And behind those locked boards, hundreds of human beings held their breath and sat in darkness, pretending not to exist. Hundreds who had obediently bolted and locked their doors from within, and let the Locksmiths secure and fasten their doors a second time from without, so that they could not escape even if they wished it.
She noticed other things as well as they passed through the daylit streets, and started to understand why Toll-by-Day had seemed unreal to her even at the start. The cobbles were free from litter and the walls and monuments from grime, and yet she saw nobody cleaning them. She saw no chimney sweeps, no street sweepers, no boys scooping horse dung out of the road. She remembered the shuffling hopelessness of the toil-gangs they had glimpsed in the nocturnal alley, and guessed when these lowly, unpleasant jobs were done.
Do the dayfolk ever wonder about that? Do they care? Or do they just wake up to clean streets and elderberry wine and try not to think about it too hard?
Clent was scanning the town with the same eye of scrutiny, but Mosca guessed that he was riffling through ruses and sorting through stratagems, taking everything he saw as inspiration.
‘Can we get Saracen while we’re cogitating?’ asked Mosca. Leaving the goose to grow restless was a very poor plan, and likely to result in property damage.
As it turned out, Saracen had only chewed the felt off a tabletop and had not found the breakables which Mosca had moved to the closet, so relatively little damage had been done. He tried to eat Mosca’s badge by way of greeting, but she managed to fish it out of his beak before he could swallow it.
‘Not a pebble, Saracen.’ Mosca knew that like all geese Saracen needed to swallow small stones now and then, so that they could sit in his ‘crop’, the pouch in his gullet where food was ground down. However she had a feeling that the Committee of the Hours would not be amused if she had to explain that her badge was trapped inside a goose and likely to remain there forever.
On the way out, the sight of the tavern clock caused Clent to wince and chafe his brows.
‘Ten o’clock already! These short winter days work against us. Come – we must report to the Committee of the Hours, then go to speak with Miss Marlebourne and her father.’
They dutifully reported in at the Committee of the Hours building next to the Clock Tower, where the Raspberry appeared not to notice their haggard and dishevelled appearance, and then continued on to the castle. When they reached the ruined courtyard, Mosca could not suppress a shiver despite the winter sunshine as she remembered the flamelit castle of the night before, with its Locksmith banners.
Thankfully, as they approached the mayor’s house, Beamabeth Marlebourne could be glimpsed on the green outside, standing at an easel, a woollen cloak about her shoulders.
‘Mr Clent! I was so sure you would come back. Have you found out anything more?’ Beamabeth’s gaze swept over them like a soft-haired brush, snagging briefly on the leaves in Mosca’s bonnet and the large goose in her arms.
Clent tugged off his hat and nearly his wig in his enthusiasm.
‘Indeed. I have with my very own eyes seen the infamous Skellow and conversed with him…’
Beamabeth’s eyes widened as Clent gave his account of the evening’s excitement which, Mosca noticed, dwelt somewhat unduly upon the more heroic and cunning aspects of Clent’s behaviour, but was rather sketchy in its report of his desperate flight and intimidation of midwives.
‘So…’ A very faint crease appeared in Beamabeth’s brow as she tried to push back a breeze-tugged ringlet without smearing paint on her face. ‘So… you have… agreed to kidnap me?’
‘After a fashion, yes. It is a snare, a mantrap, a device, if you will. A gleaming silver hook.’
‘With you as the worm,’ Mosca could not help putting in.
Both Clent and Beamabeth flinched, the latter with shock.
‘Mr Clent, I – I am not sure I like the idea of being a worm…’
‘Only a mean and invidious mind would make the comparison.’ Clent gave Mosca a look of annoyance. ‘I would prefer to think of you as the honey for trapping some black and malignant insect – perhaps a fly.’
It was Mosca’s turn to wince. She gave a small snarl in her throat. Beamabeth, meanwhile, did not seem greatly reassured by the change in metaphor. However, as they headed inside, she seemed to warm by inches to the idea of Clent’s snare. Of one thing, however, she was entirely certain.
‘Father will never allow it. He would never let me near the tiniest teaspoonful of danger. He says that I am his treasure chest and hold all that is valuable in his world.’ It was strange that Beamabeth could say such things, with the seriousness of a young child, and somehow not sound vain. ‘And besides, there is no stirring him once he has decided something – and I am afraid he has decided that the whole kidnap plot is nothing but invention.’
‘But now it ain’t just my word,’ cut in Mosca. ‘Mr Clent talked to Mr Skellow too, and we both heard ’im say Brand Appleton was in the plot up to his chops. And Mr Clent has a daylight name.’
‘Yes.’ Beamabeth’s brow gained a worried little crinkle. ‘I think he might have believed that yesterday… but then there were all those bits of your story that did not hold water, and now I am afraid, I am horribly afraid, that if you came back with more story he would not believe either of you. In fact, he would probably just have to put you in prison for being out after bugle. It is really very illegal, you know.’
There was a glum silence.
‘I suppose…’ Beamabeth’s kitten features furrowed again with the effort of thought. ‘That is… would he absolutely have to know what we were doing?’
‘The endeavour would be difficult without him. After all, we shall need help.’ Clent pursed his lips. ‘A good number of strong cudgel arms, I should say, if we are to apprehend these villains. We are hardly likely to be able to best a pack of scoundrels with only the three of us and one goose…’ Clent hesitated, his eyes on Saracen’s blunt but determined beak. ‘Well, perhaps the goose would be enough at that. But it is not a force to be released lightly. No, I fear we shall have to talk to the mayor.’
Beamabeth pressed her lips together very slightly and twiddled at her sleeve.
‘Will Brand be there?’ she asked suddenly.
‘I – well… that is possible. I must confess that the best idea I have so far is to tell our abduction conspiracy that I have persuaded you to meet with Brand Appleton one last time, for old times’ sake, at dawn outside your house tomorrow. In which case… yes, I rather think that that particular hare will end up in our bag, so to speak.’
‘Father hates him,’ Beamabeth remarked, rather indistinctly. ‘Oh, of course what he is doing is very terrible, and the way things are, any thought of marrying him is quite, quite impossible… but I would still be sorry if he was… well… horribly hurt during his arrest. And if Father was involved then… then I am afraid that he might be.’ She had gone a little pink, and had nearly twisted off one of her pearl buttons. ‘That is why I must be involved, if there is a… a snare. I need to be there to make sure he is not treated more horribly than can be helped.’
‘Madam,’ Clent said with unusual gentleness, ‘your compassion does you the greatest credit, but I cannot see how talking to your father is to be avoided. Even if we could find other ready hands to wrestle our brigands, the mayor is hardly likely to be blind to our preparations, or deaf to sounds of affray on his very doorstep.’