“Not much to a goblin once you get past the head, or so they say. See, there’s the ring on the finger. Definitely looks like stone, pretty good workmanship for a goblin.”
“Animals don’t wear jewelry,” said Vimes. “You know, Willikins, I’ve said it before, you’d make a bloody good copper if it wasn’t for the fact that you’d make a bloody good assassin.”
Willikins grinned. “I did think about the assassins when I was a lad, sir, but unfortunately I was not of the right social class and, besides, they have rules.” He helped Vimes out of his jacket and went on, “The street don’t have rules, commander, except one, which is ‘Survive’ and my dear old dad would probably turn in his grave if I even thought of being a copper.”
“But I thought you never knew who your father was?”
“Indeed, sir, that is the case, but one must consider the fact of heredity.” Willikins produced a small brush and whisked a speck of dirt off the coat before putting it on a hanger, then went on, “I do feel the absence of a parent sometimes and I have wondered whether it might be a sensible idea to go along to the cemetery at Small Gods and shout out ‘Dad, I’m going to be a copper,’ and then see which gravestone revolved, sir.”
The man was still grinning. Vimes reflected, and not for the first time, that he had quite an unusual gentleman to be a gentleman’s gentleman, especially given that neither of them was a gentleman in the first place. “Willikins, and I mean this most sincerely, if I were you I’d go instead down to the Tanty and shout it out into the lime pit next to the gallows.”
Willikins’ grin widened. “Thank you, sir. I don’t have to tell you that that means a lot to me. If you would excuse me, sir, I’ll go and put my jacket in the incinerator before retiring.”
Sybil turned over and made a big warm noise when Vimes got into bed next to her. It had been a long day, and he dropped into that pink semiconscious stupor that is even better than sleep, waking up slightly every hour when nobody rang a bell in the street below to say that all was well.
And he woke up again to hear the sound of heavy cart wheels rumbling over stones. Half asleep as Vimes was, suspicion woke him the rest of the way. Stones? It was all bloody gravel around the Hall. He opened a window and stared out into the moonlight. It was an echo bouncing off the hills. A few brain cells doing the night shift wondered what kind of agriculture had to be done at night. Did they grow mushrooms? Did turnips have to be brought in from the cold? Was that what they called crop rotation? These thoughts melted into his somnolent brain like little grains of sugar in a cup of tea, slithering and dripping from cell to synapse to neurotransmitter until it arrived in the receptor marked “suspicion,” which if you saw a medical diagram of a policeman’s brain would probably be quite a visible lump, slightly larger than the lump marked “ability to understand long words.” He thought, Ah yes, contraband! and, feeling cheerful, and hopeful for the future, he gently closed the window and went back to bed.
The food at the Hall was copious and sumptuous and quite probably very nearly everything else ending in us. Vimes was old enough to know that the senior staff got to eat the leftovers and therefore made certain there would be leftovers. With this in mind he had a very large helping of haddock kedgeree and ate all four rashers of bacon on his plate. Sybil tut-tutted about this, and Vimes pointed out that he was on holiday, after all, and on holiday you did not do the things you did on other days, causing Sybil, with forensic accuracy, to point out that this should therefore include police work, should it not, but Vimes was ready, and said that of course he understood this, which was why he was going to take Young Sam for a walk down to the center of the village to put his suspicions in the hands of the local policeman. Sybil said, “All right, then,” in deliberate tones of disbelief, and he was to be sure to take Willikins with him.
This was another aspect of his wife that puzzled Vimes to the core. In the same way that Sybil thought that Nobby Nobbs, although a rough diamond, was a good watchman, she thought that Vimes was safer in the company of a man who never moved abroad without the weaponry of the street about his person, and who had once opened a beer bottle with somebody else’s teeth. This was true, but in some ways very disconcerting.
He heard the doorbell ring, heard the footman open the front door, heard a muffled conversation followed by somebody walking on the gravel path round to the back of the Hall. It wasn’t important, it was just ambience, and the sound of a footman coming into the room and whispering to Sybil fell into the same category.
He heard her say, “What? Oh well, I suppose you’d better show him in,” then snapped to attention when she addressed him. “It’s the local policeman. Can you see him in the study? Policemen never wipe their feet properly, especially you, Sam.”
Vimes hadn’t seen the study yet. The Hall seemed never to run out of rooms. By dint of being pointed the way by a swiveling maid, he arrived in the study a few seconds before the local copper was shown in by a footman, who was making a face like a man having to handle a dead rat. At least, it was presumably the local copper; he looked like the local copper’s son. Seventeen years old, Vimes reckoned, and he smelled of pigs. He stood where the footman had deposited him, and stared.
After a while Vimes said, “Can I help you, officer?”
The young man blinked. “Er, am I addressing Sir Samuel Vimes?”
“Who are you?”
This query appeared to take the young man by surprise, and after a while Vimes took pity on him and said, “Look, son, the correct drill is to say who you are and then ask me if I am me, so to speak. After all, I don’t know who you are. You’re not wearing a uniform I recognize, you have shown me no warrant card or badge and you don’t have a helmet. I assume, nevertheless, and for the purposes of concluding this interview before lunchtime, that you are the chief constable in this vicinity? What’s your name?”
“Er, Upshot, sir, Feeney Upshot…er, Chief Constable Upshot?”
Vimes felt ashamed of himself, but this kid was representing himself as a police officer and even Nobby Nobbs would have laughed.
Aloud, he said, “Well, Chief Constable Upshot, I am Sir Samuel Vimes, amongst other things, and I was thinking only just now that I should talk to you.”
“Er, that’s good, sir, because I was thinking only just now that it was about time I should arrest you on suspicion of causing the death of Jethro Jefferson, the smith.”
Vimes’s expression did not change. So, what do I do now? Nothing, that’s what. You have the right to remain silent, I’ve said that to hundreds of people, knowing it for the rubbish that it is, and I’m absolutely certain of one other thing, that I certainly haven’t laid anything more than an educational hand on that damned blacksmith and therefore it’s going to be very interesting to find out why this little twerp thinks he can feel my collar for doing so.
A copper should always be willing to learn, and Vimes had learned from Lord Vetinari that you should never react to any comment or situation until you had decided exactly what you were going to do. This had the dual attraction of preventing you from saying or doing the wrong thing while at the same time making other people extremely nervous.
“Sorry about that, sir, but it took me an hour to get the pigs out and make the lockup comfortable, sir, it still smells a bit of disinfectant, sir, and pig, if it comes to that, but I whitewashed the walls and there’s a chair and a bed you can curl up on. Oh, and so you don’t get bored I found the magazine.” He looked hopefully at Vimes, whose expression had not changed, merely calcified, but after a suitably long stare Vimes said, “Which magazine?”
“Sir? I didn’t know there was more than one. We’ve always had it. It’s about pigs. It’s a bit worn now, but pigs is always pigs.”
Vimes stood up. “I’m going to go for a walk, chief constable. You can follow me if you like.”
“Sorry, sir, but I’ve arrested you!”
“No, son, you haven’t,” said Vimes, heading toward the front door.
“
But I definitely told you that you were arrested, sir!” It was almost a wail.
Vimes opened the front door and started down the steps with Feeney trotting along behind him. A couple of gardeners who would otherwise have turned away leaned on their brooms at the sight, suspecting a cabaret.
“What in the world have you got on you that tells me you are an official policeman?” enquired Vimes over his shoulder.
“I have the official truncheon, sir. It’s a family heirloom!”
Sam Vimes stopped walking and turned. “Well, my lad, if it’s official then you’d better let me look at it, hadn’t you? Come on, hand it over.” Feeney did so.
It was just an oversized blackjack, with the word “law” inexpertly burnt into it with maybe a poker. Good weight, though. Vimes tapped it in his palm and said, “You’ve given me to understand that you believe that I’m potentially a murderer and you’ve handed your weapon to me! Don’t you think that’s unwise?”
Vimes saw the landscape drift past as he floated over the terrace and landed on his back in a flower bed, staring at the sky. Feeney’s concerned face, somewhat overlarge, appeared in his vision. “Sorry about that, commander. Personally I wouldn’t hurt you for anything, but I didn’t want to give you the wrong impression. That move translates as One Man He Up Down Very Sorry.”
Vimes watched the patch of sky above him in a state of inexplicable peace as the boy said, “You see, my granddad worked on the tall ships when he was a lad, sailing over to Bhangbhangduc and all them places where folk is so strange, and when he came back he brought my granny, Ming Chang, and she taught that to my dad and to me.” He sniffed. “She died a few months ago, but at least she taught my mum cookery, too. Bung Ming Suck Dog is still a favorite in these parts and, of course, it’s not too difficult to get the ingredients, being so close to the sea. Bong Can Bang Keng doesn’t grow very well around here, although Packed Shop Chop Muck Dick grows pretty well. Oh, the color is coming back to your face, sir, I’m very pleased to say.”
Aching at every joint, Vimes pulled himself upright. “Don’t do that again, d’you hear?”
“I’ll try not to do so, sir, but you are under arrest, sir.”
“I told you, young man, you have not properly arrested me.” Vimes got to his feet, wheezing a little. “In order to effect a legal arrest, the arresting officer must be physically touching the suspect while clearly uttering the words ‘I arrest you,’ like this, although at that time you need not specify the crime of which your suspect is suspected. While so doing…” and here Vimes punched the boy so hard in the solar plexus that he curled up, “…it pays to take care, which you are going to need to do, my lad, if you intend to arrest me, which I may point out you still have not done, which is a shame because if you had you would now have a clear case against me for resisting arrest as well as assaulting a policeman in the execution of his duty. With the proviso that nothing about you so far leads me to believe that you truly are a policeman.”
Vimes sat down on a handy stone and watched as Feeney began to unfold. “I’m Sam Vimes, young man, so don’t try that chop sally stuff on me, understand?”
Now Feeney’s voice was a sort of attenuated wheeze: “And one day someone will say to you, ‘Do you know who I am, constable?’ to which you will reply, ‘Yes, sir, or, as it may be, madam, you are the person I am interviewing in connection with the aforesaid crime,’ or similar appropriate wording, which should not include such phrases as ‘You are going down, chummy,’ or ‘I’ve got you bang to rights and no mistake.’ Ignore, but remember, all threats made. The law is one and immutable. It does not care who anybody is and at that moment you, in a very real way, are it, and therefore nor do you.”
Vimes stood with his mouth open as Feeney continued. “We don’t often get The Times over here, but I bought a load of pig medicine a year ago and it was wrapped in The Times and I saw your name when you spoke about being a policeman. It made me feel very proud, sir.”
Vimes remembered that speech. He’d had to write it for the passing-out parade of some newly trained officers from the Watch School. He had spent hours trying to get it down, hampered by the fact that for him any form of literature was in every sense a closed book.
He had shown it to Sybil and asked her whether she thought he should get somebody to help him with it, and she had patted him on the head and said, “No, dear, because then it would look like something written by somebody for somebody else, whereas right now the pure Vimes shows through, like a radiant beacon.” That had quite cheered him up, because he had never been a radiant beacon before.
But now his heart sank as his train of thought was interrupted by a very polite cough and the voice of Willikins, who said, “Excuse me, commander, I thought it right at this time to introduce the young gentleman to my friends Mr. Burleigh and Mr. Stronginthearm. Lady Sybil would not be happy to see you arrested, commander. I fear that you would find her a bit…acerbic, sir.”
Vimes found his voice. “You’re a bloody fool, man! Put that damn thing down! You keep it on a hair trigger! Put it down right now!”
Willikins wordlessly set down the shining crossbow on the parapet of the staircase like a mother putting her baby to bed. There was a twang, and seventeen yards away a geranium was decapitated. This passed without notice, except by the geranium and a raggedy figure hiding in the rhododendrons, that said “Snack!” to itself, but resolutely carried on staring at Vimes.
The tableau of shock on the steps was interrupted by Lady Sybil, who could walk very quietly for a large woman. “Gentlemen, what is going on here?”
“This young man, allegedly the local policeman, wishes to take me into custody on a charge of suspicion of murder, my dear.”
There passed between husband and wife a look that deserved the status of telepathy. Sybil stared at Feeney. “Ah, you would be young Upshot, I suppose. I was sorry to hear about the death of your grandmother, and I do trust that your mother continues well. I used to visit her when I was a girl. And you want to arrest my husband, do you?”
Feeney, goggle-eyed, managed an unprofessional “Yes, ma’am.”
Sybil sighed and said sternly, “Well, then, can I hope that at least this can be done without further vegetable carnage?” She looked at Vimes. “Is he taking you to prison?”
She turned her attention back to Feeney, a man now confronted by a cannon loaded with a thousand years of upper-class self-assurance. “He’ll need fresh clothing, constable. If you tell me where you’re taking him, and you will tell me where you’re taking him, I’ll personally bring down suitable garments. Will I need to sew the stripes on them, or does that happen automatically? And I would be grateful if you had him back here by teatime, because we’re expecting visitors.”
Lady Sybil took a step forward and Feeney took a step backward to escape the wrath of the impending bosom. She said, “May I wish you the best of luck in your undertaking, young man. You’ll need it. Now please excuse me. I have to go and talk to the cook.”
She swept away, leaving the incredulous Feeney staring after her. Then the doors that had just closed behind her opened again, and she said, “Are you still a bachelor, young man?”
Feeney managed a “Yes.”
“Then you are invited to tea,” she said cheerfully. “There are some very eligible young ladies coming, and I’m sure that they will be most excited to see a young man who is prepared to dance on the very edge of hell. Do wear your helmet, Sam, in case there is any police brutality. Willikins, come with me. I want to have a talk to you!”
Vimes let the silence curdle. After too much of it, Feeney said, “Your wife is a very remarkable woman, sir.”
Vimes nodded. “You have no idea. What do you want to do now, chief constable?”
The boy hesitated. That was Sybil for you. Just by speaking calmly and confidently she could leave you believing that the world had turned upside down and dropped on to your head.
“Well, sir, I believe I must take you before the magistrat
es?”
Vimes noted the little question mark. “Who is your boss, Feeney?”
“The aforesaid bench of magistrates, sir.”
Vimes began to walk down the steps, and Feeney hurried after him. Vimes waited until the boy was racing, and then stopped dead so that he ran into Vimes. “Your boss is the law, chief constable, and don’t you forget it. In fact, one of the jobs of the magistrates is to make certain that you do not! Did you ever take an oath? What did it say? Who was it to?”
“Oh, I remember that all right, sir. It was to the bench of magistrates, sir.”
“It…was…what?! You made an oath to obey the magistrates? They can’t make you do that!” He stopped. Remember, in the country there is always somebody watching you, he thought, and probably listening too.
Feeney looked shocked, so Vimes said, “Get me down to your lockup, kid, and lock me in. And while you’re about it, lock yourself in with me. Don’t rush, don’t ask questions, and keep your voice down, apart from possibly saying things like ‘I have you bang to rights, you miscreant,’ and other rubbish of that general nature, because, young man, I believe somebody is in real difficulties here and I believe that person is you. If you have any sense, you’ll keep quiet and take me to your lockup, okay?”
Eyes wide, Feeney nodded.
It was a pleasant walk down to the lockup, which turned out to be on a small quay by the river. The area had all the semi-nautical detritus that a man might expect and there was a swing bridge, presumably to allow the bigger boats to pass. The sun shone and nothing was happening, in a slow sort of way. And then there was the much spoken of lockup. It looked like a giant pepperpot built of stone. A flowering creeper grew up it, and, next to the door and restrained by a chain, there was an enormous pig. When it saw their approach it got on its hind legs, and, tottering somewhat, begged.
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