Making Money

A door opened at the far side of the room and a tall woman in white entered, carrying a tray with its contents concealed by a cloth.

'It really is time for your medicine, Mrs Lavish,' she said.

'It does me no good at all, Sister!' snapped the old woman.

'Now, you know the doctor said no more alcohol,' said the nurse. she looked accusingly at Moist. 'She's to have no more alcohol,' she repeated, on the apparent assumption that he had a few bottles on his person.

'Well, I say no more doctor!' said Mrs Lavish, winking conspiratorially at Moist. 'My so-called stepchildren are paying for this, can you believe it? They're out to poison me! And they tell everyone I've gone mad—'

There was a knock at the door, less a request to enter than a declaration of intent. Mrs Lavish moved with impressive speed and the bows were already swivelling when the door swung open.

Mr Bent came in with Mr Fusspot under his arm, still growling.

'I said five times, Mr Bent!' Mrs Lavish yelled. 'I might have shot Mr Fusspot! Can't you count?'

'I do beg your pardon,' said Bent, placing Mr Fusspot carefully in the in-tray. 'And I can count.'

'Who's a little fusspot, then?' said Mrs Lavish, as the little dog almost exploded with mad excitement at seeing someone he'd last seen at most ten minutes ago. 'Has oo been a good boy? Has he been a good boy, Mr Bent?'

'Yes, madam. Excessively.' The venom of a snake ice cream could not have been chillier. 'May I return to my duties now?'

'Mr Bent thinks I don't know how to run a bank, doesn't he, Mr Fusspot?' Mrs Lavish crooned to the dog. 'He's a silly Mr Bent, isn't he? Yes, Mr Bent, you may go.'

Moist recalled an old BhangBhangduc proverb: 'When old ladies talk maliciously to their dog, that dog is lunch.' It seemed amazingly appropriate at a time like this, and a time like this was not a good time to be around.

'Well, it's been nice meeting you, Mrs Lavish,' he said, standing up. 'I shall… think things over.'

'Has he been to see Hubert?' said Mrs Lavish, apparently to the dog. 'He must see Hubert before he goes. I think he is a little confused about finance. Take him to see Hubert, Mr Bent. Hubert is so good at explaining.'

'As you wish, madam,' said Bent, glaring at Mr Fusspot. 'I'm certain that having heard Hubert explain the flow of money he will no longer be a little confused. Please follow me, Mr Lipwig.'

Bent was silent as they walked downstairs. He lifted his oversized feet with care, like a man walking across a floor strewn with pins.

'Mrs Lavish is a jolly old stick, isn't she?' Moist ventured.

'I believe she is what is known as a "character", sir,' said Bent sombrely.

'A bit tiresome at times?'

'I will not comment, sir. Mrs Lavish owns fifty-one per cent of the shares in my bank.'

His bank, Moist noted.

'That's strange,' he said. 'She just told me she owned only fifty per cent.'

'And the dog,' said Bent. 'The dog owns one share, a legacy from the late Sir Joshua, and Mrs Lavish owns the dog. The late Sir Joshua had what I understand is called a puckish sense of humour, Mr Lipwig.'

And the dog owns a piece of the bank, thought Moist. What jolly people the Lavishes are, indeed. 'I can see that you might not find it very funny, Mr Bent,' he said.

'I am pleased to say I find nothing funny, sir,' Bent replied, as they reached the bottom of the stairs. 'I have no sense of humour whatsoever. None at all. It has been proved by phrenology. I have Nichtlachen-Keinwortz Syndrome, which for some curious reason is considered a lamentable affliction. I, on the other hand, consider it a gift. I am happy to say that I regard the sight of a fat man slipping on a banana skin as nothing more than an unfortunate accident that highlights the need for care in the disposal of household waste.'

'Have you tried—' Moist began, but Bent held up a hand.

'Please! I repeat, I do not regard it as a burden! And may I say it annoys me when people assume it is such! Do not feel impelled to try to make me laugh, sir! If I had no legs, would you try to make me run? I am quite happy, thank you!'

He paused by another pair of doors, calmed down a little and gripped the handles.

'And now, perhaps, I should take this opportunity to show you where the… may I say serious work is done, Mr Lipwig. This used to be called the counting house, but I prefer to think of it as' — he pulled at the doors, which swung open majestically — 'my world.'

It was impressive. And the first impression it gave Moist was: this is Hell on the day they couldn't find the matches.

He stared at the rows of bent backs, scribbling frantically. No one looked up.