Overtime. Part 42

'Please, Mr Goodlet,' Isoud said, 'don't interrupt. Your untimely flippancy is quite probably your most disagreeable characteristic. I was wondering what on earth this message could possibly mean when - Mr Goodlet, is that gentleman a friend of yours?'

Guy looked up, blinked twice and reached for where his revolver ought to be. Of course, it wasn't there any more.

'Looking for this?' Pursuivant said. He waggled the revolver tauntingly. Probably out of sheer spite, it went off.

'Eeek!' said La Beale Isoud, and for the first time Guy noticed that she was wearing - had been wearing - one of those tall and picturesque pointed female headdresses that one sees in illuminated ma.n.u.scripts. He suppressed a sn.i.g.g.e.r, jumped on Pursuivant, and banged his head hard on the ground.

'Here we go again,' Pursuivant sighed, and died.

Guy looked down. 'd.a.m.n,' he said, 'I've killed him. Oh well, can't be helped.' He prised his revolver out of Pursuivant's fingers and slipped it back in its holster. 'Sorry,' he said, 'you were saying?'

But La Beale Isoud didn't reply. She was staring at him; no, not so much staring as looking.

'Mr Goodlet!' she said.

Guy frowned in puzzlement for a moment, and then a light bulb went on inside his head. He got up, retrieved Isoud's perforated headdress and handed it to her.

'All in a day's work,' he said, smiling.

'That was very -' Isoud said.

'Brave?'

'Yes,' replied La Beale Isoud, with just a touch of irritation. 'That was very brave of you, Mr Goodlet. You saw that I was in danger and you unhesitatingly ...

'Yes,' Guy replied, 'I know. It's not every chap who'd do that, you know. Anyway, there you were, pondering this message.'

'Oh yes. I was just wondering what on earth it could mean when another message came over the hyperfax. And do you know what it said?'

'No.'

'It said, Beware the one-legged man, Mr Goodlet. Well of course, that started me thinking, as you can imagine.'

'Did it?'

'And I was just beginning to get an inkling of an idea when a third message came through. Beware the one-eyed man. So of course I came here as fast as I could.'

'You did?'

'Naturally.'

'Have a sausage roll?'

'No, thank you, I had tea before I came out. The question is, Mr Goodlet, will we be in time?'

'Who can say?' Guy replied. 'In time for what?'

He got the feeling that under normal circ.u.mstances, La Beale Isoud would have said something less than complimentary. She didn't, however. How nice.

In front of them was a door marked Stage Door; No Entry. On the other side of it, Blondel's voice stopped singing, there was a moment of complete silence, and then a deafening outburst of applause.

'It's the interval,' Isoud cried. 'Come on, quickly!'

She pushed the door and, before Guy could stop her, walked through.

'Isoud!' Guy shouted, but it was too late. Too late to point out what was written on the door.

He hesitated, just for a moment. It wasn't, he told himself, just the fact that he would be delighted to be rid of her; there was also the question of this cryptic message and the mysterious man who, despite his apparently overwhelming disabilities, was perceived to be so dangerous. On the other hand ...

'Sod it,' he said, and followed.

It wasn't a big apple; but to a man with a bad head, brought on by drinking slightly too much mulled ale in the Three Pilgrims the night before, it was plenty big enough.

'Ouch!' said Sir Isaac Newton. He stood up, winced, and looked round for the gardener.

'George!' he yelled. 'Come here this instant.'

The gardener, an elderly man with a face that seemed to indicate feeble-minded dishonesty, waddled across from the asparagus bed. He was hiding something behind his back, as usual.

'Look, George,' said Sir Isaac, 'didn't I tell you to get those d.a.m.ned apples picked last week, before they fell off the tree and spoiled?'

George looked blank. Everyone, after all, is good at something.

'Why haven't you picked the apples, George?'

'Dunno, Master Isaac.'

'Well,' said Sir Isaac, 'b.l.o.o.d.y well pick them now, all right? Before they do somebody a serious injury.'

'Yes, Master Isaac.'

'And if anybody wants me, I'll be in my study.'

'Yes, Master Isaac.'

As soon as Sir Isaac was safely out of sight, George took the bundle out from behind his back, unwrapped it carefully, and looked at it with pleasure.

It was a pigeon. Very dead. Dead for some time. Still, a poor man has to eat, and on the wages Master Newton paid, a pigeon was a pigeon and to h.e.l.l with minor decomposition. George grinned.

Then the small gate in the wall opened and a young lady came bursting through. She was wearing funny, old-fas.h.i.+oned clothes, like someone out of one of those old stained-gla.s.s windows George had helped smash up during the Civil Wars, and she wore a sort of white witch's hat with a hole in it. George frowned, puzzled.

The lady came to a sudden halt and stared at him.

'Excuse me,' she said. George nodded vigorously. It was just possible that she hadn't noticed the pigeon.

'Excuse me,' the lady repeated. 'Where

'In the study, miss,' George replied. 'That way.' He pointed with his left hand.