Jasper Fforde: The Song of the Quarkbeast

‘Not really,’ I replied in a guarded fashion. Almost everyone wanted to know about the Dragons, and I revealed little. They valued discretion more than anything. I said nothing more, and she got the message.

‘I defer to your circumspection on this issue,’ she replied, with a slight bow.

‘O-kay,’ I said, not really getting that either, ‘this is the team.’

Tiger had returned with Full Price and Lady Mawgon with Perkins bringing up the rear in his ‘observing’ capacity. I introduced them all and Miss Shard said something about how it was ‘entirely convivial’ and ‘felicitous’ to meet them on ‘this auspicious occasion’, and in return they shook hands but remained wary. It pays to distance oneself from clients, especially ones who use too many long words.

‘What do you want us to find?’ asked Lady Mawgon, who was always keen to get straight to the point.

‘It’s a ring that belonged to the mother of my client,’ she said. ‘He would be here personally to present his request, but finds himself unavailable owing to a prolonged sabbatical.’

‘Has he seen a doctor about it?’ asked Tiger.

‘About what?’

‘His prolonged sabbatical. It sounds very painful.’

She stared at him for a moment.

‘It means he’s on holiday.’

‘Oh.’

‘I apologise for the ignorance of the staff,’ said Lady Mawgon, glaring at Tiger, ‘but Kazam sadly requires foundling labour to function. Staff can be so difficult these days, wanting frivolous little luxuries like food, shoes, wages . . . and human dignity.’

‘Please don’t worry,’ said Miss Shard politely, ‘foundlings can be refreshingly direct sometimes.’

‘About the ring?’ I asked, feeling uncomfortable with all this talk of foundlings.

‘Nothing remarkable,’ replied Miss Shard, ‘gold, plain, large like a thumb-ring. My client is keen to return it to his mother as a seventieth birthday gift.’

‘Not a problem,’ remarked Full Price. ‘Do you have anything that might have been in contact with this ring?’

‘Such as your client’s mother?’ said Tiger in an impish manner.

‘There’s this,’ replied Miss Shard, producing a ring from her pocket. ‘This was on her middle finger, and would have clicked against the lost ring. You can observe the marks, look.’

Lady Mawgon took the ring and stared at it intently for a moment before she clenched it in her fist, murmured something and then opened her hand. The ring hovered an inch above her open palm, revolving slowly. She passed it to Full Price, who held it up to the light and then popped it in his mouth, clicked it against his fillings for a moment, then swallowed it.

‘Meant to do that,’ he said in the tone of someone who didn’t.

‘Really?’ asked Miss Shard dubiously, doubtless wondering how she was going to get it back and in what condition.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Full Price cheerfully, ‘amazing how powerful cleaning agents are these days.’

‘Why did you ask us to meet you here?’ asked Lady Mawgon, thankfully changing the subject.

It was a good question. We were on an unremarkable lay-by and rest area on the Ross–Hereford road near a village called Harewood End.

‘This is where she lost it,’ replied Miss Shard, ‘she had it when she got out of a car here, and when she left she didn’t have it any more.’

Lady Mawgon looked at me, then at our client, then at Dennis. She smelled the air, mumbled something and looked thoughtful for a moment.

‘It’s still around here somewhere,’ she said, ‘but this ring does not want to be found. You agree, Mr Price?’

‘I do,’ he said, rubbing his fingers together as he felt the texture of the air.

‘How can you know this?’ asked Miss Shard.

‘It’s been lost for thirty-two years, ten months and nine days,’ murmured Lady Mawgon thoughtfully, ‘am I correct?’

Miss Shard stared at her for a moment. It appeared this was indeed true, and it was impressive. Mawgon had picked up the lingering memory that human emotion can instil in even the most inert of objects.

‘Something that wants to be lost is lost for a good reason,’ added Full Price. ‘Why doesn’t your client give his mother some chocolates instead?’

‘Or flowers,’ said Lady Mawgon. ‘We can’t help you. Good day.’

She turned to move away.

‘We’ll pay you a thousand moolah.’ [8] The moolah is the unit of currency in the Kingdom of Snodd. One hundred Herefordian washers = 1 moolah, which is roughly equivalent to the spondoolip, at 2007 exchange rates.

Lady Mawgon stopped. A thousand moolah was serious cash.

‘A thousand?’

‘My client is inclined towards generosity regarding his mother.’ Lady Mawgon looked at Full Price, then at me.

‘Five thousand,’ she said.

‘Five thousand?’ echoed our client. ‘To find a ring?’

‘A ring that doesn’t want to be found,’ replied Lady Mawgon, ‘is a ring that shouldn’t be found. The price reflects the risks.’

Miss Shard looked at us all in turn.

‘I accept,’ she said at last, ‘and I will wait here for results. But no find, no fee. Not even a call-out charge.’

‘We usually charge for an attempt—’ I began, but Mawgon cut me short.

‘We’re agreed,’ she said, and made a grimace that I suspect may have been her version of a smile.

Miss Shard shook hands with us again and climbed back into her Rolls-Royce, and a few seconds later the limousine moved off to park opposite the snack bar. Class was no barrier to the allure of a bacon sandwich.

‘With the greatest of respect,’ I said, turning to Lady Mawgon, ‘if it gets around that we’ve been fleecing clients, Kazam’s reputation will plummet. And what’s more, I think it’s unprofessional.’

‘How can civilians hate us any more?’ she asked disdainfully and with some truth, as despite our best efforts, the general public still regarded the magic trade with grave suspicion. ‘More importantly,’ added Lady Mawgon, ‘I’ve seen the accounts. How long do you think we can give our skills away for free? Besides, she’s in a Phantom Eight. Loaded with moolah.’

‘It’s a Phantom Twelve,’ murmured Tiger, who, being a boy, knew precisely the difference.

‘Shall we get a move on?’ said Full Price. ‘I’ve got to move a walrus in an hour, and if I’m late David will start without me.’

‘The sooner the better,’ said Lady Mawgon, dismissing Tiger and me with a sweep of her hand so she and Full could have a meeting. I leaned against the car with Tiger, took several deep breaths and watched them talk.

‘I lost my luggage once,’ said Tiger thoughtfully, eager to contribute something relevant to the ‘losing stuff’ conversation. ‘On an orphanage trip to the steel mills of Port Talbot.’

‘What was it like?’ I asked, glad of the distraction and never having been to the industrial heartland of the Ununited Kingdoms myself.

‘Red with castors and an internal pocket for toiletries.’

‘I meant Port Talbot.’

‘Oh. Hot and very noisy.’

‘The steam hammers?’

‘The steam hammers were fine. It’s the singing .’

We watched as Perkins circled Mawgon and Price, attempting to hear what was going on.

‘Is Perkins going to get his licence, do you think?’

‘He’d better. We need him for the bridge job. Fumble that and we’ll all look a bit stupid.’

‘And on live TV, too.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

Our concerns about Perkins will become only too apparent when you consider that the person we had to get the licence from was the one person more boneheaded and corrupt than our glorious ruler King Snodd – his Useless Brother, who was the Minister for Infernal Affairs, the less-than-polite term used to describe the office that dealt with all things magical.