CHAPTER 4
The counting house was tall and narrow and built from red brick. Brambling unlocked the front door and led me inside.
‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Welcome to my domain.’
We were in a plainly decorated room with small windows and sparse furnishings. There was a marble floor, a desk and two chairs. In the corner stood an iron-bound treasure chest. A huge ledger lay on top of the desk. On the walls hung portraits of several previous emperors; but none, yet, of the latest incumbent.
‘Three words actually,’ said Brambling. ‘Fees, rents and disbursements.’
‘Do I owe some rent then?’ I enquired.
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Officers-of-state reside at the emperor’s expense.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘The reason I’ve invited you here is to discuss your stipend.’
‘Ah.’
‘I expect you’re curious to learn what it is, aren’t you?’
‘To tell you the truth I hadn’t really considered it.’
‘I’m surprised,’ remarked Brambling. ‘All the others have been here to claim theirs already.’
‘Even Whimbrel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he never said anything to me about it.’
‘There’s no reason why he should, is there?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I suppose not.’
‘Anyway, please take a seat and we’ll look it up.’
We sat down opposite one another at the desk and Brambling opened the ledger. It was evidently a weighty tome because at his first attempt to turn its pages it slammed shut again noisily. The sound reverberated all around the counting house. Only when I reached over and helped from my side of the desk was Brambling able to open the ledger properly and find the place he required. I could see a series of printed columns with handwritten entries beside them.
‘Now then,’ said Brambling, running his finger down the page. ‘Principal Composer to the Imperial Court. According to my records the office pays a stipend of sixpence.’
‘Very generous,’ I said.
From where I sat I could clearly see the entries for all the other officers-of-state, including Brambling himself. Each was to receive a stipend of sixpence, just the same as me. Brambling must have known this beforehand and hence there had been no real need for him to ‘look it up’. I didn’t mention this, though, as I had no wish to quash Brambling’s pretensions. In his role as Chancellor of the Exchequer he dealt with all fees, rents and disbursements, and it was his privilege to conduct matters in the way he thought appropriate.
Carefully, he closed the ledger. Next he opened a drawer on his side of the desk and from it produced a tin money box. This, apparently, was locked. Brambling then proceeded to fumble in his pockets until eventually he found the key. Lastly he opened the lid and took out a sixpence, which he placed on the desk before me.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Do I need to sign for this?’
‘Of course not,’ replied Brambling. ‘Your office is one of trust.’
I took the sixpence and examined it casually.
‘Just one more question,’ I continued. ‘Is it sixpence a day or sixpence a week?’
At these words Brambling looked at me with complete astonishment. It was as if I had just queried a central tenet of his existence; or challenged the integrity of the chancellery; or maybe suggested that the counting house was built on shifting sands. For several long moments he stared at me silently across his desk. Then he stood up and walked around the room, glancing from time to time in my direction. Finally, he opened the door, went outside and peered in at me through the window.
After a while he came back.
‘Nobody’s ever asked me that before,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to find out.’
Brambling was still going through his ledger, page by page, in search of an answer, when I said goodbye and left him to it. I had decided to pay Greylag a surprise visit, so I strolled across the park with my sixpence in my pocket. It must have rained during the night because there were large puddles of water lying everywhere. I wondered vaguely how the weather affected Whimbrel’s nocturnal activities. After all, he could hardly study the skies when there were great rain clouds blocking his view. I remembered that prior to the cabinet meeting he’d mentioned something about ‘the astronomer’s bane’, but I hadn’t really paid much attention. Presumably this was what he’d been referring to.
I approached the cake and entered by the postern door. Over the past few days I’d discovered that apart from the main door there were also three fire exits and a small side entrance. This led all the way to the orchestra pit via a tiled passage. Even before I opened the door I could hear music playing, and once I was inside the building it resounded ever more loudly. As I expected, the orchestra was playing a variation on the imperial anthem. I’d heard this one before and it was already my favourite: a piece of music in which the melody seemed to go round and round even more frequently than usual, as if it was somehow being constantly folded into itself. Greylag had previously explained to me that this particular variation was known as a fugue. Furthermore, each different treatment had its own designated number. The one I could hear at present, apparently, was the sixth in the sequence.
During my brief tenure the musicians had learnt not to bother rising to their feet every time I put in an appearance. I’d made it clear that I preferred them to carry on as normal, and today was no exception. As I entered the pit, Greylag glanced in my direction, we exchanged nods and I headed straight for the podium. From somewhere or other he’d unearthed a proper conductor’s baton for me to use. I found it where I’d left it last time, lying on top of the podium rail, and for the next twenty minutes I enjoyed ‘leading’ my orchestra through the sixth variation.
Eventually, though, I gave Greylag the signal to stop, and after another few bars the music ceased.
‘Thank you, Greylag,’ I said, stepping down from the podium. ‘That was very good.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ I continued. ‘Is there any other music apart from the imperial anthem and its variations?’
‘Well, we do have the other composers, sir. Which one would you like?’
‘Who’ve you got?’
‘All of them, sir.’
‘All the famous ones?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Greylag went to the antechamber and opened a cupboard, returning a minute later with a stack of manuscripts.
‘Here we are, sir,’ he said, and began leafing through the papers, one by one. ‘We have the joyous composer, the innovative composer, the outlandish composer, the dreary composer, the child prodigy, the charlatan, the . . .’
‘Just a second,’ I said. ‘Which one’s the charlatan?’
Greylag handed me the manuscript and at once I recognised the name of the composer in question.
‘Oh, I quite like his music,’ I said. ‘Why do you call him a charlatan?’
Greylag stood awkwardly before me, but said nothing.
‘Come on,’ I urged. ‘Don’t be shy.’
‘Well, sir,’ he said after a pause. ‘In the humble opinion of the orchestra, he’s a complete fake.’
As usual all the other musicians were sitting around us in silent rows, their instruments perched on their laps. I’d become accustomed to Greylag acting as their spokesman and the rest of them remaining mute. This last utterance, however, caused a low murmur of assent to pass through their ranks.
‘A fake, eh?’ I said. ‘How do you mean exactly?’
‘We consider his compositions to be laboured,’ said Greylag. ‘They lack any lightness of touch, which is the sure sign of a true artist. Take his first symphony, for example. We start off skipping through the flowery fields; then suddenly we’re crawling through hell’s cauldron; then we’re back in the flowers again; then there’s an angry bit; then a quiet bit; then another angry bit. None of it seems to have any proper meaning. As I said before, sir, a complete fake. Writing a symphony should be like constructing a universe. You can’t simply make it up as you go along.’
After he’d reached his conclusion, Greylag reddened somewhat and bowed his head, perhaps thinking that he’d overstepped the mark a little.
I puffed out my cheeks. ‘Well, Greylag,’ I said, ‘you obviously have very strong views on the subject.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said quietly.
‘And what about these variations?’ I asked. ‘Who composed them?’
‘They’re all ascribed to you, sir.’
‘Me?’ I said, astounded. ‘How can I have composed them? I’ve only been here a week and a half!’
‘As Principal Composer to the Imperial Court, sir, all new works are ascribed to you.’
‘Yes, but who actually writes them?’
Once again Greylag appeared overcome by reticence, and once again I had to drag the answer out of him.
‘Who writes them, Greylag?’ I repeated.
‘I do, sir.’
‘Every one of them?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I see.’
For a minute I stood silently absorbing the implications of what I’d just heard. Then suddenly I was struck by a remarkable thought. Judging by the quality of his musicianship, Greylag had the ability to turn me into one of the greatest composers the court had ever seen. All I needed to do was look and learn, and bide my time.
‘Was there anything else, sir?’ enquired Greylag.
‘Not for the moment,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps we should have another variation.’
‘Very well, sir,’ he said. ‘Would you like to hear the seventh?’
‘That will do nicely, Greylag, but I think we’ll try something slightly different today.’ I handed him the baton and pointed towards the podium. ‘You can conduct from up there for a change.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Greylag. ‘I think you’ll like this one. It goes at quite a gallop.’
The entire orchestra stirred with anticipation as Greylag headed for the podium and mounted the steps.
‘All right, everyone,’ he said, tapping the rail with his baton. ‘This time I want to hear the hooves of the imperial cavalry!’
Yet again they launched headlong into the anthem, and now they were playing one of ‘my’ compositions! I watched and listened with pride as the music soared up into the highest corners of the auditorium. I could see plainly that the podium was the natural place for Greylag to be, and I determined to allow him a much freer hand in future.
This seventh variation definitely went at ‘quite a gallop’, and the theme had already come back round to the beginning when I noticed someone standing up at the rear of the hall, just along from the main doorway. The figure was half-concealed in the gloom, but after some moments I realised it was Wryneck. He appeared to be watching the proceedings intently, but the instant he saw me looking he turned and walked towards the door.
‘Wryneck!’ I called, but my voice was drowned out by the orchestra.
I signalled Greylag to carry on, and then walked swiftly up the centre aisle. By the time I reached the door and looked outside Wryneck was striding away across the park.
‘Wryneck!’
Again there was no response, and he had soon disappeared into the distance. Inside the cake, the orchestra played on. Meanwhile, the trees rustled in the rising breeze. Another afternoon was fading towards twilight. For a few minutes I stood in the doorway pondering Wryneck’s unheralded visit. I decided it was quite rude of him to leave without even acknowledging me, but after that I thought no more of it. The time had arrived for me to go on a certain errand.
During my earlier explorations of the royal quarter I had made an interesting find. Just around the corner from the Maypole I’d noticed a shop with the word HOBBY painted in large letters above its front window. This was no ordinary ‘hobby’ shop, however. Hobby was the name of its proprietor, and what it sold was all kinds of confectionery. The window was filled, row upon row, with neatly labelled jars of sweets.
I arrived about half past five and gazed through the leaded glass at yellow pear drops, pink marshmallows and golden sticks of barley sugar. There were sherbet fizzers, peppermints, liquorice comfits and the proprietor’s very own dolly mixture. Further back I could see fruit pastilles, fondant creams, caramel fudge, everlasting toffee, coconut ice, butterscotch, chocolate nougat, hearts-of-violet, strawberry shrimps, bulls-eyes, broken rock, lemon crystals, jelly babies, rhubarb-and-custard, alphabet candies, black jacks and gunpowder lozenges. A small bell rang as I opened the door and entered the shop. Instantly I detected the scent of aniseed, vanilla, cinnamon and sarsaparilla. Yet more jars lined seemingly endless shelves. Outside, the sun was gradually sinking, and as it did the light appeared to refract through these colourful jars so that the whole shop was immersed in a soft, reddish gleam.
I was just peering at a jarful of ‘lions and tigers’ when suddenly I heard a voice behind me.
‘Had a good look, have you, sir?’
I turned to see a man emerging from the dimness at the back of the shop. He was wearing a white linen coat.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I replied. ‘I see you’ve got a very extensive range.’
‘Indeed we have, sir. Indeed we have.’
‘So I’d like to buy some of your wares.’
My comment evidently came as something of a surprise to the shopkeeper. He raised his eyebrows and gave me a quizzical look before moving behind the counter. This was equipped with a pair of scales.
‘What can we do for you, sir?’
The way he addressed me as ‘sir’ was quite different from the subservient tone employed by Greylag. By contrast, this ‘sir’ was spoken with a sort of begrudging courtesy. In other words, I got the impression that he only called me ‘sir’ because it would be discourteous not to. Customers, apparently, were an inconvenience which he was obliged to tolerate. Nevertheless, I was much taken by the contents of his shop, so I made up my mind to ignore his unfortunate manner.
‘To start with,’ I said, ‘I’d like some jelly babies and some sherbet fizzers.’
‘Separate bags, sir?’ enquired the shopkeeper.
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Put them all together please.’
‘As you wish, sir.’
He unscrewed the appropriate jars and tipped a few sweets on to the scales. Then he waited.
‘Some lions and tigers,’ I continued. ‘Also, some rhubarb-and-custard, some hearts-of-violet, some liquorice comfits and some peppermint creams.’
Again he tipped out the required sweets.
‘How much does that all come to?’ I asked.
He placed a weight on the opposite scale. Then he added another. ‘It comes to fivepence, sir.’
‘Ah, good,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll just have some of your dolly mixture to round it up to sixpence.’
‘Round it up, sir?’ said the shopkeeper.
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re only allowed a pennyworth.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s an imperial decree, sir, to stop people from being greedy.’
‘But they’re not for me,’ I protested.
‘Ho ho,’ answered the shopkeeper. ‘That’s what they all say.’
‘No, really,’ I said. ‘I’m Principal Composer to the Imperial Court.’
‘I know exactly who you are, sir.’
‘The sweets are for my musicians,’ I explained. ‘They’ve been working very hard lately and I want to reward them with a treat.’
The shopkeeper frowned.
‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘if you don’t mind my saying so, I think that’s a big mistake. Oh, I know you’re only trying to be nice to them, but what you regard as an act of kindness they’re sure to interpret as a sign of weakness. Believe me; I know what these serfs can be like.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The shopkeeper stood with his hands flat on the counter and a broad smile on his face. He was clearly very pleased with himself.
‘All right then,’ I said, after giving the situation a moment’s thought. ‘I’ll just have a pennyworth.’ I put my hand in my pocket and produced my stipendiary sixpence.
He shook his head.
‘I’m very sorry, sir, but I can’t take that.’
‘Why not?’ I queried. ‘Haven’t you got any change?’
‘Yes, I have,’ he said, ‘but I can’t just go dishing out pennies willy-nilly. Pennies are for commoners.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I see.’
I stood there clutching my sixpence in the palm of my hand. It was all I had, but I was quite unable to spend it.
‘Tell you what, sir,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘how about a toffee apple on the house?’