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EIGHT

A Question is Asked of Mr Taggart Longman

by Miss Angela Ashton

11 AM, Monday 9 May 1544 A.F.

The death of a king does not pass unnoticed, and the crowds of thousands upon thousands who had brought New Landern to an unexpected standstill for Jolly’s funeral had passed by underneath Angela’s flying carriage as she went to the Emperor Theatre to attend rehearsals for The Kingdom of Happiness, which was the play that would follow her current play The Lady in Peril. The respectable half of New Landern had been baffled by the mass attendance of the other half for the funeral of this previously unknown person, and they had turned to The New Landern Recorder the next day to find out what was going on, where they had read that the funeral had been for “Mr Frank Jollison, the noted philanthropist”. Angela, who no longer had a sense of humour, had read this description impassively; Nicholas had read this nonsense and rolled his eyes and shook his head, wondering to himself, “How do they invent this stuff?” and had then finally laughed out loud, drawing Ben down on his neck, who wanted to know, “What was so funny?” Nicholas had to dissemble on the spot, although Ben had not looked convinced by his performance.

So Jolly was dead; Angela looked down on the crowds thronging the streets of New Landern and knew this straight away without needing to be told in so many words. Rehearsals that afternoon were cancelled; people stood around in the theatre talking in hushed voices, and Angela was not unaware that certain looks were being directed at her, though no-one would say anything directly. The next day was covered with a veneer of normality, as if everyone Angela met were acting from the memory of being themselves, but the next day people were more themselves, and the day after that Jolly was entirely forgotten and life was back to normal.

Angela had maintained her composure throughout and continued as if nothing had happened, despite the fact that the world was simply not the same as it had been formerly. Jolly had been taken from this world in a moment of inattention on his part concerning the nature of his adversary, and it had given Angela reason to pause for reflection. Something like this was enough to turn a girl into a philosopher! Angela had not gone that far, but she was at least reflecting.

Angela did not the least mourn Jolly, nor was she glad that he was gone; or at least, not yet. She had understood the world with Jolly in it; being without Jolly was to be suddenly faced with uncertainty. Angela had one question, and one question only, in her mind at that moment in time: who was Nicholas Raspero?

2 PM, Thursday 12 May 1544 A.F.

Beneath her veneer of calm Angela was apprehensive. As Jolly’s investment, she had been protected; now as a woman who lived alone and who was lusted after by half the men in New Landern she was protected only by a passing comment of a gentleman who did not even have a place in the demi-monde. Much of her apprehension was due to knowing nothing of what was going on; so she sent a note to Tagalong care of the head barman at the Burke Tavern (the said head barman being an unofficial one-man postal office of the demi-monde) telling Tagalong to attend her in Kenina Park at 2 PM the next day. She waited for him there at the appointed time and when he turned up she beckoned him into the carriage and then directed the driver to go up in the air and “do the circuit”, this being a circular voyage around New Landern which flying carriages took for a number of reasons, not all of them reasons that could be discussed openly in polite society. The reason which Angela had in mind, namely that of private discussion with a captive conversationalist who could not depart the scene, was however as common a reason as any that could be openly discussed in polite society.

‘So what’s happening, Tagalong?’ Angela asked when they were too high up for Tagalong to jump out of the carriage anymore.

‘Well, Jolly’s dead, as you must know,’ Tagalong said, like a chess player opening with one grudging move of a pawn, ‘though you didn’t attend his funeral, did you?’

‘No-one told me anything about a funeral,’ Angela responded.

Tagalong looked at her in surprise. ‘You didn’t get my letter?’ He shook his head. ‘Someone slipped up. Well, what’s there to say about that?’

‘Who killed Jolly?’ Angela asked, ignoring Tagalong’s lies.

Tagalong threw his hands into the air. ‘Well, that’s the mystery, isn’t it? That’s what everyone wants to know. Some people say it was Raspero.’ ‘It is very brave of you, Tagalong,’ Angela said, looking out of the window, ‘to refer to Mr Raspero merely as Raspero. I will be sure to tell Nicholas that when we next meet.’

Angela was watching Tagalong in a concealed mirror by her side, and so his shadowy look of shock and fear on hearing what she had said did not escape her attention even though she appeared to be looking elsewhere. ‘You have misheard me, Miss Ashton. I most certainly said, “Mr Raspero”, you simply did not hear the Mister part of my phrase. I do hope you are not losing your hearing. That would be most regrettable for the leading actress of New Landern.’

‘No, Tagalong,’ Angela said, ‘it is you who misheard me. I did not ask, will you tell me whatever lie first comes to mind? I asked you, who killed Jolly? Answer me, or I will complain to Nicholas, that is Mr Raspero to you, about your disrespect both to him and to me.’

There was a silence, while Tagalong’s eyes shifted about the carriage like a rat in a maze considering which corridor looked least likely to have a snake in it. ‘Well, all right, Miss Ashton, well, as it happened, well, Pay, Kassie, Pastime and No Tin all threw their discs into Jolly’s throat at the same time. Now you know.’

‘Did Jolly fight back?’

‘No, not exactly, no, he didn’t exactly fight back as it happened. He was sort of tied up in a chair at the time so fighting back was not, as one might say, an active option.’

‘Was he still gagged?’

Tagalong looked at her warily. He had not said anything about a gag. ‘Yes, very slightly gagged, very slightly, in the sense of being gagged I would have to say yes, he was in a manner of speaking actively restrained in his speaking facilities.’

‘So who got all that money?’

Tagalong looked warier than ever. ‘What money are we talking about, Miss Ashton?’

‘The twenty million strada that came out of Jolly’s safe.’

‘Ah, that money!’ Tagalong said with a vigorous nod of his head, as if he had been thinking Angela must have meant some other sum of money, ‘Yes, well, that has been apportioned according to merit, station, degree, character, opprobrium, and, one might even add,’ Tagalong added with a slightly hysterical laugh, ‘the camaraderie of the momentary instability of the once dispossessed upon whose fortunes all has changed.’

‘Who got what, Tagalong?’

Tagalong sighed. ‘Pay, Kassie, Pastime and No Tin got twenty percent each —’

‘That’s four million.’

‘Indeed,’ Tagalong looked at Angela as if impressed by the swift deployment of her numerical abilities, ‘I must say —’

‘And the remaining twenty percent?’

‘Your humble self,’ Tagalong said with a slight bow, ‘got ten per cent, and the remaining ten per cent went to the remaining warriors of the demi-monde present in the room at the time, but their rewards did not end there, for in return for supporting the successors of Jolly they have gained increased prestige, power, authority and the share of the good life.’

‘So who’s running the show now?’

Tagalong sighed again. ‘This is a matter fraught with implication, innuendo, rivalry, dissent, duplicity, and even a certain —’

‘So they’re all at each other’s throats, is that it?’

‘In a nutshell, Miss Ashton, such a characterisation does not entirely fail to serve as a temporary fleeting ephemeral description of the current circumstances, but I would not place too much reliance on such a primarily visual —’

‘That’s your nutshell? And where’s a squirrel going to hide that?’

Tagalong paused, as if wondering if this was a joke that he should laugh at, then said, ‘They are not yet all at war with each other, Miss Ashton, if this is what you are asking about.’

‘I want the ownership papers of 3/67 Cranston Avenue made over to me,’ Angela said abruptly. ‘I don’t care who does it, or how it’s done, just so long as it’s legal and above board. Jolly owned that apartment, so as far as I’m concerned, it’s mine now.’

‘Well, naturally,’ Tagalong said, ‘I am sure that an appropriate —’

‘I got nothing of that twenty million!’ Angela screeched. ‘Nothing! You make that apartment over to me or I will go to Mr Nicholas Raspero and complain of my treatment at your hands. I will say that you, Tagalong, compromised my virtue in no uncertain manner, and that Pay, Kassie, Pastime and No Tin have all done likewise, and I will seek justice for my mistreatment at your hands, my grave mistreatment which no lady of honour should countenance. I got nothing of that twenty million, nothing, but I will get the apartment I live in. It’s mine, you hear me? There is one question you want to ask yourself, Mr Tagalong Longman: are you going to give me what I want, or are you going to find Mr Nicholas Raspero walking towards you down the street tomorrow? Because otherwise, Mr Tagalong Longman, you can save yourself time and trouble and just jump out of this flying carriage now!’

‘Let us not be hasty!’ Tagalong said placatingly, looking as if he had too many thoughts assaulting his mind all at once to know which way to turn, ‘Naturally, I —’

‘Naturally, you say, “yes”, right now! Let’s hear you, Tagalong! Yes, Miss Ashton, the apartment is yours.’

Tagalong sighed. ‘As it happens, the apartment in which you currently reside, which has the market value of two hundred and thirty thousand strada, is part of the property valuations which comprise part of the aforementioned twenty million strada and as such —’

‘Yes, Miss Ashton, the apartment is yours! Or else!’

Tagalong sighed again. ‘Yes, Miss Ashton, the apartment is yours. I will see to it myself.’

‘Yes, you will,’ Angela said fiercely, ‘or else I will complain to Nicholas — Mr Raspero to you — about my treatment, and believe me, the content and manner of my complaint will bring about results that you will find deeply misfortunate. You see, Tagalong, you and the others have a lot to lose now, don’t you? You’ve gone from being Jolly’s slaves to running the empire yourself. You’re a lot higher now, but that just means that you have a lot further to fall, doesn’t it? Take a look out of the window at the ground below if you don’t understand me. That’s a long way to fall, isn’t it? Now Nicholas might not actually kill you if I complain about my mistreatment at your hands, but he might remove a certain portion of your anatomy as a punishment that fits the crime, so to speak, if I make a certain kind of complaint about you and the same goes for Pay, Kassie, Pastime and No Tin, and you can tell them so. Do you understand me?’

Tagalong winced and shifted about in his seat. He clearly understood her all too well. ‘I assure you —’

‘Your assurances mean nothing, Tagalong, they are as worthless as you are. You have three days, until two o’clock on Sunday, to deliver the ownership papers to 3 of 67 Cranston Avenue made over to me. If I have not received those papers by then, I will go to Nicholas in a flood of tears over my mistreatment at your hands. Is that clear?’

Tagalong nodded. ‘That is very clear, Miss Ashton. It will be done as you insist.’ Angela’s repeated references to Mr Nicholas Raspero by his first name had not escaped his attention, nor had he failed to draw the logical inference to be made from her apparent assurance of his intimate acquaintance.

There was a silence for a while as they flew along, with Angela looking out of the window and Tagalong looking at the drinks cabinet. Angela gave in after a while. ‘Help yourself, Tagalong,’ she said with a gesture to the drinks cabinet.

Tagalong didn’t need telling twice. He poured a stiff whiskey, downed it in one, then poured himself an even larger second glass and sat back to enjoy the ride. Angela was an experienced enough courtesan to wait for when the alcohol had dissolved tension before asking the question that was foremost on her mind, the question that troubled her night and day. When Tagalong leaned back in his chair and stretched his feet forward with a gentle sigh, Angela asked, ‘Why do you think, Tagalong, that Nicholas — Mr Raspero — didn’t take any of Jolly’s money?’

‘What did he say to you about it?’ Tagalong prevaricated.

Angela sighed. ‘What do you think about it, Tagalong?’

Tagalong shrugged. ‘How would I know? Mr Raspero is not like you or me, Miss Ashton. I have no idea. Some kind of principle, probably.’

Angela considered this in silence for a while. Tagalong poured himself a third whiskey, his movements as he poured the golden liquid as careful as if he were slightly inebriated.

‘Principle,’ Angela said scornfully, ‘what’s the good of that, Tagalong?’

‘It’s as good as it can be,’ Tagalong said with a smile, leaning back in his chair and ready now to be witty. ‘And there you have it, if you ever do.’ He laughed and sipped more of his third whiskey.

Angela considered him for a moment. She had never understood Tagalong. ‘So what’s your story, Tagalong? You were a gentleman once, right? You were a man of principle, weren’t you?’

Tagalong shrugged, but he was drunk enough by now to say more than he would have normally. ‘Yes, I was once a gentleman, and I once nearly lost everything and I had only ten thousand strada so I went to the gaming house of The One Wheel. I lost all that and I got a line of credit and then I lost that. I was fifty thousand strada down, Miss Ashton, and I had really lost everything. So I made a deal with the devil, Miss Ashton, his name was Jolly, and I saved what I could. And there you have it.’

‘What did you save?’ Angela asked softly, knowing from pillow talk exactly how to extract this confession.

‘My sister and my nieces, her two daughters, who to this day live their lives in modest gentility free from the clutches of such as Jolly, or his successors thereof. Yes, and when my nieces grow up, let them live decent lives as best they can. It is a cliché, is it not: the bad man, to wit me, who has sacrificed himself so that others may live free, but there you are, so be it, laugh all you will, this is the truth.’

‘Jolly would not have done what you have done,’ Angela observed.

‘No.’ Tagalong sipped his whiskey and said no more.

‘Jolly was a man of principle, Tagalong. His principle was that he was the king and no-one crossed him, not even over a single strada.’

‘Someone crossed him,’ Tagalong laughed, and drained his whiskey glass and set it down as if determined not to have another. ‘But I’ll tell you something even more unbelievable than Raspero, yes, Raspero-Raspero-Raspero, complain all you like, turning his back on that money, because this is unbelievable, or more unbelievable, if what is unbelievable can ever be more than it already is, Raspero took Jolly’s notebooks, with all the juicy details in them, not just about Foxley and your other paramours, but many other equally important New Landern grandees, yes indeed, Raspero took these notebooks and burned them in the fire before my utterly disbelieving eyes. You want to talk about principle? What kind of principle is that? How totally mad is someone who does that?’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Angela admitted, smiling at Tagalong’s outrage.

‘I wish I didn’t know it,’ Tagalong complained, interlinking his fingers as if to keep them away from the whiskey bottle, and closing his eyes as if to hide from his memories, ‘but can knowledge be unknown? I saw it myself with my own eyes and I cannot now unremember it. I wish I could.’

The driver signalled that they had completed the circuit so Angela instructed him to set them down in Kenina Park. She let Tagalong go with a reminder about the apartment ownership papers being delivered to her (or else!), then set off for the Emperor Theatre for the afternoon’s rehearsals. She had a lot to think about, but she was no nearer to the answer she sought, which was how to manage her life in a post-Jolly world.

It was well after two o’clock in the morning when she managed to extricate herself from a sleeping Lord Foxley’s embrace and make her way back to her own apartment. There she took up the piece of paper with Nicholas’s name and address on it, and contemplated it for the fortieth time. It was then that she came to a decision.

She simply had to speak to Nicholas in person. That was clear enough. So she took up pen and paper and wrote to Nicholas. She invited him to attend a performance of The Lady in Peril, and then to visit her afterwards in her dressing room. She asked him to let her know by return of post if he could be so kind as to honour her invitation by an acceptance which could only ensure her happiness.

While waiting for his reply, Angela made arrangements to provide Nicholas with a free ticket for a performance of The Lady in Peril for the last night of the season, the most eagerly sought after performance, because she thought that he deserved no less. She wanted a box seat, she wanted a front row seat, she wanted a stall seat, but in the end she could only get Nicholas a seat in “the gods”, the cheapest and highest seats at the very tippety top of the theatre, and when Nicholas wrote back to say how delighted he would be to come, she sent him the ticket she had obtained, with a reminder that he was to visit her afterwards in her dressing room, and so it was done.

The paths through time and space of the lives of Nicholas and Isabel, twisting and turning their separate ways through the New Landern continuum, were now lined up and moving along to a second point of intersection: Friday 20 May 1544 A.F. at the Emperor Theatre in New Landern.