Maskerade

Mr Bucket went through his mail very carefully, and finally breathed out when the pile failed to disgorge another letter with the Opera House crest.

He sat back and pulled open his desk drawer for a pen.

There was an envelope there.

He stared at it, and then slowly picked up his paperknife.

Sliiiiit…

…rustle…

I will be obliged if Christine sings the role of Iodine in 'La Triviata' tonight.

The weather continues fine. I trust you are well.

Yrs.

The Opera Ghost

“Mr Salzella! Mr Salzella!”

Bucket pushed back his chair and hurried to the door, opening it just in time to confront a ballerina, who screamed at him.

Since his nerves were already strained, he responded by screaming back at her. This seemed to have the effect that usually a wet flannel or a slap was necessary to achieve. She stopped and gave him an affronted look.

“He's struck again, hasn't he!” moaned Bucket.

“He's here! It's the Ghost!” said the girl, determined to get the line out even though it was not required.

“Yes, yes, I think I know,” muttered Bucket. “I just hope it wasn't anybody expensive.”

He stopped halfway along the corridor and then spun around. The girl cringed away from his wavering finger.

“At least stand on tiptoe!” he shouted. “You probably cost me a dollar just running up here!”

There was a crowd in a huddle on the stage. In the centre was that new girl, the fat one, kneeling down and comforting an old woman. Bucket vaguely recognized the latter. She was one of the staff that had come with the Opera House, as much part of the whole thing as the rats or the gargoyles that infested the rooftops.

She was holding something in front of her. “It just fell out of the flies,” she said. “His poor hat!”

Bucket looked up. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he made out a shape up among the battens, spinning slowly…

“Oh, dear,” he said. “And I thought he'd written such a polite letter…”

“Really? Then now read this one,” said Salzella, coming up behind him.

“Must I?”

“It's addressed to you.”

Bucket unfolded the piece of paper.

Hahahaha! Ahahahaha!

Yrs.

The Opera Ghost

PS: Ahahahaha!!!!

He gave Salzella an agonized look. “Who's the poor fellow up there?”

“Mr Pounder, the ratcatcher. Rope dropped around his neck, other end attached to some sandbags. They went down. He went… up.”

“I don't understand! Is this man mad?”

Salzella put an arm around his shoulders and led him away from the crowd. “Well, now,” he said, as kindly as he could. “A man who wears evening dress all the time, lurks in the shadows and occasionally kills people. Then he sends little notes, writing maniacal laughter. Five exclamation marks again, I notice. We have to ask ourselves: is this the career of a sane man?”

“But why is he doing it?” wailed Bucket.

“That is only a relevant question if he is sane,” said Salzella calmly. “He may be doing it because the little yellow pixies tell him to.”

“Sane? How can he be sane?” said Bucket. “You were right, you know. The atmosphere in this placed drive anyone crazy. I very well may be the only one here with both feet on the ground!” He turned. His eyes narrowed when he saw a group of, chorus girls whispering nervously.

“You girls! Don't just stand there! Let's see you jump up and down!” he rasped. “On one leg!”

He turned back to Salzella. “What was I saying?”

“You were saying,” said Salzella, “that you have both feet on the ground. Unlike the corps de ballet. And the corpse de Mr Pounder.”

“I think that comment was in rather poor taste,” said Bucket coldly.

“My view,” said the director of music, “is that we should shut down, get all the able?bodied men together, issue them with torches, go through this place from top to bottom, flush him out, chase him through the city, catch him and beat him to a pulp, and then throw what's left into the river. It's the only way to be sure.”

“You know we can't afford to shut down,” Bucket said. “We seem to make thousands a week but we seem to spend thousands a week, too. I'm sure I don't know where it goes? I thought running this place was just a matter of getting bums on seats, but every time I look up there's a bum spinning gently in the air? What's he going to do next, I ask myself—”

They looked at one another and then, as if pulled by some kind of animal magnetism, their gazes turned and flew out over the auditorium until they found the huge, glittering bulk of the chandelier.

“Oh, no…” moaned Bucket. “He wouldn't, would he? That would shut us down.”

Salzella sighed. “Look, it weighs more than a ton,” he said. “The supporting rope is thicker than your arm. The winch is padlocked when it's not in use. It's safe.”

They looked at one another.

“I'll have a man guard it every minute there's a performance,” said Salzella. “I'll do it personally, if you like.”

“And he wants Christine to sing Iodine tonight! She's got a voice like a whistle!”

Salzella raised his eyebrows. “That at least is not a problem, is it?” he said.

“Isn't it? It's a key role!”

Salzella put his arm around the owner's shoulders. “I think perhaps it is time for you to explore a few more little-known corners of the wonderful world that is opera,” he said.

The stagecoach rolled to a halt in Sator Square, Ankh-Morpork. The coach agent was waiting impatiently.

“You're fifteen hours late, Mr Reever!” he shouted.

The coach?driver nodded impassively. He laid the reins down, jumped off the box, and inspected the horses. There was a certain woodenness about his movements.

Passengers were grabbing their baggage and hurrying away.

“Well?” said the agent.

“We had a picnic,” said the coach?driver. His face was grey.

“You stopped for a picnic?”

“And a bit of a singsong,” said the driver, pulling the horses' feedbags from under the seat.

“You are telling me that you stopped the mail coach for a picnic and a singsong?”