Maskerade

The Opera House was still in uproar. Half the audience had gone outside and the other half was hanging around in case further interesting events were going to transpire. The orchestra was in a huddle in the pit, preparing its request for a special Being Upset By A Ghost Allowance. The curtains were closed. Some of the chorus had stayed on stage; others had hurried off to take part in the chase. The air had the excited electric feel it gets when normal civilized life is temporarily short?circuited.

Agnes bounced frantically from rumour to rumour. The Ghost had been caught, and it was Walter Plinge. The Ghost had been caught by Walter Plinge. The Ghost had been caught by someone else. The Ghost had escaped. The Ghost was dead.

There were arguments breaking out everywhere.

“I still can't believe it was Walter! I mean, good grief… Walter?”

“What about the show? We can't just stop! You never stop the show, not even if someone dies!”

“Oh, we have stopped when people died…”

“Yes, but only as long as it took to get the body off?stage!”

Agnes stepped back into the wings, and trod on something. “Sorry,” she said automatically.

“It was only my foot,” said Granny Weatherwax. “So… how is life in the big city, Agnes Nitt?”

Agnes turned. “Oh… hello, Granny…” she mumbled. “And I'm not Agnes here, thank you,” she added, a shade more defiantly.

“It's a good job, is it, bein' someone else's voice?”

“I'm doing what I want to do,” said Agnes. She drew herself up to her full width. “And you can't stop me!”

“But you ain't part of it, are you?” said Granny conversationally. “You try, but you always find yourself watchin' yourself watchin' people, eh? Never quite believin' anything? Thinkin' the wrong thoughts?”

“Shut up!”

“Ah. Thought so.”

“I have no intention of becoming a witch, thank you very much!”

“Now, don't go getting upset just because you know it's going to happen. A witch you're going to be because a witch you are, and if you turn your back on him now then I don't know what's going to happen to Walter Plinge.”

“He's not dead?”

“No.”

Agnes hesitated. “I knew he was the Ghost,” she began. “But then I saw he couldn't be.”

“Ah,” said Granny. “Believed the evidence of your own eyes, did you? In a place like this?”

“One of the stage?hands just told me they chased him up on to the roof and then down into the street and beat him to death!”

“Oh, well,” said Granny, “you'll never get anywhere if you believe what you hear. What do you know?”

“What do you mean, what do I know?”

“Don't try cleverness on me, miss.”

Agnes looked at Granny's expression, and knew when to fold. “I know he's the Ghost,” she said.

“Right.”

“But I can see that he isn't.”

“Yes?”

“And I know… I'm pretty sure he doesn't mean any harm.”

“Good. Well done. Walter might not know his right from his left, but he does know his right from his wrong.” Granny rubbed her hands together. “Well, we're already home and looking for a clean towel, eh?”

“What? You haven't solved anything!”

“ 'Course we have. We know that it wasn't Walter what done the murders, so now we just have to find out who it was. Easy.”

“Where's Walter now?”

“Nanny's got him somewhere.”

“She's all by herself?”

“I told you, she's got Walter.”

“I meant… well, he's a bit strange.”

“Only where it shows.”

Agnes sighed, and started to say that it wasn't her problem. And realized it was useless even to try. The knowledge sat like a smug intruder in her mind. Whatever it was, it was her problem.

“All right,” she said. “I'll help you if I can, because I'm here. But afterwards… that's it! Afterwards, you'll leave me alone. Promise?”

“Certainly.”

“Well… all right, then…” Agnes stopped. “Oh, no,” she said. “That was too easy. I don't trust you.”

“Don't trust me?” said Granny. “You're saying you don't trust me?”

“Yes. I don't. You'll find a way to wriggle around it.”

“I never wriggle,” said Granny. “It's Nanny Ogg who thinks we ought to have a third witch. I reckon life's difficult enough without some girl cluttering up the place just because she thinks she looks good in a pointy hat.”

There was a pause. Then Agnes said, “I'm not falling for that one, either. It's where you say I'm too stupid to be a witch and I say, oh no I'm not, and you end up winning again. I'd rather be someone else's voice than some old witch with no friends and having everyone frightened of me and being nothing more than just a bit cleverer than other people and not doing any real magic at all…”

Granny put her head on one side.

“Seems to me you're so sharp you might cut yourself,” she said. “All right. When it's all over, I'll let you go your own way. I won't stop you. Now show me the way to Mr Bucket's office…”

Nanny smiled her jolly?wrinkled?old?apple smile. “Now, you just hand it over, Walter,” she said. “No harm in letting me see it, is there? Not old Nanny.”

“Can't see it till it's finished!”

“Well, now,” said Nanny, hating herself for dropping the atom bomb, “I'm sure your mam wouldn't want to hear that you've been a bad boy, would she?”

Expressions floated over Walter's waxen features as he struggled with several ideas at once. Finally, without a word, he thrust the bundle at her, his arms trembling with tension.

“There's a good boy,” said Nanny.

She glanced at the first few pages, and then moved them nearer to the light. “Hmm.”

She treadled the harmonium for a while and played a few notes with her left hand. They represented most of the musical notes she knew how to read. It was a very simple little theme, such as might be picked out on the keyboard with one finger. “Hey…”

Her lips moved as she read the narrative.

“Well now, Walter,” she said, “isn't this a sort of opera about a ghost who lives in an opera house?” She turned a page. “Very smart and debonair, he is. He's got a secret cave, I see…”

She played another short riff. “Catchy music, too.”

She read on, occasionally saying things like 'Well, well' and 'Lawks'. Every now and again she'd give Walter an appraising look.

“I wonder why the Ghost wrote this, Walter?” she said, after a while. “Quiet sort of chap, ain't he? Put it all into his music.”