Free Rogue's Gallery by Robert Barnard Page A

deluding himself if he thought that, even if he had been on the spot, there had been any hope of his winning a disputed election. He made no decision as president of the Students’ Union that he did not reverse or rescind on the morning after. Of such stuff are kings not made.
    My column in the London Sunne was much less diplomatic and discreet than it had been under my predecessor. I was turning it into a high-class gossipcolumn, with a strong line in royal scandals. My proprietor (an eccentric thousandaire whose place of origin is as yet undiscovered) had written to praise what he called my ‘looning down’ of the feature, and said he had made this a model for the work of all his other scribblers. It was for this reason, scenting scandal and blood, that I had followed Hammy to Denmark. Denmark was obviously a place where news was being made. But more than that: if Hammy had a future there, I had no objection to being his right-hand man. Nor, for that matter, if Hammy was out of the picture, to being the right hand of his uncle Claudius, though the fact that he had been heard to refer to me as an ‘economic migrant’ did not bode well for any future cooperation.
    I had not been pleased, on my arrival, to find another Irishman already in place. His title was Deputy Armourer to the Royal Guard, but I suspected he supplemented this by spying for the English Queen’s council or by scribbling for one of the London Sunne’ s miserable competitors. I was even less pleased to see this fellow approach as Hammy spoke.
    â€˜Hello O’Ratio,’ I said glumly. He gave me the most imperceptible of nods and turned at once to my companion.
    â€˜Strange news, Your Royal Highness.’
    â€˜Call me Hamlet,’ said the prince. ‘What news?’
    â€˜In confidence—’ he drew the prince aside and continued in sibilant whispers that my newshound ears had no difficulty picking up ‘—the palace guards are in turmoil. They say they have seen your father.’
    â€˜My father? Impossible. They kept him on ice till I came home so I could be sure he was dead. Considerate, wasn’t it?’
    â€˜His ghost. It’s been seen patrolling the battlements. It was definitely seen by Barnard and Marcel.’
    â€˜Barnard!’ I said scornfully. ‘A credulous, dull-witted fellow, and Marcel is hardly better.’
    â€˜You weren’t supposed to be listening!’ O’Ratio said bitterly, turning and glaring at me.
    â€˜Well, if you will talk like a camp hairdresser who’s been had by all the NCO’s,’ I replied …
    That was a bit unfair. It was true O’Ratio was never to be seen in the red lantern district down by the Elsinore docks, but I had no evidence he was a pansy by nature. His friendship with Hamlet, however, was compounded of starry-eyed royalty-worship and the sort of sentimental gush that the companions of reasonably attractive young men seem to go in for. O’Ratio was a typical penniless Irish soldier of fortune, attaching himself to anyone who offered. Not surprising if he found buggery more enticing than beggary. Hammy’s bedroom tastes I had had several indications of in Wittenburg.
    â€˜The ghost,’ continued O’Ratio, ‘has indicated a desire to talk to Your Royal Highness.’
    â€˜And by what feat of dumb crambo did the ghost convey this to a pair of dimwits like Barnard and Marcel?’ I asked.
    â€˜A being from the Other Side has ways and means,’ said O’Ratio.
    â€˜Quite,’ said Hammy, serious. ‘There are more thingsin heaven and earth, Pat, than a cynical worldling like you could imagine.’
    And he wandered off with O’Ratio, talking low and serious. ‘I’m gonna put that white sheet on again,’ I carolled, though only mentally. When I thought about it the last person I’d seen in a white sheet was Hamlet himself, playing the ghost of Julius Caesar