into our cheat. At dawn we spring our trap. In a word . . .
yes.’
‘Well, I’m glad we got a whole day to work out how to use
a mayor’s daughter as bait,’ growled Mosca. ‘Wouldn’t want
to go doing that slipshod.’
After seeing Toll-by-Night, it was impossible to look at Toll-by-Day the same way. As she walked down the street, Mosca could not help but glance this way and that, trying to work out how the whole town had transformed. Soon she found that there were clues once you knew where to look.
Most of the houses were faced with the same white plaster criss-crossed with black beams, some jutting further forward than others. Now she suspected that some of these fronts were false, mounted on a board and designed to swing or slide from one position to another. One position for daylight – and then at dusk they could be moved, covering one set of doors and windows and revealing another, or slid sideways to block off a passage, or flipped down to become a boardwalk or bridge. Discreet but sturdy padlocks held the whole in place.
And behind those locked boards, hundreds of human beings held their breath and sat in darkness, pretending not to exist. Hundreds who had obediently bolted and locked their doors from within, and let the Locksmiths secure and fasten their doors a second time from without, so that they could not escape even if they wished it.
She noticed other things as well as they passed through the daylit streets, and started to understand why Toll-by-Day had seemed unreal to her even at the start. The cobbles were free from litter and the walls and monuments from grime, and yet she saw nobody cleaning them. She saw no chimney sweeps, no street sweepers, no boys scooping horse dung out of the road. She remembered the shuffling hopelessness of the toil-gangs they had glimpsed in the nocturnal alley, and guessed when these lowly, unpleasant jobs were done.
Do the dayfolk ever wonder about that? Do they care? Or do they just wake up to clean streets and elderberry wine and try not to think about it too hard?
Clent was scanning the town with the same eye of scrutiny, but Mosca guessed that he was riffling through ruses and sorting through stratagems, taking everything he saw as inspiration.
‘Can we get Saracen while we’re cogitating?’ asked Mosca. Leaving the goose to grow restless was a very poor plan, and likely to result in property damage.
As it turned out, Saracen had only chewed the felt off a tabletop and had not found the breakables which Mosca had moved to the closet, so relatively little damage had been done. He tried to eat Mosca’s badge by way of greeting, but she managed to fish it out of his beak before he could swallow it.
‘Not a pebble, Saracen.’ Mosca knew that like all geese Saracen needed to swallow small stones now and then, so that they could sit in his ‘crop’, the pouch in his gullet where food was ground down. However she had a feeling that the Committee of the Hours would not be amused if she had to explain that her badge was trapped inside a goose and likely to remain there forever.
On the way out, the sight of the tavern clock caused Clent to wince and chafe his brows.
‘Ten o’clock already! These short winter days work against us. Come – we must report to the Committee of the Hours, then go to speak with Miss Marlebourne and her father.’
They dutifully reported in at the Committee of the Hours building next to the Clock Tower, where the Raspberry appeared not to notice their haggard and dishevelled appearance, and then continued on to the castle. When they reached the ruined courtyard, Mosca could not suppress a shiver despite the winter sunshine as she remembered the flamelit castle of the night before, with its Locksmith banners.
Thankfully, as they approached the mayor’s house, Beamabeth Marlebourne could be glimpsed on the green outside, standing at an easel, a woollen cloak about her shoulders.
‘Mr Clent! I was so sure you would come back. Have you found out anything more?’ Beamabeth’s gaze swept over them like a soft-haired brush, snagging briefly on the leaves in Mosca’s bonnet and the large goose in her arms.
Clent tugged off his hat and nearly his wig in his enthusiasm.
‘Indeed. I have with my very own eyes seen the infamous Skellow and conversed with him . . .’
Beamabeth’s eyes widened as Clent gave his account of the evening’s excitement which, Mosca noticed, dwelt somewhat unduly upon the more heroic and cunning aspects of Clent’s behaviour, but was rather sketchy in its report of his desperate flight and intimidation of midwives.
‘So . . .’ A very faint crease appeared in Beamabeth’s brow as she tried to push back a breeze-tugged ringlet without smearing paint on her face. ‘So . . . you have . . . agreed to kidnap me?’
‘After a fashion, yes. It is a snare, a mantrap, a device, if you will. A gleaming silver hook.’
‘With you as the worm,’ Mosca could not help putting in.
Both Clent and Beamabeth flinched, the latter with shock.
‘Mr Clent, I – I am not sure I like the idea of being a worm . . .’
‘Only a mean and invidious mind would make the comparison.’ Clent gave Mosca a look of annoyance. ‘I would prefer to think of you as the honey for trapping some black and malignant insect – perhaps a fly.’
It was Mosca’s turn to wince. She gave a small snarl in her throat. Beamabeth, meanwhile, did not seem greatly reassured by the change in metaphor. However, as they headed inside, she seemed to warm by inches to the idea of Clent’s snare. Of one thing, however, she was entirely certain.
‘Father will never allow it. He would never let me near the tiniest teaspoonful of danger. He says that I am his treasure chest and hold all that is valuable in his world.’ It was strange that Beamabeth could say such things, with the seriousness of a young child, and somehow not sound vain. ‘And besides, there is no stirring him once he has decided something – and I am afraid he has decided that the whole kidnap plot is nothing but invention.’
‘But now it ain’t just my word,’ cut in Mosca. ‘Mr Clent talked to Mr Skellow too, and we
both
heard ’im say Brand Appleton was in the plot up to his chops. And Mr Clent has a daylight name.’
‘Yes.’ Beamabeth’s brow gained a worried little crinkle. ‘I think he might have believed that yesterday . . . but then there were all those bits of your story that did not hold water, and now I am afraid, I am
horribly
afraid, that if you came back with more story he would not believe either of you. In fact, he would probably just have to put you in prison for being out after bugle. It is really very illegal, you know.’
There was a glum silence.
‘I suppose . . .’ Beamabeth’s kitten features furrowed again with the effort of thought. ‘That is . . . would he absolutely have to know what we were doing?’
‘The endeavour would be difficult without him. After all, we shall need help.’ Clent pursed his lips. ‘A good number of strong cudgel arms, I should say, if we are to apprehend these villains. We are hardly likely to be able to best a pack of scoundrels with only the three of us and one goose . . .’ Clent hesitated, his eyes on Saracen’s blunt but determined beak. ‘Well, perhaps the goose would be enough at that. But it is not a force to be released lightly. No, I fear we shall have to talk to the mayor.’
Beamabeth pressed her lips together very slightly and twiddled at her sleeve.
‘Will Brand be there?’ she asked suddenly.
‘I – well . . . that is possible. I must confess that the best idea I have so far is to tell our abduction conspiracy that I have persuaded you to meet with Brand Appleton one last time, for old times’ sake, at dawn outside your house tomorrow. In which case . . . yes, I rather think that that particular hare will end up in our bag, so to speak.’
‘Father hates him,’ Beamabeth remarked, rather indistinctly. ‘Oh, of course what he is doing is very terrible, and the way things are, any thought of marrying him is quite, quite impossible . . . but I would still be sorry if he was . . . well . . . horribly hurt during his arrest. And if Father was involved then . . . then I am afraid that he might be.’ She had gone a little pink, and had nearly twisted off one of her pearl buttons. ‘That is why I
must
be involved, if there is a . . . a snare. I need to be there to make sure he is not treated more horribly than can be helped.’
‘Madam,’ Clent said with unusual gentleness, ‘your compassion does you the greatest credit, but I cannot see how talking to your father is to be avoided. Even if we could find other ready hands to wrestle our brigands, the mayor is hardly likely to be blind to our preparations, or deaf to sounds of affray on his very doorstep.’
Not to mention the fact that the reward would need to come from him
, Mosca added silently.
‘I am sure that I could find friends to help defend me,’ Beamabeth insisted. ‘I can talk to them about it at the party this afternoon. And there’s the servants, of course.’ She looked contemplative, then sighed. ‘But yes – Father will be a problem. Nowadays he never unlocks the house at dawn, you see – always a good hour or so afterwards. Of course when he is away I am head of the household and can open the doors when I choose . . . if only he was out of town!’
‘You could ply him with gin till his legs give out,’ Mosca suggested. ‘Wouldn’t be so spry in the morning, then.’
‘He never touches fiery spirits.’ Beamabeth looked, for the first time, decidedly offended. ‘Mr Clent – can you not think of anything?’
‘My dear, given more than the hours at our disposal I could doubtless concoct some scheme to keep your father from home, but time is not on our side. Time . . .’ Clent’s eyes suddenly glazed over, and he eased back into his chair, beating an excited tattoo against his waistcoat with his fingertips. ‘I am quite, quite wrong,’ he said quietly after a moment. ‘Time is not my enemy. Time is my monkey and will dance to my tune. Miss Marlebourne, does your father have a pocket timepiece?’
‘Why . . . yes.’ She stared at him curiously.
‘You might be required to reset it by stealth. Where is he likely to spend this day?’
‘Well . . . he will probably be in his study until lunchtime. Today the Pyepowder Court is not in session – I think he said that he would be in his counting house in Waggle Lane, reckoning the tolls and reading appeals to the treasury. He often tries to avoid my little gatherings, so he will stay there as long as he can. But he is bound to be back before sunset.’
‘And Waggle Lane is the far side of town?’ Clent raised an eyebrow, and received a nod in answer. ‘Good. You say your father touches no spirits – does he have a taste for ale, or small beer, or anything else that might tempt him into a hostelry?’ ‘He never sets a foot in such places. Why?’ ‘Because taverns have clocks, my dear, and most other places do not. If there is a clock in this counting house we must set it back an hour or two, and do the same to his pocket watch. If there is a chance that he will check his watch against the clocks in this house, they too must be set back. When the bugle sounds, it must come as a surprise to him – and if his distance from home is too far to cover in fifteen minutes, he will have no choice but to remain where he is.’
‘Then you can leave that to me, Mr Clent.’ Beamabeth’s brow cleared, and she fulfilled her name by beaming. ‘I have a copy of the key of his counting house – I can go there this morning and see to the clock. And I’ll take care of the hall clock as well.’
Beamabeth took her father his morning nettle tea and returned with his watch cradled in her hand, her face pink with pride and excitement, and was congratulated for her ingenuity by Clent. (Mosca tried to remember receiving such praise for any of her many thefts.) The next challenge was to lose ninety minutes from the main hall clock without the servants noticing. Clent suggested that it should be done piecemeal, turning it back ten minutes now, ten minutes then, so that it did not attract attention.
‘You do remember which side we’re on, don’t you, Mr Clent?’ Mosca whispered while Beamabeth was out of the room. ‘You’re playing games with the mayor now, and it’s the mayor who holds the purse strings!’
‘Indeed. It is a risk, I will grant you, but it is Miss Beamabeth who holds the mayor’s heart strings, and if we do not play things her way then we shall have no means of setting our trap, nor winning the mayor round afterwards.’ Clent gave his smallest, thinnest smile, and for a second his eyes were shards of slate. ‘And, yes, I daresay that the mayor will be quite aggrieved when he discovers that a trick has been played on him. But he cannot help but forgive his daughter, who will have been the active party, and when he finds that he has a man he hates entirely in his power . . . I have the strangest presentiment that he will forgive us.’
‘You’re a peach full of poison, you know that?’ Mosca snapped back, but could not quite keep a hint of admiration from her tone.
Since it would not do for the mayor to come down from his study to find his reception room full of Mosca and Clent, they spent the rest of the morning in a little-used guestroom catching up on much-needed sleep. When they finally woke, and rallied enough willpower to leave their beds, Clent insisted that they stroll through the market and examine the lie of the land in the castle courtyard. Within an hour, however, Mosca had almost ground her teeth to stumps.
Her dark badge was all that anybody noticed. She might as well have been covered in tar or stinging insects. Every time she passed a stall, she caught the owner pausing to count the wares on it to make sure nothing was missing. Once when she stooped to take hold of a goat’s collar to stop it munching at her skirt, it took all Clent’s eloquence to prevent her being dragged to the Pyepowder Court for attempted theft. And nobody seemed to believe that she could have come by a fine plump goose honestly.
Mosca was used to the sort of invisibility that came from being beneath notice. But apparently one could be
beneath
beneath notice, and become more noticeable than ever.
‘Child . . . you are drawing the eye like an inkblot on muslin. I daresay our patroness is back from her father’s counting house by now – I propose we prevail upon her to conceal you while I make enquiries . . .’