basic methodology is exactly the same as it would be for a human. Opportunity, geography, technique… You just have to work with the known facts about the individual concerned. Of course, with this one such a lot is known.’
‘And You've worked it all out, have you?’ said Downey, almost fascinated.
‘Oh, a long time ago, sir.’
‘When, may I ask?’
‘I think it was when I was lying in bed one Hogswatchnight, sir.’
My gods, thought Downey, and to think that I just used to listen for sleigh bells.
‘My word,’ he said aloud.
‘I may have to check some details, sir. I'd appreciate access to some of the books in the Dark Library. But, yes, I think I can see the basic shape.’
‘And yet… this person… some people might say that he is technically immortal.’
‘Everyone has their weak point, sir.’
‘Even Death?’
‘Oh, yes. Absolutely. Very much so.’
‘Really?’
Downey drummed his fingers on the desk again. The boy couldn't possibly have a real plan, he told himself. He certainly had a skewed mind — skewed? It was a positive helix — but the Fat Man wasn't just another target in some mansion somewhere. It was reasonable to assume that people had tried to trap him before.
He felt happy about this. Teatime would fail, and possibly even fail fatally if his plan was stupid enough. And maybe the Guild would lose the gold, but maybe not.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I don't need to know what your plan is.’
‘That's just as well, sir.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because I don't propose to tell you, sir. You'd be obliged to disapprove of it.’
‘I am amazed that you are so confident that it can work, Teatime.’
‘I just think logically about the problem, sir,’ said the boy. He sounded reproachful.
‘Logically?’ said Downey.
‘I suppose I just see things differently from other people,’ said Teatime.
It was a quiet day for Susan, although on the way to the park Gawain trod on a crack in the pavement. On purpose.
One of the many terrors conjured up by the previous gover
ness's happy way with children had been the bears that waited around in the street to eat you if you stood on the cracks.
Susan had taken to carrying the poker under her respectable coat. One wallop generally did the trick. They were amazed that anyone else saw them.
‘Gawain?’ she said, eyeing a nervous bear who had suddenly spotted her and was now trying to edge away nonchalantly.
‘Yes?’
‘You meant to tread on that crack so that I'd have to thump some poor creature whose only fault is wanting to tear you limb from limb.’
‘I was just skipping—’
‘Quite. Real children don't go hoppity-skip unless they are on drugs.’
He grinned at her.
‘If I catch you being twee again I will knot your arms behind your head,’ said Susan levelly.
He nodded, and went to push Twyla off the swings.
Susan relaxed, satisfied. It was her personal discovery. Ridiculous threats didn't worry them at all, but they were obeyed. Especially the ones in graphic detail.
The previous governess had used various monsters and bogeymen as a form of discipline. There was always something waiting to eat or carry off bad boys and girls for crimes like stuttering or defiantly and aggravatingly persisting in writing with their left hand. There was always a Scissor Man waiting for a little girl who sucked her thumb, always a bogeyman in the cellar. Of such bricks is the innocence of childhood constructed.
Susan's attempts at getting them to disbelieve in the things only caused the problems to get worse.
Twyla had started to wet the bed. This may have been a crude form of defence against the terrible clawed creature that she was certain lived under it.
Susan had found out about this one the first night, when the child had woken up crying because of a bogeyman in the closet.
She'd sighed and gone to have a look. She'd been so angry that she'd pulled it out, hit it over the head with the nursery poker, dislocated its shoulder as a means of emphasis and kicked it out of the back door.
The children refused to disbelieve in the monsters because, frankly, they knew damn well the things were there.
But she'd found that they could, very firmly, also believe in the poker.
Now she sat down on a bench and read a book. She made a point of taking the children, every day, somewhere where they could meet others of the same age. If they got the hang of the playground, she thought, adult life would hold no fears. Besides, it was nice to hear the voices of little children at play, provided you took care to be far enough away not to hear what they were actually saying.
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