The Amulet of Samarkand

certain welldressed gentleman with a round face and reddish beard.
     
    [5] As well as no doubt creating the secret mechanism in an adjacent room, which pulled back the carpet from the floor and triggered the bars upon the windows. Certain types of foliot are very gifted at construction jobs; I used to have a band of them under me when working on the walls of Prague. They're good workers, provided they don't hear the sound of church bells, in which case they drop tools and crumble into ashes. That was a drag on festival days—I had to employ a bunch of imps with dustpans and brushes to sweep away the pieces.
     
    This was a new clue. My master eagerly reported sighting such a person leaving the Hall that very morning, and messengers were immediately sent out with his description to alert the police in London and the home counties.
    When all was done that could be done, Devereaux and his senior ministers refreshed themselves with champagne, cold meats, and jellied fruits and listened properly to my master's story. And what a story it was. What an outrageous yarn he told. Even I, with my long experience of human duplicity, was flabbergasted by the whoppers that boy came up with. To be frank, he did have a lot of things to hide: his own theft of the Amulet, for example, and my little encounter with Sholto Pinn. But a lot of his fibs were quite unnecessary. I had to sit quietly on his shoulder and hear myself referred to as a "minor imp" (five times), a "sort of foliot" (twice), and even (once) as a "homunculus."[6] I ask you—how insulting is that?
     
    [6] Homunculus: a tiny manikin produced by magic and often trapped in a bottle as a magician's curio. A few have prophetic powers, although it is important to do exactly the opposite of what they recommend, since homunculi are always malevolent and seek to do their creators harm.
     
    But that wasn't the half of it. He recounted (with big, mournful eyes) how his dear master, Arthur Underwood, had long been suspicious of Simon Lovelace, but had never had proof of any wrongdoing. Until, that was, the fateful day when Underwood had by chanced perceived the Amulet of Samarkand in Lovelace's possession. Before he could tell the authorities, Lovelace and his djinn had arrived at the house intent on murder. Underwood, together with John Mandrake, his faithful apprentice, had put up strong resistance, while even Mrs. Underwood had pitched in, heroically trying to tackle Lovelace herself. All in vain. Mr. and Mrs. Underwood had been killed and Nathaniel had fled for his life, with only a minor imp to help him. There were actually tears in his eyes when he recounted all this; it was almost as if he believed the rubbish he was spouting.
    That was the bulk of his lie. Having no way of proving Lovelace's guilt, Nathaniel had then traveled to Heddleham Hall in the hope of somehow preventing his terrible crime. Now he was only happy he had managed to save the lives of his country's noble rulers, etc., etc.; honestly, it was enough to make an imp weep.
    But they bought it. Didn't doubt a single word. He had another hurried snack, a swig of champagne, and then my master was whisked away in a ministerial limousine, back to London and further debriefing.
    I went along too, of course. I wasn't letting him out of my sights for anything. He had a promise to keep.

44
     
    The servant's footsteps receded down the stairs. The boy and I looked around.
    "I preferred your old room," I said. "This one smells, and you haven't even moved in yet."
    "It doesn't smell."
    "It does: of fresh paint and plastic and all things new and fabricated. Which I suppose is quite appropriate for you—don't you think so, Mr. Mandrake?"
    He didn't answer. He was bounding across to the window to look out at the view.
    It was the evening of the day following the great summoning at Heddleham Hall, and for the first time, my master was being left to his own devices. He had spent much of the previous twenty-four hours in meetings with ministers and police, going over his story and no doubt adding lies with each retelling. Meanwhile, I'd remained out on the street,[1] shivering with impatience. My frustration had only increased when the boy had spent the first night in a specially provided dormitory on Whitehall, a building heavily guarded in numerous ways. While he snored within, I'd been forced to skulk outside, still unable to engage him in the necessary chat.
     
    [1] Government offices tend to be full of afrits and