‘What about the B-list?’ he asked.
‘Favourite pupils, past and present. And you, Mr Polk, you alone are privileged to wear this number.’ With a lopsided grin and another snap of the scissors, the tailor handed Polk an identical costume, save for an unbecoming belt encrusted with buckles and a large circle at the midriff. ‘Turn the centre at 7.04 p.m. precisely,’ said the tailor, adding wryly, ‘Yes, that loopy.’
*
Boris left to last his most testing delivery – Snorkel had installed defences to shield his Town Clerk from common citizens during working hours.
‘Ask Public Cleaning services, third floor, second left,’ said Reception.
‘Ask Licensing, third floor, second landing, first on the right,’ said Public Cleaning.
‘Ask Rent Collection, fourth floor, at the end of the long corridor,’ said Licensing.
On being informed that his visit related to Professor Bolitho’s funeral, the lady in Rent Collection, an amateur stargazer, relented.
Gorhambury’s office lurked in a first-floor byway off the grander passages of the Mayoral Suite. With his reinstatement, his files had been returned to their former positions in cardboard drums with green plastic tops. They dotted the floor like mushrooms. On his desk, lines of paperclips, colour-coded by subject, awaited commitment to the fray.
He lowered his desk lamp closer to paragraph 3(1)(y)(iv) of the recently amended Tower Refurbishment Regulations:
The cost of repairs to walkways between towers of different ownership shall be born in proportion to the height (2 points), circumference (2 points) and number of rooms (half a point each) of the respective towers, save where the repairs relate to the entry point to a tower, when the costs shall be borne by the owner of that tower unless caused by subsidence or turbulence originating in the other tower, in which event the Tower Inspector shall exercise reasonable discretion in the matter.
Gorhambury felt a twinge of admiration at the clarity of his own prose, while regretting the lack of an immediate answer to the present appeal, which concerned an onset of dry rot away from the entry point, but in a beam that ran to the front door. What did fairness suggest? What about policy?
A solution was taking shape when a spectral figure glided in without knocking and sat in the solitary chair opposite Gorhambury’s desk. Skeletal fingers grasped the armrests. Mors Valett, the municipal undertaker, looked agitated. ‘The Mayor fears a disorderly procession,’ he began. ‘Knowing the lead mourners, I share his anxiety.’
The Funeral Regulations required the first two dozen mourners to be notified to the Town Hall forty-eight hours before the procession. Bolitho’s cortège had more than a sprinkling of the artistic and unorthodox.
‘I have had assurances – respectful music, no dancing, no carnival. The Headmaster will make a brief address in the Square. The internment will be private.’
‘You do realise, Gorhambury, these “respectful” mourners include a trio of misfits: a sacked teacher, an outsider and a party-wrecker.’ Gorhambury translated with ease: Godfery Fanguin, Jonah Oblong and Vixen Valourhand. ‘I can also report that Boris Polk has been seen with a giant firework.’
‘It’s that time of year.’
‘What’s got into you, Gorhambury? Vulcan’s Dance is weeks away.’
Vulcan’s Dance, Rotherweird’s annual firework day, fell this year in early December, but Gorhambury could hardly say that Valett’s ‘trio of misfits’ had helped to save Rotherweird, or that Sir Veronal had not been what he appeared. Still less could he mention his own invitation to join the lead mourners. Gorhambury had navigated Bolitho’s planning application for a planetarium through the shoals of the Scholastic Building Regulations, because he equated the workings of the heavens with how a town should be run: like clockwork.
Boris Polk, ear to the door, chose this moment to make his entry. ‘One mourner’s gown,’ he announced, depositing the garment on Gorhambury’s desk and shattering the parade-ground order of the paperclips.
‘Gown?’ queried Gorhambury, for whom gowns were vestments of authority requiring the highest sartorial standards.
‘The Mayor is not wearing one of those. And nor am I,’ declared Valett.
Boris parried the sideswipe. ‘I should hope not. They’re for family and friends.’
‘I’m to wear this?’ asked Gorhambury in pained surprise. When Boris grinned, he added, ‘I suppose it’s more inelegant than offensive.’
‘Over your own heads be it,’ punned Valett, now at ease. He and the Mayor would stand out: figures of dignity, apart from the riff-raff.
After Valett’s departure, Gorhambury enquired about the giant firework.
‘It’s meticulously made to Bolitho’s specifications,’ Boris assured him.
Gorhambury quoted Richard II as he restored the paperclips to running order. ‘I wasted time, and now doth time waste me . . .’
Boris took the hint and retired. At the foot of the Town Hall steps a notice on the official board caught his eye.
THE SNORKEL ESSAY PRIZE
The Town Hall in its vigilant search for improvement invites essays on
‘How government should work’
Open to ages from 21-30
1,500 words maximum
Closing date: 20th November
Prize to be decided
The implicit concession that improvement might be needed struck Boris as out of character for Snorkel, but then, in theory at least, a quinquennial election loomed. The old autocrat must be feeling uneasy.
9
The Winter Solstice Special
Bolitho had played shy of Baubles & Relics, peering in the window without entering, but occasionally slipping a shopping list through the letter-box. His last, delivered days before his death, followed the formula of its predecessors:
Find any of these on your travels and I’ll double the money (cash):
1. The Savoy Cocktail Book by Harry Craddock (1930)
2. Plate 8, Mammals illustrated by Archibald Thorburn (1921)
3. Kepler’s Mysterium Cosmographicum (any edition)
Orelia Roc had had no success with these recondite errands, and Bolitho remained a relative stranger. Deciding that such a vague acquaintanceship did not justify attendance at his funeral procession but that the shop could hardly be open as it passed, she set off for the library in the hope of making progress in the matter of Calx Bole.
Privately, she criticised the company for complacency since the dramatic events of Midsummer Day. Bole, the shapeshifter, was still out there and Wynter’s last words from the official record of his trial – ‘I will be back. Vengeance will be mine, and another will pave the way’ – jangled in her head. The Wynter of the tapestry, with his cold, angular face, did not strike her as a man who spoke loosely. The second and third of those prophecies had already been fulfilled with the arrival of Calx Bole and the destruction of Sir Veronal in the mixing-point; now only Wynter’s own return remained. And yet everyone had gravitated back to their everyday lives as if the threat no longer mattered. According to Bill Ferdy, even the ever-alert Ferensen had retreated to his tower.
She walked against a steady flow of women with dark ribbons in their hair, men in black-banded hats, children with star-spangled flags, all flocking to pay their respects to a much-loved cult figure.
The funeral had drained the library of custom. She drifted from bay to bay without success, unsurprising given such a faceless enemy and the History Regulations.
Madge Brown, the Assistant Head Librarian, marooned in reception, looked in need of company. Orelia asked after her unlikely new friend.
‘Gorhambury’s horribly buttoned up, but I shall persevere.’ She gestured at the Rotherweird Regulations, the valley’s legal code, lined up on the shelf behind her. ‘Spot the odd man out?’ she asked with a wink.
‘Volu
me seventeen,’ replied Orelia – hardly a taxing question, given their arrangement in numerical order.
‘The Popular Choice Regulations have been out for rebinding for months.’ Another wink.
Orelia’s blood boiled at Snorkel’s chicanery. Rebinding! ‘How do I get a copy?’ she asked.
‘Try the Hoy Book Fair – old Rotherweird volumes often surface there.’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ she admitted. The History Regulations made antique books a difficult sell. Segregating the abstract novel from the historical had always been a challenge.
‘There’s a law against going – but as the law is out for binding . . .’ This time Madge raised both eyebrows; Orelia was finding her less mousy by the minute. ‘Try the barrows in the churchyard,’ Madge suggested. ‘You get all sorts there.’
Curiosity piqued, Orelia could not resist. ‘When is this Fair?’
Madge’s voice lowered to a whisper. ‘Saturday week – but the gates will be shut.’ Looking guilty, she returned to a card index and started diligently refiling.
Orelia tried the upper floor, but it shed no light on Rotherweird’s electoral rules. However, a shelf labelled Digressions and Diversions included back copies of the Rotherweird Chronicle’s daily Puzzle Page, filed in date order.
Why had she not thought of it before? Calx Bole had set Chronicle crosswords under the name Shapeshifter. She had never had any aptitude for crossword clues and she loathed the way Bole used the craft to tantalise pursuers and trumpet his own cleverness. Now she discovered that Shapeshifter had compiled this year’s Winter Solstice Special, a double-size puzzle already printed, with the solution to be published on the day itself.
She found two clues that stood out for their lack of any apparent connection with winter. The first was impenetrable: Shown badly behaved flirt, Royal rages in empty house (3, 5, 4, 5). The second, by contrast, could hardly have been easier: Actualité stitched up (4) – with two simple answers, news or sewn. At least this double anagram could not hide a third, there being no other word with the same letters.
She debated with whom to share these conundra. Ferensen’s aloofness still unnerved her. Neither Fanguin, nor the Polks, nor Gregorius Jones could be relied on for gravity. Salt and Valourhand were unreliable in different ways, and she had no wish to resume any intimacy with Oblong. That left Finch, who had not been seen for weeks. She liked the Herald, but she suspected he would liaise with Ferensen and once again she’d lose control.
She postponed a decision on the speculative ground that the Hoy Book Fair might bring further enlightenment.
On her way out she tried Madge Brown. ‘Do you do the Chronicle crosswords?’
‘If I’m on the same wavelength, I manage about half on a good day, but I’ve never finished one. They’re so bloody devious.’
‘Who compiles them?’
‘They alternate – Cryptic, Crostic, Shapeshifter, Clever Soul . . . and others; there are loads of them.’
‘Clever Soul? How modest!’
‘It’s an anagram of “clue solver”.’
Orelia could imagine the type. ‘Who are they really?’
‘Nobody knows. They’re true noms de plume, so there’s no risk of bribes or favouritism. The crossword world is fiercely competitive.’
A violent explosion rattled the windows. Vesey Bolitho was not going out with a whimper.
10
Last Rites
In the main School Quad, Mors Valett, immaculately attired in tailcoat and black top hat, was delivering a stream of orders through a loudhailer. ‘Five minutes and his Worship arrives, so let’s have order. Some of you may be teachers, but today you’re the class. Band – over here!’
Eighteen pupils shuffled into position in the middle of the Quad: strings first, then wind, with brass at the back, and, beside them, the solitary bass drum. Two strongly built boys carried a curious instrument between them: Bolitho’s invention, a stellarium, which looked not unlike a chest expander with five strings attached to a metal strip at both ends.
Other pupils wore the dubious handiwork of Bolitho’s tailor.
The Head of Music carried his baton and a lightweight music stand. Bolitho’s final composition defied all rules, more sound than music. Why not end with Rotherweird’s traditional fare? ‘The Last Rickshaw Ride’ and the poignant ‘Riverman’s Lament’ were favourites for a reason. Why tamper with the old ways? He could not wait for the whole event to be over.
‘Lead mourners here!’ shrilled Valett, placing them by his assessment of their social standing. Rhombus Smith, spared one of the tailor’s creations, stood next to Gorhambury in the front row; Fanguin and Valourhand made up the last row with Oblong; the Polks and Gregorius Jones occupied semi-respectable middle ground. The remainder, mostly staff and a select few sixth-formers, tucked in behind their Headmaster.
Punctual to the minute, the mayoral rickshaw drew up at the school gate. ‘The things I do for this town,’ muttered Snorkel to his driver.
The Mayor’s costume excelled even Valett’s in pristine formality, and was enhanced by the ceremonial Malacca stick which only he was permitted to carry. Snorkel said nothing beyond, ‘Keep it short, if you want to be here next term!’ to the Headmaster, and, ‘What the hell are you wearing?’ to Gorhambury.
The drum called the pace as the procession wended its way along the Golden Mean and Snorkel heaved a sigh of relief. Paying respects should be respectful. Children gently waved their flags; adults inclined their heads – there was no applause, no rudery. His sense of a chore receded as he noticed most of the town had turned out to say their farewells. He puffed out his chest, a pose befitting the embodiment of Rotherweird’s communal spirit.
As the procession passed, spectators abandoned the pavements to join on behind. Dusk fell and the shawl of the Milky Way glimmered. There was no moon, only the yellowish smudge of Saturn. Planets don’t flicker, suns do: Bolitho’s first nugget in his First Form guide to the night sky.
In Market Square, Valett reordered the procession before a temporary rostrum by the Town Hall steps: lead mourners directly ahead, musicians either side of them, the public behind rows of temporary barriers. As Rhombus Smith ascended the steps, the hands of Doom’s Tocsin moved to ten to seven. Snorkel gave Valett and Gorhambury a cursory nod of approval: all orderly, all in place, all moving like clockwork.
*
A low sandbank where the tributary girding the Island Field rejoined the Rother provided a registered ignition point under the Firework Regulations. Vulcan’s Dance, Rotherweird’s firework day, fell on the last moonless night before the Winter Solstice, so today, Polk’s giant firework and the large wooden tube containing it had no company. At ten to seven, the timer took effect: seals broke, chemicals mixed and the ten-minute ignition programme began to run.
Rhombus Smith commenced his funeral address by raising a silver flask above his head like a chalice.
‘I give you Vesey’s finest creation, the Sea of Tranquillity – the most inappropriately named cocktail in the mixologist’s lexicon.’ The Headmaster took a swig. Eyes popped, his voice dropped an octave and he found eloquence. ‘Light lives on centuries after the death of its owning star, as will Vesey in the memories of his pupils. Repeat after me: “My versifying elephant . . .”’
The audience accepted the cue, reciting with brio Bolitho’s mnemonic for the order of the planets: ‘My versifying elephant mixes jolly strong uplifting negritas pensively!’
Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars . . .
‘Smith’s bloody pissed,’ hissed Snorkel over his shoulder, but irritation eased as the Headmaster moved smoothly to straightforward biography.
‘Bolitho’s parents sold our learning in Paris and he didn’t return until late middle age to realise his dream of an Astronomy faculty . . .’
After a few choice anecdotes, the headmaster chose Tennyson
to close:
‘For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have cross’d the bar.’
*
Doom’s Tocsin struck seven of the evening: Bolitho’s chime, the cocktail hour. Seconds after the final peal, Polk’s rocket detonated to shattering effect, emitting a mass of dark and silver shapes. Across the sky these opposed particles hunted each other down, self-destructing on collision, causing secondary explosions: a
spectacular battle between matter and antimatter, angels and demons. As the crowd cheered, Snorkel’s outrage yielded to a desire to take credit for anything of appeal to potential electors. He nodded sagely.
Then there was silence; the Head of Music strode to the rostrum and raised his baton. He had not rehearsed this hotchpotch of notes – who could? Instruments were readied. The two musicians with the stellarium swayed, stretching the strings with one hand, lofting bows in the other. Snorkel glared at Valett, who glared at Gorhambury. What was going on? Had these people never heard of the Funeral Regulations?
The violins started precipitously high, an astral sound just short of where the human register gives way to the canine, then the cellos joined in, oscillating low, followed by the stellarium with an eerie note like a finger rubbed round the rim of a glass. The bass drum entered quietly, no more than a pulse, while horns and woodwind intervened with single held notes. To Snorkel, the resulting jangle sounded like the worst kind of modernism, but more receptive ears sensed a crescendo: something was about to happen.
7.04 p.m. Boris turned the medal-like ring on the front of his belt full circle. The music matched his cue.
‘Gorhambury, what the hell’s going on?’ Snorkel had the frenetic look of a control freak with no control.
‘It’s just music,’ spluttered Gorhambury, clasping his stomach to relieve what felt like a tremor of indigestion.
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