The Masquerades of Spring by Ben Aaronovitch

Author:Ben Aaronovitch [Aaronovitch, Ben]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Subterranean Press ◆ 2024

“The Doughman has her,” said Nightingale once we were in a taxi and the stern Mrs. Edwards safely well astern. “Mr. Harper said that. The Doughman—Mr. Baker, it’s a fairly obvious pun.”

Even I could see that we would soon be stalking Mr. Baker once more, but I had more important things on my mind. Things that pertained to the future well-being and—let’s be honest here—happiness of one Augustus Berrycloth-Young, Esquire and expatriate.

“Why are you so interested in this blasted saxophone?” I asked.

If the question flustered Nightingale, he showed no sign.

“When I showed the saxophone to a friend at the Folly, she grew very upset,” he said. “She wouldn’t tell me why, but I got the strong impression that there was some terrible tragedy involved. Naturally, that prompted me to set out to discover what the story behind the instrument was.”

“And then what?”

Nightingale gave me the most peculiar smile, that seemed to mix determination, excitement and a sort of distant sadness. Which is, I think you’ll agree, a bally lot of work for a single expression to do. I can only manage my expressions to mean one thing at a time. But then, I suppose nobody has ever marked me out as a man of destiny.

“I had the receipt and I remembered that you were sojourning here, so I booked a liner over,” he said.

A cold hand gripped my chest as a horrendous thought surfaced like a submarine stalking an unsuspecting steamer.

“Do the old sticks at the Folly know you are here?” I asked.

“Certainly,” said Nightingale. “I posted a letter explaining the whole op just as soon as I was safely berthed in New York.”

“You sent them a letter?” I cried, as if struck by torpedoes amidships.

“You think I should have sent a telegram instead?”

“I think it’s dashed rummy of you to drag me into your bally investigation, letting me think it was authorised at the highest level,” I said. “I think it’s damned hypocritical of you.”

“This is not about playing pranks on policemen and larks at Goodwood,” said Nightingale with some heat. “At the heart of this matter, real people may be suffering. And I believe that, as keepers of the secret flame, we have a duty to act.”

“Who do you think is suffering?” I asked, and didn’t add, “apart from myself and Lucy”—who had had extensive plans for the weekend. “And why do you think that?”

“I don’t know,” said Nightingale. “I only know that the saxophone deeply distressed my friend, and I’ve never known her to be distressed in such a dire manner before. She made it very clear that she expected me to act.”

“And who is this friend?” I asked, but already the hungry pike of suspicion was nibbling at the brightly coloured lure of my memory. Or do you catch pike with worms? I’ve never been much of a fisherman. Let us just say that the suspicious pike was damned hungry and leave it at that.

“I’d rather not say,” said Nightingale.

“Wait,” I said, having paused only to bash the pike of suspicion firmly with the mallet of certainty.

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