"Have you discovered any, Doctor?"
"Regrettably, no," Doctor Crispus said flatly. "Our not-so-temporary Marshal has reversed my position, and against all custom and decency that sawbones Swill is my superior: a surgeon over a physician! I am not certain that it is even legal. But that is the lay of things, and consequently my movements about the manse are severely restricted. So you and Mister Sebastipole and I can wonder and surmise all we like, but like the leer says, it is all useless without tangible proofs, and these none of us is in the position to obtain."
"Miss Europe says the same." Rossamund's shoulders sagged. Then a bright idea struck. "I could find proof. I got into the cellars before, I can do it again."
"Lah! The boy is a heldin reborn!" Crispus exclaimed. "They cover their activity too well. If Mister Sebastipole could not find evidence or even traces of the same, what hope have you with your less cunning senses? No, no, no, Rossamund. You are in things deep enough, I think! Having said that, you should destroy this letter-their finding proof against us… against you… would be terribly counteractive."
"How is it that we are not able to stop such clear wrongdoing?" Rossamund said in suppressed indignation.
"I am afraid, my boy, our foes are well ahead of us in the use and experience of cunning and shrewdery," said Crispus resignedly.
"But it can't be that they are allowed to go on making rever-men and ruining lives!"
"No, it cannot," the physician concluded softly. "No, it cannot," he repeated, and lapsed into introspective silence.
Flummoxed, Rossamund went silent too. Railing about the wretched situation did naught to solve it. "The manse seems empty, Doctor," Rossamund eventually observed.
"Joints and gristle, my boy," Crispus exclaimed, "this place has gone to blight after that sis edisserum caper. All the best folk are leaving as fast as schemes will let them. Whympre said something about Grindrod being overburdened by the rigors of learning prentices their trade. The poor fellow has been sent on half pay to some other fort-I never did catch where-some remote and difficult place. Benedict has taken his sweet little wife back to High Vesting."
Rossamund could not believe his ears. Benedict gone? Grindrod disposed? The lamplighter-sergeant had seemed as permanent as the rock of Winstreslewe itself. "But who is drilling prentices, then?"
"There are no more prentices," returned Crispus. "Master Whympre says that the road is in too great a disarray for prenticing to continue. He says that after he has brought things back in order and reformed the whole Wormway, the question of prentices shall be addressed again."
"Who else has gone?" Rossamund asked, saucer-eyed.
"Let me see…" The physician began counting off fingers. "As you know, that Mother Snooks woman evaporated without a glimpse some months ago; I have heard some dreadful rumor that she was declared mentally unsound and exiled to some terrible far-off place. Then there is that amiable young register, Inkwill. He set off last week to some sinecure-a sweet-and-easy station I believe the common roughs call it-in the bureaucracies of Brandenbrass, got for him through a cousin, or so he said. The lurksman-general is seeking a position elsewhere. Most of my epimelains have left; they said they would not work with that butcher at the lead-bless their eyes. I have precious few like-minded fellows to converse with now, and a sore trial it is too, I might say. If it were not for Numps, I might find a way to a new posting myself. Now let me look you over." Crispus reached for a special monocle like Swill had worn when searching out the calendar Pandome's hurts. "It might be near on a month since you were in your fight, but I do not trust Mister Trippletree"-by which he meant the dispenser at Bleakhall-"to have been thorough enough."
While he was looked over, Rossamund explained the many events that had crowded his life since last he was in Winstermill, though he omitted any mention of Freckle. "… And all I hear," he concluded after a long telling, "is what a remarkable thing it was to have slain those nickers."
"Well, my boy, I cannot say that I blame them. To come out unscathed from one of the worst assaults on a cothouse in recent history would be a most remarkable thing even for a fully formed man. But fret not: the body is capable of remarkable deeds when the soul is under great pressure. Now, Rossamund, you look fit enough, though I think you need to eat more."
So, with morning transformed to midday, Doctor Crispus invited Rossamund to share middens.
"Ahh." Crispus waxed cheerful as the food was brought in by silent maids. "Middens is a meal not to be missed! One can go without breakfast, and a missed mains won't do you harm, but to skip middens"-he clucked his tongue rapidly-"that is to risk a sluggish and interminable afternoon."
Rossamund basked in the physician's dependable unflappability.
There was tench pie, boiled leg o' veal, carrot collique, peas with a great wedge of butter melting on them and sweet wine jelly for puddings-like a Domesday feast, served right in the physician's study. In this prandial refuge they talked a little about lighter things, but mostly they ate in heavy, ruminative silence.
The meal approached its end and Doctor Crispus pushed back his chair and, with a show of sangfroid, said, "Don't fuss about Numps, my boy.Together we just might preserve the poor fellow from further harassments." He sucked down the last of his tepid sillabub with a clear yet dignified snort and said, "Back to the coughs and croaks and running sores for me, my friend. Nights can be as long as days for one in my line of work: several wounded lighters have been sent to me from beyond the Tumblesloes.They did not do as well as you against the bogles, but are not beyond repairing. Good day to you, Master Bookchild, until anon."
Standing to bow, Rossamund bid the physician good afternoon and left, spirits lifted, pleased to have such an estimable man of physics call him friend. Rossamund spent confinations alone in his tiny room. In the afternoon he had gone back to the Low Gutter to seek Numps, but still to no avail. After this he made an attempt to meet with Threnody, but she was now closeted with her mother and was refusing all visitors. She had not been hard to find: he simply asked Under-Clerk Fleugh, who, though sneering and supercilious, told him without hesitation. Even as he approached down the dark, aromatic passage, he could hear the rumor of a terrible ruckus. It became a terrible female screech as the door of Threnody's apartment was opened to his knock.
"You shall tell everything as you saw it, child," is what it sounded like, coming from some other room farther within.
Before him at the door stood Dolours. She wore a wimple to cover her bald pate and a dogged expression. "Hello, young lampsman. Threnody will not be taking any callers today."
"Our clave has no liars!" the screeching continued behind. "How would we look to others if it were known my daughter-the Right's heiress-was a black-tongued deceiver?"
"Not even me?" Rossamund had persevered.
"Not even you, young lampsman," Dolours had answered with a sad and not unfriendly smile. "She is being prepared for tomorrow's inquiry. Be on your way, Rossamund Bookchild. We are grateful for your aid to our senior-sister's daughter, but bigger wheels are turning here."
Lying on his lumpy, lonely bed, he worried over this odd display. Will she tell of Freckle? The chilling thought froze his innards. Flicking disconsolately through an old pamphlet to distract him from such inconvenient anxieties, he heard a call come for him. "Lampsman Bookchild, you are required by the Marshal-Subrogat!"
What now! Rossamund fretted as he was taken to the Master-of-Clerks' file. Is the inquiry coming early? Is it canceled? Are they letting us go? All sanguine hopes, he was sure. Arriving, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath and readied himself to face the foe. The doors swung back and he saw Whympre, sitting at his usual place at the far end of the long table, within the light of the only lamp lit in the room. He was apparently on his own for the only time Rossamund could ever recall, until the young lampsman saw that there were shadowy figures in the gloom, standing about halfway down the clerk-master's long table beneath the Trought's great antlers. Did he know those figures?