Gaslight Geezers, page 23
‘Depends if the bombed squirrel saw the bomb coming.’
‘Look,’ said Monty, ‘it’s getting late. It’s twilight. I can hardly see the ball. Don’t you think we’d better be getting home now? I keep looking at that patch of daffodils, thinking Sveltlana’s lurking in there somewhere. I’m sure if my ball goes into the rough and I go in there looking for it, I’ll never come out again.’
‘It’s all right,’ murmured Bryony, concentrating on her stroke and not really listening. ‘Just one or two more holes. We’ve got them on the run.’ Bryony was a very competitive weasel.
‘You think we stand a chance of winning? How do you come to that conclusion?’
She looked him in the eye. ‘Basic, my dear Monty, basic. Mechanical devices always go wrong at the most crucial time. It’s a law of the universe. It never fails.’
‘Come on,’ cried Lord Haukin, having taken his shot. ‘We’re here to play, not to natter. There’s a hundred guineas on this game if you haven’t forgotten.’
Lord Haukin’s partner, a stiff-looking stoat, seemed to confirm this view by huffing and hissing steam from his mouth.
They were on the flog course, just outside the city. Flog was very similar to golf, except that the holes were played backwards. 18 first, then 17, and so on, back to 1. Flog was invented by the mustelids, who loved golf just as much as humans, but didn’t want to appear as if they were copying the two-legged creatures who inhabited the other half of Welkin. So they turned the game backwards, in more ways than one, and called it their own. In fact, some mustelid historians were now saying that flog had actually first been played by ancient mustelids, back in the Old Tooth Age, and humans had pinched it and changed it. There was some evidence for this in some flog-club-shaped rabbit bones found in a cave, along with round wooden objects that could have been balls.
Bryony was obsessed with the game. She loved it. It helped her relax from her veterinary practice. There was nothing she liked better than whacking a little white ball down a fairway. Monty, on the other hand, only played to please his friend. He was useless at the sport. It infuriated him. Bryony claimed it helped her to think more clearly while Monty simply became frustrated, believed he was wasting his time, and felt he could do a better job of hacking at the turf if he was behind a plough.
‘Good shot,’ said Monty, as she whacked the ball up the fairway.
Bryony had persuaded Monty to play with her against Lord Haukin and ‘one other’ as Hannover had put it. The ‘one other’ turned out to be a steam-driven automaton, a mechanical flogger who hit the ball precisely every-single-time and was now helping Hannover to win the match.
Monty now took his shot at the green. He mis-hit the ball, which flew off to the left. It struck Hannover’s companion with a loud clang on the side of the head. The automaton’s head spun round on his neck. There was another loud sound, this time a thwunk and a metal plate flew off the chap’s chest, followed by a few nuts, bolts and springs. He then began throwing his flog clubs like spears at some magpies who were idly watching the game. Finally, with an ominous hiss, he started off over the next hill, to vanish beyond it, running towards the river.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ cried the brussoned Hannover, thumping angrily at the fairway with his number seven iron and hacking out a divot the size of the next county. ‘You’ve gone and clobbered my partner.’
There came the sound of a distant muted explosion.
‘Jumped into the river,’ said Bryony with a nod. ‘Best place for him.’
Lord Haukin grumbled. ‘We were winning, too. It’s not fair. You’ll have to forfeit the game.’
‘Null and void, that’s the rules,’ said Bryony. ‘It was your partner who quit.’
‘Only because he got a ball on the bonce!’ And he stomped away towards the clubhouse.
Monty too, had had enough.
‘Can we go home now?’ he said to Bryony. ‘I’m still worried about Scruff and Maudlin. I think they should have been here by now.’
‘I’m not worried about Scruff. He’s a very resourceful weasel. He’ll come through, you wait and see. I expect he’s on to something, that’s why they’re late in coming back to the city.’ She chipped on to the green next to the pin and one-putted. ‘There, par on that one. What’s happened to your ball?’
‘Lost it,’ grumbled Monty, digging around in a clump of clover with his nine iron. ‘It’s hiding from me.’
‘Flog balls are not alive. They can’t hide.’
‘Ha! So you say.’
Someone came running across the flog course at this point. It was the stoat secretary of the club. He was waving his paws in an agitated manner.
‘Jis Bludd, Jal Sylver. There’re two weasels hanging from the hour hand of Ringing Roger. It’s a wonder they haven’t fallen, they’ve been clinging there this last quarter of an hour. A lamplighter and a watchman. They arrived in a monstrous balloon. They say they work for you.’
‘Why didn’t you say something earlier?’ cried Monty, flinging away his bag of clubs.
The secretary simpered. ‘I know how Lord Haukin hates to be interrupted while he’s playing a match for money. Then I saw him storm into the clubhouse. I take it you won? He’s kicking his locker at the moment. If it hadn’t been Lord Haukin I would have come sooner. He does own the club, you know.’
‘But this was an emergency,’ said Monty. ‘Here, take my clubs and those of Jis Bludd, too. Leave them in the locker rooms.’
Outside the course they hailed a hackney cab. It took them straight to Ringing Roger. The cab-driver wanted to go there as much as they did themselves. He had heard about the two weasels hanging from the clockface and wanted to see them for himself.
‘There they are,’ cried the cab-driver excitedly, reining his mice to a halt and pointing upwards. ‘Looks like they’re getting tired. Shouldn’t be surprised to see one drop in a minute. King Redfur’s waitin’ underneath, ain’t he? Sharp, that lance. Bronze, y’know.’
Bryony and Monty looked out of the side window to see their two friends and employees hanging from the hour hand of the clock. It was a few seconds to ten o’clock. By the time they had climbed out of the coach, Ringing Roger was chiming, the whole tower shuddering with the notes. Scruff and Maudlin trembled from ears to tip of tail.
On the blunted spire there were two or three workmammals, trying to get the pair on the clockface to take the end of a rope they were dangling over the edge. But Scruff and Maudlin couldn’t let go of the hour hand to grab the rope, or they would fall. It was a most frustrating and suspenseful spectacle which had the crowd holding its breath. Every mustelid spectator was waiting in hope; that either they would be saved; or failing that, that they would fall. There were even humans watching, from the other side of the river. It was a win-win situation for them. The entertainment was going to be great either way it went.
Monty ran towards the tower with Bryony close on his heels. They opened the door at the side and found a spiral staircase. This took them to the level below the clockwork. There was another set of steps to go up to reach the clock itself. Thirty-nine steps. Once inside the clock housing they could see through the frosted-glass clockface.
TICK-TOCK-TICK-TOCK-TICK-TOCK
The sound of the clock in the confined space was loud, as was the clicking and whirring of wheels and springs, and levers and escapements, and all the other clockwork parts.
As well as the clock hands and figures, two silhouettes were visible through the glass face of Ringing Roger. Monty was one of the most resourceful weasels in the land. Bryony, too, was never without her intellect close behind. They both saw the clips around the edge of the huge circular clockface, simultaneously. The glass was in two halves, a hairline join running vertically up the middle from six to twelve o’clock. When the clips were off, it would fall apart, allowing them to reach the two stranded hangers-on, whose forelimbs must have been aching.
‘The clips,’ said Bryony, moving forwards.
‘The glass,’ agreed Monty.
The pair of them began unclipping the two halves of glass from their frame. There were twelve clips in all. When the last two clips were undone, the two separate halves fell inwards, away from the spindle to which the hands were attached. They were carefully lowered and laid flat on the floorboards of the mighty clock housing. This exposed the two creatures on the outside of the tower.
‘Wotcha, guv’nor!’ cried Scruff, delightedly.
‘So pleased,’ murmured a strained-looking Maudlin.
Scruff slid down the hour hand to the spindle, climbed along it, and then dropped gratefully onto the floor of the clock housing.
Maudlin did the same. His left paw slipped once, causing the crowd below to go ‘OOOoooooo’, but eventually he too was inside the home of Ringing Roger. No-one was disappointed. It had been a breathtaking time and a clever rescue. Ice-cream sellers and purveyors of toffee gooseberries did good business afterwards as the spectators wandered off, heading for their homes, their entertainment complete.
The glass was replaced. The workmen above descended, offered their congratulations, and went home. Scruff and Maudlin, their forelimbs dangling as if quite sore, followed Bryony and Monty back to Breadoven Street, where a hot bath and some buttered toast put them back into sorts again.
‘So,’ said Monty, when they were all settled, ‘tell Bryony and I about your adventures.’
Scruff and Maudlin did as they were bid. The story was interesting enough, but Scruff had something important to say at the end.
‘Listen, as the balloon was goin’ over the city, I looked down, and guess what I saw?’
‘What did you see?’ asked Bryony.
‘Crossed cricket bats,’ cried Maudlin, excitedly. ‘We saw crossed cricket bats.’
Monty sat up. ‘The coach which carried Prince Miska. The heraldic set of arms. You’ve found it?’
‘Except that it ain’t a coat of arms,’ said Scruff. ‘Not at all. It’s a whatchamacallit – a trademark – for a firm makin’ cricket bats. We saw the crossed cricket bats made out of flowers, in a factory flowerbed. An’ guess whose name was cut in the lawn beside that bed. Guess who owns the factory what makes those cricket bats . . .’
‘Jeremy Poynt,’ breathed Bryony.
Maudlin nodded. ‘Dead on the nail, Bryony.’
‘Of course,’ murmured Monty, sucking his chiboque. ‘Poynt’s Cricket Bats! Art and Science shaped in willow!’ He was quoting from an advertisement in the newspaper. ‘So, the mayor took away Prince Miska – but was it with or without the consent of the Prince Imperial? My guess is that the prince has been kidnapped, taken somewhere against his will. Sveltlana is looking for him too but, as we deduced, she wishes to assassinate him. I have no doubt about it. None at all.’
‘Why do you say that, Monty?’ asked Bryony.
‘Because Slattland is going through a change. A quiet revolution. There are the royalists, who are gradually losing favour, and the democrats, who want a parliament like ours. I believe the Prince Imperial is willing to give way to the democrats, on the understanding that he is allowed to stand for election himself. If he sheds his royal title, he would be allowed to do that. On the other paw, my enquiries have led me to understand that Sveltlana is an anarchist. She wants Slattland to collapse and then grab total power for herself from the ruins. She wants to become a dictator and rule the way the royal family once did, without having to answer to a populace or a government of any kind.’
‘Why would the prince come here?’ asked Maudlin.
‘Ah, there you have it. For advice. Advice on how to step down as Prince Imperial and launch a political career. There’s someone in Welkin who’s done just that. Who else do you know who has let go of his royal title in order to make a bid for power? Who else has shed his royal rank in order to be elected? You get only one guess.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Falshed was not feeling very pleased with himself.
He was at City Hall, in front of the mayor’s desk. On his way into the office the chief of police had passed a female lemming who had just had audience with the mayor. Her musky perfume still lingered in the air. She had looked particularly pleased with herself. Falshed wondered what had gone on between the mayor and that jill lemming, whose eyes had been of the softest dewy brown with a glint of something highly venomous behind them.
‘Falshed!’ The shivering and brussoned mayor had just thrown some coals on the fire, though it was a warm day. ‘Sylver was at the Hannover Flog Club, playing Lord Hannover himself. Why hasn’t he been arrested? Why isn’t he, at this very moment, dangling from the end of a rope on the gallows? Speak, stoat, speak!’
‘Er, um, didn’t know he was at the flog course, Mayor.’
‘Nor, I suppose, that he was inside Ringing Roger for at least an hour.’
‘I wasn’t aware of that, Mayor.’
‘That’s because you’re a halfwit – in fact, no you’re not – you’re a quarterwit.’
Hoping to redeem himself, Falshed said, quickly, ‘We’ve caught the leader of the shrew gang who have been plaguing the north of Welkin. Orgibucket. I have him on remand at the moment. Shall I set a date for the trial?’
‘No, throw him in proper jail,’ growled the mayor. ‘I’d rather it was a weasel, but a shrew will get me just as many votes. As long as I’m being seen to be tough on crime.’
The chief of police was in a bit of a quandary over this decision.
‘Er, don’t we have to commit him to trial? Twelve just mammals, and true? That’s the law, you know. Even a mayor can’t tamper with the wheels of justice.’
‘You don’t need a trial to throw him in debtors’ prison. He probably owes you a hundred guineas. He can’t pay, can he? So throw him in jail until he can pay. Which will be never. Therefore he’ll rot and die in a prison cell and won’t ever be able to get out to challenge our decision to put him there. Who’s going to believe a debtor, anyway? Save the city a whole lot of money, not bringing him to trial.’
‘There’s just one catch,’ said Falshed, miserably. ‘He doesn’t owe me a penny.’
‘Are you going to argue with me, Chief?’
Falshed shook his head. ‘No, but if my enemies should get wind of the fact that I’m falsifying evidence, they’re likely to have me thrown into jail. I can’t go to jail, Mayor. I’ve put too many of the occupants there. I’ll be ripped to shreds within a few minutes.’
The mayor half-rose from behind his desk. This was in order to get to his waistcoat pocket to look at his pocket watch. ‘If we’re not arguing, why are you still standing there? Lord, look at the time. Go and see if Thos. Tempus Fugit and Wm. Jott are waiting outside.’
The chief knew the subject was closed. He had to throw Orgibucket into debtors’ prison. The only way he could safely do that was to let Orgibucket go, lend the creature a hundred guineas, give him a night to spend it on the town, then demand its return. When the shrew announced he could not pay, Falshed would arrest him again. That’s the way it would have to be. In which case, Falshed would lose the hundred guineas, for ever. He was not a rich stoat and the idea of losing so much money grieved him. Yet the mayor had given him little choice in the matter. Falshed would also have to follow Orgibucket every step of the way, in case he simply ran away with the money instead of spending it.
He poked his head outside the mayor’s office. Sure enough Jott and Fugit were waiting, frostily ignoring each other.
‘The mayor wants to see you now,’ said Falshed. ‘Hop to it, you two.’
The stoat and the weasel got up and entered the office together.
‘Ah,’ said Poynt, looking up. ‘You two. How’s my wonderful city heater going? Is it installed yet?’
The two jals in question were having to combine their steam and clockwork skills in order to build the great engine below the streets – it would be able to heat the whole city, both summer and winter.
‘The engine is in place,’ said Fugit, stiffly.
‘We just need to start it up,’ added Jott.
‘Good, good.’ Jeremy Poynt rubbed his paws together. ‘Excellent. Now, Falshed, have you caught that anarchist, Spindrick yet? If we can’t throw his cousin Sylver in the jug, at least we can get rid of one weasel from that horrible family.’
‘Can’t find him,’ said Falshed, stubbornly, feeling the mayor had put upon him enough for one day. ‘If you want him, you’ll have to look for him yourself.’
Jeremy Poynt’s eyes narrowed.
‘Am I hearing things?’
‘No,’ said Falshed, ‘I’ve had it up to my neck fur. If you want me, I’ll be down the nearest inn, getting drunk on honey dew.’
With that, he marched out of the mayor’s office, and straight into Sybil Poynt, who was coming in.
Falshed’s legs immediately turned to jelly. His stomach filled with warm melted butter. His jaw fell open in a most unbecoming manner. Princess Poynt did that to him. It was her beauty, or her poise, or the haughty way she tilted her chin. She regarded him with large brown eyes and he sighed, deeply.
‘Hallo, Princess.’
‘Hallo yourself, Chief Falshed. Made any false arrests lately?’
He coloured slightly under his fur. ‘I never make false arrests, your highness.’
‘Oh, really? I just took it that if you worked for my brother, you would naturally be corrupt. Most of his minions are.’
‘I’m not a minion.’
‘Glad to hear it. Look, what are you doing this evening, Chief? I have two tickets to the opera. Gravelotti is singing The Bat.’
Falshed hated opera. ‘Why, nothing,’ he babbled. ‘I would love to go to the opera.’
She handed him the two tickets. ‘Here you are then. Find a nice friend to go with; I can’t stand it myself. All that wailing and bellowing, and when you understand the words, they’re so silly, aren’t they? Your tiny paw is frozen. And there she stands, a great gallumphing soprano with badger-like proportions and a paw the size of a frying-pan. The disbelief can’t be suspended under those circumstances, can it? Or perhaps you don’t think so, since you like it so much. Let me know how you get on. I’ll test you later, to make sure you didn’t fall asleep.’
