The original informer elaborated. ‘The geezer’s mask melds with his face somehow, and the stick is living wood. He’s not talking to anyone and only drinks water.’
Sly hammered the desk with his fist. ‘Call yourself an intelligence service? You’re a shambles. Get a grip!’ He pointed at his most reliable agent. ‘Start with a head count and we’ll take it from there.’
‘I’ve a swaying knight in full armour,’ added a new arrival, ‘and an Einstein-Newton two-faced clone.’
‘No and no,’ said the deputy after checking his lists.
‘Full armour?’ exploded Sly.
‘Actually, boss, it’s the suit from outside your door.’
Sly hammered the table a second time. ‘Get the fuck out there – listen and serve. Report only disloyalty to the Mayor, all right, no common chitchat. And keep an eye on that damned knight.’
As the room emptied, Sly stared at the ceiling. ‘We deserve a pay rise,’ he said.
He had one consolation. All exits had been locked, every window and door. Armed guards were patrolling the first floor and every staircase. The snatch squads were in place.
When the unmasking came, all would be revealed.
In the Great Hall and the adjacent rooms, including the library, partygoers exploited their anonymity. Suspicious spouses pried into lunch hours; would-be investors probed target businesses and Snorkel’s old acolytes explored the new Mayor’s current standing.
Others asked about themselves, including Fanguin, whose stock question – ‘Any idea if Fanguin is here?’ – elicited mostly downbeat reviews.
‘A free piss-up? Of course he’s here.’
‘He’ll be the first to fall over.’
‘I’d put money on that idiot knight.’
Several added that he did not deserve Mrs Fanguin, or her cuisine, and one even blamed the mantoleon’s appearance on his interest in insects.
As Fanguin’s mood darkened, his cocktail intake increased.
Scry was shadowing the knight when a waiter sidled up and whispered through the visor, ‘Tell me who you are and I’ll fix that drink.’
Behind the armoured back, a straining Scry caught only fragmented words.
‘. . . Ona . . . long.’
Nona all along! The bitch must know she was listening. The height did not fit, but Nona had been adept with stilts. The shoulder blades looked to be the weak point, but she must not be caught.
Bide your time, bide your time, she muttered, retreating a little.
Strimmer discovered that Herne had the gazelle-like qualities of the hunted, which only increased her allure. She had given him the slip several times before he cornered her in the library. ‘Fancy a chase tonight?’ His hand strayed to the small of her back as he leaned over and whispered, ‘Or even a rut, Persephone?’
The lightly antlered head gazed doe-eyed at Strimmer. ‘Be at the Pool of Mixed Intentions at midnight,’ replied the metallic singsong voice.
‘Won’t that be a tad cold for what we have in mind?’
‘Cold? You think so?’ Her turn to lean over. ‘Really, Mr Strimmer.’
Finch worked his way to the library for different reasons. Books are acquired for show or for rarity or in hope. Their mere presence on a shelf might tell little, but a well-thumbed page or chapter offers a window to the owner’s soul. Bookplates confirmed that Sir Veronal had created this particular library, a treasure trove of rare first editions, ancient and modern.
A fine marquetry desk had been separated from its chair and pushed to the wall to make room for guests. A solitary book rested dead centre, a pen beside it at a perfect vertical. Its last reader had been fastidious, or the Manor’s cleaner was. Finch glanced at the book shelves, but they were full, with not a single gap. A recent acquisition, he concluded.
A giant cockerel with literary leanings felt incongruous, but Finch opened the book nonetheless. The Elder Edda from the Codex Regius declared the title page. The foreword introduced a collection of poems and prose pieces from Norse myth derived from a twelfth-century manuscript discovered in 1642. The ink on the manuscript dedication looked fresh: To Geryon Wynter from Nona, above the words Caveat Redemptor.
The wordplay on caveat emptor discomforted Finch. The collection had not surfaced until after Wynter’s death, so it must be a recent gift. But who was Nona? And why beware the Redeemer? Orelia’s narrative as relayed by Oblong placed Madge Brown as Bole’s accomplice and co-architect of Wynter’s resurrection. No other candidate came to mind.
‘Of interest?’ asked an unidentifiable mechanical voice.
Finch spun round. Herne faced him.
‘Old books are always of interest.’ He displayed the title page.
‘Do we consider myth part of history?’ asked Herne.
The question put Finch on his guard. Ordinary townsfolk did not think that way. The study of old history was banned, but the reading of myths and legends was not; end of story.
He played along. ‘People believed them once, so perhaps we should.’ He decided to chance his arm: Herne had been fielding questions about Wynter’s fabricated childhood, so she must be close to Wynter. ‘Odd dedication, though – it almost looks as though we should beware of Mr Wynter.’
‘Or Mr Wynter should beware of someone else,’ suggested Herne.
Finch replaced the book.
With a startling fleetness of foot, Herne glided through a knot of guests and out of the library.
Master Thomes found the whole event nauseating. Worse, he had been victimised by trivial people.
‘Weighed down by gravity, Isaac?’
‘Eyes in the back of your head, Albert?’
Music, drink and costumes – not to mention the cost – represented Mammon at its worst. A degenerate blows down a brass tube and everyone swoons. Only the Apothecaries could curb these vices. Black and white, sheep and goats: this is the true moral landscape; no in-betweens.
Thomes did grudgingly concede that his cook had excelled herself. The beef carpaccio with cheese crisp had been delectable. He had consumed five – but then, nobody knew who he was, save the Almighty who would surely overlook one venial sin.
Oblong changed his strategy. He slipped into an inconsequential passage within earshot of the Great Hall and became a suit of armour. He stood stock-still, holding the pommel with both hands by his waist with the sword tip between his feet. He ignored all ribaldry and attempts at conversation. He had chosen to be on call, rather than risk the two-to-one odds of defending the wrong nun. Beneath his shell, the temperature eased and he dozed, despite the social activity all around.
Orelia maintained her vow of silence, helped by the presence of two other near-identical nuns, who made her actions less conspicuous. She had explored the back stairs at the Slickstone party, but this time they were blocked by an armed guard. Waiters and waitresses varied in their movements; some kept to the kitchens, but others diverted to a passage at the back of the Manor before reloading their trays.
She headed backstage, redirected by passing waiters to the Ladies. She followed their instructions, then doubled back. Nobody accosted her and waiters chatted freely in her hearing – nuns could be trusted.
She caught a few tantalising snippets.
‘Can’t wait for the prize-giving.’
‘I’ve got my target.’
‘There’s quite a number.’
A vampire passed by and on impulse, Orelia raised her crucifix. Was role-play taking over, or had she missed her vocation?
The vampire felt a parallel urge to sink her false teeth into the nun’s neck, but she hurried on to see Sly.
‘Maybe your former husband is one of them,’ Sly suggested.
‘He can’t be.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s dry as dust with no imagination and he’s never dressed up in his life. It makes you wonder who Mr Wynter is really after.’
‘Well, you’re about to find out.’
The Precentor’s third cue arriv
ed: three words on a single piece of paper, two for a piece and one for an instrument: Lully’s ‘Gavotte’ and ‘trumpet’. He tapped the shoulder of the nearest trumpeter, who made her way to the gallery, where she sat at the front to one side. The string section duly struck up the dance, while two waiters and waitresses demonstrated its essentials. Lully’s ‘Gavotte’ had a gentle formality which encouraged the audience to join in.
A throng of guests, ushered back from outlying rooms, swept Orelia back to the Great Hall.
‘I don’t suppose you’re allowed to dance?’ said a passing conjurer, moving on when she shook her head.
She took an inconspicuous position close to a curtain and well away from the centre of the room. A jester with an odd forward-leaning posture, as if poised for a tumble, worked himself in front of her. Her backstage reconnaissance had suggested one of the two jesters on view was an unexpected guest. Her apprehension grew.
Wynter did not join the dance but reappeared in the now empty gallery, flanked by a guard and the single trumpeter. Sly sat down behind him.
Orelia sensed the opening of a final Act and the closing of a net. The thought ripped away her flimsy wishful thinking. She had no evidence to deploy against Wynter. Worse, any public accusation would reveal the existence of Rotherweird’s mixing-point – if anyone even believed her, which was improbable when they would find only a solid wall of rock. What a fool she had been to come. Best opposition did not call for petty acts of defiance – she needed to be there at the endgame, whenever that might be, when Wynter would not expect it.
On her tiny balcony Morval Seer was adjusting quickly to a new medium. She had never used pastels before, but oils and watercolours needed too much paraphernalia for this confined space.
Wynter watched her with a frisson of pleasure. Just like the old days.
Downstairs, a passing waiter urged, ‘On the dance floor, please, Mr Cockerel.’
Reluctantly Finch obliged, musing on leadership as he trudged to the Great Hall. Was the wider world any better? Had anyone devised a ladder which encouraged talent and decency to ascend? Consider Rotherweird’s recent helmsmen: Snorkel, Slickstone, Thomes, Strimmer and now Wynter. Only Rhombus Smith, the Headmaster, had talent and decency. Could the first Finch have done more when bequeathing power to the first Mayor all those centuries ago? He doubted it. As a rule, it’s the biggest rat who wins a rat race.
Nearby, a waitress took Einstein by the hand. ‘Come on, Twinkle Toes, give us the light fantastic!’
‘I will not,’ he growled, but a figure dressed as a playing card grabbed him by the arm and whirled him into the dance. He had been press-ganged.
Oblong suffered the same indignity at the hands of a fortune-teller. In a state of near immobility, he raised alternate feet and, when energy reserves allowed, tapped the floor with his sword like a Morris dancer. Through the tiny holes of his bassinet, he glimpsed Bo Peep, displaying more vigour than timing. His temperature, having subsided, began to rise again.
The old man with the thin green staff did not move – would not move, despite being cajoled and almost manhandled. Something in his manner decided the waiters against forcing the issue. Two nuns joined the dance too, but Orelia also stood firm. The jester in front of her stooped out of sight as a waiter passed.
Wynter did not allow the gavotte to drag on. It was time.
The single trumpet sounded.
‘Ladies, gentlemen and whoever else, it’s time to award our costume prizes. I cannot be accused of favouritism, as I have no clue who inhabits them. We have bouquets and magnums of Vlad’s best, six prizes, which I shall announce in reverse order.’
Unease infected the room: Wynter the costume-prize-giver felt as unnatural as a military children’s entertainer. His evident excitement at the exercise and the presence of Sly behind him jarred. Orelia sidled towards an exit and to her alarm, so did the jester. She should have realised that Wynter would have costumed placemen too.
‘The combed cockerel comes sixth. Remove your mask, sir, madam or miss.’
Finch eyed the doorways where armed men had appeared, discreet but strategically placed. Do it with class, he decided.
He opened one arm in a flamboyant gesture and announced while removing his headpiece, ‘I give you a headless chicken.’
Astonished silence gave way to applause and then to wild cheering. They had missed their Herald. Finch blushed; he had never grasped his own popularity.
Wynter squinted as Sly whispered, ‘Take the credit.’
‘It’s good to have you back, Mr Finch,’ he said gracefully.
Sly noted yet again Wynter’s remarkable grasp of town personalities – he had not furnished the Mayor with a physical description of Finch, nor could the Mayor have ever met him.
‘Escutcheon Place could do with some flowers,’ replied Finch with equal grace.
Wynter returned to Sly’s list. ‘Mr Newtonstein,’ he shouted, as if announcing a monster.
An incandescent Thomes pushed away a waitress who offered to assist with his mask. A light titter greeted the unveiling: the Master of the Apothecaries in party gear!
Thomes refused the prize to a mild undercurrent of disapproval, but he did not attempt to leave. His antennae told him more was to come, for Wynter’s face had changed, anticipation giving way to disappointment. Why?
The Mayor’s voice turned surly. ‘Sir Knight,’ he barked.
Oblong did not hear the call, nor had he heard the music stop, or noticed that those around him were standing still. Like a demented mechanical, he continued to tap his sword while raising one foot after the other.
Fanguin, intrigued to know the occupant’s identity, tapped the bassinet with his crook. It rang like a bell and Oblong reeled.
Now or never, thought Scry, and stabbed sharply with her dagger, a backhand blow as she was facing the other way – but Oblong wobbled at the critical moment and the knife glanced harmlessly off his back.
He felt it, though. Spinning round to confront his assailant, his shod heels caught, he lurched forward and crashed to the floor. The ancient leather ties on the bassinet snapped and the helmet rolled away.
‘Evening, all,’ stammered Oblong from his prone position.
Wynter gaped and guests cheered, more in Schadenfreude than appreciation. No entertainment bettered an outsider making a fool of himself.
Wynter’s disappointments continued with the unmasking of Bo Peep. Fanguin cradled the magnum of Vlad’s best whisky like a newborn baby.
Wynter cursed. If only these idiots had played by the rules and declared their costumes! Behind him, Sly recalled the earlier confusion between nuns and Mothers Superior, for he had counted three habits when both pre-party lists had shown only two. He began to hunt them down as Wynter declared the winner of the second prize.
‘The Old Testament prophet – yes, that’s you, sir, with the stick.’
The old man did not move.
Wynter leaned over the balustrade as his interest quickened. ‘Come for your prize, sir – unmask yourself.’
The prophet walked forward to the centre of the Hall. The walk was young, the stance equally so, but the face? Close up, a waiter recoiled: a mask, and yet somehow, not a mask. The furrows and colours had the grotesquery of overstatement: too vivid, too deep – and too waxy.
‘Get candles,’ yelled Wynter, ignoring Sly’s call for restraint.
‘It’s your party, your Worship. Gently does it.’
‘Closer – closer,’ Wynter called.
Waiters held a candle to either side of the old man’s face, with another in front. The guests surged round for a better look. Even the Precentor abandoned his position.
Still the prophet did not move, even when his face began to run and drip.
Orelia watched in horror as rivulets of coloured wax ran from cheeks and forehead, spattering his shoulders like a sconce. Surely not Ferensen? He had insisted he wouldn’t come.
Patches of skin and fine features emerged: high
cheekbones, the outline of an aquiline nose and the bloom of youth. The beautiful boy had come: Tyke, the classical God of Mischief.
Wynter’s face transfigured from disappointment to a savage smile. Only Sly’s advice maintained a degree of composure. ‘Do we know this intruder?’ he cried.
‘No,’ yelled the guests, like a pantomime audience.
The ravaged wax over a glimmer of beauty gave Tyke a near-demonic appearance.
‘He’s a countrysider – a spy – an enemy! He’s prospecting for our weaknesses. He’s counting our numbers,’ Wynter crowed.
The guests backed away. Wynter anticipated danger. Tyke’s mere presence, his peculiar virtuous stillness, must not be allowed to work its influence.
‘Take him away,’ he ordered, but no force was needed. Tyke walked slowly towards the nearest exit.
‘Change of mood needed, your Worship,’ prompted Sly, who had no idea who the human waxwork might be. His capture visibly mattered to his master, but must not mar a hitherto successful evening.
‘And now,’ announced Wynter, striving for calm, ‘the first prize goes to . . . the jester.’
Sly signalled to the Precentor, calling for a burst of music.
Orelia’s mind raced as the wind section delivered a fanfare. Was the jester friend or foe? Each prize-winner to date had been a non-conformist – Fanguin, Oblong, Finch, Tyke and Master Thomes.
The jester, bent low, was edging his way towards the same doorway as Tyke. Orelia weighed the choices, gambled and followed.
But Sly had also seen the jester on the move, with a single nun in tow – the dissident nun, surely. He leaned forward to Wynter’s ear yet again.
‘Correction – we have a joint first prize! The jester and the nun – that nun,’ added Wynter, pointing.
Orelia did not get far.
‘Sorry, sister, you’re going nowhere,’ said the guard, levelling a halberd at her stomach as he turned and unlocked the door for Tyke to pass – only to yelp in pain, drop his halberd and clasp his ankle. The jester, now on all fours, burst through and Orelia elbowed her way after him.
Lost Acre Page 23
