CHAPTER 11
At ten o’clock on Monday morning, Smew called the register.
‘Chancellor?’
‘Present.’
‘Postmaster?’
‘Present.’
‘Astronomer?’
‘Present.’
‘Comptroller?’
‘Present.’
‘Surveyor?’
‘Present.’
‘Pellitory?’
‘Present.’
‘Composer?’
‘Present.’
‘His Exalted Highness, the Majestic Emperor of the Realms, Dominions, Colonies and Commonwealth of Greater Fallowfields?’
There was no response.
‘Absent,’ said Smew.
‘Oh, that reminds me,’ said Wryneck. ‘We’ve received another letter from the emperor.’
From his inside pocket he produced an envelope. It was addressed to the cabinet and bore the imperial seal.
‘Before we open it can I have a look at the postmark?’ said Garganey.
‘Certainly,’ said Wryneck.
It transpired that the letter had been posted locally on the previous evening.
‘I’m quite pleased about that,’ Garganey remarked. ‘Perhaps my measures are taking effect at last.’
He opened the envelope to reveal an imperial edict:
BY ORDER OF HIS MAJESTY
THE EMPEROR OF GREATER FALLOWFIELDS
IT IS COMMANDED THAT
FROM HENCEFORTH THE SUN WILL SET DAILY AT FIVE O'CLOCK.
The edict was passed around the table so that each officer-of-state could see it for himself.
‘Direct and to the point,’ remarked Dotterel.
We all agreed about that.
Privately, I considered this latest demand to be simply outrageous. It was one thing to restrict the sale of sweets or beer for reasons of public morality; it was quite another to dictate the hour when the sun set. Exactly who, I wondered, did the emperor think he was?
Still, there was no point in voicing my reservations to the others. An edict was an edict and had to be obeyed. I was only glad that it wasn’t my job to enact it.
‘Well, now, Whimbrel,’ said Smew. ‘This looks like your department.’
‘Yes,’ Whimbrel replied, ‘I thought it might be.’
The edict had finished its journey around the table and now lay in Whimbrel’s hands. He stared at it blankly for several long moments before rising to his feet.
‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I’d like to take this back to the observatory so that I can study its implications in depth.’
‘And then you’ll report back, will you?’ enquired Smew.
‘Yes,’ said Whimbrel, ‘although I might be some time.’
Having devolved such a heavy responsibility on to Whimbrel, the rest of us resumed work on our play. It was a fractious rehearsal to say the least. For a start, I was enrolled to play the ghost in Whimbrel’s absence. I spent a good deal of time going in and out of the room, and sitting down in other people’s places. At one point I accidentally chose the emperor’s empty chair and earned a stern rebuke from Wryneck. Nor were matters helped by Smew’s repeated assertion that the king was the only person who couldn’t see the ghost, which I was now beginning to doubt. Then Dotterel mentioned that we kept referring to Garganey as the king when he was in fact a usurper. Furthermore, Dotterel said that he had found at least three other kings in the text.
‘This should help clarify the situation,’ he announced. He had with him a wooden box which he now opened. Inside was a golden crown. He placed it on the table and Wryneck immediately took it up in both hands.
‘Where did you find this?’ he asked.
Wryneck uttered these words as though he was collating evidence for some unnamed future inquisition. His voice was flat and toneless, but the question was nevertheless insistent.
‘I was conducting an inventory of the imperial artefacts,’ said Dotterel. ‘It was in the royal workshop being smartened up for the coronation.’
‘So it’s the emperor’s crown?’ said Sanderling.
‘Sort of,’ said Dotterel. ‘Actually this is the spare crown: the lightweight model used in public ceremonies and processions.’
He removed the crown from Wryneck’s grasp and tossed it across the table towards Sanderling.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘catch!’
To everyone’s surprise Garganey intercepted it in mid-air and put it on his head.
‘You can’t do that,’ said Wryneck. There was a sudden note of disquiet in his voice.
‘I’ve done it,’ replied Garganey. ‘I presume you intended this as a stage prop, Dotterel?’
‘A temporary stage prop, yes,’ Dotterel answered. ‘For rehearsal purposes only, you understand.’
‘Just to remind everybody who’s king and who isn’t?’
‘Indeed.’
‘And where’s the proper crown?’ I enquired.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Dotterel. ‘It’s reputed to be made from solid gold, whereas the spare one is base metal and gold paint.’
‘Base metal or no base metal,’ said Garganey, ‘this crown bears the imperial writ.’
He was still wearing it on his head, a fact that appeared to be causing Wryneck considerable unease. Smew, meanwhile, had fallen unusually silent. Finally, Garganey lifted the crown off his head and placed it back on the table.
Just then the door opened and Whimbrel came in. He nodded at everyone before taking his usual seat next to mine. Somehow he seemed very self-assured; he even looked larger in stature than when he went out.
‘How did you get on?’ I asked.
‘Very successfully,’ he replied. ‘I think I’ve found the solution.’
‘Which is?’
‘Well,’ said Whimbrel, ‘plainly we can’t alter the sunset; therefore, we’ll have to alter the clocks.’
A stir went around the room.
‘Good idea,’ I remarked. ‘I never thought of that.’
‘I’ve consulted my tables,’ Whimbrel continued, ‘and it so happens that the sun set yesterday evening at exactly five o’clock. According to my calculations we need to put the clocks forward by two minutes every day.’
‘To guarantee a sunset at five?’ said Smew.
‘Correct,’ said Whimbrel. ‘Now, Dotterel, I remember you once told me you were in charge of all the artisans.’
‘Yes,’ said Dotterel, ‘I am.’
‘So presumably you’re in charge of all the clocks as well?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it looks as if you’re going to be very busy.’
As the gravity of the disclosure dawned on Dotterel he visibly turned pale. There were dozens of public clocks in the royal quarter, let alone the thousands situated all across the empire. For the edict to be carried out effectively, every one of these clocks would have to be altered daily. Whimbrel’s work was done: Dotterel’s, apparently, was only just beginning.
‘I must set things in train at once,’ he said, heading for the door.
‘What about this?’ said Smew, indicating the ceremonial crown. ‘Shall I keep it safe in the library?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Dotterel. ‘That would be a great help.’ He was about to leave when he paused at the door and turned to Garganey. ‘I’ll need to confer with you about informing all the clock-keepers. They’ll require a letter of instruction.’
‘The postmen aren’t going to like it,’ declared Garganey. ‘They’ll have to get up two minutes earlier every day.’
‘That can’t be helped,’ said Wryneck.
‘I know it can’t be helped,’ said Garganey, ‘but they’re still not going to like it.’
During all this flurry Whimbrel sat motionless at the table. I thought he looked quite pleased with himself.
‘Don’t forget you’ve got a visitor this afternoon,’ I reminded him.
‘Oh, yes, the handyman,’ said Whimbrel. ‘I almost forgot.’
Being no longer required in the cabinet room, we made our excuses and left. A short while later we arrived at the observatory to find a man waiting outside the door.
‘Mestolone, I presume?’ said Whimbrel.
The man was completely unlike Gallinule. His coat was black and he spoke plainly.
‘You’ve got a defective telescope, I understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Whimbrel, ‘would you like to come up?’
The three of us clanged our way to the top of the building. It was another bright autumn afternoon and the telescope glinted in the sunlight. Mestolone placed his hand on the barrel and gave it a gentle nudge. As usual it failed to move. Then he walked around and examined it from the other side.
‘Aha,’ he said. ‘Have you got a sixpence by any chance?’
‘Of course,’ said Whimbrel. He reached into his pocket, produced his stipendiary sixpence and handed it over.
Next moment there was a clunk. Then Mestolone swung the telescope upwards and peered through the eyepiece.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘It works now.’
‘Marvellous,’ said Whimbrel.
It took him a little while to get used to directing and focusing the device correctly, but soon he was happily gazing across the park at various buildings.
In the meantime I stepped around to Mestolone’s side of the telescope. He showed me the slot where he’d dropped the sixpence in.
‘So it wasn’t broken?’
‘No.’
Another clunk signalled that Whimbrel’s time was up.
‘Let’s have a go,’ I said, fumbling for my own sixpence. I looked first at the cake, focusing on the main door and imagining Greylag and the orchestra busily at work inside. I hadn’t dropped in on them for several days now. I wondered casually how the overture was progressing, and whether it was nearing fruition. Then I turned the telescope the other way and tried to see in through the windows of the royal palace. I thought that maybe I could even catch a glimpse of our reclusive emperor! Another clunk, however, put paid to that idea.
‘You don’t get very long, do you?’ remarked Whimbrel.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘at least you’ve now got something to spend your sixpence on.’
Nonetheless, we agreed that we’d both wasted our money on this occasion.
‘We should have looked across at those plumes of smoke,’ said Whimbrel. ‘I forgot all about them in the excitement.’
We turned to the east and, sure enough, a plume of smoke was rising. It seemed to be a good deal closer than the last time I’d been up here; furthermore, the vague line in the terrain was less ill-defined than before.
‘What do you think that smoke is?’ I asked Mestolone. ‘We think there must be some foresters working over there.’
Mestolone looked doubtful.
‘Foresters usually work in squares and oblongs,’ he said. ‘These people appear to be coming in a straight line.’
Mestolone continued staring in the same direction for quite a while but he offered no suggestion about the plume of smoke. He was a quiet man but now he had become even quieter. It struck me that he was maybe feeling a little homesick. After all, he and the other players had travelled a long way to get here.
Whimbrel thanked Mestolone for his help and invited him to stay for tea. Then we took a last look eastward before descending the iron ladder. The telescope would have to wait until Whimbrel and I had received our replacement sixpences.
‘Where do you all come from, Mestolone?’ I asked, while Whimbrel was boiling the kettle.
‘Down in the south-east,’ said Mestolone. ‘Our country was a fledgling democracy.’
‘Was?’ I said.
‘I’m afraid so,’ replied Mestolone. ‘Our king was in exile and we were being ruled by a parliament.’
Now he looked very sad indeed and I began to wish I hadn’t started the conversation. Still, it was too late now.
‘I thought parliaments were supposed to be a good thing,’ I ventured.
‘They are,’ affirmed Mestolone, ‘but our parliament tried much too hard. They spent hours and hours debating every subject under the sun; and then they made laws which they couldn’t enforce.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well,’ said Mestolone, ‘take the Act of Emparkment, for example. This stipulated that no man could graze more than one hundredth part of any common land.’
‘Sounds fair enough to me,’ I said.
‘That was the trouble,’ said Mestolone. ‘The Act was drawn up in the name of fairness but without considering the consequences. Common land couldn’t be fenced off, which meant that grazing animals were able to stray out of their allotted “hundreds”. Hence, the graziers broke the law without doing anything wrong. The whole Act was thrown into question; and there were many others in a similar vein. It was all most unsatisfactory.’
‘What happened then?’
‘There was uproar in the House,’ said Mestolone, ‘and one night the Speaker’s Chair was stolen. This gave certain elements an excuse to demand the dissolution of parliament. Not long afterwards our country was offered the usual protection; an offer duly accepted by the same elements. That was when we decided to leave.’
‘So you’re migrants rather than travellers?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Mestolone.
I had to admit that he’d lost me slightly when he referred to ‘certain elements’ and ‘the usual protection’. Presumably he thought I knew what he was talking about, but actually I didn’t. I could tell by Whimbrel’s face that he didn’t either. All we could do was provide tea and sympathy.
Thankfully, Mestolone wasn’t the kind of person to dwell on his misfortunes. As soon as he’d had his tea he announced that he must be going because Gallinule was beginning rehearsals that very day.
‘What are you rehearsing?’ I asked.
‘It’s a play about ambition, treason and murder,’ said Mestolone.