A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In

by Mills, Magnus

  I was beginning to develop an unwelcome feeling about this character; or more particularly about his way of addressing us as ‘sir’. His attitude was different again to that of Greylag, Hobby or Gallinule. The manner in which he said ‘sir’ was almost insolent, as though he was quite used to calling people ‘sir’ if they deserved it; but in our case he was reserving judgement.

  ‘How much does it cost?’ enquired Sanderling.

  ‘It’s a penny a go, sir,’ said the boatman.

  Sanderling then reached into his pocket and produced his stipendiary sixpence.

  ‘That should cover it,’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t, sir,’ replied the boatman.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I require half-a-crown deposit, sir, to insure against accidental loss or damage.’

  ‘How can we possibly lose a boat on this lake,’ demanded Sanderling, ‘when we can clearly see across to the other side?’

  ‘You might sink, sir,’ came the reply.

  ‘We haven’t got half-a-crown,’ I said flatly. ‘We’ve got a shilling between us.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the boatman, ‘but it can’t be helped.’

  All of a sudden Sanderling took hold of my sleeve and drew me aside to confer.

  ‘You keep him talking,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back as quickly as I can.’

  He stalked away and was soon lost from sight amongst the trees. Meanwhile I engaged the boatman in small talk. We discussed the weather, which we agreed was clement for the time of year and therefore liable to change any day soon. In fact, he suspected that more rain was very close by. Then we discussed the excellent condition of the rowing boats, and he told me that he painted them all by hand once a year. Each boat had its own combination of colours, which were carefully preserved from one season to the next.

  ‘That’s very commendable,’ I remarked. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘It’s not a question of anyone being impressed, sir,’ said the boatman. ‘It’s a question of doing something properly if it’s going to be done at all.’

  A minute later Sanderling returned. His appearance had changed somewhat because he now had an unusual black hat on his head. It was worn ‘fore and aft’ and curled downwards at each end. Displayed on the front was the imperial crest.

  Sanderling marched directly on to the jetty and stepped into the first boat he came to. As he did so it rocked slightly, but he managed to keep his feet.

  ‘In the name of the admiralty I am commandeering this vessel,’ he announced.

  To my surprise the boatman snapped to attention. ‘Aye aye, sir,’ he said, ‘aye aye.’

  He then began fussing around the boat, making sure everything was ‘shipshape’, as he put it. He examined the oars to check they were secure in the rowlocks; he coiled the mooring rope; and he sponged the bilges for good measure.

  ‘There you are, sir,’ he said. ‘Take her out for as long as you wish.’

  I joined Sanderling in the boat and we pushed off from the jetty. Once we’d drifted out of earshot I asked him how he knew his ploy would work.

  ‘Former naval man,’ Sanderling explained. ‘They actually like taking orders but you have to approach them in the correct way.’

  ‘How do you know he was in the navy?’

  ‘He has an earring.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I didn’t notice.’

  So it was that Sanderling and I spent a very pleasant afternoon rowing up and down the lake. At the periphery was a reedbed, so we poked around in there for a while and scared up a few ducks. Then we realised that another figure had appeared on the jetty: a man in a crimson coat.

  ‘It’s the Player King,’ said Sanderling. ‘I met him earlier.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’ve met him too.’

  We watched as Gallinule spoke briefly with the boatman. Next moment he was helped into a boat and set off rowing across the lake.

  ‘Why didn’t he have to jump through hoops like we did?’ I asked.

  Sanderling offered no answer.

  On an empty lake it was quite natural for the only two boats to gravitate towards one another, which they duly did.

  ‘Ahoy there!’ called Gallinule as he drew near.

  Sanderling was still wearing his admiral’s hat, but he refrained from a maritime greeting. He merely said hello in reply.

  ‘How are you, Gallinule?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t seen you for a day or two.’

  ‘We’ve been very busy,’ Gallinule replied. ‘We had to pay a visit to the counting house.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Needed to arrange a loan,’ he added, ‘just to tide us over, you understand.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Gallinule, ‘the Chancellor was most accommodating.’

  He then went on to tell Sanderling and me that we really must call in at the Maypole when we had the chance.

  ‘We had a marvellous time last night,’ he said. ‘The beer was flowing freely; there was music playing; and there were lots of dancing girls.’

  When he heard this piece of news Sanderling said nothing, and after a while we rowed away. He had still said nothing when we reached the jetty and handed the boat in.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘it can’t be helped.’

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘it never can be helped, can it?’

  The hour was approaching five o’clock and the sun was beginning to set over the royal palace. I thought Sanderling looked quite crestfallen in his admiral’s hat as we went our separate ways.

  ‘I’m going over to see Whimbrel this evening,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you come along too?’

  ‘No thanks,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll stay in and learn to tie some nautical knots.’

  In the event it was probably fortunate that Sanderling didn’t come to the observatory. When I arrived I found Whimbrel waiting for a very special guest.

  ‘The Player King has requested a guided tour,’ he said. ‘He’ll be here soon.’

  Whimbrel was becoming more of an expert on the stars as time went by. He could now recognise several constellations without reference to his charts; and he was getting to grips with the movements of the planets. Furthermore, he had been back to the library and found out the meaning of longitude.

  ‘It actually has nothing to do with astronomy,’ he declared.

  ‘Hasn’t it?’ I asked.

  ‘Latitude, yes,’ he said, ‘longitude, no.’

  I absorbed this information with a furrowed brow. Meanwhile, Whimbrel went to a window and looked out.

  ‘Excellent,’ he concluded. ‘A fine, clear sky.’

  Nonetheless, I sensed that Whimbrel was rather edgy, as if he wasn’t particularly looking forward to the guided tour. He hesitated for a moment before turning away from the window.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask your opinion about.’

  ‘What sort of something?’ I enquired.

  ‘Well, it’s this Player King,’ he said, ‘this Gallinule.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Don’t you think he acts as if he owns the place?’

  ‘He acts as if he acts,’ I replied. ‘That’s for certain.’

  ‘Seriously though,’ Whimbrel continued, ‘haven’t you noticed how he makes himself at home everywhere he goes; and how closed doors simply open at his every whim and fancy? He practically invited himself on this guided tour and I could hardly say no, could I?’

  ‘Suppose not,’ I said. ‘So what are you driving at exactly?’

  ‘It’s just that there’s this tradition about the emperor going around in disguise to gauge the true lie of the land.’

  ‘And you think this could be him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Whimbrel. ‘For a while Brambling and I thought it was you.’

  ‘Me?’ I exclaimed, astounded. ‘How can I be the emperor in disguise?’

  ‘Well, we didn’t think it was any of the others.’
>
  ‘So you presumed it must be me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can assure you it isn’t.’

  ‘Then along came Gallinule.’

  ‘A much more likely contender.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘But surely he’s just an actor?’

  ‘So why has nobody laid eyes on the other seven players he’s supposed to be with?’

  ‘Good question.’

  ‘He visited the counting house this afternoon and poor Brambling felt he had no choice but to lend him half-a-crown.’

  ‘But that’s equivalent to five sixpences!’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Whimbrel. ‘He obviously has a high opinion of his own worth; and he talks constantly in the royal “we”.’

  ‘As if to the manner born?’

  ‘It’s quite possible.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘ “Find the Emperor”: sounds like a parlour game.’

  Just then we heard a voice rising from the doorway down below. It had a clear, resonant tone that carried easily to our ears.

  ‘Anybody home?’

  ‘Hello!’ Whimbrel called back. ‘Yes, please come up.’

  The iron staircase clanged as Gallinule made his entrance.

  ‘Absolutely marvellous piece of architecture!’ he said, by way of greeting. ‘So this is the world-famous royal observatory of Fallowfields!’

  Whimbrel appeared slightly taken aback, as if he had never considered the place in such august terms before. I thought about the cake and realised that it, too, was ‘world-famous’.

  Gallinule turned out to be the perfect guest. Before the guided tour he presented Whimbrel with a bagful of lions and tigers from the confectioner’s shop.

  ‘Hobby has a wonderful selection of sweets,’ Gallinule told us. ‘We hardly knew which to choose.’

  During the course of the tour he asked sensible questions that Whimbrel was able to answer in an informative way. He was especially keen to find out where north was, and seemed impressed when Whimbrel showed him the ‘easy’ method for locating it. Finally we went up on to the roof for an overall view of the sky.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t let you have a look through the telescope,’ said Whimbrel, ‘but I’m afraid it’s jammed.’

  ‘Oh, you should have mentioned it before,’ said Gallinule. ‘We could have brought Mestolone with us.’

  ‘Who’s Mestolone?’

  ‘He’s one of our strolling players. He specialises in all the minor roles. You know: captains, soldiers, messengers, attendants, porters, murderers. You name it: he plays it.’

  ‘What’s all that got to do with my telescope?’ Whimbrel enquired.

  ‘Mestolone is also a gifted handyman,’ Gallinule explained. ‘He builds all our scenery and he can mend anything. We’ll send him over tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, right, thanks,’ said Whimbrel. ‘So you really are an actor then?’

  ‘Of course,’ Gallinule replied. ‘Actor par excellence!’

  Chapter 11

  At ten o’clock on Monday morning, Smew called the register.

  ‘Chancellor?’

  ‘Present.’

  ‘Postmaster?’

  ‘Present.’

  ‘Astronomer?’

  ‘Present.’

  ‘Comptroller?’

  ‘Present.’

  ‘Surveyor?’

  ‘Present.’

  ‘Pellitory?’

  ‘Present.’

  ‘Composer?’

  ‘Present.’

  ‘His Exalted Highness, the Majestic Emperor of the Realms, Dominions, Colonies and Commonwealth of Greater Fallowfields?’

  There was no response.

  ‘Absent,’ said Smew.

  ‘Oh, that reminds me,’ said Wryneck. ‘We’ve received another letter from the emperor.’

  From his inside pocket he produced an envelope. It was addressed to the cabinet and bore the imperial seal.

  ‘Before we open it can I have a look at the postmark?’ said Garganey.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Wryneck.

  It transpired that the letter had been posted locally on the previous evening.

  ‘I’m quite pleased about that,’ Garganey remarked. ‘Perhaps my measures are taking effect at last.’

  He opened the envelope to reveal an imperial edict:

  BY ORDER OF HIS MAJESTY

  THE EMPEROR OF GREATER FALLOWFIELDS

  IT IS COMMANDED THAT

  FROM HENCEFORTH THE SUN WILL SET DAILY AT FIVE O'CLOCK.

  The edict was passed around the table so that each officer-of-state could see it for himself.

  ‘Direct and to the point,’ remarked Dotterel.

  We all agreed about that.

  Privately, I considered this latest demand to be simply outrageous. It was one thing to restrict the sale of sweets or beer for reasons of public morality; it was quite another to dictate the hour when the sun set. Exactly who, I wondered, did the emperor think he was?

  Still, there was no point in voicing my reservations to the others. An edict was an edict and had to be obeyed. I was only glad that it wasn’t my job to enact it.

  ‘Well, now, Whimbrel,’ said Smew. ‘This looks like your department.’

  ‘Yes,’ Whimbrel replied, ‘I thought it might be.’

  The edict had finished its journey around the table and now lay in Whimbrel’s hands. He stared at it blankly for several long moments before rising to his feet.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I’d like to take this back to the observatory so that I can study its implications in depth.’

  ‘And then you’ll report back, will you?’ enquired Smew.

  ‘Yes,’ said Whimbrel, ‘although I might be some time.’

  Having devolved such a heavy responsibility on to Whimbrel, the rest of us resumed work on our play. It was a fractious rehearsal to say the least. For a start, I was enrolled to play the ghost in Whimbrel’s absence. I spent a good deal of time going in and out of the room, and sitting down in other people’s places. At one point I accidentally chose the emperor’s empty chair and earned a stern rebuke from Wryneck. Nor were matters helped by Smew’s repeated assertion that the king was the only person who couldn’t see the ghost, which I was now beginning to doubt. Then Dotterel mentioned that we kept referring to Garganey as the king when he was in fact a usurper. Furthermore, Dotterel said that he had found at least three other kings in the text.

  ‘This should help clarify the situation,’ he announced. He had with him a wooden box which he now opened. Inside was a golden crown. He placed it on the table and Wryneck immediately took it up in both hands.

  ‘Where did you find this?’ he asked.

  Wryneck uttered these words as though he was collating evidence for some unnamed future inquisition. His voice was flat and toneless, but the question was nevertheless insistent.

  ‘I was conducting an inventory of the imperial artefacts,’ said Dotterel. ‘It was in the royal workshop being smartened up for the coronation.’

  ‘So it’s the emperor’s crown?’ said Sanderling.

  ‘Sort of,’ said Dotterel. ‘Actually this is the spare crown: the lightweight model used in public ceremonies and processions.’

  He removed the crown from Wryneck’s grasp and tossed it across the table towards Sanderling.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘catch!’

  To everyone’s surprise Garganey intercepted it in mid-air and put it on his head.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ said Wryneck. There was a sudden note of disquiet in his voice.

  ‘I’ve done it,’ replied Garganey. ‘I presume you intended this as a stage prop, Dotterel?’

  ‘A temporary stage prop, yes,’ Dotterel answered. ‘For rehearsal purposes only, you understand.’

  ‘Just to remind everybody who’s king and who isn’t?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And where’s the proper crown?’ I enquired.

  ‘
I’ve no idea,’ said Dotterel. ‘It’s reputed to be made from solid gold, whereas the spare one is base metal and gold paint.’

  ‘Base metal or no base metal,’ said Garganey, ‘this crown bears the imperial writ.’

  He was still wearing it on his head, a fact that appeared to be causing Wryneck considerable unease. Smew, meanwhile, had fallen unusually silent. Finally, Garganey lifted the crown off his head and placed it back on the table.

  Just then the door opened and Whimbrel came in. He nodded at everyone before taking his usual seat next to mine. Somehow he seemed very self-assured; he even looked larger in stature than when he went out.

  ‘How did you get on?’ I asked.

  ‘Very successfully,’ he replied. ‘I think I’ve found the solution.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Well,’ said Whimbrel, ‘plainly we can’t alter the sunset; therefore, we’ll have to alter the clocks.’

  A stir went around the room.

  ‘Good idea,’ I remarked. ‘I never thought of that.’

  ‘I’ve consulted my tables,’ Whimbrel continued, ‘and it so happens that the sun set yesterday evening at exactly five o’clock. According to my calculations we need to put the clocks forward by two minutes every day.’

  ‘To guarantee a sunset at five?’ said Smew.

  ‘Correct,’ said Whimbrel. ‘Now, Dotterel, I remember you once told me you were in charge of all the artisans.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dotterel, ‘I am.’

  ‘So presumably you’re in charge of all the clocks as well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then it looks as if you’re going to be very busy.’

  As the gravity of the disclosure dawned on Dotterel he visibly turned pale. There were dozens of public clocks in the royal quarter, let alone the thousands situated all across the empire. For the edict to be carried out effectively, every one of these clocks would have to be altered daily. Whimbrel’s work was done: Dotterel’s, apparently, was only just beginning.

  ‘I must set things in train at once,’ he said, heading for the door.

  ‘What about this?’ said Smew, indicating the ceremonial crown. ‘Shall I keep it safe in the library?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Dotterel. ‘That would be a great help.’ He was about to leave when he paused at the door and turned to Garganey. ‘I’ll need to confer with you about informing all the clock-keepers. They’ll require a letter of instruction.’