Gaslight Geezers, page 6
‘The language of the common rat is meant for poetry, for fine prose, for storytelling. It is the language of the courtier, the language of polite address, of praise. “By waters opaque of no crystal worth, the common rat dwells deep under the earth . . .” I just made that up. That’s what we do, you see. We embellish, we delight in a purple prose, we florate the spoken word. We are warriors only in our quest for beauty. Do not, my dear weasels, place us beside the marsh rats of the north, who are barbarians and war-mongers and bringers of death.’
‘Sorry,’ whispered a chastised Maudlin, hoarsely. ‘I won’t ever call you sewer rats again.’
‘Quite so. My most emerald thanks.’
Maudlin then whispered to Scruff, ‘Is there such a word as florate?’
‘If there isn’t then there should be. It sounds like a good ’nough word to me. Wish I could make ’em up as good.’
‘So,’ said Monty, ‘you will send a message if one of you should spot anything that looks like a bomb? I live at 7a Breadoven Street. Jis McFail will take a message if I am not at home.’
‘It would be in our own interest to do so,’ said Toddlebeck. ‘If some infernal or fantastical device exploded down here, you can imagine the noise. If we were not all blown to kingdom divine, then we would certainly be deafened. Can I give you a tour of the uncelestial world? Thee would see some sights which might surprise thy eyes.’
Maudlin was upset and annoyed when Monty accepted the invitation. However, the tour turned out to be as interesting as the rats had suggested.
There was one place where the roof had collapsed and a hundred graves had fallen through from a burial ground. There were rotting corpses and weasel and stoat skeletons all over the place, along with broken headstones and iron palisades. Unknown to the mourners, mustelids were burying their relatives one day, only to have their loved ones drop like ungentle rain upon the world beneath the next. The bodies were like broken puppets, littering the low-ways and bow-ways.
All over the city, crypts and deep cellars were linked with the rats’ world of the sewer and drain. There were parts where gas street lamps had been pulled all the way through and turned upside down, so now they lit the thoroughfares of the underworld, instead of lighting the streets. The rats even had their official gaslighter, such as Scruff had once been, whose job it was to replace and relight the gas mantles, once they burned out.
A whole new city there was, under the streets of the town, where a whole new set of mammals worked and played. They did so a century or two behind their neighbours above, but in the darkness of the sewers contemporary fashions were unimportant. It was a crowded world, with much comings and goings, and politeness was more essential than anything else. If you met someone on the sewer towpath, pulling a barge full of goods along the mucky canal, you stepped aside and bowed with a flourish, murmuring the usual greeting, ‘Good morrow to thee, neighbour. May thy ill health be unstirred and thy nose remain blocked.’
You learned in the underworld not to investigate shapeless lumps on the low-way, nor enquire too closely after a neighbour’s sleeping habits. At one point they found themselves under the mansion of Mayor Poynt, and found the grease thick on the walls. At least half a metre of fatty deposits covered the sewer at this junction, having come from the waste food thrown down Poynt’s kitchen loo. It seemed he liked a lot of butter and lard in his food, which accounted for his hearty condition.
Finally, the three were ready to leave for the overworld.
‘Thank you, friends. Now, I bid you good day,’ said Monty, and received an equal bidding in return, along with many sweeping bows as he and the other two weasels made their way through the rats. They headed towards the nearest jackhole to the surface.
Maudlin was so surprised and delighted that they had got away with their hides intact that he was virtually bouncing along. Now the gloomy tunnels with their walls running with dirty rainwater did not seem so oppressive. Now the rivers of filth were not so smelly. He stopped short, however, of saying that he wouldn’t mind living down there.
They knew it would be raining on top, for the drains down below were torrents of rushing water. Indeed, when they emerged from the jackhole alongside the river, they found it was night-time and the skies were pouring forth their bounty. The three weasels received one or two curious stares as they kicked the jackhole cover back in place, then made their way past a drenched policemammal to a cocoa shop where they drank hot chocolate and talked over the day’s events.
‘I never would ’ave thought it,’ said Scruff. ‘Fancy them rats all carrying on their lives right under our feet! How did you know about ’em, Jal Sylver? Have you met some of ’em before?’
‘No, I never did, but I have heard of them from time to time. I have a friend – Jaffer Silke – whose job it is to see that the river is clear of flotsam and jetsam. He meets with rats from time to time. They swim through the grilles and out into the river on occasion. It was Jaffer who told me of this society below our streets.’
Maudlin said, ‘Well, you’ve left a warning about your cousin the anarchist with them. Let’s hope they discover any device before it explodes.’
‘Yes,’ repeated Monty, ‘let’s hope they do. In the meantime, let’s apply our minds to finding the prince. I just hope he’s still alive to be found. There are several dark forces at work and I feel time is of great importance . . .’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The morning after the visit to the underworld of Muggidrear, Monty sent his two jack assistants off to scour the city. He told them to search for a weasel with a lightning flash down his nose, just like the one he himself bore on his own face.
‘It’s a family birthmark,’ he told them. ‘All the Sylvers have it.’
‘So, we’re to look in alleys, under arches, in basements – wherever this Spindrick may be hiding.’
‘Just look in all the holes of the city,’ Monty said. ‘You may find him in one of them. But he’s a wily weasel. You may discover some clues by asking others if they’ve seen him, or one of his devices. I’m going off to see Lord Haukin. You remember, I spoke of him yesterday? Besides collecting everything under the sun, from bottles to owl pellets, he is also very knowledgeable about nobility. He’s a dyed-in-the-ermine aristocrat who believes the fall of the great families of Welkin has been the most terrible tragedy.’
‘Personally,’ Scruff said, ‘I’m all in favour of a republic. I don’t see why animals shouldn’t all work for a living. Those stoats who think they’re so special, just ’cause they were born in a bed wiv silk sheets, are living in cloud cuckoo land.’
Maudlin said, ‘I think it’s a shame we’ve lost all our noble families. They made this country great!’
Scruff snorted at this and Monty said, ‘I’m inclined towards Scruff’s point of view here, but let’s not argue. Let’s get about our business.’
So saying he left the pair and walked briskly to the nearest cab stand. There he took a mouse-drawn cab to the heart of Gusted Manor, where there was a crescent of grand white houses. Some of these expensive dwellings contained successful artists, or politicians, or famous veterinary surgeons, but one – the house right at the end on the left – belonged to Lord Haukin. It was, like the others, a pretty terraced building with a balcony bearing a balustrade of short, white, fat pillars.
In the driveway fronting the elegant crescent was a fountain of natural mineral waters, whose salts were supposed to be mildly healthful. People with both money and breeding spoke of taking the waters outside Lord Haukin’s place. The fact that the fountain belonged to the whole crescent of some thirty houses did not make any difference. All Welkin’s aristocrats felt that if the whole block did not belong to Lord Haukin, it jolly well should do.
Mayor Poynt, whose many-greats-grandfather had been the ruling prince of the land, was especially of this opinion. Jeremy Poynt was leaving Lord Haukin’s place, just as Monty was stepping out of his cab and paying the weasel driver. The mayor frowned, puffed and fluffed himself up, and then spoke in haughty tones.
‘I shouldn’t have thought weasels were welcome here – Right Honourables or not. This is the house of a noblestoat.’
Monty sighed. ‘You obviously have no idea of our family histories, Jal Mayor. The Sylvers and Haukins have been close friends for centuries.’
‘Really?’ sniffed the mayor. ‘Well, some mammals have no sense of decorum.’
Monty watched the mayor’s carriage leave the crescent, noting that its crest did not have a cricket bat in it, then turned and rang the bell on the door. A few minutes later it was opened by a tall thin weasel-butler with a nose set higher than his ears. He peered down at Monty through two dark disdainful eyes, as if the right honourable had just emerged from under a mossy stone. It struck Monty that butlers were of a higher breed of mammal than the animals they served; they had to be for they believed themselves to be superior beings no matter what their origins.
‘Right Honourable Montegu Sylver, calling on Lord Haukin,’ said Monty, pushing past the butler and tossing cane and gloves onto a hallway settle. ‘Is his lordship in the library?’
The butler was flustered. ‘A weasel? Are you expected? Do you have an appointment?’
‘Yes, a weasel. You must be new here. A Sylver needs no appointment in this house. Please do not announce me – your master knows exactly who I am and why I’m here. Just show me to Lord Hannover Haukin.’
There was authority in Monty’s tone. This, and the fact that he knew his lordship’s first name, persuaded the butler against all his training and better feelings to show Monty to the library.
Monty entered just as Lord Haukin, a young stoat with a monocle jammed tightly in his right eye, was taking a shot on the billiard table.
‘What ho, Hannover,’ said Monty, using the lord’s first name. ‘Been thrashed by that sharpster Poynt again?’
‘Who the devil are you?’ snapped Lord Haukin without looking up, confirming the butler’s worst fears. ‘What do you mean by striding in here and making such remarks.’
Lord Haukin’s cue stick was whirring and clicking, humming and ticking. It seemed to have a life of its own. He simply levelled it at the cue ball and it went TOCK-TOCK-TOCK and shot out its chalked tip on the end of a spring to strike a white ball. The cue ball flew across the table like a mad mouse, missed the red ball the lord was aiming at, hit the cushion, and vanished into a corner pocket opposite. The cue stick then whirred again, chimed the hour in the traditional Whistleminster tune of Ringing Roger, then finally fell silent. It was a sinister silence, broken by the lord himself as he whirled on his visitor.
‘Blast! Now see what you’ve made me do.’ This time he looked up and to the butler’s relief, said, ‘Oh, it’s you, whatsisname. It’s all right, Culver, I know this fellah. Friend of mine. How’d’y’do, thingummy. Want some coffee? I was just about to have some meself.’
‘Love some.’
‘Culver?’ said his lordship to his butler, ‘coffee for two – and stop leavin’ those books of poems lying about on my coffee trays. I ain’t going to read ’em, so there. You know I don’t read those sort of books, whoever’s wrote ’em – even those by butlers who think they’re poets.’
‘Written them, my lord,’ corrected his butler, coldly.
Lord Haukin turned back to Monty and adjusting his monocle said, ‘You spoke about Poynt? Yes, he took me for a packet at billiards this morning. Fellah’s a blasted cheat if you ask me. He’s got this new steam-driven cue, which he can’t seem to miss with. Offered me this clockwork one, but it don’t work half as well as his did. Took me for a whole bag of guineas.’
‘That sounds like Poynt.’
‘Yes, he’s a cad all right. But I need to keep in touch with him. Find out what he’s up to. You’ve got to stay one jump ahead of stoats like him. Now, sit down and tell me what I can do for you.’
They both threw themselves into forelimbchairs which were surrounded by glass cabinets full of ‘interesting’ natural objects. There were sea shells, of course, and lumps of petrified wood, and a chunk of black lava labelled ‘Mount Viviperous’, and stuffed dragonflies caught in the act of swooping on an insect, and the fossil of a prehistoric garden slug, and seeds which came in unusual shapes (there was a bean which looked like a frog), and dried sea horses, and a stuffed basilisk which had obviously been frightened to death because of its open mouth and staring eyes.
‘Interesting collection,’ murmured Monty, nodding at the glass cabinets. ‘I was telling a friend about your habit the other day.’
‘My habit? My hobby. My life. What Varicosian gentlemammal doesn’t have his glass cabinets full of scientific objects, eh?’
‘Quite. Now, the reason I’m here, Lord Haukin, is to ask you about noble crests.’
‘I see. Just a minute.’ The young lord stood up and went to one of the other glass cabinets, the ones that lined the walls of the library and were full of books. He opened one and took out a huge leather tome. With some effort he carried this across the room and dumped it on the coffee table. The little cane table creaked and bent its legs. Dust flew up from the book, having collected there for centuries.
Sitting down Lord Haukin said, ‘Here we are. First Lord Haukin’s book on royal and noblestoat crests. Did it himself in illuminated text and the drawin’s are his too. Hasn’t changed much since his time. Fact is, lot of the ancient families are gone now. Some of ’em sold their titles abroad. Others let ’em go for nothing. You know the old stoat who cleans the toilets on Whistleminster Bridge? Actually the Earl of Jessex.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Monty.
‘S’the truth. Father gambled away his estates. Reduced to penury. Rather clean pawbasins than beg.’
‘I never would have guessed it – except that he has sort of grand gestures – the way he passes you the paw towel with such flourish.’
‘Precisely! You can’t hide blue blood. It will out in manners and behaviour. Personally I would fight every jack in the land to keep my title and my estates, you can be sure of that. Can’t think why you gave up your title, Sylver. We need the ruling classes. Breeding counts. Well, you know my beliefs. Birthright and all that.’ He became so heated his monocle dropped out of his right eye and fell into his lap.
Monty was well aware of Lord Haukin’s fierce arguments in defence of the aristocratic class.
‘Now,’ said Lord Haukin, replacing his monocle, this time in the left eye, confirming Monty’s suspicions that it was just for show and not a necessary aid to the lord’s sight, ‘what is it you need to know?’
‘I’m looking for a crest which has a cricket bat as part of the whole.’
Lord Haukin snorted. ‘Half the crests in this book have cricket bats in them. It’s one of the most commonly used heraldic symbols. Cricket is our national game you know. Even Poynt takes a holiday from being a nuisance to go to the Ovoid cricket ground once a month, to watch his favourite team, Fearsomeshire CC.’
Monty sighed. ‘I guessed as much. But what about military families? You know, where the tradition is for the young jack to follow his father into the army? Those families which have portraits of generals covering the walls of their mansions and who use the salt and pepper pots every dining-in night to show you how their grandfather, General Bloater, won the Battle of Stankimoor?’
‘Plenty of those too. Get to the point. What d’you need to know all this for?’
Monty explained. ‘I’m looking for the Prince Imperial of Slattland. A lemming. They say he’s mad keen on the army. He was last seen in a coach with a crest bearing a cricket bat. I’m wondering if he’s with one of the noblestoat families who are army barmy.’
‘Prince Imperial? Of Slattland? Know his family. Very good family. Very old. Go back to the dawn of time. All them mad about opera and the army. They would eat their own kittens rather than miss a good performance of Toastca. But my guess? He’s gone to join the hussars. Most famous regiment of hussars? King Redfur’s Own. Founded in antiquity. First regiment of hussars to be formed. That’s where you’ll find your royal lemming, unless I miss my guess.’
The hussars. Monty considered it. Lord Haukin might well be right. The hussars were not mounted. No stoat or weasel regiment rode any other creature. For a start, unlike a human and his horse, the mustelids could not ride a mouse. Mice could draw coaches, but they were not of the right shape or size to be able to ride on their backs.
But the stoats who had first formed the army’s regiments had copied the hussar uniform from human regiments. They loved the black furry hat with its floppy silk sock hanging over the edge. They loved the colourful tight tunic and even tighter trousers. They loved the cloak thing, which was actually called a pelisse, because it was so flamboyant and dashing, and gave a noblestoat elan vital: that special aristocratic energy and look which held him apart from common weasels, ferrets, polecats, pine martens and other such guttersnipes.
‘Last question,’ said Monty. ‘Do you know a lemming by the name of Sveltlana? Probably from a rich or noble Slattland family. Very beautiful. Eyes of a goddess. Fur richer and softer than a mink’s.’
‘Sveltlana. Sveltlana. No, only as the heroine of an opera. You know the one? About the female lemming who was so comely the god of the sky fell hopelessly in love with her. When she rejected him he cried and cried, flooding the earth, and all the mammals drowned?’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of it. How about Bogginski? Countess Bogginski?’
Lord Haukin drew in his breath, sharply. ‘You don’t want to have anything to do with her. Nasty. I might even go so far as to say evil. Stay well away from that one, thingummy. Or you’ll end up floating face down in some dark river, drifting lifeless towards an unknown sea.’
