Overtime (25 page)

‘What's a calendar watch?' Guy asked.

‘Um...'

‘Don't worry about it,' Guy added quickly. ‘Look, if you could just hurry up with these ropes ...'

The man leaned forward and whispered. ‘It's OK,' he said, ‘you can tell me, I'm a reporter. Is something going on around here?'

‘Yes,' Guy replied.

The man stared - at least, he stared even more. ‘You mean—'

‘It's a ... a plot of some kind,' Guy said. ‘And I've got to go and tell someone something terribly important, so if you'd just—'

‘Can I come?'

Guy turned his head and stared. ‘You
want
to come?' he said.

‘Sounds to me like there's a story in it,' the man replied. ‘You know, like a scoop or something.'

Guy narrowed his eyes for a moment. ‘Are you from the
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle?'
he asked.

‘You what? I'm from the BBC.'

‘The BBC?' Guy repeated. ‘You mean the British Broadcasting Corporation?'

‘Yes, of course I mean the—'

‘What date was it when you left home this morning?'

The man gave him a look of almost liquid bewilderment. ‘5th April 1994,' he replied. ‘Look, what
is
—'

‘Thank you,' Guy said. ‘Have you nearly finished with that rope?'

‘There,' the man answered, ‘try that.'

Guy flexed his arms and felt his hands come free. He dived forward, snatched up the club sandwich from where it had fallen, and ate it, very quickly.

‘That's
better',
he said. ‘You have no idea how much better I feel now.' He grabbed the breadknife and started sawing through the ropes that constrained his ankles.

‘Don't mention it,' the man said. He had reached into his pocket and taken out a notebook. ‘Now, then,' he said, ‘what's happening?'

Guy cut the last strand of rope, put down the knife, and levered himself gingerly to his feet. ‘Don't worry about it,' he said, ‘it's nothing, really. Just a little—' he searched for the right word - ‘temporary problem. Soon get it sorted out. Have a sausage roll, they're really good. Really good.'

‘No thanks. Look—'

‘Suit yourself,' Guy replied, and he tipped the rest of the plateful into his pocket, shoved a jam tart into his mouth, and started to run. The man tried to follow him, but fell over a packing-case, banged his head and passed out.

This was a pity, because if he hadn't he would have been the only reporter to have witnessed one of the most crucial events in history - in all history, past, present and future. As it was, he came round to find himself fast asleep on a bench in Central Park, with a sore head and a calf-bound copy of
Silas Marner
in his left hand, where his reporter's notebook had been when he fell over.

Some people are just plain unlucky.

 

Guy ran out of the room into what turned out to be a corridor, stopped and looked both ways. Nothing. Nor any indication of which way he should go. He could hear the music, which seemed to be coming from directly above his head. A great deal of help that was.

Being one of those people who automatically turns left unless firmly directed to do otherwise, Guy ran down the left branch of the corridor, and so arrived at a glass fire door, which was locked.

Oh
good
, he thought, I've always wanted to do this.

He picked up a nearby fire extinguisher, ate a sausage roll, and attacked. The glass was much tougher than it looked, but not nearly tough enough, and when Guy had quite finished, he reached through, found the bolt on the other side, drew it back and opened the door. Easy.

Standing on the other side of the door, hands on hips and looking decidedly unfriendly, was La Beale Isoud.

‘There you are,' she said. ‘I've been looking for you everywhere.'

Guy noticed that he was still holding the fire extinguisher, and that he had slightly grazed his hand on the glass. He put the extinguisher down slowly and found a weak smile from somewhere.

‘You have?' he said.

‘Yes,' replied La Beale Isoud. ‘You've got to warn Blondel.'

‘Why can't you do it?'

‘What?'

‘You've got the message,' Guy replied. ‘You probably know what's going on. You tell him.'

‘Don't be
stupid,'
La Beale Isoud replied. ‘You're supposed to be a man, aren't you?'

‘What's that got to do with—'

‘It's probably dangerous,' said La Beale Isoud, fiercely. ‘Are you saying you'd just stand there and leave a defenceless woman to—'

‘All right, all right,' Guy said. ‘You tell me how to find Blondel and I'll give him the message.'

‘He's up there,' said La Beale Isoud, pointing to where the sound of someone singing
Floret Silva Nobilis,
rather well, was coming from, ‘on the stage.'

‘Yes,' Guy replied, ‘thank you, I had actually worked that one out for myself. How exactly am I supposed to—'

‘Go back down the corridor,' La Beale Isoud replied coldly, ‘the way you came. It leads straight out into the wings. I suggest you wait for him to come off stage at the end of the first half.'

‘What a truly brilliant plan,' Guy said. ‘All right, what's the message?'

‘Come on,' said Isoud. ‘Follow me, and I'll tell you as we walk. But for heaven's sake don't
dawdle.'

She turned and trotted briskly away. After a moment's instinctive thought, Guy ran after her and caught her up.

‘I was sitting at home,' said La Beale Isoud, ‘looking at the hyperfax—'

‘What's a—'

‘When the message came through which I couldn't make out. It said,
Beware the one-armed man.
Now even you'll agree that that's a very unusual message to get out of the blue like that.'

Guy ignored the even-you bit. ‘Odd,' he agreed politely. ‘Perhaps it was an advertisement for something.'

‘Please, Mr Goodlet,' Isoud said, ‘don't interrupt. Your untimely flippancy is quite probably your most disagreeable characteristic. I was wondering what on earth this message could possibly mean when - Mr Goodlet, is that gentleman a friend of yours?'

Guy looked up, blinked twice and reached for where his revolver ought to be. Of course, it wasn't there any more.

‘Looking for this?' Pursuivant said. He waggled the revolver tauntingly. Probably out of sheer spite, it went off.

‘Eeek!' said La Beale Isoud, and for the first time Guy noticed that she was wearing - had been wearing - one of those tall and picturesque pointed female headdresses that one sees in illuminated manuscripts. He suppressed a snigger, jumped on Pursuivant, and banged his head hard on the ground.

‘Here we go again,' Pursuivant sighed, and died.

Guy looked down. ‘Damn,' he said, ‘I've killed him. Oh well, can't be helped.' He prised his revolver out of Pursuivant's fingers and slipped it back in its holster. ‘Sorry,' he said, ‘you were saying?'

But La Beale Isoud didn't reply. She was staring at him; no, not so much staring as
looking.

‘Mr
Goodlet!'
she said.

Guy frowned in puzzlement for a moment, and then a light bulb went on inside his head. He got up, retrieved Isoud's perforated headdress and handed it to her.

‘All in a day's work,' he said, smiling.

‘That was very—' Isoud said.

‘Brave?'

‘Yes,' replied La Beale Isoud, with just a touch of irritation. ‘That was very brave of you, Mr Goodlet. You saw that I was in danger and you unhesitatingly ...'

‘Yes,' Guy replied, ‘I know. It's not every chap who'd do that, you know. Anyway, there you were, pondering this message.'

‘Oh yes. I was just wondering what on earth it could mean when another message came over the hyperfax. And do you know what it said?'

‘No.'

‘It said,
Beware the one-legged man,
Mr Goodlet. Well of course, that started me thinking, as you can imagine.'

‘Did it?'

‘And I was just beginning to get an inkling of an idea when a third message came through.
Beware the one-
eyed
man.
So of course I came here as fast as I could.'

‘You did?'

‘Naturally.'

‘Have a sausage roll?'

‘No, thank you, I had tea before I came out. The question is, Mr Goodlet, will we be in time?'

‘Who can say?' Guy replied. ‘In time for what?'

He got the feeling that under normal circumstances, La Beale Isoud would have said something less than complimentary. She didn't, however. How nice.

In front of them was a door marked
Stage Door; No Entry.
On the other side of it, Blondel's voice stopped singing, there was a moment of complete silence, and then a deafening outburst of applause.

‘It's the interval,' Isoud cried. ‘Come on, quickly!'

She pushed the door and, before Guy could stop her, walked through.

‘Isoud!' Guy shouted, but it was too late. Too late to point out what was written on the door.

He hesitated, just for a moment. It wasn't, he told himself, just the fact that he would be delighted to be rid of her; there was also the question of this cryptic message and the mysterious man who, despite his apparently overwhelming disabilities, was perceived to be so dangerous. On the other hand ...

‘Sod it,' he said, and followed.

 

It wasn't a big apple; but to a man with a bad head, brought on by drinking slightly too much mulled ale in the
Three Pilgrims
the night before, it was plenty big enough.

‘Ouch!' said Sir Isaac Newton. He stood up, winced, and looked round for the gardener.

‘George!' he yelled. ‘Come here this instant.'

The gardener, an elderly man with a face that seemed to indicate feeble-minded dishonesty, waddled across from the asparagus bed. He was hiding something behind his back, as usual.

‘Look, George,' said Sir Isaac, ‘didn't I tell you to get those damned apples picked last week, before they fell off the tree and spoiled?'

George looked blank. Everyone, after all, is good at something.

‘Why haven't you picked the apples, George?'

‘Dunno, Master Isaac.'

‘Well,' said Sir Isaac, ‘bloody well pick them now, all right? Before they do somebody a serious injury.'

‘Yes, Master Isaac.'

‘And if anybody wants me, I'll be in my study.'

‘Yes, Master Isaac.'

As soon as Sir Isaac was safely out of sight, George took the bundle out from behind his back, unwrapped it carefully, and looked at it with pleasure.

It was a pigeon. Very dead. Dead for some time. Still, a poor man has to eat, and on the wages Master Newton paid, a pigeon was a pigeon and to hell with minor decomposition. George grinned.

Then the small gate in the wall opened and a young lady came bursting through. She was wearing funny, old-fashioned clothes, like someone out of one of those old stained-glass windows George had helped smash up during the Civil Wars, and she wore a sort of white witch's hat with a hole in it. George frowned, puzzled.

The lady came to a sudden halt and stared at him.

‘Excuse me,' she said. George nodded vigorously. It was just possible that she hadn't noticed the pigeon.

‘Excuse me,' the lady repeated. ‘Where—'

‘In the study, miss,' George replied. ‘That way.' He pointed with his left hand.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘In the study, miss,' George said. ‘Just this minute gone in, miss.'

The door flew open again, and this time it was a man.

‘Come on,' the man said to the lady, ‘we'd better get back.'

The lady turned. ‘Mr Goodlet,' she said, ‘what's going on?'

‘The door,' said the man. ‘It had
No Entry
on it. Didn't you see?'

The lady looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean? Oh,' she added. ‘It was one of those doors, was it?'

George coughed deferentially. ‘He's in the study, sir,' he said.

‘Exactly,' said the man to the lady, ignoring George. ‘So here we are. We'd better find a town hall or something quick. With luck, we might just be able to find our way back to precisely the right moment. Have you got one of those maps?'

‘What maps?'

‘Ah,' the man said, ‘that means you probably haven't. Never mind.' He turned and faced George. ‘Excuse me,' he said.

‘He's in the—'

‘Which way to the town hall?' the man asked.

George frowned. ‘What town hall, sir?' he asked.

‘All right then,' said the man, ‘what about a police station. Army barracks. Magistrate's court. Something like that.'

George couldn't help shuddering. In court, at his age, and all for one lousy pigeon. He started to whimper.

The noise had obviously reached the study, because Sir Isaac came out. He was holding a cold towel to his head, and he wasn't looking happy.

‘Will you please,' he said, ‘keep the noise down?'

‘Sorry,' the man said. ‘I wonder if you could help us. We're looking for a public building.'

Sir Isaac gave them a look, as if trying to work out what on earth they were on about. A thought occurred to him, painfully. ‘If you're desperate,' he said, ‘you can use the one at the bottom of the kitchen garden.'