Maskerade (Discworld 18)

'Er. . . yes.'

'You've missed all the excitement.'

'Have I?'

'The Watch have been here, talking to everyone and asking lots of questions and writing things down very slowly.'

'What sort of questions?'

'Well, knowing the Watch, probably “Was it you what did it, then?” They're rather slow thinkers.'

'Oh dear. Does that mean tonight's performance is cancelled?'

André laughed. He had a rather pleasant laugh. 'I don't think Mr Bucket could possibly cancel it!' he said. 'Even if people are dropping like flies out of the flies.'

'Why not?'

'People have been queuing for tickets!'

'Why?' He told her. 'That's disgusting!' said Agnes. 'You mean they're coming because it might be dangerous?'

'Human nature, I'm afraid. Of course, some of them want to hear Enrico Basilica. And. . . well. . . Christine seems popular. . .' He gave her a sorrowful look. 'I don't mind, honestly,' lied Agnes. 'Um. . . how long have you worked here, André?'

'Er. . . only a few months. I. . . used to teach music to the Seriph's children in Klatch.'

'Um. . . what do you think about the Ghost?' He shrugged. 'Just some kind of madman, I suppose. 'Um. . . do you know if he sings? I mean, is good at singing?'

'I heard that he sends little critiques to the manager. Some of the girls say they've heard someone singing in the night, but they're always saying silly things.'

'Um. . . are there any secret passages here?' He looked at her with his head on one side. 'Who've you been talking to?'

'Sorry?'

'The girls say there are. Of course, they say they see the Ghost all the time. And sometimes in two places at once.'

'Why should they see him more?'

'Perhaps he just likes looking at young ladies. They're always practising in odd corners. Besides, they're all halfcrazed with hunger anyway.'

'Aren't you interested in the Ghost? People have been killed!'

'Well, people are saying it might have been Dr Undershaft.'

'But he was killed!'

'He might have hanged himself. He'd been very depressed lately. And he'd always been a bit strange. Nervy. It's going to be a bit difficult without him, though. Here, I've brought you a stack of old programmes. Some of the notes may help, since you haven't been in the opera long.' Agnes stared at them, unseeing. People were disappearing and the first thought that everyone had was that it was going to be inconvenient without them. The show must go on. Everyone said that. People said it all the time. Often they smiled when they said it, but they were serious all the same, under the smile. No one ever said why. But yesterday, when the chorus had been arguing about the money, everyone knew that they weren't actually going to refuse to sing. It was all a game. The show went on. She'd heard all the stories. She'd heard about shows continuing while fire raged around the city, while a dragon was roosting on the roof, while there was rioting in the streets outside. Scenery collapsed? The show went on. Leading tenor died? Then appeal to the audience for any student of music who knew the part, and give him his big chance while his predecessor's body cooled gently in the wings. Why? It was only a performance, for heaven's sake. It wasn't like something important. But. . . the show goes on. Everyone took this so much for granted that they didn't even think about it any more, as though there were fog in their heads. On the other hand. . . someone was teaching her to sing at night. A mysterious person sang songs on the stage when everyone had gone home. She tried to think of that voice belonging to someone who killed people.

It didn't work. Maybe she'd caught some of the fog and didn't want it to work. What sort of person could have that feel for music and kill people? She'd been idly turning the pages of an old programme and a name caught her eye. She quickly shuffled through the others beneath. There it was again. Not in every performance, and never in a major role, but it was there. Generally it played an innkeeper or a servant. 'Walter Plinge?' she said. 'Walter? But. . . he doesn't sing, does he?' She held up a programme and pointed. 'What? Oh, no!' André laughed. 'Good heavens. . . it's a. . . a kind of convenient name, I suppose. Sometimes someone has to sing a very minor part. . . perhaps a singer is in a role that they'd rather not be remembered in. . . well, here, they just go down on the programme as Walter Plinge. Lots of theatres have a useful name like that. Like A. N. Other. It's convenient for everyone.'

'But. . . Walter Plinge?'

'Well, I suppose it started as a joke. I mean, can you imagine Walter Plinge on stage?' André grinned. 'In that little beret he wears?'

'What does he think about it?'

'I don't think he minds. It's hard to tell, isn't it?' There was a crash from the direction of the kitchen, although it was really more of a crashendo the longdrawn-out clatter that begins when a pile of plates begins to slip, continues when someone tries to grab at them, develops a desperate counter-theme when the person realizes they don't have three hands, and ends with the roinroinroin of the one miraculously intact plate spinning round and round on the floor. They heard an irate female voice. 'Walter Plinge!'

'Sorry Mrs Clamp!'