Seventy

‘Who the hell are you?’ Fogarty asked crossly. He was in the forest, just about to start another round of talks with Queen Cleopatra, and resented interruptions. Especially now things were going well. She’d already agreed to help in the raid on the time flowers – couldn’t leave them in Hairstreak’s hands, even if Blue was home now. Given a bit more of the Fogarty charm and she might even agree to a formal alliance.

‘Nyman, sir,’ the intruder told him. ‘Madame Cardui’s new dwarf, sir.’

Fogarty frowned. ‘Where’s Kitterick?’

‘Still missing, sir. Whereabouts unknown. Herself promoted me pro tem on account of the Emergency. I was always good at running errands, taking messages, that sort of thing. I expect it’s back to the kitchens for me when Kitterick turns up again, but in the meantime it’s a hike in pay, a change from peeling spuds and here I am, sir.’ He smiled, showing a missing tooth.

‘And what do you want?’ Fogarty asked, still frowning.

Nyman glanced around, then jerked his head and scuttled into the shade of a large oak. ‘Confidential, sir, Herself says,’ he remarked when Fogarty caught up with him. He began to make little jumps up and down.

‘What are you doing?’ The creature was insane.

‘Trying to get on a level with your ear, sir, yourself being a fine big tall man and me being vertically challenged as you might say.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Fogarty exploded. He bent down until his ear was at the level of Nyman’s head.

‘Herself says you’re to get back right away, sir,’ the dwarf whispered. ‘Bit of a problem, like.’

‘What sort of a problem?’

‘Ah, Herself would never tell me that, sir. Nothing dangerous or too confidential on account some miscreant might squeeze it out of me. I’m not what you’d call stoical under pressure, sir.’

‘You’re not a Trinian, are you?’ Fogarty said.

‘Indeed and I am not, sir, as a fine, big, clever man like yourself could probably tell by the colour. Don’t hold with those lads at all, to tell you the truth: far too well organised. I’m what you might call a Lep.’

‘Ah,’ said Fogarty, without the slightest idea what a Lep was. ‘Well, now, listen, Mr Nyman, I want you to get back to Hersel— to Madame Cardui – and tell her I’m in the middle of some very delicate negotiations –’ He stopped: Nyman was shaking his head solemnly. ‘What is it?’

‘Herself said you might be a bit troublesome, begging your pardon, sir, and if you was, I was to tell you one thing –’ He beckoned Fogarty to bend over again and when he did, whispered, ‘There’s big trouble, sir. Regarding Henry.’