No, no, not the good Judge Rancor Jeffreys. Said it once, he’d said it a million times: “Quick hanging’s no deterrent to your lowlife miscreant. Sneer at it, the scum do. Their lives are worthless to begin with, so what do they care about a quick and easy snap of the neck? No, no, lords and ladies of the court! A thousand times no! Death by torture—that’s the trick! Slow, horrible, lingering death—there’s the ticket! Prolonged agony, endless torment—aye, the very thing!” And he prides himself on the ingenuity of his sentences, does the good Judge Rancor Jeffreys.
“What you’ve got to do,” mused Leuwen, “is find someone who can get into the trial. They can report back to you, tell you what happened. Especially, they can let you know what the Cat’s sentence was. Then you might be able to figure out some way of rescuing the lady.”
Greyboar snorted. “And who do I know could get into the Royal Court? All my friends are lowlifes, and look the part.”
“One of your customers, maybe?” asked Leuwen. “Mostly noblemen, them. They could get in.”
“Are you nuts?” demanded Greyboar. “Sure, most of my customers are nobles. So what? I’m their strangler, not their bosom buddy. Wouldn’t give me the time of day, they wouldn’t, if they didn’t need somebody choked.”
“Then what about them two girls show up here now and then? Never actually come into the place, I think they’re too shy. But they’ve peeked in here a few times, looking for Ignace. Raised his prestige no end, I might add.”
“Angela and Jenny?” I asked.
“That’s the ones,” said Leuwen. “Sure, why not have them get in? They could do it, too, I bet, if they wore the right kind of hoity-toity clothes. Guard wouldn’t look at ’em twice, as cute and innocent looking as they are.”
Well, I thought the idea was terrible and I said so more than once, and quite forcefully and in no uncertain terms either. Imagine! Dragging two sweet young girls into something like this!
But Greyboar thought it was a great idea. And when they heard the idea from Greyboar later that evening, Jenny and Angela thought it was a great idea too.
“Oh, that’ll be wonderful!” said Jenny. “Sure we’ll try to help you spring your lady!” said Angela. And before you could say a thing, they were hauling out cloth by the yard and planning out their fancy dresses.
I was still against the whole idea, but nobody was paying the slightest attention to me. Greyboar and Jenny and Angela plotted it out while they were working on the dresses. I contributed the voice of sanity, but nobody was listening to my protests. I especially started protesting when I got roped into the scheme.
Angela’s doing, that was. After they’d finished the dresses, her face fell, and she started shaking her head vigorously.
“It’ll never work,” she said. “It’ll never work, just me and Jenny. You never see two young noble ladies out by themselves. They’re always with a chaperone. We need a chaperone.”
At first, I was smiling like the sunshine. She was right, bless the little darling! And Greyboar and I didn’t know any sour-faced old women; at least, not any who’d go in on this scheme!
Greyboar said as much. And that’s that, I said to myself.
“But it doesn’t have to be an old woman chaperone,” said Jenny. “Lots of times it’s an old man, a tutor like, a little tiny guy all shriveled up, looking like he’s worn out and worried about everything.”
All eyes turned to me. I was outraged.
My first sentences, expressing my total disagreement with the idea, were possibly not coherent. But I was soon able to demolish the scheme.
“It’s impossible!” I sprang to my feet, spread my arms wide. “Look at me! I’m the picture of health! Straight as an arrow! Vigorous! Handsome! Look at my face! Cheerful! Debonair! Look at the rakish goatee—the suave mustachioes!”
“He’s right,” said Angela. And the two hoydens from hell got out the scissors and started cutting. Greyboar held me down.
“It’s really a great idea!” squealed Angela. “He’s so tiny already he won’t even have to stoop! Just put him in a big coat and everybody’ll think he’s worn out by a lifetime of teaching stupid little girls!”
I made several remarks concerning stupid little girls. Jenny chucked me under the chin and cooed: “We don’t care if you’re a shrimp, Iggy. We think you’re cute.”
Then, after I’d been shorn of my hair and bundled into a greatcoat, I tried again: “It still won’t work! I just don’t have the right air about me! I ask you—do I look worn out? Exhausted by life’s cares? Ridiculous!”