Maskerade

“You just want to wait here quietly with me. And don’t go thinking I’m nice. I’m only nice compared to Esme, but so is practic’ly everyone…”
    “Mmf!”
    With one hand tightly around Mrs. Plinge’s arm and another over her mouth, Nanny peered round the statue. She could hear the singing, far off.
    Nothing else happened. After a while, she started to fret. Perhaps he’d taken fright. Perhaps Mrs. Plinge had left him some sort of signal. Perhaps he’d decided that the world was currently too dangerous for Ghosts, although Nanny doubted he could ever decide that…
    At this rate the first act would be over before—
    A door opened somewhere. A lanky figure in a black suit and a ridiculous beret crossed the foyer and went up the stairs. At the top, they saw it turn in the direction of the Boxes and disappear.
    “Y’see,” said Nanny, trying to get the stiffness out of her limbs, “the thing about Esme is, she’s stupid…”
    “Mmf?”
    “…so she thinks that the most obvious way, d’y’see, for the Ghost to get in and out of the Box is through the door. If you can’t find a secret panel, she reckons, it’s because it ain’t there. A secret panel that ain’t there is the best kind there is, the reason bein’, no bugger can find it. That’s where you people all think too operatic, see? You’re all cooped up in this place, listening to daft plots what don’t make sense, and I reckon it does something to your minds. People can’t find a trapdoor so they say, oh, deary me, what a hidden trapdoor it must be. Whereas a normal person, e.g., me and Esme, we’d say: Maybe there ain’t one, then. And the best way for the Ghost to get around the place without being seen is for him to be seen and not noticed. Especially if he’s got keys. People don’t notice Walter. They looks the other way.”
    She gently released her grip. “Now, I don’t blame you, Mrs. Plinge, ’cos I’d do the same for one of mine, but you’d have done better to trust Esme right at the start. She’ll help you if she can.”
    Nanny let Mrs. Plinge go, but kept a grip on the champagne bottle, just in case.
    “What if she can’t?” said Mrs. Plinge bitterly.
    “You think Walter did those murders?”
    “He’s a good boy!”
    “I’m sure that’s the same as a ‘no,’ isn’t it?”
    “They’ll put him in prison!”
    “If he done them murders, Esme won’t let that happen,” said Nanny.
    Something sank into Mrs. Plinge’s not very alert mind. “What do you mean, she won’t let that happen?” she said.
    “I mean,” said Nanny, “that if you throw yourself on Esme’s mercy, you better be damn sure you deserve to bounce.”
    “Oh, Mrs. Ogg!”
    “Now, don’t you worry about anything,” said Nanny, perhaps a little late under the circumstances. It occurred to her that the immediate future might be a little bit easier on everyone if Mrs. Plinge got some well-earned rest. She fumbled in her clothing and produced a bottle, half-full of some cloudy orange liquid. “I’ll just give you a sip of a little something to calm your nerves…”
    “What is it?”
    “It’s a sort of tonic,” said Nanny. She flicked the cork out with her thumb; on the ceiling above her, the paint crinkled. “It’s made from apples. Well…mainly apples…”

    Walter Plinge stopped outside Box Eight and looked around.
    Then he removed his beret and pulled out the mask. The beret went into his pocket.
    He straightened up, and it looked very much as though Walter Plinge with the mask on was several inches taller.
    He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, and the figure that stepped into the Box did not move like Walter Plinge. It moved as though every nerve and muscle were under full and athletic control.
    The sounds of the opera filled the Box. The walls had been lined with red velvet and were hung with curtains. The chairs were high and well padded.
    The Ghost slipped into one of them and settled down.
    A figure leaned forward out of the other chair and said, “You carrn’t havve my fisssh eggs!”
    The Ghost leapt up. The door clicked behind him.
    Granny stepped out from the curtains.
    “Well, well, we meet again,” she said.
    He backed away to the edge of the Box.
    “I shouldn’t think you could jump,” said Granny. “It’s a long way down.” She focused her best stare on the white mask. “And now, Mister Ghost—”
    He sprang back onto the edge of the Box, saluted Granny flamboyantly, and leapt