‘I expect it came in from the east,’ he said. ‘Not directly, though. It most likely found its way here via the colonies.’
The crown felt tinny and insubstantial in my hands. Casually I tossed it over to Dotterel.
‘Rather careless of Smew to leave it lying around,’ he said. ‘I’ve a good mind to confiscate it.’
‘On what grounds?’ I asked.
‘On the grounds that I’m custodian of the imperial artefacts,’ he said. ‘In the last resort I’m responsible for the upkeep of this crown: that’s why it was in the royal workshop in the first place.’
He began buffing up the crown with his handkerchief.
‘We had to straighten all the prongs,’ he continued, ‘and apply a new coat of gold paint. In terms of time spent it would have been much cheaper to get a replacement.’
‘Couldn’t they make a new one,’ I suggested, ‘in the workshop?’
Dotterel shook his head. ‘We don’t make anything in this country,’ he said. ‘Not any more. We just carry out repairs.’
He put the gleaming crown back on the desk.
‘That’s better,’ he said.
‘Did you come here especially to give it a polish?’ I enquired.
‘Actually, no,’ said Dotterel. ‘I wanted to return this.’
He reached into his pocket and produced a textbook.
‘It’s the play we’ve been rehearsing,’ he explained. ‘I won’t need it now.’
He went to the bookshelves and put it back with the other copies.
‘You know Smew was wrong?’ he said. ‘The king was the only person who could see the ghost, not the other way round.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘and he wasn’t a king, he was a usurper.’
‘Smew’s judgement is far from perfect.’
‘What about the railway?’ I said. ‘Do you think he’s wrong about that too?’
‘Entirely wrong,’ replied Dotterel. ‘You can’t stop progress.’
He took a last look at the crown, then wished me good evening and departed. After that I spent quite some time moping around the library while I pondered the situation. Privately I hoped Dotterel’s assessment was incorrect, but I knew deep down that it wasn’t.
By the following day the railway had become public knowledge. As a matter of fact it was quickly turning into a tourist attraction. The first I knew of it was when I approached the park and saw streams of people heading eastward. I’d planned to call in on Greylag and tell him my intentions for achieving his freedom from bondage. In view of the roaming hordes, however, I decided to find out the cause of all the fuss. Besides which, on second thoughts it seemed a shame to raise Greylag’s hopes too early. Far better to surprise him with some good news later. With this in mind I bypassed the cake and joined the milling crowd.
It was soon obvious where we were all going. We took the same route to the edge of the capital as I had the day before. Ultimately we came to the railway, which now had a brand-new platform running alongside it. Once again the work had been completed at a remarkable speed. This was something I’d come to expect just lately. What I didn’t anticipate, however, was the total absence of a train. Gadwall and his men had left the place deserted. The only draw for sightseers was an empty platform, a pair of buffers, and a set of iron rails diminishing into the distance.
My attention was caught by a noticeboard at the far end of the platform. On closer inspection I found that it displayed a timetable for the forthcoming railway service. Then, to my irritation, I saw that all the arrivals and departures were listed in ‘local time’.
The effrontery of these people! Not only had they built a railway without due consultation, but now they were suggesting that the time in Greater Fallowfields was merely ‘local’. This implied that the time elsewhere was more important! Clearly, they hadn’t allowed for the recent adjustments we’d been making to our clocks, nor did they appear the slightest bit interested.
No less disquieting was the series of letters printed in the right-hand column of the timetable. These letters represented the scheduled destination for every train, and in each case they were identicaclass="underline" CoS.
As I stood gazing at the noticeboard I reflected that Gadwall and his companions were not entirely to blame for the advent of the railway. Our uncrowned emperor had played his part too. Presumably he’d signed the order as some sort of student prank while he was far away at university. No wonder he was reluctant to return home and face the music! Recently a number of other theories had been put forward to excuse his continued absence. Prevalent among these was the suggestion that he was probably studying hard for his exams. This struck me as spurious to say the least: it was a historical fact that the young emperors seldom returned with any kind of qualification.
Sanderling, of course, had a far simpler explanation. He remained convinced that it was all to do with the dancing girls who’d suddenly vanished from court. He mentioned them almost every time I saw him; or else the dancing girls from the Maypole; or the dancing girls he’d heard about from various marooned admirals with whom he was acquainted. Poor Sanderling! He lived in a world of self-delusion. He assumed there were dancing girls hidden around every corner, but he was yet to meet them.
I was still contemplating all this when I became aware of a swell of expectation passing through the crowd. Many people were now lining the railway on either side, and as I listened I heard a familiar shrill piping sound. It was only faint at first, but gradually it grew louder. I leaned over the edge of the platform and peered down the track. Sure enough, in the distance I saw a dark plume of smoke. Below it loomed the approaching train. The smoke was rising in puffs, and with each puff the engine panted as though labouring under a great weight. Evidently it was slowing down at the end of a long journey: I could hear the iron wheels grinding on the rails; and as the noise grew louder the onlookers began chattering more loudly too. A bell started clanging. The formidable engine was now bearing down upon the multitude, causing those standing nearest the track to step back a pace. Hence a wobbly line of people marked the progress of the train. The shrill whistle was repeated. Then the brakes squealed and the puffing ceased. The engine drew alongside the platform and halted. Attached behind it were half a dozen windowless carriages. There were ventilation slits above the sliding doors, and one by one these doors began to open. The first to emerge was Gadwall. He was followed by a number of his men in their plain olive drab uniforms. The assembled spectators had long since fallen silent; meanwhile the engine continued to hiss and groan. Gadwall looked down the platform and saw me in my dandy coat.
‘Aha,’ he said, ‘an imperial reception.’
The majority of those present were commoners. They’d taken little notice of me during the rush to see the new railway, and I’d been more or less swept along in their wake. I’d literally become one of the herd, despite my distinguished appearance. This was typical of the general public when they turned out for a popular event. They only saw what they wanted to see. They’d have been quite unaware if the emperor himself was standing in their midst, let alone an officer-of-state, such was their single-minded fervour.
Now, however, they seemed completely overawed by the sight of the newcomers, and it required someone of my calibre to take the reins. Unfortunately, I was constrained by the cabinet’s recent injunction. We had agreed unanimously not to make any sort of approach to the railwaymen. My present visit was in a strictly personal capacity and therefore I needed to maintain a low profile.
A brief hiatus ensued, during which Gadwall looked at me and I looked at him. Then suddenly there was a nearby kerfuffle. I glanced around and saw Gallinule advancing through the throng in his finest crimson apparel. Without so much as a nod in my direction he spoke directly to Gadwall.