“I think it was flying monkeys that got them all,” said Arnold.

“You’re right,” said Doug with a sigh, “that’s exactly what got them—and they’ll get you, too, if you don’t hang some spinach in your wardrobe.”

Arnold sensed he was being mocked and fell silent. Flying monkeys were like Pookas, Khan, Freddie and the Hairy Irrational—something parents used to frighten small children who weren’t yet able to grasp the concept of Rules, Hierarchy or merits.

“Has anyone here actually seen a Pooka?” I asked.

“They say Rusty Hill’s full of them,” said Doug, pulling a face. “Echoes of the Previous.”

“I’ve heard some good Pooka stories,” said Arnold, “I sometimes frighten myself when I’m telling them.”

It was as I thought. Pookas were similar to masters and swans—often talked about, seldom seen. But I pushed them to the back of my mind. I was in no doubt that Jane would carry out her threat if I strayed from the path she had given me.

Dessert was prunes and custard. The prunes were as prunes are, but the custard was grey and unappetizing. Old Man Magenta might have been a colossal pain in the hoo-ha, but he always insisted that the custard was a bright synthetic yellow—sometimes paid for out of his own pocket. It was his single redeeming feature.

As it was being served, Bunty McMustard cast an imperious eye in our direction. At her own insistence, she was the permanent manners monitor. As she approached, the others at the table went quiet, sat up straight and tucked in their elbows. Instinctively, I joined them.

“Hair getting a bit long, Cinnabar?” she sneered. 

“Bunty,” said Tommo in an even tone, “I’m disgusted by your ugly face.”

The whole table, and several about, suddenly went deathly quiet.

“What did you say?” said Bunty.

“I said, ‘This custard, my, has a lovely taste.’ Why, what did you think I said?”

She glared at him, then at us. We all looked back with expressions of innocence. She gave out a “harrumph” and walked off.

“You are so going to Reboot,” muttered Daisy, who could hardly stop herself from giggling.

“Bunty’s a hoo-ha,” he replied. “Doug, did you manage to slip the toe into her pocket?”

He nodded, and we all burst out laughing.

Around the Village

Once lunch was over I ambled off toward our house, hoping I might bump into the Colorman when he came home. I’d never met anyone from National Color who had deigned to speak to me before, and I wanted to try to milk the association for all it was worth.

“Master Edward?”

It was Stafford the porter, and he was holding a small envelope. It was a telegram from Constance, and it wasn’t good news.

TO EDWARD RUSSETT RG6 7GD ++ EAST CARMINE RSW ++ FROM CONSTANCE OXBLOOD SW3 6ZH ++ JADE UNDER LIME GSW ++ MSGE BEGINS ++ ONLY FAIR TO SAY MUMMY AND I BOTH THOUGHT YOUR POEM UTTER RUBBISH ++ ROGER HAS COMPOSED MUCH BETTER VIZ OPEN QUOTES GLEEFUL DARTING OF THE HOUSE MARTINS SPREADING JOY IN THE HEADY RITES OF SPRING CLOSE QUOTES ++ DO TRY HARDER ANGEL DONT WORRY ABOUT ME ROGER TAKING ME BOATING ++ YRS CONSTANCE ++ MSGE ENDS

I cursed and scrunched it up.

“Problems?” asked Stafford.

“You could say that. Roger can barely spell his own name, much less write poetry. That ‘gleeful darting of the house martins’ stuff sounds suspiciously like the work of Jade-under-Lime’s resident verse mercenary, Gerald Henna-Rose.”

Roger Maroon had decided to up the ante in my absence, so I would have to do likewise. I asked Stafford if there was anyone in the village who could write romantic poetry.

“But,” I added, “it’s got to be really good, and not too racy—Constance isn’t one for overtly rude metaphors, worse luck.”

“I think I know someone who might be able to help,” returned Stafford, “but it won’t come cheap. There are risks involved. You know how the prefects take a dim view of irresponsible levels of creative expression.”

“Five percent finder’s fee?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I pushed open our front door and checked the hall table to see if there were any messages. There was one from the persistent Dorian G-7 of the Mercury inviting me to give my account of the trip to Rusty Hill, several from Reds suggesting we become friends, and one from “the desk of Violet deMauve” reminding me of my obligations to the orchestra. There were several for my father, too, and Imogen Fandango’s spousal information pack. The scrapbook contained a studio photograph of Fandango’s daughter, who was, I had to admit, not unattractive in an upmarket perky-nose Purplish sort of way. Written testimonials were followed by a long list of her virtues, which numbered seventy-five. They began with a well-worded implication of her potentially high Ishihara rating, and ended with her wish to one day help represent East Carmine in the Jollity Fair unicycle relay. I put the details aside, and decided to wire Bertie Magenta first thing tomorrow morning. Fandango had been asking six thousand for Imogen, and a 2 percent finder’s fee would be one hundred and fifty—a useful addition to my dowry, in order to sway Constance from Roger and his perfidious use of proxy poets.

I walked upstairs to add Constance’s telegram to my collection. It was, in truth, a pretty feeble collection—less one of letters professing undying love than of letters requesting favors for one thing or another, or telling me how I should be more like Roger Maroon. I did actually consider burning it, but I was nothing if not dutiful with my filing, as Our Munsell had once noted that life is an anagram of file, and the relevance was pretty clear.

As I passed the door of the bathroom I noticed that it was swinging shut. It seemed odd, since there wasn’t a breath of wind either within the house or without. I paused in my stride, and the door stopped swinging. I was the only one in the house; I had even seen the Apocryphal man shouting at a drainpipe in the corner of the town square as I came in.

“Hello?”

There was no answer to my call, and I very gently pushed the door. It opened easily for six inches or so, then stopped. But it wasn’t as if it were pushing against a chair—it was the soft, yielding sensation of a hand. There was someone behind the door. I briefly thought it might be Jane, who had decided to perhaps kill me after all, but on reflection I decided that hiding behind the bathroom door with a hatchet or something was decidedly not her style.

“Who’s there?”

There was no answer, and then it struck me: It might be the Apocryphal man’s roommate, the one I had heard overhead.

“Do you live upstairs?” I asked, and whoever-it-was knocked once, for yes. I asked, “Can I see you?”

and heard two urgent raps, for no. I was just about to frame a more complex question when I heard someone trot up the stairs below. I thought it might be the Colorman or the Apocryphal man, but it wasn’t. It was Mr. Turquoise—the Blue prefect.

“Mr. Turquoise!” I said. “How do you do?”

I felt the bathroom door close slowly behind me.

“Good afternoon, Master Russett,” he said in a businesslike tone. “The front door was open, so I came straight in. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Good lad. How’s the chair census going?”

“I’ve yet to start.”

“Plenty of time. May I use the bathroom?”

He moved forward, but I stepped into his path. “No!”

“What?”

I had to think fast. Whatever the truth about our unseen lodger, it was something that would be best learned without any prefects getting involved.

“It’s . . . broken. Something to do with the cistern.”

He smiled. “I only want to wash my hands.”