Maskerade

The sandbags came down. On one side of the stage, at least. On the other side, Agnes was inter­rupted in her impossible task by the screaming, and looked around into the upside‑down and not at all well features of the late Dr Undershaft.

Nanny skipped through a handy door, shut it behind her, and leaned on it. After a few moments the sound of running feet clattered past.

Well, that had been fun.

She removed the lace bonnet and apron and, because there was a basic honesty in Nanny, she tucked them in a pocket to give back to Mrs Plinge later. Then she pulled out a flat, round black shape and banged it against her arm. The point shot out. After a few adjustments her official hat was almost as good as new.

She looked around. A certain absence of light and carpeting, together with a very presence of dust, suggested that this was a part of the place the public weren't supposed to see.

Oh, damn. She supposed she had better find another door. Of course, that'd mean she'd have to leave Greebo, wherever he was, but he'd turn up. He always did when he wanted feeding.

There was a flight of steps leading down. She followed them to a corridor which was slightly better lit and ambled along it for quite a way. And then all she had to do was follow the screams.

She emerged among the flats and jumbled props backstage.

No one bothered about her. The appearance of a small, amiable old lady was not about to cause comment at this point.

People were running backwards and forwards, shouting. More impressionable people were just standing in one place and screaming. A large lady was sprawled over two chairs having hysterics, while some distracted stage‑hands tried to fan her with a script.

Nanny Ogg was not certain whether something important had happened or whether this was just a continuation of opera by other means.

'I should loosen her corsets, if I was you,' she said as she ambled past.

'Good heavens, madam, there's enough panic in here as it is!'

Nanny moved on to an interesting crowd of gypsies, noblemen and stage‑hands.

Witches are curious by definition and inquisitive by nature. She moved in.

'Let me through. I'm a nosy person,' she said, employing both elbows. It worked, as this sort of approach generally does.

There was a dead person lying on the floor. Nanny had seen death in a wide variety of guises, and certainly knew strangulation when it presented itself. It wasn't the nicest end, although it could be quite colourful.

'Oh dear,' she said. 'Poor man. What happened to him?'

'Mr Bucket says he must have got caught up in the–' someone began.

'He didn't get caught in anything! This is the Ghost's work!' said someone else. 'He could still be up there!'

All eyes turned upwards.

'Mr Salzella's sent some stage‑hands to flush him out.'

'Have they got flaming torches?' said Nanny.

Several of them looked at her as if wondering, for the first time, who she was.

'What?'

'Got to have flaming torches when you're tracking down evil monsters,' said Nanny. 'Well‑known fact.'

There was a moment while this sunk in, and then:

'That's true.'

'She's right, you know.'

'Well‑known fact, dear.'

'Did they have flaming torches?'

'Don't think so. Just ordinary lanterns.'

'Oh, they're no good,' said Nanny. 'That's for smugglers, lanterns. For evil monsters you need flaming–'

'Excuse me, boys and girls!'

The stage manager had stood on a box.

'Now,' he said, a little pale around the face, 'I know you're all familiar with the phrase "the show must go on"...'

There was a chorus of groans from the chorus.

'It's very hard to sing a jolly song about eating hedgehogs when you're waiting for an accident to happen to you,' shouted a gypsy king.

'Funny thing, if we're talking about songs about hedgehogs, I myself–' Nanny began, but no one was paying her any attention.

'Now, we don't actually know what happened–'

'Really? Shall we guess?' said a gypsy.

'‑but we have men up in the fly loft now–'

'Oh? In case of more accidents?'

'‑and Mr Bucket has authorized me to say that there will be an additional two dollars' bonus tonight in recognition of your bravely agreeing to continue with the show–'

'Money? After a shock like this? Money? He thinks he can offer us a couple of dollars and we'll agree to stay on this cursed stage?'

'Shame!'

'Heartless!,

'Unthinkable!'

'Should be at least four!'

'Right! Right!'

'For shame, my friends! To talk about a few dollars when there is a dead man lying there... Have you no respect for his memory?'

'Exactly! A few dollars is disrespectful. Five dollars or nothing!'

Nanny Ogg nodded to herself, and wandered off and found a sufficiently big piece of cloth to cover the late Dr Undershaft.