by Tom Holt
Sophie sat up, and winced. “Cricked neck,” she explained. “Have I been asleep, or something?”
Paul nodded. “For about twenty minutes.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “What happened?” she said. “The last thing I can remember is that bastard, making me drink the love stuff. Only—” She hesitated, trying to make sense of what was in her mind. “Only he was going to make me fall in love with that funny little clerk, with the pointy nose.”
“That’s right,” Paul said. “Only that didn’t happen. Yes, you drank the philtre, but then—”
“Yes? Well?”
Paul sighed. “Mr Wells—that’s old Mr Wells, the one who’d been lost, he turned out to be the long stapler—you know, the one that won’t stay put for five minutes. I saw him, in that mirror thing that shows things as they really are. And I, well, kind of set him free, and he sorted out the other Mr Wells, Humphrey, and basically that’s that. You missed it all, of course.”
“I suppose so,” Sophie said.
“Old Mr Wells,” Paul went on quickly, “John Wellington, he zapped Humphrey with lightning or something. Then he—well, changed him.”
“What do you mean, changed?”
“He turned him into something,” Paul said, with a touch of awe in his voice. “You’ve never seen anything like it. One moment he was like there, the next—”
“Paul,” Sophie warned him. “What did he turn him into?”
Paul shivered a little as he answered. “A photocopier,” he replied. “He reckoned that since he’d had to be a stapler all those years, it was only right and proper Humphrey should be some kind of office equipment too. And then he got this funny look in his eye, and he asked us, “What’s the most hated and abused piece of kit in an office?” and we all said, “The photocopier,” without even having to be asked. Then John Wellington said that was what he reckoned too, and it’d serve Humphrey right to spend for ever being thumped and yelled at and blamed every time something was late or got all chewed up. Then, zap, and that was that.”
“Oh well,” Sophie said. “But what about—?”
Paul looked away. “It’s all right,” he said. “I asked John Wellington about it. First he said, there’s nothing anybody can do, but I kept on at him and finally he said, yes, there’s an antidote. All I’ve got to do—”
“You?” Sophie interrupted.
Paul nodded. “All I’ve got to do,” he said, “is swear, like, this solemn oath that I’m finished with—well, girls, basically. And women. And all that sort of thing. Then I go away somewhere, and after a week or two the philtre wears off, and everything’s fine.”
Sophie looked at him. “And what happens if you don’t? I mean, if you break the oath?”
Paul shrugged. “He was a bit vague about that,” he said. “But from what I could gather, I sort of disintegrate, basically, and my soul’s forfeit to Ahrimanes, Prince of Darkness.” He frowned. “But that’s all a bit academic, really, isn’t it? Because let’s face it, me giving up women and stuff, it’s like me abdicating the throne of England. What you’re never going to have, I mean, you aren’t going to miss…”
“Oh,” Sophie said. “But that’s stupid.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it isn’t,” Paul said irritably. “It’s what I want to do. Well, obviously it’s not what I want to do, but it’s the right thing. Obviously.”
“Why?”
He loved her with all his heart, but she could be annoying sometimes. “Because otherwise—well, you’ll be under the control of that bloody stuff, and—”
“But I love you.”
“No,” Paul said. “That’s just the philtre, it’s what it makes you think.”
“No, you moron. I love you. Before the philtre stuff.” Paul shook his head. “No,” he said. “I mean, you thought you did, but probably by now you’d have realised you didn’t, you were just having a funny five minutes or something; or maybe you’d breathed in the fumes while we were up in Lancashire, or—”
“Paul.” She was getting angry. “Shut up, for crying out loud. Do you love me or don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Right. That’s that, then,” she said; then she lunged at him and kissed him. “Ouch,” she added, as their teeth collided.
“Sorry,” Paul mumbled.
“Bloody hell. Look, just keep still, can’t you?”
So Paul kept still, for quite some time. Then, once he’d got some feeling back in his jaw and lips, he said, “Look, are you sure about this?”
“Paul!”
“All right, all right, I was just asking.”
§
A few minutes later, someone knocked at the door. “Is it, um, safe to come in?”
“That’s John Wellington,” Paul whispered. “Yes,” he called out, “um, yes, fine.”
The door opened, and John Wellington came in, followed by Professor Van Spee, Mr Suslowicz, the
Contessa di Castel’Bianco, Ricky Wurmtoter, Pip and, finally, Mr Tanner. “Sit down, please, all of you,” John Wellington said. “You too,” he added to Paul and Sophie, who’d jumped up looking guilty. “We’ve got a lot to get through, so we won’t waste any time.” He put his hand in his pocket and took out a paper bag, which Paul was sure he recognised.
“Mr Carpenter,” John Wellington went on, “I took the liberty of taking these from the drawer of your desk. You recognise them.”
Paul nodded; the dragon droppings, which made you hear what people meant, not what they said.
“Excellent,” John Wellington said. “Now, we all have a rough idea of what’s happened here, and I’ve taken appropriate steps to deal with my nephew. But that, I’m afraid, isn’t quite the end of the matter.” He frowned, and looked slowly up and down the table. “From what I’ve gathered from my own observations as a stapler—an interesting perspective, which some of you might find useful—and various things I’ve heard since I’ve been back, it seems to me that my wretched nephew wasn’t acting entirely on his own. In fact, it seems quite likely that one of the other partners in this firm was either in the plot with him, or at least knew about it but didn’t say or do anything about it.”
Very uncomfortable silence, with everyone looking at the floor, or their folded hands.
“Now,” John Wellington went on, “I suppose I could swallow some of these dragon droppings myself, and then question you in turn and find out the truth. But if I were to do that, some of you might suspect that I’d used this as a pretext for getting rid of the one or more of you whom I don’t like; after all, you’d have no way of knowing whether I was telling the truth or not. So instead, I’m going to ask Miss Pettingell and Mr Carpenter to eat the beans. After all, they don’t know which of you I’d want to see out of the way, so there’s no reason why they wouldn’t tell the truth. Agreed?”
The other partners stayed still and quiet for a moment; then, slowly, they all nodded their agreement. “Fine,” said John Wellington, pushing the bag across the table. “Ms Pettingell, Mr Carpenter, if you’d both care to do the honours.”
Sophie looked at him suspiciously, but something in his expression seemed to convince her that this wouldn’t be a good time to make difficulties, and she swallowed three beans as if they were some sort of extremely nasty medicine. When Paul had done likewise, John Wellington cleared his throat. “First,” he said, “we’ll try a little controlled experiment.” He took a pencil and wrote something on two pieces of paper, which he tucked in his top pocket. “First,” he said, “I’m going to say what’s on one of those slips of paper while thinking something quite different—which is what I’ve written down on the other slip. Then Mr Carpenter and Miss Pettingell will write down what they thought they heard me say, and we can compare the results.” He looked round the table. “Judy,” he said, looking the Contessa in the eye, “did I ever happen to mention to you that your nose reminds me of a clothes-peg clipped on a parsnip?”
John Wellington nodded, then turned to Pip. “Would you tell us, please,” he said, “what you just heard me say to the Contessa, and what she said in reply?”
“Certainly,” Pip answered. “You told the Contessa that if anything, she looks more beautiful now than she did a hundred and thirty years ago. She replied that you always knew how to phrase a graceful compliment.”
John Wellington nodded in acknowledgement. “Thank you,” he said. “Now, if Miss Pettingell and Mr Carpenter will kindly pass him what they’ve written.”
As he stood up to hand over the slip of paper, Paul couldn’t help coming eye to eye with Mr Tanner, just for a moment. That was no fun at all, even though Mr Tanner didn’t say anything out loud.
Pip unfolded the bits of paper and looked at them. “Well?” said John Wellington.
“Um,” Pip replied. “Actually, I’m having a little trouble with the handwriting.”
“I don’t think so,” John Wellington said. “Come on, man, don’t be shy.”
“Sorry,” Pip replied, and the way he said it reminded Paul of someone he was accustomed to look at in mirrors. “It’s just—well, a bit personal, if you see what I mean.”
“No more personal than spending a hundred and thirty years as a stapler, I’m sure. Hurry up, can’t you?”
Pip shrugged, and read out the words, exactly as Paul had heard them. Sophie’s version was identical. Countess Judy went bright pink, while John Wellington laughed.
“It only goes to show,” he said, “what a frail instrument speech is. Anyhow, I think I’ve proved my point. Now we can start the investigation.” He turned round and stared hard at the other partners, one by one. “I think I can leave Mr Wurmtoter out of this,” he went on, “since he didn’t join the firm until long after I disappeared. Theo,” he said, and for the first time, Paul saw the professor look decidedly uncomfortable. “We’ve never liked each other, of course; you’re jealous of me, and I despise you, understandably enough. But I wouldn’t have thought you had the guts to plot against me, even when it looked like my idiot nephew had won. Well?”
Professor Van Spee stroked his beard before answering. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than murdering you and selling your body to the cat-food people,” he replied gravely. “However, I genuinely believed you were dead.”
“Thank you,” John Wellington said gravely. “Judy,” he went on. “I remember discussing you with old John Hollingshead, who was running the Gaiety when you joined the chorus back in the early 1870s,” he said, “She has the ambition of a junior minister and the morals of an alley cat; even so, there’s something about her I don’t quite like.”
“Was it you?”
The Contessa smiled bleakly. “No,” she said.
“Excellent. Casimir, my old friend,” John Wellington continued warmly, “most people would be convinced you’re far too stupid to be devious, but I don’t agree. You’re stupid, certainly, but you’re greedy as well. Did you know about what Humphrey did to me?”
Mr Suslowicz looked as though he was about to burst into tears. “I came to this country with nothing, and I owe everything to you. Thank God you’ve come back to us, my good, kind, friend John Wells.”
“Splendid,” said John Wellington. “Which just leaves you, Dennis. I wouldn’t put anything past you, even if I could find a bargepole that’d reach that far. Was it you?”
Mr Tanner grinned. It was just his ordinary workaday grin. “It was nothing personal, JW,” he said. “How could there be? I never knew you. After all, I wasn’t even born when it happened. It was only years later, after I’d been with the firm for quite a while, that I found out what Humphrey’d done. But I couldn’t rescue you, because it’d have meant releasing that disgusting little clerk who knocked up my mother. My father,” he added, with a leer that showed his teeth. “If there’d been any way to get you out without letting him go too, I’d have done it, just to get rid of Humphrey.”
“Thank you,” said John Wellington; but Mr Tanner went on speaking, or at least his voice kept going in Paul’s mind. “And now,” Mr Tanner was saying, “he’s back again, and my mother’s up to her old tricks again, and if that’s not bad enough she’s been chasing after this pathetic dribble of trollsnot. Well, we’ll have to put a stop to that, just as soon as your back’s turned. Only this time there won’t be any talismans or any of that shit—”
“Shut the fuck up,” said John Wellington, so politely that it took Paul a moment to remember that that probably wasn’t what he’d actually said. He didn’t look like Arthur Lowe any more; he was angry, that was obvious enough, but he had the anger completely under control, like someone who’s scooped up a small, furiously barking dog and is holding it well clear of the ground, its little feet scrabbling wildly and to no effect. “Thank you,” Paul heard him say. “Actually, I don’t think we need Miss Pettingell and Mr Carpenter to translate for us, the gist of the matter seems pretty clear, don’t you think?” Paul looked across, and saw that the other partners were sitting very still, looking distinctly shocked and uncomfortable.
Mr Tanner drew a deep breath. “Fine,” he said. “So that’s that, I suppose, I’m out. No use me pointing out that my family owns this building, or anything like that.”
John Wellington looked rather serious. “If you’re trying to blackmail me,” he said, “forget it. But you’re underestimating me, as always. No, Dennis, you aren’t out at all. In fact, you have my sympathy. It can’t be easy for you, having a mother like that. And after all, you were the one who insisted on taking on our two young friends here. I was in this very room during the interview, remember, when Humphrey was so determined they shouldn’t be hired, and you forced the rest of them to change their minds and vote him down. I think you knew then that they were the ones who’d set things to rights. And you sent them the swords in the stones, and stage-managed that little pantomime that brought them together, that evening when Mr Carpenter bought the frozen pizza. Quite the matchmaker,” he added, with a twitch of his eyebrow. “They ought to be grateful to you, for the rest of their lives.”
Mr Tanner shrugged. “That was purely self-defence,” he said. “I wanted to make sure he’d stay away from my mother.”
Sophie looked as though she was about to say something, but must’ve thought better of it. John Wellington winked at her; she went pink and subsided. “Well,” he continued, “at least we’ve got that cleared up. As for the two of you,” he added, turning to Paul and Sophie, “I think we’ll all have to rely on your discretion if this firm’s going to continue working together. But that’s not a problem, is it?”
Sophie had to kick Paul’s ankle under the table; then he nodded vigorously, and said, “Absolutely, that’s right,” or words to that effect.
John Wellington stood up. “Excellent,” he said. “In that case, I think we’ve covered everything that needs immediate attention. Casimir, Judy, I’d like a word with you, if I may. My office in ten minutes, please. The rest of you—” His slight shrug was enough to get them going, like a stone thrown into a crowd of ducks on a pond. A moment later, there were only three people left in the room: Paul, Sophie and Mr Tanner.
They looked at him, and he grinned.
“Is that right,” Sophie said, “what he told us? About you—”
“Yes,” said Mr Tanner. “Dress me in nappies and give me a bow and arrow, and I’m Cupid. And yes, it was me insisted that you got hired; but he’s wrong about one thing, I only did that because I could see you were both right for the job. Naturals, both of you.” He laughed suddenly. “But that was bloody obvious, even though the rest of those idiots couldn’t see it. Supposed to be wizards and sorcerers, couldn’t see the painfully obvious; no, it took a poxy little goblin to do that.”
Sophie frowned. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What was so obvious?”
Mr Tanner’s grin was broader than ever.
“Ah,” he said. “That’d be telling. But you don’t need me to tell you, you’re both more than capable of figuring it out for yourselves.”
“Oh,” said Sophie. “Suit yourself, then. And—”
“What?”
“Thanks,” Sophie replied awkwardly. “Oh, I know you weren’t thinking of us. But,” she added, taking hold of Paul’s arm, “thanks, anyway.”
Mr Tanner laughed, as if he’d just heard a really funny story. “Wait and see what happens before you thank me,” he said. “Could be you’ll be sticking pins in a little wax effigy of me this time next year.”
Sophie shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said quietly.
“No? Well, you could be right.” Mr Tanner shrugged. “We’ll see, one way or another. One thing’s for sure, there’s absolutely no way you two’d have found the happy ending, left to yourselves. When it comes to knowing what’s good for you, I’ve met smarter lemmings. You’re on your own now, though, unless the old bastard means to look after you. In which case,” he added, “you’ll probably be all right. Can’t say as I like him much, but he’s no fool.” He turned to go; but then he stopped, swung round and looked at them. “One last thing,” he said. “Well, two, actually. First, welcome to the profession, and I think that now we’ve got all this shit out of the way, we can probably work well together. Second,” he added, giving Paul a long, cold stare, “you stay the hell away from my mother, understood? Because otherwise, if Sophie here doesn’t kill you, I bloody will.”
Paul nodded quickly, three times, and headed for the door. But there was something he had to ask somebody, and if anybody knew, Mr Tanner probably did. He turned back. “Excuse me,” he said. “Can I ask you something?”
Mr Tanner frowned. “Depends what it is,” he said.
Paul bit his lip. “Look,” he said. “If I was to ask you, Why Gilbert and Sullivan, for God’s sake? would that question make any sense to you?”
Mr Tanner raised an eyebrow; then he laughed. “Perfect sense,” he said. “I take it you’re not into light opera, then.”