‘As it happens,’ said Thomes, pirouetting in front of three mirrors held by junior Apothecaries, ‘my own physiognomy exhibits the best of both.’ He added his grudging stamp of approval. ‘It’ll do.’
Only the weak expect gratitude. Sister Prudence continued unabashed, ‘I have persuaded Mrs Finch that any Apothecary is above sartorial checks, while implying that no Apothecary is likely to go. I have prepared two rickshaws, to disguise your route. Listen and learn, Master. Mr Wynter is too good to be true.’
*
Bolitho’s funeral had encouraged Valourhand to reduce people to chemical elements. Common elements readily attached themselves to each other and viewed a party as a golden opportunity to exchange their trivial energies. The rarer types in her Periodic Table were loners: Bolitho, Salt, Ferensen and Finch. Her judgement on Jones had moved with better acquaintance from dull as hydrogen to a more elusive element. He could be gregarious and distant, energetic and wary, dim but occasionally insightful – whether by accident or design, she could not yet tell. The Apothecaries she placed in the second rank, as both common, in that they were all the same, but rare in their refusal to engage with others.
Oblong she classified as a unique element: Moron. If he provided the promised distraction for her party-night mission, she might review.
Only Tyke ranked in rarity with herself. He would be alone somewhere, nursing, like her, his own agendas.
*
Scry strove to exorcise her theory, but it had taken root too deep, so horrific were the implications. Her love of Wynter had sustained a vigil of centuries. She had sowed the omens for his return; she had moulded the Apothecaries to his purpose. Indeed, the clues in their Hall had appeared to confirm that she alone was the instrument of his resurrection. In The Journeyman’s Gist he had greeted her as his long-lost saviour. Bole and Nona were no more: Wynter had said in so many words.
Lies, lies and more lies, if her theory were true.
The loathsome Bole was manning the tiller, and Nona the pretty, Nona the clever, had been Wynter’s chosen instrument.
If her theory were true.
The man she loved on the surface was the man she loathed beneath.
If her theory were true.
She had not been engaged in the arrangements for the party. If her theory were true, and Bole and Nona jointly held the conductor’s baton, the party must be another play in their wider game.
So she would go. The Clairvoyancy held in its reserve stock a costume for Lazarus Night which she had never brought herself to sell. Only a student of classical myth like Nona would make the connections: the white robe for neutral and implacable judgement; the dagger and whip in the belt for retribution.
She would be Nemesis.
*
‘You look ridiculous,’ said Bomber.
Fanguin did. His foam bosom lurking beneath the white and blue frock, the rural blouse, dainty shoes, the wig, the mask and beribboned bonnet did Bo Peep few favours.
‘It says fancy, it says dress, and it says unrecognisable,’ he pointed out. ‘I pass with flying colours.’
‘“Fancy dress” does not mean “a dress”. Especially not for a corpulent male of a certain age.’
Fanguin pirouetted. ‘Ankle to knee has always been my strong point. This might come in useful too.’ Fanguin flourished Bo Peep’s crook. ‘Anyway, what are you wearing?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re ducking out. Freebies galore and in the Manor – it’s an unmissable piss-up.’
‘Drink needs ballast, Fanguin, as you should know better than most. I’m overseeing the kitchens. I’ve a class of twenty with a multitude of tasks and differing abilities. If the evening’s to work, I’ve got to get the best out of them.’
The material benefits had reconciled Fanguin to his wife’s work for the repulsive Apothecaries, helped by viewing her as an independent contractor whose employment was occasional. But overseeing the Manor kitchens sounded uncomfortably menial and carried a risk of long-term commitment. His doubts about Wynter had also sharpened. There had been no comeback on his reports, as if his revelatory analysis had told Wynter nothing new. Ferensen’s dark narrative was returning to view.
‘You don’t think twice about working for Mr Wynter?’ Fanguin asked casually.
‘You didn’t. Why should I?’
‘I work for the town, where the Mayor is unavoidable,’ replied Fanguin defensively. ‘The point is, we know precious little about him.’
‘He’s one of us – and I thought you cared for orphans, Godfery?’ Bomber’s hands went to her hips, always a bad sign. ‘When Snorkel treated you despicably, I supported you through thick and thin. I knew there’d be one more chance and there was, and you took it. Throw it away now and I’m off.’
Bo Peep sat down, disconsolate. Familiar demons began to whisper: when between the devil and the deep blue sea, best have a drink and hope the answer floats your way.
*
Gorhambury had been allowed a five-minute audience with the Mayor on a private matter.
‘Your Worship, I wonder if I might be excused the full rigour of your party?’
‘Mr Gorhambury, it’s an invitation, not an order.’
‘I know a code is a code, but I don’t feel the Town Clerk’s position is compatible with fancy dress or anonymity. I would feel myself a spy.’ Or a clown, he thought, but did not say.
Wynter rose from his desk. ‘My dear Gorhambury, Council members come as themselves for that very reason. You may too. Consider it done.’
‘Thank you, your Worship. How very understanding.’
Snorkel would have humiliated him. If Wynter were a wolf in sheep’s clothing, the clothing could hardly be more attractive. He walked home with jaunty step, wondering whether to give his polka-dot tie an outing.
*
Orelia’s admiration for Miss Trimble, the School Porter, had deepened. Managing children en masse demanded application and patience. One regime did not fit all. Some relished the experience as an adventure; others, uprooted from their homes, languished.
More than a month had passed without a move from Wynter, but she knew it would come. On the evidence of past history, only the young with growing cells could be melded successfully in the mixing-point with other life-forms. Had adults been suitable, Wynter would have used them in the Eleusians’ first age. Bole would know that with Social Services, computerised records and street cameras you could no longer trawl cities for orphans and remain undetected. They would need the home-grown.
Ferensen had tried to dissuade her, but, for better or worse, it was time to face her would-be killers and the Unrecognisable Party would get her close. Her first stop therefore: the ottoman in the basement of Baubles & Relics which housed the Roc family costume collection.
*
The Mance slept during the day in an abandoned lean-to in Augean Alley. By night he wandered, noting and memorising highways and byways. He had not been back to town since his immersion in the mixing-point centuries earlier.
He located the property described by Tyke as an ‘ally’s home’, only to find it deserted. He caught the scent of enemies too, including the Fury-woman who had killed his friends and destroyed his home with her infernal arrows. Near the prison, he caught the iron smell of the torturer of animals who lived by a bend in the river. He read the invitation on the municipal noticeboard.
Rotherweird had fallen under Wynter’s spell once more.
To protect or attack? That was one question.
The other engaged his divided being:
Now what to do,
Four legs or two?
*
Valourhand had taken to dropping off notes for Oblong at 3 Artery Lane as if his actual company were unbearable. Predictably peremptory in tone, they had the virtue of precision. Take the latest:
Enclosed is how you may divert the guards at the Apothecaries’ research facility on the night of the Unrecognisable Party, 7 p.m. precisely. T
he building is 117 paces south-southwest from the Hall. If you don’t show up, I’ll do my best alone, but expect to be arrested, &c. I’m assuming you’re not dim enough to be a party animal and prefer to be useful.
Oblong had been in a quandary about the party. He had felt isolated at Slickstone’s reception and hated the thought of dressing up, but he was the town’s only historian and nothing bettered first-hand observation. The problem of costume decided him: the invitation prohibited the use of Great Race costumes to preserve anonymity, and he had no other. Like it or not, he had another Valourhand rendezvous to look forward to.
3
Return of the Natives
Finch arrived at the South Gatehouse at dusk. The sentry, sporting an unfamiliar armband, extended a cordial greeting. ‘Mr Finch – long time, no see.’
Finch improvised with a half-truth. ‘I got caught by the quake. A tower went up and I went down.’
Recent events had raised credulity levels. Since the Herald was barred from the hustings, Finch would have been in town – and there was a circular gap at the base of the tower, so why not?
‘We’ve a new Mayor, Mr Finch, and monsters have been on the loose. The evidence points to those effing countrysiders. Even the New Year mechanicals were infected with creatures. Which makes it puzzling as to why Mr Wynter has asked them tonight.’
Finch played dumb. ‘Asked them to what tonight?’
‘His Unrecognisable Party – it starts at seven. It’s at the Manor – Mr Wynter has taken up residence there. Can you imagine not having the first idea who you’re talking to?’ The sentry ushered Finch into the Gatehouse. ‘This may sound kinky, Mr Finch, but orders are orders. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to blindfold me, seeing as we’ve got to guarantee their anonymity should any come.’
The sentry presented a strip of dark cloth and Finch obliged. While the man struggled to get his bearings, Finch pocketed a voice detection device from the basket by the door.
He took the sentry by the arm and led him to his stool. ‘If I may ask a favour in return?’ he said. ‘Please don’t tell the Mayor I’m back. I’d like to surprise him.’
‘Well, my orders are to report your return . . .’
‘Heralds of all people should surely announce themselves,’ replied Finch.
‘As you put it that way, mum’s the word.’
Finch wrapped a scarf around his face. As he headed through empty streets to Escutcheon Place, unease laced with guilt assailed him. Hostile forces had seized the town, while he had dawdled at the Ferdys’. His ancestors would have put their constitutional duties before the pleasures of chicken farming.
*
Orelia arrived at the South Gate in a large coat, face masked by a scarf and hair held back in a functional countryside hat. The blindfolded guard delivered his rehearsed text like an automaton.
‘Whoever you are, dear countrysider, do not speak. You’re to enjoy the anonymity afforded to all party guests. Take a voice distortion device from the table in the room behind me and place it beneath the tongue. Change there too, if you haven’t changed already. I assure you I’m in the dark.’
Orelia ignored the instruction to change, but did take a device. The Golden Mean was deserted, its shops closed and windows curtained or shuttered. The bicycle rickshaw bays had emptied. Glancing back, she glimpsed an old man standing stock-still beyond the bridge on the Island Field. The white hair and grizzled beard suggested great age, as did the supporting staff, but the figure’s upright stance exuded dignity and strength of purpose. It brought to mind Cinquecento statues she had once seen: Christ dressed as beggar, or John the Baptist perhaps.
She turned away and followed the Golden Mean. The front window of Baubles & Relics came as a shock. Her beloved shop looked like a plundered tomb: bare but for a small pile of rejects in the centre of the floor. Once inside, she drew the curtains before lighting a small fire. She kept the gas-lights low.
Valourhand and Oblong had left the ledger on her kneehole desk. The sales had been meticulously recorded and the takings left in a cash-box in the drawer with an explanatory note in two hands:
Hope margin of 22.23% satisfactory. V.V.
and beneath:
Doubled the money on the stuffed parrot! J.O.
Thank God for friends. She descended to the basement, rummaged through the costumes and made a quick decision in tune with her solitary state. She tied back her hair, whitened her cheeks, changed and found a suitably neutral mask.
She would go as a nun.
4
Visceral Reactions
Doom’s Tocsin chimed the half-hour: 5.30 p.m. and imminently party-time. From her rooftop refuge, Valourhand watched the town stir into life like an ants’ nest kicked by a boot. Rickshaws scurried to and fro, their routes haphazard but all terminating at the gates of the Manor. Modified umbrellas with long draped sides concealed guests from their doorways to the waiting rickshaws.
Guests arrived in such a state of excitement that few heard the rebuke from a disembodied voice in the skies above the Manor, and those who did dismissed it as another prank by an unhinged Town Crier:
‘Unrecognisable you are,
Monstrous your children may become,
Go dance like planets round a star:
Only the deaf to sense are truly dumb.’
Valourhand gambled that while the rickshaw drivers might look behind as well as forward, they would hardly look upwards, and there were no pedestrians in sight. The greater risk lay in the rickety beams and balconies of The Understairs, hitherto rarely visited in her aerial rambles.
Conditions were good, clear but not cold enough yet for ice to form. She reached the Square which held the Hall of the Apothecaries without incident. Predictably, the Guild had ignored the curfew within the curtilage of its own buildings. Sentries were stationed at each end and along the sides of the main research building. Every ten minutes they marched up and down, spinning on their heels like well-oiled mechanicals.
The distance from surrounding buildings and the absence of chimneys ruled out use of the snag-line, leaving her no choice but to pole herself up from street level. Everything depended on Oblong’s diversion. But where the hell was he?
The answer: gangling down Hamelin Way two minutes behind schedule. Hopefully his clueless appearance would not provoke suspicion.
Oblong tried not to look as if he were looking, but snatched upward glances revealed no sign of Valourhand. She would hardly be wearing fluorescent colours, but a glimpse would have been reassuring. He chose the sentry at the rear: he had the bleakest view and would probably be the most junior, a key element in his strategy. He had prepared for the mission by stalking the streets to catch the rare moments when Apothecaries conversed with each other. ‘Brother’ and ‘Sister’ had been their invariable mode of address.
‘Evening, Brother,’ he said with breezy bonhomie.
Oblong had failed to factor in the simple fact that Apothecaries only engaged fraternally with each other.
The sentry’s withering look translated as I’m no brother of yours.
‘I have a problem,’ continued Oblong.
He won a second withering look: Clearly you do.
‘Um . . . I found something which might interest the Guild.’
Valourhand fidgeted in irritation. Stop gassing and play your card.
At last Oblong had drawn a flicker of interest. The sentry extended a gloved hand. Show me, the gesture said.
‘It’s precious,’ whispered Oblong. ‘I need more than one of you, for security’s sake.’
The sentry summoned his nearest colleague, they exchanged whispers and the same hand extended.
‘It’s precious,’ Oblong repeated, ‘and also potentially dangerous.’
After more whispering, the second sentry moved to the front of the building and called over another colleague, who had a superior air.
Valourhand cursed. The fourth sentry, still at his post, was blocking her chosen route, and any atte
mpt to lure him away would be a move too many. She scuttled across to the other side, keeping the pole down as best she could.
Oblong produced a tiny envelope and tipped a berry, waxy white with pink cheeks, into the palm of his hand. Black hats dipped, rims touching. It could be 1605, mused Oblong, with Catesby, Fawkes and Rookwood in earnest discussion. How many barrels of gunpowder would they need, and where best to place them? Over the hats he glimpsed a slim figure running across the open space. It planted a pole and disappeared.
Mission accomplished.
Only something was wrong. The senior Apothecary peered at the berry, then wet his finger and rubbed the skin. The blush disappeared to reveal a berry of viscum album, as common in trees as dandelions in grass.
He grimaced. Bloody Valourhand has set me up! The lead sentry smacked him hard in the face with the flat of his hand. Caught off-guard, he stumbled. A hefty kick took his feet away and he fell hard onto the cobbles.
The sentries chuckled and returned to their posts.
Valourhand watched Oblong limp back down Hamelin Way with a smidgen of sympathy. She allowed time for any suspicions to dissipate. The Apothecaries’ boots resumed their metronomic beat before falling silent. They stood facing outwards.
The three skylights were too dirty to see through. They glowed, but one less intensely than the other two. She pressed her ear to the glass – silence. She tentatively concluded that the building comprised two chambers, one was bigger than the other, and not even Apothecaries worked on Saturday evenings.
She cut the putty from the single pane above the smaller chamber, lifted it with a suction pad, fastened the snag-line to a beam on the inside and made her descent. A glance confirmed her deductions. Gaslights turned low cast a milky light on a bare room, with no Apothecaries in sight.
A workbench held a bottle, a tiny syringe and a short branch whose cut ends had the whiteness of living wood. On a desk, a ledger listed complex measurements of force and distance. Tucked in at the back was a short report in Fanguin’s writing.
Lost Acre Page 21
