Salmon and Cream Cheese

“Rumour has it Ma’am, that Baron Darren has been dabbling in espionage.”
The Lord Regent ground her teeth, before replying with a well thought out “Bugger.”
“And rumour has it he’s sent a spy this evening.”
“He may even be in our presence at this very moment Ma’am. Rumour has it, anyway.”
The Lord Regent’s pair of lieutenants were very useful, if a little eager to top one another.
The Regent scanned the entrance hall from the first floor balcony. The room was huge, some forty feet tall with hallways and passages that sprawled out like a hungover octopus. A great chandelier adorned with candles dangled from the ceiling. It bathed the gold and ruby decorations of the hall in a soft light as the evening drew to a close.
The last few guests were dripping into the manor through the grand front doors, the party now fully underway. Drinks were flowing and conversation was also flowing. In fact, there seemed to be a flow to most aspects of the ball.
But the threat of a spy put a damper on the evening and as she looked over the festivities, The Lord Regent regretted suggesting that the party should be a masked ball. It is difficult to determine the intentions of someone when you cannot see their eyes.
“The gateway to the soul,” murmured the Lord Regent. “Pardon Ma’am?”
“Quiet.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
The Lord Regent’s parties were the talk of London – Queen Victoria herself had been known to attend a get-together every so often. According to the Regent’s lieutenants’ rumours, she once got so drunk on Bacardi Breezers that she threw up in her crown and had to be carried back to Windsor Castle.
But now, all this grandeur and extravagance was coming back to bite The Lord Regent on the arse. There were hundreds of potential saboteurs and if this spy got their hands on the document – well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

The band was, as most bands in Victorian England were, pretty dull. Sadly, musicians had yet to discover the true excitement of the power chord so most of the music was reserved for soppy violin recitals and the occasional twinkle of a piano. One of the more excitable pianists tried to break into “Piano Man” several times, but the general consensus of the room was that it was rude to play a song that hadn’t been written yet.
In fact, most of the masked guests would have preferred to stick on some telly but the lack of electricity meant that there was no way to power the DVD player, so most of them reserved themselves to swaying back and forth with one another, listening to the strings moan on and trying to find an excuse to get to the punch bowl.
Still, it kept eyes off Paul.

Paul was sweating. A lot. This was his first high-risk espionage job and it was not going well.
He’d almost been found out instantly when he’d arrived and realised he’d forgotten his forged ticket. Thankfully, a Countess by the name of Dani had told the guard that they were together and dragged Paul in with her.
Paul’s crudely made cruise ship costume wasn’t helping either. It made him stick out like a sore thumb, unfortunate given the intent of the costume he’d botched together was to blend in. Still, at least he was now indoors.
Paul and Countess Dani were arm in arm, swaying along to various violin recitals that didn’t come anywhere close to Billy Joel. Paul peered over the Countess into the entrance hall, eyeing up the grand staircase that led to the balcony. The only problem was, it was being monitored by a slew of mean looking guards all covered in dirt and grime and looking for a fight.
Paul’s employer had reason to believe the important document was in the Lord Regent’s bedroom. “But be careful, it will most likely be closely guarded.”
How to get to the bedroom was left to Paul’s discretion, which was a daunting proposition. In addition to those on the staircase and balcony, Regent guards patrolled the ground floor, swimming in and out of the dozens of manor rooms.
Paul did his best to blend in with the party guests as he mulled over a few plans. Countess Dani leaned in for a kiss. Paul sweated a little more.

The spy had managed to rid himself of the Countess for a few minutes, thank the Lord. As he wandered through the manor house in search of a staircase that wasn’t so heavily guarded, he found himself in a drawing room.
A handful of important looking people were busy discussing appropriately important things like naval infrastructure and child labour. A few drunker guests were busy filling their gold-rimmed goblets with punch in the corner of the room.
Paul considered spiking the bowl of punch using a huge bottle of Captain Morgan’s and some mouldy prawns he’d found in the servants kitchen. The cutlass-wielding bodyguards guarding the bowl made him reconsider. Paul instead just tried to blend in with the crowd, hoping to find a route to the first floor. He extended an arm and grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing server. Nervous, he lobbed the fizzy drink down his throat, before coughing from the violent attack of bubbles in his oesophagus. The room hushed as a series of masks turned to look at Paul. The guards narrowed their eyes at the man in the cruise ship costume and put their hands on one another’s cutlass.
Paul’s face turned a deep red as he tried to stifle another cough that didn’t fancy being stuck in his throat any longer. He nodded an apology at the sea of masks before darting through a doorway close by.

Countess Dani was about fifteen gin and tonics in by now and enjoying herself very much. The only problem was, she wasn’t sure how to get back out of the toilet.
The door that led in seemed to have two handles and whenever she got near it, she seemed to grow a second hand too. In fact, everything in the bathroom seemed to have duplicates when concentrated.
Dani sat back on the toilet seat and rested her eyes. She pulled out an hors d'oeuvre from her dress and was just tucking in as the door burst open.
Paul stumbled into the bathroom, before looking at Dani and freezing in embarrassment.
Dani’s drunken eyes met Paul’s and she smiled at him, licking her lips. Sadly, the hors d'œuvre was still in her mouth, so all she really did was smear salmon and Philadelphia cheese around. “And whatt’r you doin-in here ’en,” drawled Dani as she beckoned Paul over to her.
Paul gulped, now sweating profusely.
“Are-ya tryin to flirt wi-me?” Dani winked, though the closing of an eyelid was enough to bring on a rush of sleep. Her head fell forward and she began to snooze a little.
Paul gently closed the bathroom door as the salmon cracker plopped out of Dani’s mouth onto the tile floor.

“That fellow is acting very strange. I’m sure I haven’t seen him at any of my parties before.”
“I think it’s the way he walks Ma’am. He doesn’t hold himself very regally,” said one of the lieutenants.
“I don’t much like his mask either, Ma’am. It gives me a funny feeling,” added the second. “And why on Earth is he dressed as some sort of ship?”
“Fetch me the head of the guards,” muttered the Lord Regent.
The two lieutenants stumbled over one another as they raced off along the corridor.
Paul was starting to panic. It was late, the band had finished playing (the pianist was still attempting in vain to play Billy Joel), his cough still hadn’t quite dissipated and he hadn’t found a single other staircase up to the first floor.
In fact, he had now stumbled his way back into the entrance hall. “Sod it”, he thought. At this point, he may as well just try his luck with the main staircase. The problem was that he needed to find a distraction in order to sneak up said staircase.
Thankfully for the spy, a distraction was just the thing that appeared. A number of guests were spilling out of the east wing, holding their noses and making posh, dramatic noises.
“Such an awful smell, Charles. What human could possibly make such a stench?”
A few guards headed to the scene of the crime. It was later discovered that one of the toilets had been crammed full of salmon and had to be unblocked, which was a struggle considering the Domestos seemed to have disappeared.
A guard in a fancy red coat rushed up next to the Lord Regent. A few whispers from her excellence later, the red coat slinked back to his group of red coat buddies.
“Her Regency is suspect of that man down there,” he whispered. “But be careful, he is considered to be very dangerous.”
The guards peered over the balcony at the dangerous man in question, dressed as a cruise ship, who in his excitement at a distraction presenting itself in the east wing had proceeded to clatter into a server carrying a fresh tray of wine.
More guests were now filtering away from the blocked toilet and towards the commotion in the entrance hall. Panic set in as Paul realised that his unintended, secondary distraction of knocking over the server – while very effective – had taken place directly in front of the staircase he needed to sneak up.
Worse still, a group of fancy looking guards in red coats were now descending the staircase and heading in his direction.
Panic had now fully set up shop in Paul’s belly and was considering building an extension. The spy resolved to slip through the smorgasbord of guests who were busy watching the poor server and not helping her to her feet, and out onto the front lawn.
The red coats followed.

Countess Dani had tried a few times to use the telephone to ring for a taxi. Unfortunately, Alexander Graham Bell had been slacking in recent months, so the Countess had conceded to stumbling out onto the front lawn and waving down a taxi using a handkerchief.
One of the Lords, who was in the process of smoking something that may not have been 'just' tobacco, had mistaken this waving of the handkerchief as an invitation for hokey-pokey and had proceeded to start taking his trousers off in the open doorway. As Paul snuck past Lord Wacky-Baccy, Countess Dani spotted the spy and bore down on him.
“Over-ere handsome.”
The Countess grabbed Paul, before stumbling over a hedge, trimmed inch perfectly in the shape of a hedge, and clattering into a horse and cart. More hors d'œuvres flew across the gravel. The horse bolted, dragging with it a drunk couple dressed in Shrek masks. A guard tried to stop the animal, only to redirect it through a large bay window.
But between the drama of the trouserless Lord in the doorway, the blocked toilet, the server with the head wound in the entrance hall and the horse that was now trying desperately to get into the punch bowl, Paul had somehow managed to lose the red coats.
The spy shrugged off the drunk Countess and swift as an arrow snuck back through the front door. The main staircase was now devoid of guards. He had a window of opportunity.
Show time.

As he bolted down the labyrinth of first floor corridors, Paul figured that his disguise was up.
All the distractions and sneaking and swiftness were for naught: as soon as he was seen skulking up the stairs the Lord Regent had barked an order to restrain him and the creeping was replaced with sprinting.
Paul took a left. The red coats were hot on his tail and sounded angry.
Another left. No bedrooms this way. The guards sounded closer and angrier.
A right. Nothing.
A left. Bingo! Spotting a huge oak door adorned with a plaque that read “NO BOYS ALLOWED!”, Paul grabbed from deep within himself a burst of energy and ran.

The spy darted into the room and barred the door shut as guards slammed into it. He slumped against the heavy oak for a second, collecting his breath.
Finally, the Lord Regent’s bedroom. Mecca, the holy land where Paul’s treasure was said to be. The spy certainly hoped so. If it wasn’t, he’d really be in a pickle.
The bedroom was a pigsty. The floor was covered in dirty clothes and there was a half-drunk cup of tea on the side-table that would’ve made a petri-dish weep. The only thing left uncluttered was a grand piano in the corner.
Where the hell could the safe be in all this mess.
Think Paul, think. The spy racked his brain, trying to think of what the heroes of the noir movies would do. But it was no use. Humphrey Bogart eluded him.
He’d have to do it the hard way.
The spy rushed to a painting of melting clocks on the wall. He ripped the piece off, but there was only bare plaster behind.
The bedroom door buckled as a guard clattered into it. A faint “Ow! My shoulder!” followed.
More paintings were torn from walls; one was a flower that looked suspiciously like the part of Countess Dani’s body that she’d been whispering about when she and Paul were dancing. Another was just a load of splashes of coloured paint.
But alas, no wall safes were to be found. And what was worse, the door had almost caved in, though not for a lack of bruised shoulders.
From outside, the Lord Regent could be heard barking obscenities and saying she’d make that damn Baron Darren pay for this. Paul had almost given up hope, before—
Of course! The spy rushed to the pristine grand piano in the corner of the bedroom. He ripped up the lid to reveal:
A single hors d'œuvre.
BAM!
A guard fell into the room as more red coats followed.
The spy spun around to see the Lord Regent’s furious expression. “Baron Darren set you up for this, didn’t he?” the Lord Regent snarled.
“Who’s Baron Darren?” Paul asked as the Lord Regent’s red coats surrounded him.

Countess Dani felt a little sorry for the poor chap. It seemed a little unfair to throw someone so new at the whole thievery job under the bus. Still, it’d be a good lesson for him. The Countess sighed as she peeled off her mask. She hummed along to a song that vaguely resembled “Piano Man” as the taxi trundled away from the Lord Regent’s manor.

As another hors d'œuvre was thrown in the air and caught in the Countesses eager mouth, she reflected on the amateur spy’s odd decision to wear a cruise ship outfit. She figured he’d simply misread the invitation, though it was a strange choice of costume for a masked ball considering cruise ships were yet to be invented. Plus, cruise ships don’t even have masts.

Stefan Matthews is a screenwriter and graduate from Bournemouth University. He is a dream-smith, an illusion-weaver, a forger of fantasia. Well, that’s what he claims.