Читаем The Ribbajack полностью

“Ah, yes, the old jiggery pokery, y’know. Saw quite a bit of it for m’self out on the subcontinent, India and all that. By Jove, watched a chap climb up a rope and vanish into thin air. Amazing! Where the dickens he went to, I’ll never know. Another time I saw a fakir take a pair of live scorpions—d’you know what he did with ’em, eh?”

The matron poured more tea, remarking primly, “I’m sure we’d shudder to think, Reverend. However, this isn’t getting us anywhere with the Smifft problem, don’t you agree, Headmaster?”

Mr. Plother blinked over the rim of his Crown Derby teacup. “Er, precisely, Mrs. Twogg, the boy is definitely involved in some murky matters. I mean, how d’you explain a cloud of flies swarming around my head, Padre?”

The chaplain picked a few crumbs from his ample stomach. “Huh, flies, y’say, I could do that. Slap a dab of honey on my head. Flies’d flock to it. A few wasps and a bee or two, as well, I should imagine, eh?”

The matron pursed her lips. “Really, Reverend, I don’t consider this a fit subject for humour. You have been invited here to give assistance in what we think is a serious matter!”

Rev. Miller heaved himself out of the creaking armchair. He sighed regretfully at the empty cake stand. “Right you are, marm, suppose I’d better go and have a few words with the young scamp. What’s the chap’s name, Smithers?”

Mrs. Twogg’s chins wobbled as she snapped out the name. “Smifft. Archibald Smifft. You remember him from Christmas term, surely!”

The chaplain’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Good Lord, that fellow? Wasn’t he the rogue who sabotaged my incense burner with stink bombs at the chapel service? Short, grubby cove, with his eyes too close together? Never liked boys with close-together eyes, y’know. Reminds me of a gunnery corporal I served with at Hyderabad, furtive little blighter. Caught him one time in the officers’ mess, had half a bottle of Madeira and some vindaloo curry powder. You’ll never guess what the scallywag was up to—”

The matron interrupted him abruptly. “Smifft!”

Rev. Miller recalled his errand. “Eh, what? Oh, yes, I’ll go and have a talk with Master Smithers. No time like the present!”

Archibald Smifft lay flat on his bed, exerting all his mental powers to produce an image of how a Ribbajack might look. He ignored the muffled rummaging of Wilton and Soames on the other side of his barricade, for they could be dealt with later. His Ribbajack was all-important. The description penned by Soames’s father sounded fairly good. But Archibald had decided it needed some adjustments to suit his macabre taste. A crocodile’s body, he would keep that feature. Three eyes? No, his would have just one big eye, a disgusting red runny one. Then there was the question of the arms. What if they were long, right down to its feet, hairy like a gorilla’s, and studded with suckers, similar to an octopus’s tentacles? The long, sharp teeth sounded a bit humdrum. Suppose it had a feathered head and a great hooked parrot beak, which could rip and tear and chop? Perfect! It would be his own personal and original Ribbajack.

Archibald’s train of thought was broken by someone knocking on the door outside his den. He attempted to dismiss it at this crucial stage of his image-making. However, it was not about to cease, in fact the knocking doubled in volume and insistence, then a voice.

“Come on, young man, I know you’re in there. Met two of your pals on the corridor below on their way out, they told me. Listen, Smithers, if you don’t open this door pretty sharply, I’ll bring my old service pistol and blow the lock off. D’you hear me, Smithers?”

Rev. Miller put his ear to the door just as it opened. He practically fell in on top of a scowling, ill-tempered boy. (This would have solved the problem neatly, as the Rev. weighed in at somewhere around two and a half hundred pounds. What a lark! Man of the cloth flattens young schoolboy by accident.) Smiling at the thought, the chaplain took the jovial approach. He winked com panionably at the irate boy. “What ho, young Smithers, come to have a friendly word with you. At the headmaster’s and matron’s request, of course. Well, aren’t you going to ask the old Sky Pilot in, eh?”

Stiff-legged, Archibald backed off to sit on his bed. “Name’s Smifft, not Smithers. Can’t stop you coming in if you want to.”

Striding into the den, the chaplain planted himself firmly on the bedside chair. “Ah, that’s more the ticket!”

Archibald glared murderously at the big, portly man. “No, it’s not, you’ve just sat on Jasper and squashed him.”

Rev. Miller rose in alarm. “Jasper, who’s Jasper?”

Archibald craned his head to view the seat of the chaplain’s trousers. “Jasper was my best lizard, I’ve had him all term. Now you’ve killed him with your big, fat bottom.”

Taking his handkerchief and a nearby English textbook, Rev. Miller brushed the flattened remains of Jasper onto the floor. “My dear boy, forgive me. I’m most dreadfully sorry. Poor Jasper, I’ll put him in the wastepaper basket.”