Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [85]
He inspected the bow tie. As André had foreseen, it presented certain problems to someone who’d been behind the door when the necks were handed out.
Granny Weatherwax stopped in front of Box Eight and looked around. Mrs. Plinge wasn’t visible. She unlocked the door with what was probably the most expensive key in the world.
“And you behave yourself,” she said.
“Ye-ess, Gran-ny,” moaned Greebo.
“No going to the lavatory in the corners.”
“No, Gran-ny.”
Granny glared at her escort. Even in a bow tie, even with his fine mustaches waxed, he was still a cat. You just couldn’t trust them to do anything except turn up for meals.
The inside of the Box was rich red plush, picked out with gilt decoration. It was like a soft little private room.
There were a couple of fat pillars on either side, supporting part of the weight of the balcony above. She looked over the edge and noted the drop to the Stalls below. Of course, someone could probably climb in from one of the adjacent Boxes, but that’d be in full view of the audience and would be bound to cause some comment. She peeked under the seats. She stood on a chair and felt around the ceiling, which had gilt stars on it. She inspected the carpet minutely.
She smiled at what she saw. She’d been prepared to bet that she knew how the Ghost got in, and now she was certain.
Greebo spat on his hand and tried ineffectually to groom his hair.
“You sit quiet and eat your fish eggs,” said Granny.
“Ye-ess, Gran-ny.”
“And watch the opera, it’s good for you.”
“Ye-ess, Gran-ny.”
“Evenin’, Mrs. Plinge!” said Nanny cheerfully. “Ain’t this excitin’? The buzz of the audience, the air of expectation, the blokes in the orchestra findin’ somewhere to hide the bottles and tryin’ to remember how to play…all the exhilaration an’ drama of the operatic experience waitin’ to unfold…”
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Ogg,” said Mrs. Plinge. She was polishing glasses in her tiny bar.
“Certainly very packed,” said Nanny. She looked sidelong at the old woman.* “Every seat sold, I heard.”
This didn’t achieve the expected reaction.
“Shall I give you a hand cleaning out Box Eight?” she went on.
“Oh, I cleaned it out last week,” said Mrs. Plinge. She held a glass up to the light.
“Yes, but I heard her ladyship is very particular,” said Nanny. “Very picky about things.”
“What ladyship?”
“Mr. Bucket has sold Box Eight, see,” said Nanny.
She heard a faint tinkle of glass. Ah.
Mrs. Plinge appeared at the doorway of her nook. “But he can’t do that!”
“It’s his Opera House,” said Nanny, watching Mrs. Plinge carefully. “I suppose he thinks he can.”
“It’s the Ghost’s Box!”
Operagoers were appearing along the corridor.
“I shouldn’t think he’d mind just for one night,” said Nanny Ogg. “The show must go on, eh? Are you all right, Mrs. Plinge?”
“I think I’d just better go and—” she began, stepping forward.
“No, you have a good sit down and a rest,” said Nanny, pressing her back with gentle but irresistible force.
“But I should go and—”
“And what, Mrs. Plinge?” said Nanny.
The old woman went pale. Granny Weatherwax could be nasty, but then nastiness was always in the window: you were aware that it might turn up on the menu. Sharpness from Nanny Ogg, though, was like being bitten by a big friendly dog. It was all the worse for being unexpected.
“I daresay you wanted to go and have a word with somebody, did you, Mrs. Plinge?” said Nanny softly. “Someone who might be a little shocked to find his Box full, perhaps? I reckon I could put a name to that someone, Mrs. Plinge. Now, if—”
The old woman’s hand came up holding a bottle of champagne and then came down hard in an effort to launch the SS Gytha Ogg onto the seas of unconsciousness. The bottle bounced.
Then Mrs. Plinge leapt past and scuttled away, her polished little black boots twinkling.
Nanny Ogg caught the door frame and swayed a little while blue and purple fireworks went off behind