Maskerade (33 page)

‘But she was there!'

‘A ghost, eh?' said André sarcastically.

Agnes backed away.

There is something about the light of a lamp held lower than someone's face. The shadows are wrong. They fall into unfortunate places. Teeth seem more prominent. Agnes came to realize that she was alone
in a room in suspicious circumstances with a man whose face suddenly looked a lot more unpleasant than it had before.

‘I suggest,' he said, ‘that you get back to the stage right now, yes? That would be the very best thing you could do. And don't meddle in things that don't concern you. You've done too much as it is.'

The fear hadn't drained out of Agnes, but it had found a space in which to metamorphose into anger.

‘I don't have to put up with that! For all I know,
you
might be the Ghost!'

‘Really?
I
was told that Walter Plinge was the Ghost,' said André. ‘How many people did you tell? And now it turns out that he's dead …'

‘No, he's not!'

It was out before she could stop it. She'd said it merely to wipe the sneer off his face. This happened. But the expression that replaced it was no improvement.

A floorboard creaked.

They both turned.

There was a hat-stand in the corner, next to a bookcase. There were a few coats and scarves hanging from it. It was surely only the way that the shadows fell that made it look, from this angle, like an old woman. Or …

‘Damn floors,' said Granny, fading into the foreground. She stepped away from the coats.

As Agnes said, later: it wasn't as though she'd been invisible. She'd simply become part of the
scenery until she put herself forward again; she was there, but not
there
. She didn't stand out at all. She was as unnoticeable as the very best of butlers.

‘How did you get in?' said André. ‘I looked all round the room!'

‘Seein' is believin',' said Granny, calmly. ‘Of course, the trouble is that believin' is also seein', and there's been too much of that round here lately. Now, I know you ain't the Ghost … so what are you, to be sneaking around in places where you shouldn't be?'

‘I could ask you the same quest—'

‘Me? I'm a witch, and
I'm pretty good at it
.'

‘She's, er, from Lancre. Where I come from,' Agnes mumbled, trying to look at her feet.

‘Oh? Not the one who wrote the book?' said André. ‘I've heard people talking about—'

‘No! I'm much worse than her, understand?'

‘She is,' mumbled Agnes.

André gave Granny a long look, like a man weighing up his chances. He must have decided that they were bobbing along the ceiling.

‘I … hang around in dark places looking for trouble,' he said.

‘Really? There's a nasty name for people like that,' snapped Granny.

‘Yes,' said André. ‘It's “policeman”.'

Nanny Ogg climbed out of the cellars, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. Musicians and singers were still milling around, uncertain about what was going to happen next. The Ghost had had the decency to be
chased and killed during the interval. In theory that meant there was no reason why there shouldn't be a third act, as soon as Herr Trubelmacher had scoured the nearby pubs and dragged the orchestra back. The show must go on.

Yes, she thought, it has to go on. It's like the build-up to a thunderstorm … no … it's more like making love. Yes. That was a far more Oggish metaphor. You put everything you've got into it, so sooner or later there's a point where it's got to go on, because you can't imagine stopping. The stage manager could dock a couple of dollars from their wages and they'd still go on, and everyone knew it. And they would still go on.

She reached a ladder and climbed slowly into the flies.

She hadn't been certain. She needed to be certain now.

The fly loft was empty. She walked carefully along the catwalk until she was over the auditorium. The buzz of the audience came through the ceiling beneath her, slightly muffled.

Light shone up at the point where the thick cable for the chandelier disappeared into the hole. She stepped out over the creaking trapdoor and peered down.

Terrific heat almost frizzled her hair. A few yards below her hundreds of candles were burning.

‘Dreadful if that lot fell down,' she said quietly. ‘I 'spect this place'd go up like a haystack …'

She let her gaze travel up and up the cable to the point, at just about waist-height, where it was
half-cut through. You'd never see it, if you weren't expecting to find it.

Then her gaze dropped again, and moved across the gloomy, dusty floor until it found something half-hidden in the dust.

Behind her, a shadow among the shadows rose to its feet, balanced itself carefully, and started to run.

‘I knows about policemen,' said Granny. ‘They've got big helmets and big feet and you can see them a mile off. There's a couple lurching around backstage. Anyone can see
they're
policemen. You don't look like one.' She turned the badge over and over in her hands. ‘I ain't happy with the idea of
secret
policemen,' she said. ‘Why do you need secret policemen?'

‘Because,' said André, ‘sometimes you have secret criminals.'

Granny almost smiled. ‘That's a fact,' she said. She peered at the small engraving on the back of the badge. ‘Says here “Cable Street Particulars” …'

‘There aren't many of us,' said André. ‘We've only just started. Commander Vimes said that, since we can't do anything about the Thieves' Guild and the Assassins' Guild, we'd better look for other crimes. Hidden crimes. That need Watchmen with … different skills. And I can play the piano quite well …'

‘What kind of skills have that troll and that dwarf got?' said Granny. ‘Seems to me the only thing they're really good at is standing around looking obvious and stupi— Hah! Yes …'

‘Right. And they didn't even need much training,'
said André. ‘Commander Vimes says they're the most obvious policemen anyone could think of. Incidentally, Corporal Nobbs has got some papers to prove he's a human being.'

‘Forged?'

‘I don't think so.'

Granny Weatherwax put her head on one side. ‘If your house was on fire, what's the first thing you'd take out of it?'

‘Oh,
Granny
—' Agnes began.

‘Hmm. Who set fire to it?' said André.

‘You're a policeman, right enough.' Granny handed him his badge. ‘You come to arrest poor Walter?' she said.

‘I know he didn't murder Dr Undershaft. I was watching him. He was trying to unblock the privies all afternoon—'

‘I've had proof that Walter isn't the Ghost,' said Agnes.

‘I was almost sure it was Salzella,' said André. ‘I know he creeps off to the cellars sometimes and I'm sure he's stealing money. But the Ghost has been seen when Salzella is perfectly visible. So now I think—'

‘Think? Think?' said Granny. ‘Someone thinking around here at last? How'd you recognize the Ghost, Mister Policeman?'

‘Well … he's got a mask on …'

‘Really? Now say it again, and
listen
to what you say. Good grief! You can
recognize
him because he's got a
mask
on? You recognize him because you don't know who he is? Life isn't neat! Whoever said there's only one Ghost?'

*  *  *

The figure ran through the shadows of the fly loft, cloak billowing around it. Nanny Ogg was outlined against the light, peering down.

She said, without turning her head: ‘Hello, Mr Ghost. Come back for your saw, have you?'

Then she darted around behind the cable until she faced the shadow. ‘Millions of people knows I'm up here! You wouldn't hurt a little old lady, would you? Oh, dear … me poor old heart!'

She keeled over backwards, hitting the floor hard enough to make the cable swing.

The figure hesitated. Then it took a length of thin rope from a pocket and advanced cautiously towards the fallen witch. It knelt down, wound an end of the rope around each hand, and leaned forward.

Nanny's knee came up sharply.

‘Feels a lot better now, mister,' she said, as he reared backwards.

She scrambled up again and grabbed the saw.

‘Come back to finish it, eh?' she said, waving the implement in the air. ‘Wonder how you'd blame
that
on Walter! Make you happy, would it, the whole place burning down?'

The figure, moving awkwardly, backed away as she advanced. Then it turned, lurched along the wobbling catwalk and disappeared into the gloom.

Nanny pounded after him and saw the figure climbing down a ladder. She looked around quickly, grabbed a rope to slide after him, and heard a pulley somewhere above start to clatter.

She descended, skirts billowing around her.
When she was about halfway down, a bunch of sandbags went upwards past her in a hurry.

As she rattled onwards she saw, between her boots, someone struggling with the trapdoor to the cellars.

She landed a few feet away, still holding the rope.

‘Mr Salzella?'

Nanny stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a whistle that could have melted ear-wax.

She let go of the rope.

Salzella glanced up at her as he raised the trapdoor, and then saw the shape dropping out of the roof.

One hundred and eighty pounds of sandbag hit the door, slamming it shut.

‘Watch out!' said Nanny, cheerfully.

Bucket waited nervously in the wings. Unnecessarily nervously, of course. The Ghost was dead. There couldn't be anything to worry about. People said they'd
seen
him killed, although they were, Bucket had to admit, a bit hazy on the actual details.

Nothing to worry about.

Not a thing.

Nothing whatsoever in any way.

Everything was absolutely nothing to worry about in any way.

He ran a finger around the inside of his collar. It hadn't been such a bad life in wholesale cheese. The most you had to worry about was one of poor old Reg Plenty's trouser buttons in the Farmhouse Nutty and the time young Weevins minced his
thumb in the stirring machine and it was only by luck they happened to be doing strawberry yoghurt at the time—

A figure loomed up beside him. He clutched at a curtain for support and then turned to see, with relief, the majestic and reassuring stomach of Enrico Basilica. The tenor looked magnificent in a huge cockerel costume, complete with giant beak, wattles and comb.

‘Ah, señor,' Bucket burbled. ‘Very impressive, may I say.'

‘Si,' said a muffled voice from somewhere behind the beak, as other members of the company hurried past on to the stage.

‘May I say how sorry I am about all that business earlier. I can assure you that it doesn't happen every night, ahahah …'

‘Si?'

‘Probably just high spirits, ahaha …'

The beak turned towards him. Bucket backed away.

‘Si!'

‘ … yes … well, I'm glad you're so understanding …'

Temperamental, he thought, as the tenor strode on to the stage and the overture to Act Three drifted to its close. They're like that, the real
artistes
. Nerves stretched like rubber bands, I expect. It's just like waiting for the cheese, really. You can get really edgy waiting to see whether you've got half a ton of best blue-vein or just a vat full of pig food. It's probably like that when you've got an aria working its way up—

‘Where'd he go? Where'd he go?'

‘What? Oh … Mrs Ogg …'

The old woman waved a saw in front of his face. It was not, in Mr Bucket's current state of mental tension, a helpful gesture.

He was suddenly surrounded by other figures, equally conducive to multiple exclamation marks.

‘Perdita? Why aren't you on stage … oh, Lady Esmerelda, I didn't see you there, of course if you want to come backstage you only have to—'

‘Where's Salzella?' said André.

Bucket looked around vaguely. ‘He was here a few minutes ago … That is,' he said, pulling himself together, ‘
Mr
Salzella is probably attending to his duties somewhere which, young man, is more than I can say for—'

‘I demand you stop the show
now
,' said André.

‘Oh, you do, do you? And by what authority, may I ask?'

‘He's been sawing through the rope!' said Nanny.

André pulled out a badge. ‘This!'

Bucket looked closely. ‘“Ankh-Morpork Guild of Musicians member 1244”?'

André glared at him, then at the badge, and started to pat his pockets urgently. ‘No! Blast, I know I had the other one a moment ago … Look, you've got to clear the theatre, we've got to search it, and that means—'

‘Don't stop the show,' said Granny.

‘I won't stop the show,' said Bucket.

‘'cos I reckon he'd like to see the show stopped. The show must go on, eh? Isn't that what you
believe? Could he have got out of the building?'

‘I sent Corporal Nobbs to the stage-door and Sergeant Detritus is in the foyer,' said André. ‘When it comes to standing in doorways, they're among the best.'

‘Excuse me, what's happening?' said Bucket.

‘He could be anywhere!' said Agnes. ‘There're hundreds of hiding-places!'

‘Who?' said Bucket.

‘How about these cellars everyone talks about?' said Granny.

‘Where?'

‘There's only one entrance,' said André. ‘He's not stupid.'

‘He can't get into the cellars,' said Nanny. ‘He ran off! Probably in a cupboard somewhere by now!'

‘No, he'll stay where there's crowds,' said Granny. ‘That's what I'd do.'

‘What?' said Bucket.