Maskerade

“Oh, it's you, Walter. Thank you.”

He took the bundle and shut the door.

There were bills. There were always bills. The Opera House practically runs itself, they'd told him. Well, yes, but it practically ran on money. He rummaged through the let–

There was an envelope with the Opera House crest on it.

He looked at it like a man looks at a very fierce dog on a very thin leash.

It did nothing except lie there and look as gummed as an envelope can be.

Finally he disembowelled it with the paperknife and then flung it down on the desk again, as if it would bite.

When it did not do so he reached out hesitantly and withdrew the folded letter. It read as follows:

My Dear Bucket,

I should be most grateful if Christine sings the role of Laura tonight. I assure you she is more than capable.

The second violinist is a little slow, I feel, and the second act last night was frankly extremely wooden. This really is not good enough.

My I extend my own welcome to Senor Basilica. I congratulate you on his arrival.

Wishing you the very best,

The Opera Ghost

“Mr Salzella!”

Salzella was eventually located. He read the note. “You do not intend to accede to this?” he said.

“She does sing superbly, Salzella.”

“You mean the Nitt girl?”

“Well… yes… you know what I mean.”

“But this is nothing less than blackmail!”

“Is it? He's not actually threatening anything.”

“You let her… I mean them, of course… you let them sing last night, and much good it did poor Dr Undershaft.”

“What do you advise, then?”

There was another series of disjointed knocks on the door.

“Come in, Walter,” said Bucket and Salzella together.

Walter jerked in, holding the coalscuttle.

“I've been to see Commander Vimes of the city Watch,” said Salzella. “He said he'll have some of his best men here tonight. Undercover.”

“I thought you said they were all incompetent.”

Salzella shrugged. “We've got to do this properly. Did you know Dr Undershaft was strangled before he was hung?”

“Hanged,” said Bucket, without thinking. “Men are hanged. It's dead meat that's hung.”

“Indeed?” said Salzella. “I appreciate the information. Well, poor old Undershaft was strangled, apparently. And then he was hung.”

“Really, Salzella, you do have a misplaced sense—”

“I've finished now Mr Bucket!”

“Yes, thank you, Walter. You may go.”

“Yes Mr Bucket!”

Walter closed the door behind him, very conscientiously.

“I'm afraid it's working here,” said Salzella. “If you don't find some way of dealing with… are you all right, Mr Bucket?”

“What?” Bucket, who'd been staring at the closed door, shook his head. “Oh. Yes. Er. Walter…”

“What about him?”

“He's… all right, is he?”

“Oh, he's got his… funny little ways. He's harmless enough, if that's what you mean. Some of the stage?hands and musicians are a bit cruel to him… you know, sending him out for a tin of invisible paint or a bag of nail?holes and so on. He believes what he's told. Why?”

“Oh… I just wondered. Silly, really.”

“I suppose he is, technically.”

“No, I meant? Oh, it doesn't matter…”

Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg left Goatberger's office and walked demurely down the street. At least, Granny walked demurely. Nanny leaned somewhat.

Every thirty seconds she'd say, “How much was that again?”

“Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty?seven pence,” said Granny. She was looking thoughtful.

“I thought it was nice of him to look in all the ashtrays for all the odd coppers he could round up,” said Nanny. “Those he could reach, anyway. How much was that again?”

“Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty?seven pence.”

“I've never had seventy dollars before,” said Nanny.

“I didn't say just seventy dollars, I said—”

“Yes, I know. But I'm working my way up to it gradual. I'll say this about money. It really chafes.”

“I don't know why you have to keep your purse in your knicker leg,” said Granny.

“It's the last place anybody would look.” Nanny sighed. “How much did you say it was?”

“Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty?seven pence.”

“I'm going to need a bigger tin.”

“You're going to need a bigger chimney.”

“I could certainly do with a bigger knicker leg.” She nudged Granny. “You're going to have to be polite to me now I'm rich,” she said.

“Yes, indeed,” said Granny, with a faraway look in her eyes. “Don't think I'm not considering that.”

She stopped. Nanny walked into her, with a tinkle of lingerie.

The frontage of the Opera House loomed over them.

“We've got to get back in there,” Granny said. “And into Box Eight.”

“Crowbar,” said Nanny, firmly. “A No. 3 claw end should do it.”

“We're not your Nev,” said Granny. “Anyway, breaking in wouldn't be the same thing. We've got to have a right to be there.”

“Cleaners,” said Nanny. “We could be cleaners, and… no, 's not right me being a cleaner now, in my position.”

“No, we can't have that, with you in your position.”

Granny glanced down at Nanny as a coach pulled up outside the Opera House. “O' course,” she said, artfulness dripping off her voice like toffee, “we could always buy Box Eight.”

“Wouldn't work,” said Nanny. People were hurrying down the steps with the cuff?adjusting, sticky looks of welcoming committees everywhere. “They're scared of selling it.”

“Why not?” said Granny. “There's people dying and the opera goes on. That means someone's prepared to sell his own grandmother if he'd make enough money.”

“It'd cost a fortune, anyway,” said Nanny.

She looked at Granny's triumphant expression and groaned. “Oh, Esme! I was going to save that money for me old age!” She thought for a moment. “Anyway, it still wouldn't work. I mean, look at us, we don't look like the right kind of people…”

Enrico Basilica got out of the coach.