Overtime (8 page)

‘My name,' said the stag, ‘is Cerf le Blanc.' It said it coldly and without moving any part of its mouth. That, as far as Guy was concerned, put the tin lid on it.

‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?' Blondel asked.

‘Goodbye,' Guy explained. ‘Thanks for everything.'

‘Oh well,' Blondel called after him. ‘Go carefully. Mind the wolves.'

Guy's head reappeared at the door of the cave. ‘Wolves?' he enquired.

‘Wolves,' Blondel replied, ‘were still common in England in the fourteenth century, I think. I'm not sure, actually.'

‘I think I'll come with you,' Guy said; then he whispered, ‘Look, is that thing going to make a habit of talking?'

‘I wouldn't worry about it,' Blondel said. ‘I don't think it means to hurt us. Do you?'

‘No.'

‘There,' Blondel said, ‘you see? Had it from its own lips.'

‘I never
mean
to hurt anyone,' said Cerf le Blanc. ‘Sometimes, though... But it's always an accident. At least as far as I'm concerned, that is.'

Blondel gave the stag a reassuring pat. ‘That's all right,' he said. ‘Have some Turkish Delight and then let's be getting on.' He produced a pink cube from the purse at his belt. There were bits of fluff sticking to it, but the stag didn't seem to mind. When it had finished chewing, it lifted its head, and the light of its antlers dimmed to a discreet glow. It led the way.

 

Pursuivant rubbed his eyes and yawned.

At about this time, back at the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes, the lads would be opening a few cans, passing round the dry-roasted peanuts, getting on with the night shift. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays they had a poker school. If the alarm rang, of course, they'd have to go and answer it, but somehow the alarm never seemed to ring any more. Not since Clarenceaux wedged a beer-mat between the bell and the clapper.

Although the regulation kagouls are supposed to be waterproof, it was Pursuivant's experience that there were a large number of vulnerable points through which rain could penetrate them, just as it had penetrated his sandwiches and his Wellington boots. There was supposed to be an umbrella, but Mordaunt Dragon of Arms had snitched it for when he went fishing. The only waxed cotton jacket in the department belonged to White Herald; and given his personal habits, nobody in his right mind would want to wear it even if White Herald was inclined to offer, which he wasn't.

Pursuivant shivered and wiped the rain off his nose. They'd hired a video for tonight, too.

He peeled back his sleeve and looked at his watch, first wiping away the moisture that obscured the dial. He was due to be relieved at six, but there was a long way to go before then. Plenty long enough to catch pneumonia. There were few crimes he wouldn't commit for a nice hot mug of tea.

Out in the darkness, a long way off, a pale white light was glowing. Pursuivant rubbed his eyes again and stared. This was more like it, he thought. He reached for the night-glass, wiped the lenses and peered out. The light wasn't there any more. Seeing things.

No, he wasn't. Clear as anything, a pale white light. Fumbling with numb hands, Pursuivant adjusted the glass and saw two men, very wet, leading a horse and a white stag, whose antlers were producing the light. They were a long way off still, but heading this way. Pursuivant chuckled and wound the handle of the field telephone. It rang, and rang, and rang. Nobody answered it, and no wonder. Some clown had wedged a beer-mat between the bell and the clapper.

‘Oh
shit
,' Pursuivant muttered under his breath.

Still, there it was. Nothing for it but to do it himself. Thinking very bitter thoughts about the rest of the department, he groped for his shield (a mitre argent on a sable field, a bend cross keys reversed gules, attired of the second) and his pickaxe handle with big rusty nails driven through it. Chivalry was a concept familiar to the staff of the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes, but they didn't make a big thing about it.

Feeling extremely foolish, Guy put his revolver away and came out from behind the horse.

‘Is he all right?' he said.

Blondel looked at the body at his feet. ‘Well,' he said, ‘if he is then I've just been wasting my time. Thanks for your help, by the way. You meant well.' He stuck a finger through the bullet hole in his hat and spun the hat round a couple of times.

‘Like I said,' Guy muttered defensively, ‘I don't see terribly well in the—'

‘Yes, well,' Blondel said, ‘it's the thought that counts.' He put up his sword, gave the body a kick, and put his hat back on. ‘Don't worry about him,' he said. ‘He'll be right as rain in the morning.' He glanced up at the sky. ‘Well, better, anyway.'

‘Footpads?' Guy asked.

‘Footpads be blowed,' Blondel replied. ‘See that shield? Mitre argent on a sable field and bunches of upside-down keys? No, if it was footpads I'd be inclined to worry.' He turned round and stood in front of the stag, hands on hips.

‘Now then,' Blondel said, ‘I think you and I should have a little talk.'

The stag gave him a blank look, as if to say that deer are not capable of human speech. Their larynxes are the wrong shape, said the stag's eyes.

‘Unless,' Blondel continued, ‘you don't want to talk, of course, in which case it's venison rissoles for my friend here and myself.
Capisce
?'

The stag breathed heavily through its nose.

‘I'll count,' said Blondel sweetly. ‘Up to five. One.'

‘All right,' said the stag, without moving its lips (the larynxes of stags are totally incapable of forming human speech), ‘there's no need to come over all unnecessary. I was only doing my job.'

Blondel smiled. ‘And what might that be?' he said. In the background, Guy coughed.

‘Excuse me,' he said.

Blondel turned his head. ‘What?' he asked.

‘Do you mind if I have a cigarette?' Guy said. ‘All this excitement...'

‘Go ahead,' Blondel replied. He turned back to the stag. ‘Your job,' he said.

‘I serve His Excellency Julian XXIII,' mumbled the stag. ‘All right?'

‘Yes, I know that,' said Blondel. ‘A mitre argent on a sable field and all that nonsense. You were told to come here?'

The stag nodded. The movement of its antlers jerked Guy's hand, sending his cigarette arcing through the air like a flying glow-worm. He said something under his breath and lit another.

‘And when we turned up, you were to lead us towards where the idiot there was lying in wait?'

The stag nodded again but Guy was ready this time.

‘Thought so,' Blondel said. ‘Now then. Who said we'd be coming this way tonight?'

The stag gave him a blank look.

‘Come on,' Blondel said. ‘Someone must have said.'

The stag shrugged.

‘Oh, be like that, then,' said Blondel. ‘Now then, where did you come from?'

Silence. It wasn't (Guy felt) that the stag didn't want to say; more like it didn't actually know. Probably it didn't understand the question. Blondel rephrased it.

‘Where,' he asked, ‘do you live?'

Silence.

‘You know what?' Blondel said to Guy. ‘I think we're wasting our time. Just because the dratted thing can speak doesn't necessarily mean it's intelligent.'

‘Here,' said the stag, affronted, ‘just you mind what you're—'

‘In fact,' Blondel went on, ‘I think that if we look carefully...' He went across and started to feel the fur between the stag's ears. ‘Ah yes,' he said. ‘Here we are.' He pulled, and something came away in his hands. The light went suddenly out.

‘Blondel,' Guy complained, ‘what are you doing?'

‘See this?'

‘No,' Guy replied. ‘Somebody put the lights out.'

Blondel showed him a little grey box, with wires coming out of it. ‘This,' he said, ‘is a radio transmitter-cum-microphone-cum-hologram projector. It also sends electrical impulses into this poor mutt's brains to control its actions. Cerf le Blanc,' he said, patting the stag's nose, ‘is just an ordinary white deer, aren't you, boy?'

‘Oh,' Guy said. ‘I see.' To a certain extent, he felt, he ought to be relieved. Somehow he wasn't.

‘All those magical effects,' Blondel went on, ‘were produced by this little box of tricks here. That's where the voice came from. I expect it's also transmitting what we say back to Head Office, wherever that is. Is that right, boys?' he said.

‘Yes, that's...' said the voice of Cerf le Blanc. Another voice said something rude and there was an audible click. Blondel chuckled softly and then put the box on the ground and jumped on it.

‘All right,' he said, ‘you can turn the deer loose now. We'd better be going.'

Cerf le Blanc, freed from the rope, picked up his hooves and ran for it. Blondel took back the rope, coiled it up neatly and stowed it in the saddlebag. ‘Time we weren't here,' he said. ‘Now, our best bet will be a corn exchange or something like that.'

Guy, who had just started to feel he could cope, on a purely superficial level at least, felt his jaw drop. ‘A corn exchange,' he repeated.

‘Or a yarn market will do,' Blondel replied. ‘We can make do with a guildhall at a pinch, I suppose, but there may well be people about. Somehow I don't feel a church would be a good idea. They may be idiots, but they aren't fools. Coming?'

It was about two hours before dawn when they reached the town. Fourteenth-century Wandsworth was waking up, deciding it could have another ten minutes, and turning over in its warm straw. Blondel quickened his step.

‘In the 1480s,' he whispered as they crept past a sleeping beggar, ‘there was a corn exchange in the town square, but they may not have built it yet. Looked a bit perpendicular when I saw it. Hang on, this'll do.'

They were standing under a bell-tower. Blondel was looking at a small, low door, which Guy hadn't even noticed. It wasn't the sort of door that you do notice. Over its lintel were letters cut into the stone.

NOLI INTRARE, they said, AD VSVM CANONI-CORVM RESERVATA.

‘That's the Latin,' Blondel explained, ‘for No entry, staff only. This'll do fine. We'll have to leave the horse, but never mind.'

He knocked three times on the door and pushed. It opened.

 

‘So?'

‘He hit me,' Pursuivant explained.

‘I gathered that. What else?'

Meanwhile the doctor's assistant was up a ladder in the stockroom, looking at the labels on the backs of what looked like shoe-boxes. ‘We've only got a 36E,' he called out. ‘Will that do?'

‘Have to,' the doctor said. ‘Means he'll get bronchitis from time to time, but so what?'

Pursuivant sat up on the operating table. ‘Hold on, doc,' he said. The doctor pushed him down again.

‘You never heard of the cuts?' he said. ‘You're lucky we've got a 36E. There's been a run on lungs lately.'

‘Yes, but...'

‘Don't be such an old woman,' said the doctor. ‘We should have some 42s when you have your next thirty-year service. Until then, you'll have to make do.'

Mountjoy, who had been standing fiddling with his signet ring all this time, was getting impatient. ‘He hit you,' he repeated. ‘Then what?'

‘Then I fell over,' Pursuivant replied. ‘Look, boss, in the contract it plainly states that all damage will be made good, and—'

‘Shut up,' said Mountjoy. ‘You fell over. Go on.'

‘But boss—'

‘Look,' the chaplain snapped, ‘I should be at an important meeting. Get on with it.'

In actual fact, Mountjoy was at the meeting - in fact, he'd been three minutes early - but there was no need to mention that. He flickered irritably.

‘I fell over,' Pursuivant said. ‘Then there was a bang and the bloke's hat came off.'

‘What?'

‘His hat,' Pursuivant explained. ‘He was wearing a hat and it came off. Don't ask me why.'

‘I see,' Mountjoy said. ‘And what happened next?'

‘I died.'

‘I see,' Mountjoy said. ‘And that was all you saw?'

‘Well,' said Pursuivant, ‘my whole life flashed in front of me, but I don't suppose you want to hear about that.'

‘Not particularly, no. What was this other man like?'

Pursuivant furrowed his brows, thinking hard. ‘Odd bloke,' he said. ‘About my height, dark hair, wearing a sort of sheepskin coat, no sword. If you ask me, he didn't seem to have much idea of what was happening.'

‘That,' said Mountjoy unkindly, ‘would have made two of you.' He put away his notebook and turned to the doctor. ‘Right,' he said, ‘how long before this one's up and about again?'

‘Let's see,' said the doctor. ‘Neck partially severed, multiple wounds to lungs, stomach and shoulders, compound fracture of the left leg. I'll need to keep him in for observation, too. Say about twenty minutes.'

‘Oh for pity's sake,' snapped Mountjoy petulantly. ‘Doctor, you are aware of the staffing shortages?'

‘Not my problem,' the doctor replied. ‘All right, nurse, close him up.'

The staff nurse put down her visor and lit up the welding torch.

 

‘Blondel,' said Guy, ‘can I ask you something?'

The tunnel was damp and smelly. The ceiling was low and the light from the torches in the wall-sconces wasn't quite bright enough. On a number of occasions, Guy had trodden in something. He was glad that he didn't know what it had been.