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'You know about the predictions business?' said Goatberger. 'You? I've been printing predictions for years. 'I don't do clever stuff for years ahead, like you do,' Granny admitted. 'But I'm pretty accurate if you want a thirty-second one.'
'Indeed? What's going to happen in thirty seconds?' Granny told him. Goatberger roared with laughter. 'Oh, yes, that's a good one, you should be writing them for us!' he said. 'Oh, my word. Nothing like being ambitious; eh? That's better than the spontaneous combustion of the Bishop of Quirm, and that didn't even happen! In thirty seconds, eh?'
'No.'
'No?'
'Twenty-one seconds now,' said Granny. Mr Bucket had arrived at the Opera House early to see if anyone had died so far today. He made it as far as his office without a single body dropping out of the shadows. He really hadn't expected it to be like this. He'd liked opera. It had all seemed so artistic. He'd watched hundreds of operas and practically no one had died, except once during the ballet scene in La Triviata when a ballerina had rather over-enthusiastically been flung into the lap of an elderly gentleman in the front row of the Stalls. She hadn't been hurt, but the old man had died in one incredibly happy instant. Someone knocked at the door. Mr Bucket opened it about a quarter of an inch. 'Who's dead?' he said. 'N-no one Mr Bucket! I've got your letters!'
'Oh, it's you, Walter. Thank you.' He took the bundle and shut the door. There were bills. There were always bills. The Opera House practically runs itself, they'd told him. Well, yes, but it practically ran on money. He rummaged through the let- There was an envelope with the Opera House crest on it. He looked at it like a man looks at a very fierce dog on a very thin leash. It did nothing except lie there and look as gummed as an envelope can be. Finally he disembowelled it with the, paperknife and then flung it down on the desk again, as if it would bite. When it did not do so he reached out hesitantly and withdrew the folded letter. It read as follows: My Dear Bucket, I should be most grateful if Christine sings the role of Laura tonight. I assure you she is more than capable.
The second violinist is a little slow, I feel, and the second act last night was frankly extremely wooden. This really is not good enough. My I extend my own welcome to Senor Basilica. I congratulate you on his arrival. Wishing you the very best, The Opera Ghost 'Mr Salzella!' Salzella was eventually located. He read the note. 'You do not intend to accede to this?' he said. 'She does sing superbly, Salzella.'
'You mean the Nitt girl?'
'Well. . . yes. . . you know what I mean.'
'But this is nothing less than blackmail!'
'Is it? He's not actually threatening anything.'
'You let her. . . I mean them, of course. . . you let them sing last night, and much good it did poor Dr Undershaft.'
'What do you advise, then?' There was another series of disjointed knocks on the door. 'Come in, Walter,' said Bucket and Salzella together. Walter jerked in, holding the coalscuttle. 'I've been to see Commander Vimes of the city Watch,' said Salzella. 'He said he'll have some of his best men here tonight. Undercover.'
'I thought you said they were all incompetent.' Salzella shrugged. 'We've got to do this properly. Did you know Dr Undershaft was strangled before he was hung?'
'Hanged,' said Bucket, without thinking. 'Men are hanged. It's dead meat that's hung.'
'Indeed?' said Salzella. 'I appreciate the information. Well, poor old Undershaft was strangled, apparently. And then he was hung.'
'Really, Salzella, you do have a misplaced sense-'
'I've finished now Mr Bucket!'
'Yes, thank you, Walter. You may go.'
'Yes Mr Bucket!' Walter closed the door behind him, very conscientiously. 'I'm afraid it's working here,' said Salzella. 'If you don't find some way of dealing with. . . are you all right, Mr Bucket?'
'What?' Bucket, who'd been staring at the closed door, shook his head. 'Oh. Yes. Er. Walter. . .'
'What about him?'
'He's. . . all right, is he?'
'Oh, he's got his. . . funny little ways. He's harmless enough, if that's what you mean. Some of the stage-hands and musicians are a bit cruel to him. . . you know, sending him out for a tin of invisible paint or a bag of nail-holes and so on. He believes what he's told. Why?'
'Oh. . . I just wondered. Silly, really.'
'I suppose he is, technically.'
'No, I meant- Oh, it doesn't matter. . .' Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg left Goatberger's office and walked demurely down the street. At least, Granny walked demurely. Nanny leaned somewhat. Every thirty seconds she'd say, 'How much was that again?'
'Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty-seven pence,' said Granny. She was looking thoughtful. 'I thought it was nice of him to look in all the ashtrays for all the odd coppers he could round up,' said Nanny. 'Those he could reach, anyway. How much was that again?'
'Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty-seven pence.'
'I've never had seventy dollars before,' said Nanny. 'I didn't say just seventy dollars, I said-'
