Overtime. Part 11

Although the regulation cagoules 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, n.o.body 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-gla.s.s, 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 gla.s.s 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. n.o.body answered it, and no wonder. Some clown had wedged a beer-mat between the bell and the clapper.

'Oh s.h.i.t,' 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-c.u.m-microphone-c.u.m-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.'