'A bit like a dangerous cow, I think,' said Moist. 'Er . . . what were you saying about the coach people?'
'They give me lip, sir, that's what they give me,' said Groat. 'I told 'em, I told 'em I was the Assistant Head Postmaster and they said “so what?” sir. Then I said I'd tell you, sir, and they said— you want to know what they said, sir?'
'Hmm. Oh, yes. I'm agog, Tolliver.' Moist's eyes were scanning the strange letter over and over again. 'They said “yeah, right”,' said Groat, a beacon of righteous indignation. 'I wonder if Mr Trooper can still fit me in . . .' mused Moist, staring at the ceiling. 'Sorry, sir?'
'Oh, nothing. I suppose I'd better go and talk to them. Go and find Mr Pump, will you? And tell him to bring a couple of the other golems, will you? I want to . . . impress people.' Igor opened the front door in answer to the knock. There was no one there. He stepped outside and looked up and down the street. There was no one there. He stepped back inside, closing the door behind him - and no one was standing in the hall, his black cloak dripping rain, removing his wide, flat-brimmed hat. 'Ah, Mithter Gryle, thur,' Igor said to the tall figure, 'I thould have known it wath you.'
'Readier Gilt asked for me,' said Gryle. It was more a breath than a voice.
The clan of the Igors had had any tendency to shuddering bred out of it generations ago, which was just as well. Igor felt uneasy in the presence of Gryle and his kind. 'The marthter ith expecting—' he began. But there was no one there. It wasn't magic, and Gryle wasn't a vampire. Igors could spot these things. It was just that there was nothing spare about him - spare flesh, spare time, or spare words. It was impossible to imagine Gryle collecting pins, or savouring wine or even throwing up after a bad pork pie. The picture of him cleaning his teeth or sleeping completely failed to form in the mind. He gave the impression of restraining himself, with difficulty, from killing you. Thoughtfully, Igor went down to his room off the kitchen and checked that his little leather bag was packed, just in case. In his study, Reacher Gilt poured a small brandy. Gryle looked around him with eyes that seemed not at home with the limited vistas of a room. 'And for yourself?' said Gilt. 'Water,' said Gryle. 'I expect you know what this is about?'
'No.' Gryle was not a man for small talk or, if it came to it, any talk at all. 'You've read the newspapers?'
'Do not read.'
'You know about the Post Office.'
'Yes.'
'How, may I ask?'
'There is talk.' Gilt accepted that. Mr Gryle had a special talent, and if that came as a package with funny little ways then so be it. Besides, he was trustworthy; a man without middle grounds. He'd never blackmail you, because such an attempt would be the first move in a game that would almost certainly end in death for somebody; if Mr Gryle found himself in such a game he'd kill right now, without further thought, in order to save time, and assumed that anyone else would, too. Presumably he was insane, by the usual human standards, but it was hard to tell; the phrase 'differently normal' might do instead. After all, Gryle could probably defeat a vampire within ten seconds, and had none of a vampire's vulnerabilities, except perhaps an inordinate fondness for pigeons. He'd been a real find. 'And you have discovered nothing about Mr Lipwig?' Gilt said. 'No. Father dead. Mother dead. Raised by grandfather. Sent away to school. Bullied. Ran away. Vanished,' said the tall figure. 'Hmm. I wonder where he's been all this time? Or who he has been?' Gryle didn't waste breath on rhetorical questions. 'He is . . . a nuisance.'
'Understood.' And that was the charm. Gryle did understand. He seldom needed an order, you just had to state the problem. The fact that it was Gryle that you were stating it to went a long way towards ensuring what the solution was likely to be. 'The Post Office building is old and full of paper. Very dry paper,' said Gilt. 'It would be regrettable if the fine old place caught fire.'
'Understood.' And that was another thing about Gryle. He really did not talk much. He especially did not talk about old times, and all the other little solutions he had provided for Reacher Gilt. And he never said things like 'What do you mean?' He understood.
'Require one thousand, three hundred dollars,' he said. 'Of course,' said Gilt. 'I will clacks it to your account in—'
'Will take cash,' said Gryle. 'Gold? I don't keep that much around,' said Gilt. 'I can get it in a few days, of course, but I thought you preferred—'
'I do not trust the semaphore now.'
'But our ciphers are very well—'
'I do not trust the semaphore now,' Gryle repeated. 'Very well.'
'Description,' said Gryle. 'No one seems to remember what he looks like,' said Gilt. 'But he always wears a big golden hat, with wings, and he has an apartment in the building.' For a moment something flickered around Gryle's thin lips. It was a smile panicking at finding itself in such an unfamiliar place. 'Can he fly?' he said. 'Alas, he doesn't seem inclined to venture into high places,' said Gilt. Gryle stood up. 'I will do this tonight.'
'Good man. Or, rather—'
'Understood,' said Gryle.
Chapter Nine
Bonfire Slugger and Leadpipe - Gladys Pulls It Off- The Hour of the Dead - Irrational Fear of Dental Spinach - 'A proper brawl doesn't just happen' - How the Trunk Was Stolen - Stanley's Little Moment - The etiquette of knives - Face to Face – Fire The mail coaches had survived the decline and fall of the Post Office because they had to. Horses needed to be fed. But in any case, the coaches had always carried passengers. The halls went silent, the chandeliers disappeared along with everything else, even things that were nailed down, but out back in the big yard the coach service flourished. The coaches weren't exactly stolen, and weren't exactly inherited . . . they just drifted into the possession of the coach people. Then, according to Groat, who regarded himself as the custodian of all Post Office knowledge, the other coach drivers had been bought out by Big Jim 'Still Standing' Upwright with the money he'd won betting on himself in a bare knuckle contest against Harold 'The Hog' Boots, and the coach business was now run by his sons Harry 'Slugger' Upwright and Little Jim 'Leadpipe' Upwright. Moist could see that a careful approach was going to be required. The hub or nerve centre of the coach business was a big shed next to the stable. It smelled - no, it stank - no, it fugged of horses, leather, veterinary medicine, bad coal, brandy and cheap cigars. That's what a fug was. You could have cut cubes out of the air and sold it for cheap building material. When Moist entered, a huge man, made practically spherical by multiple layers of waistcoats and overcoats, was warming his backside in front of the roaring stove. Another man of very much the same shape was leaning over the shoulder of a clerk, both of them concentrating on some paper. Some staffing debate had obviously been in progress, because the man by the fire was saying '. . . well, then, if he's sick put young Alfred on the evening run and—' He stopped when he saw Moist, and then said, 'Yes, sir? What can we do for you?'
'Carry my mailbags,' said Moist. They stared at him, and then the man who'd been toasting his bottom broke into a grin. Jim and Harry Upwright might have been twins. They were big men, who looked as though they'd been built out of pork and fat bacon. 'Are you this shiny new postmaster we've been hearing about?'
'That's right.'
'Yeah, well, your man was already here,' said the toaster. 'Went on and on about how we should do this and do that, never said anything about the price!'
'A price?' said Moist, spreading out his hands and beaming. 'Is that all this is about? Easily done. Easily done.' He turned, opened the door and shouted: 'Okay, Gladys!' There was some shouting in the darkness of the yard, and then the creak of timber. 'What the hell did you do?' said the spherical man. 'My price is this,' said Moist. 'You agree to carry my mail, and you won't have another wheel dragged off that mail coach out there. I can't say fairer than that, okay?'
The man lumbered forward, growling, but the other coachman grabbed his coat. 'Steady there, Jim,' he said. 'He's gov'ment and he's got golems working for 'im.' On cue, Mr Pump stepped into the room, bending to get through the doorway. Jim scowled at him. 'That don't frighten me!' said Jim. 'They ain't allowed to hurt folks!'
'Wrong,' said Moist. 'Probably dead wrong.'