Everyone had turned to look at her. Nanny tugged at her dress. 'Sit down, Esme!' Granny stared. The chandelier hung peacefully over the crowded seats. 'They beat him to death!'
'What's that, Esme?? 'And they throw him into the river!'
'Esme!'
'Sh!'
'Madam, will you sit down at once!'
'. . .and now it's started on the Nougat Whirls!' Granny snatched at her hat and did a crabwise run along the row, crushing some of the finest footwear in Ankh-Morpork under her thick Lancre soles. Nanny hung back reluctantly. She'd quite enjoyed the song, and she wanted to applaud. But her pair of hands wasn't necessary. The audience had exploded as soon as the last note had died away. Nanny Ogg looked at the stage, and took note of something, and smiled. 'Like that, eh?'
'Gytha!' She sighed. 'Coming, Esme. 'Scuse me. 'Scuse me. Sorry. 'Scuse me. . .' Granny Weatherwax was out in the red plush corridor, leaning with her forehead against the wall. 'This is a bad one, Gytha,' she muttered. 'It's all twisted up. I ain't at all sure I can make it happen right. The poor soul. . .' She straightened up. 'Look at me, Gytha, will you? Gytha obediently opened her eyes wide. She winced a little as a fragment of Granny Weatherwax's consciousness crept behind her eyes. Granny put her hat on, tucking in the occasional errant wisp of grey hair and then taking, one by one, the eight hatpins and ramming them home with the same frowning deliberation with which a mercenary might check his weapons. 'All right,' she said at last. Nanny Ogg relaxed. 'It's not that I mind, Esme,' she said, 'but I wish you'd use a mirror.'
'Waste of money,' said Granny. Now fully armoured, she strode off along the corridor. 'Glad to see you didn't lose your temper with the man who went on about your hat,' said Nanny, running along behind. 'No point. He's going to be dead tomorrow.'
'Oh, dear. What of?'
'Run over by a cart, I think.'
'Why didn't you tell him?'
'I could be wrong.' Granny reached the stairs and thundered down them. 'Where're we going?'
'I want to see who's behind those curtains.' The applause, distant but still thunderous, filled the stairwell. 'They certainly like Agnes's voice,' said Nanny. 'Yes. I hopes we're in time.'
'Oh, bugger!'
'What?'
'I left Greebo up there!'
'Well, he likes meeting new people. Good grief, this place is a maze.' Granny stepped out into a curved corridor, rather plusher than the one they had left. There was a series of doors along it. 'Ah. Now, then. . .' She walked along the row, counting, and then tried a handle. 'Can I help you, ladies?'
They turned. A little old woman had come up softly behind them, carrying a tray of drinks. Granny smiled at her. Nanny Ogg smiled at the tray. 'We were just wondering,' said Granny, 'which person in these Boxes likes to sit with the curtains nearly shut?' The tray began to shake. 'Here, shall I hold that for you?' .said Nanny. 'You'll spill something if you're not careful.'
'What do you know about Box Eight?' said the old lady. 'Ah. Box Eight,' said Granny. 'That'd be the one, yes. That's this one over here, isn't it. . . ?'
'No, please. . .' Granny strode forward and grasped the handle. The door was locked. The tray was thrust into Nanny's welcoming hands. 'Well, thank you, I don't mind if I do. . .' she said. The woman pulled at Granny's arm. 'Don't! It'll bring terrible bad luck!' Granny thrust out her hand. 'The key, madam!' Behind her, Nanny inspected a glass of champagne. 'Don't make him angry! It's bad enough as it is!' The woman was clearly terrified. 'Iron,' said Granny, rattling the handle. 'Can't magic iron. . .'
'Here,' said Nanny, stepping forward a little unsteadily. 'Give me one of your hatpins. Our Nev's taught me all kindsa tricks. . .' Granny's hand rose to her hat, and then she looked at Mrs Plinge's lined face. She lowered her hand. 'No,' she said. 'No, I reckon we'll leave it for now. . . 'I don't know what's happening. . .' sobbed Mrs Plinge. 'It never used to be like this. . .'
'Have a good blow,' said Nanny, handing her a grubby handkerchief and patting her kindly on the back. '. . .there was none of this killing people. . . he just wanted somewhere to watch the opera. . . it made him feel better. . .'
'Who's this we're talking about?' said Granny. Nanny Ogg gave her a warning look over the top of the old woman's head. There were some things best left to Nanny. '. . . he'd unlock it for an hour every Friday for me to tidy up and there was always his little note saying thank you or apologizing for the chocolates down the seat. . . and where was the harm in it, that's what I'd like to know. . .'
'Have another good blow,' said Nanny. '. . .and now there's people dropping like flies out of the flies. . . they say it's him, but I know he never meant any harm. . .'
' 'Course not,' said Nanny, soothingly. '. . .many's the time I've seen 'em look up at the Box. They always felt the better for it if they saw him. . . and then poor Mr Pounder was strangulated. I looked around and there was his hat, just like that. . .'
'It's terrible when that happens,' said Nanny Ogg. 'What's your name, dear?'
'Mrs Plinge,' sniffed Mrs Plinge. 'It came right down in front of me. I'd have recognized it anywhere. . .'
'I think it would be a good idea if we took you home, Mrs Plinge,' said Granny. 'Oh, dear! I've got all these ladies and gentlemen to see to! And anyway it's dangerous going home this time of night. . . Walter walks me home but he's got to stay late tonight. . . oh dear. . .'
'Have another good blow,' said Nanny. 'Find a bit that isn't too soggy.'
There was a series of sharp pops. Granny Weatherwax had interlocked her fingers and extended her hands at arm's length, so that her knuckles cracked. 'Dangerous, eh?' she said. 'Well, we can't see you all upset like this. I'll walk you home and Mrs Ogg will see to things here.'
'. . .only I've got to attend to the Boxes. . . I've got all these drinks to serve. . . could've sworn I had them a moment ago. . .'
'Mrs Ogg knows all about drinks,' said Granny, glaring at her friend. 'There's nothing I don't know about drinks,' agreed Nanny, shamelessly emptying the last glass. 'Especially these.'
'. . .and what about our Walter? He'll worry himself silly. . .'
'Walter's your son?' said Granny. 'Wears a beret?' The old woman nodded. 'Only I always comes back for him if he's working late. . .' she began. 'You come back for him. . . but he sees you home?' said Granny. 'It's. . . he's. . . he's. . .' Mrs Plinge rallied. 'He's a good boy,' she said defiantly. 'I'm sure he is, Mrs Plinge,' said Granny. She carefully lifted the little white bonnet off Mrs Plinge's head and handed it to Nanny, who put it on, and also took the little white apron. That was the good thing about black. You could be nearly anything, wearing black. Mother Superior or Madam, it was really just a matter of the style. It just depended on the details. There was a click. Box Eight had bolted itself. And then there was the very faint scrape of a chair being wedged under the door handle. Granny smiled, and took Mrs Plinge's arm. 'I'll be back as soon as I can,' she said. Nanny nodded, and watched them go. There was a little cupboard at the end of the corridor. It contained a stool, Mrs Plinge's knitting, and a small but very well stocked bar. There were also, on a polished mahogany plank, a number of bells on big coiled springs. Several of them were bouncing up and down angrily. Nanny poured herself a gin and gin with a dash of gin and inspected the rows of bottles with considerable interest. Another bell started to ring. There was a huge jar of stuffed olives. Nanny helped herself to a handful and blew the dust off a bottle of port. A bell fell off its spring. Somewhere out in the corridor a door opened and a young man's voice bellowed, 'Where are those drinks, woman!' Nanny tried the port. Nanny Ogg was used to the idea of domestic service. As a girl, she'd been a maid at Lancre Castle, where the king was inclined to press his intentions and anything else he could get hold of. Young Gytha Ogg had already lost her innocence[7] but she had some clear ideas about unwelcome intentions, and when he jumped out at her in the scullery she had technically committed treason with a large leg of lamb swung in both hands. That had ended her life below stairs and put a lengthy crimp in the king's activities above them. The brief experience had given her certain views which weren't anything so definite as political but were very firmly Oggish. And Mrs Plinge had looked as if she didn't get very much to eat and not a lot of time to sleep, either. Her hands had been thin and red. Nanny had a lot of time for the Plinges of the world. Did port go with sherry? Oh, well, no harm in trying. . . All the bells were ringing now. It must be coming up to the interval.
She methodically unscrewed the top off ajar of cocktail onions, and thoughtfully crunched a couple. Then, as other people started to poke their heads around the doors and make angry demands, she went to the champagne shelf and took down a couple of magnums. She gave them a damn good shake, tucked one under each arm with a thumb on the corks, and stepped out into the corridor. Nanny's philosophy of life was to do what seemed like a good idea at the time, and do it as hard as possible. It had never let her down. The curtains closed. The audience was still on its feet, applauding. 'What happens now?' whispered Agnes to the next gypsy. He pulled off his bandanna. 'Well, dear, we generally nip out to- Oh, no, they're going for a curtain call!' The curtains opened again. The light caught Christine, who curtsied and waved and sparkled. Her fellow-gypsy nudged Agnes. 'Look at Dame Timpani,' he said. 'There's a nose in a sling if ever I saw one.' Agnes stared at the prima donna. 'She's smiling,' she said. 'So does a tiger, dear.' The curtains shut once more, with a finality that said the stage manager was going to strike the set and would scream at someone if they dared to touch those ropes again . . . . Agnes ran off with the others. There wasn't too much to do in the next act. She'd tried to memorize the plot earlier-although other members of the chorus had done their best to dissuade her, on the basis that you could either sing them or understand them, but not both. Nevertheless, Agnes was conscientious. '. . . so Peccadillo (ten.), the son of Duke Tagliatella (bass), has secretly disguised himself as a swineherd to woo Quizella, not knowing that Doctor Bufola (bar.) has sold the elixir to Ludi the servant, without realizing he is really the maid Iodine (sop.) dressed up as a boy because Count Artaud (bar.) claims that. . .' A deputy stage manager pulled her out of the way and waved at someone in the wings. 'Lose the countryside, Ron.' There was a series of whistles from offstage, answered by another from above. The backcloth rose. From the gloom above, the sandbag counterweights began to descend. '. . . then Artaud reveals, er, that Zibeline must marry Fideli, I mean Fiabe, not knowing, er, that the family fortunes. . .' The sandbags came down. On one side of the stage, at least. On the other side, Agnes was interrupted in her impossible task by the screaming, and looked around into the upside-down and not at all well features of the late Dr Undershaft. Nanny skipped through a handy door, shut it behind her, and leaned on it. After a few moments the sound of running feet clattered past. Well, that had been fun. She removed the lace bonnet and apron and, because there was a basic honesty in Nanny, she tucked them in a pocket to give back to Mrs Plinge later. Then she pulled out a flat, round black shape and banged it against her arm. The point shot out. After a few adjustments her official hat was almost as good as new. She looked around. A certain absence of light and carpeting, together with a very presence of dust, suggested that this was a part of the place the public weren't supposed to see.
Oh, damn. She supposed she had better find another door. Of course, that'd mean she'd have to leave Greebo, wherever he was, but he'd turn up. He always did when he wanted feeding. There was a flight of steps leading down. She followed them to a corridor which was slightly better lit and ambled along it for quite a way. And then all she had to do was follow the screams. She emerged among the flats and jumbled props backstage. No one bothered about her. The appearance of a small, amiable old lady was not about to cause comment at this point. People were running backwards and forwards, shouting. More impressionable people were just standing in one place and screaming. A large lady was sprawled over two chairs having hysterics, while some distracted stage- hands tried to fan her with a script. Nanny Ogg was not certain whether something important had happened or whether this was just a continuation of opera by other means. 'I should loosen her corsets, if I was you,' she said as she ambled past. 'Good heavens, madam, there's enough panic in here as it is!' Nanny moved on to an interesting crowd of gypsies, noblemen and stage- hands. Witches are curious by definition and inquisitive by nature. She moved in. 'Let me through. I'm a nosy person,' she said, employing both elbows. It worked, as this sort of approach generally does. There was a dead person lying on the floor. Nanny had seen death in a wide variety of guises, and certainly knew strangulation when it presented itself. It wasn't the nicest end, although it could be quite colourful. 'Oh dear,' she said. 'Poor man. What happened to him?'
