Making Money

In his youth, Moist had been served a lot off that menu. It was exactly the sort of food that you should serve to kids if you want them to grow up skilled in the arts of barefaced lying, sleight of hand and camouflage. As a matter of course Moist had hidden those strange wobbly meats under his vegetables, on one occasion achieving a potato twelve inches high.

Light dawned. ‘Did you cook much for Mrs Lavish?’ said Moist.

‘Nosir. She lived on gin, vegetable soup, her morning pick-me-up and—’

‘Gin,’ said Peggy firmly.

‘So you’re basically a dog chef?’

‘Canine, sir, if it’s all the same to you. You may have read my book? Cooking with Brains?’ Aimsbury said this rather hopelessly, and rightly so.

‘Unusual path to follow,’ said Moist.

‘Well, sir, it enables me to … it’s safer … well, the truth is, I have an allergy, sir.’ The chef sighed. ‘Show him, Peggy.’

The girl nodded and pulled a grubby card out of her pocket. ‘Please don’t say this word, sir,’ she said, and held it up.

Moist stared.

‘You just can’t avoid it in the catering business, sir,’ said Aimsbury miserably.

This wasn’t the time, really wasn’t the time. But if you weren’t interested in people, then you didn’t have the heart of a trickster.

‘You’re allergic to g— this stuff?’ he said, correcting himself just in time.

‘No, sir. The word, sir. I can handle the actual allium in question, I can even eat it, but the sound of it, well …’

Moist looked at the word again, and shook his head sadly.

‘So I have to shun restaurants, sir.’

‘I can see that. How are you with the word … “leek”?’

‘Yes, sir, I know where you’re going, I’ve been there. Far leek, tar lick … no effect at all.’

‘Just garlic, then— Oh, sorry …’

Aimsbury froze, with a distant expression on his face.

‘Gods, I’m so sorry, I honestly didn’t mean—’ Moist began.

‘I know,’ said Peggy wearily. ‘The word just forces its way out, doesn’t it? He’ll be like this for fifteen seconds, then he’ll throw the knife straight ahead of him, and then he’ll speak in fluent Quirmian for about four seconds, and then he’ll be fine. Here’ — she handed Moist a bowl containing a large brown lump — ‘you go back in there with the sticky toffee pudding and I’ll hide in the pantry. I’m used to it. And I can do you an omelette, too.’ She pushed Moist through the door and shut it behind him.

He put down the bowl, to the immediate and fully focused interest of Mr Fusspot.

Watching a dog try to chew a large piece of toffee is a pastime fit for gods. Mr Fusspot’s mixed ancestry had given him a dexterity of jaw that was truly awesome. He somersaulted happily around the floor making faces like a rubber gargoyle in a washing machine.

After a few seconds Moist distinctly heard the twang of a knife vibrating in woodwork, followed by a scream of: ‘Nom d’une bouilloire! Pourquoi est-ce que je suis hardiment ri sous cape à part les dieux?’

There was a knock at the double doors, followed instantly by the entry of Bent. He was carrying a large round box.

‘The suite is now ready for you, Master,’ he announced. ‘That is to say, for Mr Fusspot.’

‘A suite?’

‘Oh, yes. The chairman has a suite.’

‘Oh, that suite. He has to live above the shop, as it were?’

‘Indeed. Mr Slant has been kind enough to give me a copy of the conditions of the legacy. The chairman must sleep in the bank every night—’

‘But I’ve got a perfectly good apartment in the—’

‘Ahem. They are the Conditions, sir,’ said Bent. ‘You can have the bed, of course,’ he added generously. ‘Mr Fusspot will sleep in his in-tray. He was born in it, as a matter of interest.’

‘I have to stay locked up here every night?’

In fact, when Moist saw the suite the prospect looked much less like a penance. He had to open four doors even before he found a bed. It had a dining room, a dressing room, a bathroom, a separate flushing privy, a spare bedroom, a passage to the office which was a kind of public room, and a little private study. The master bedroom contained a huge oak four-poster with damask hangings, and Moist fell in love with it at once. He tried it for size. It was so soft that it was like lying in a huge warm puddle—

He sat bolt upright. ‘Did Mrs Lavish—’ he began, panic rising.

‘She died sitting at her desk, Master,’ said Bent soothingly, as he untied the string on the big round box. ‘We have replaced the chair. By the way, she is to be buried tomorrow. Small Gods, at noon, family members only by request.’

‘Small Gods? That’s a bit downmarket for a Lavish, isn’t it?’

‘I believe a number of Mrs Lavish’s ancestors are buried there. She did once tell me in a moment of confidence that she would be damned if she was going to be a Lavish for all eternity.’ There was a rustle of paper, and Bent added: ‘Your hat, sir.’

‘What hat?’

‘For the Master of the Royal Mint.’ Bent held it up.

It was a black silk hat. Once it had been shiny. Now it was mostly bald. Old tramps wore better hats.