Maskerade

There is something about the light of a lamp held lower than someone's face. The shadows are wrong. They fall into unfortunate places. Teeth seem more prominent. Agnes came to realize that she was alone in a room in suspicious circumstances with a man whose face suddenly looked a lot more unpleasant than it had before.

'I suggest,' he said, 'that you get back to the stage right now, yes? That would be the very best thing you could do. And don't meddle in things that don't concern you. You've done too much as it is.'

The fear hadn't drained out of Agnes, but it had found a space in which to metamorphose into anger.

'I don't have to put up with that! For all I know, you might be the Ghost!'

'Really? I was told that Walter Plinge was the Ghost,' said André. 'How many people did you tell? And now it turns out that he's dead...'

'No, he's not!'

It was out before she could stop it. She'd said it merely to wipe the sneer off his face. This happened. But the expression that replaced it was no improvement.

A floorboard creaked.

They both turned.

There was a hat‑stand in the corner, next to a bookcase. There were a few coats and scarves hanging from it. It was surely only the way that the shadows fell that made it look, from this angle, like an old woman. Or...

'Damn floors,' said Granny, fading into the foreground. She stepped away from the coats.

As Agnes said, later: it wasn't as though she'd been invisible. She'd simply become part of the scenery until she put herself forward again; she was there, but not there. She didn't stand out at all. She was as unnoticeable as the very best of butlers.

'How did you get in?' said André. 'I looked all round the room!'

'Seein' is believin',' said Granny, calmly. 'Of course, the trouble is that believin' is also seein', and there's been too much of that round here lately. Now, I know you ain't the Ghost... so what are you, to be sneaking around in places where you shouldn't be?'

'I could ask you the same quest–'

'Me? I'm a witch, and I'm pretty good at it.'

'She's, er, from Lancre. Where I come from,' Agnes mumbled, trying to look at her feet.

'Oh? Not the one who wrote the book?' said André. 'I've heard people talking about–'

'No! I'm much worse than her, understand?'

'She is,' mumbled Agnes.

André gave Granny a long look, like a man weighing up his chances. He must have decided that they were bobbing along the ceiling.

'I... hang around in dark places looking for trouble,' he said.

'Really? There's a nasty name for people like that, ' snapped Granny.

'Yes,' said André. 'It's "policeman".'

Nanny Ogg climbed out of the cellars, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. Musicians and singers were still milling around, uncertain about what was going to happen next. The Ghost had had the decency to be chased and killed during the interval. In theory that meant there was no reason why there shouldn't be a third act, as soon as Herr Trubelmacher had scoured the nearby pubs and dragged the orchestra back. The show must go on.

Yes, she thought, it has to go on. It's like the build‑up to a thunderstorm... no... it's more like making love. Yes. That was a far more Oggish metaphor. You put everything you've got into it, so sooner or later there's a point where it's got to go on, because you can't imagine stopping. The stage manager could dock a couple of dollars from their wages and they'd still go on, and everyone knew it. And they would still go on.

She reached a ladder and climbed slowly into the flies.

She hadn't been certain. She needed to be certain now.

The fly loft was empty. She walked carefully along the catwalk until she was over the auditorium. The buzz of the audience came through the ceiling beneath her, slightly muffled.

Light shone up at the point where the thick cable for the chandelier disappeared into the hole. She stepped out over the creaking trapdoor and peered down.

Terrific heat almost frizzled her hair. A few yards below her hundreds of candles were burning.

'Dreadful if that lot fell down,' she said quietly. 'I 'spect this place'd go up like a haystack...'

She let her gaze travel up and up .the cable to the point, at just about waist‑height, where it was halfcut through. You'd never see it, if you weren't expecting to find it.

Then her gaze dropped again, and moved across the gloomy, dusty floor until it found something half‑hidden in the dust:

Behind her, a shadow among the shadows rose to its feet, balanced itself carefully, and started to run.

'I knows about policemen,' said Granny. 'They've got big helmets and big feet and you can see them a mile off. There's a couple lurching around backstage. Anyone can see they're policemen. You don't look like one.' She turned the badge over and over in her hands. 'I ain't happy with the idea of secret policemen,' she said. 'Why do you need secret policemen?'

'Because,' said André, 'sometimes you have secret criminals.'