Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [87]
Nanny let Mrs. Plinge go, but kept a grip on the champagne bottle, just in case.
“What if she can’t?” said Mrs. Plinge bitterly.
“You think Walter did those murders?”
“He’s a good boy!”
“I’m sure that’s the same as a ‘no,’ isn’t it?”
“They’ll put him in prison!”
“If he done them murders, Esme won’t let that happen,” said Nanny.
Something sank into Mrs. Plinge’s not very alert mind. “What do you mean, she won’t let that happen?” she said.
“I mean,” said Nanny, “that if you throw yourself on Esme’s mercy, you better be damn sure you deserve to bounce.”
“Oh, Mrs. Ogg!”
“Now, don’t you worry about anything,” said Nanny, perhaps a little late under the circumstances. It occurred to her that the immediate future might be a little bit easier on everyone if Mrs. Plinge got some well-earned rest. She fumbled in her clothing and produced a bottle, half-full of some cloudy orange liquid. “I’ll just give you a sip of a little something to calm your nerves…”
“What is it?”
“It’s a sort of tonic,” said Nanny. She flicked the cork out with her thumb; on the ceiling above her, the paint crinkled. “It’s made from apples. Well…mainly apples…”
Walter Plinge stopped outside Box Eight and looked around.
Then he removed his beret and pulled out the mask. The beret went into his pocket.
He straightened up, and it looked very much as though Walter Plinge with the mask on was several inches taller.
He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, and the figure that stepped into the Box did not move like Walter Plinge. It moved as though every nerve and muscle were under full and athletic control.
The sounds of the opera filled the Box. The walls had been lined with red velvet and were hung with curtains. The chairs were high and well padded.
The Ghost slipped into one of them and settled down.
A figure leaned forward out of the other chair and said, “You carrn’t havve my fisssh eggs!”
The Ghost leapt up. The door clicked behind him.
Granny stepped out from the curtains.
“Well, well, we meet again,” she said.
He backed away to the edge of the Box.
“I shouldn’t think you could jump,” said Granny. “It’s a long way down.” She focused her best stare on the white mask. “And now, Mister Ghost—”
He sprang back onto the edge of the Box, saluted Granny flamboyantly, and leapt upward.
Granny blinked.
Up until now the Stare had always worked…
“Too damn dark,” she muttered. “Greebo!”
The bowl of caviar flew out of his nervous fingers and caused a Fortean experience somewhere in the Stalls.
“Yess, Gran-ny!”
“Catch him! And there could be a kipper in it for you!”
Greebo snarled happily. This was more like it. Opera had begun to pall for him the moment he realized that no one was going to pour a bucket of cold water over the singers. He understood chasing things.
Besides, he liked to play with his friends.
Agnes saw the movement out of the corner of her eye. A figure had jumped out of one of the Boxes and was climbing up to the balcony. Then another figure clambered after it, scrambling over the gilt cherubs.
Singers faltered in mid-note. There was no mistaking the leading figure. It was the Ghost.
The Librarian was aware that the orchestra had stopped playing. Somewhere on the other side of the backcloth the singers had stopped, too. There was a buzz of excited conversation and one or two cries.
The hairs all over his body began to prickle. Senses designed to protect his species in the depths of the rain forest had adjusted nicely to the conditions of a big city, which was merely drier and had more carnivores.
He picked up the discarded bow tie and, with great deliberation, tied it around his forehead so that he looked like a really formal Kamikaze warrior. Then he threw away the opera score and stared blankly into space for a moment. He knew instinctively that some situations required musical accompaniment.
This organ lacked what he considered the