Snuff

by Terry Pratchett

  Young Sam at this point had tired of petticoat company and had drifted over to an elderly goblin man who was working on a pot, and was watching with extreme fascination, to the apparent pleasure, as far as Vimes could tell, of the elderly goblin. That’s a lesson to us…I don’t know what kind of lesson, but it’s a lesson, he thought.

  Vimes waited until Miss Beedle returned from discussing the possible new fashion explosion with the girls, then politely asked her, “Did the victim have any unggue pots on her?”

  “I would be amazed if she hadn’t,” said Miss Beedle. “One or two at the very least, but probably the quite small ones for use during the day.”

  “I see,” said Vimes, “but were any found on her, er, afterward, I mean, if she was laid out?” He didn’t know what the protocol was and continued, “Look, Miss Beedle, is it possible that she had an unggue pot on her that’s now missing? I know they’re valuable, of course—they’re shiny.”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll go and ask the Cold Bone Wakes. He’s the head goblin. He’ll know.”

  That reminded Vimes. Feeling embarrassed, he delved into his pocket and took out a small package very, very carefully wrapped, and handed it to Miss Beedle with a pleading look. “I believe this belonged to the dead girl,” he said. “A stone ring with a little blue bead in it? Can you see that it gets to someone here who’ll value it?” All she had was a stone ring, he thought, and even that got taken away.

  There were times when the world did not need policemen, because what it really did need was for somebody who knew what they were doing to shut it all down and start it all up again so that this time it could be done properly…

  But before despair could entirely set in, Miss Beedle was back, and excited. “How apposite that you should ask that question, Commander! One of them was missing! Unggue cat!”

  Vimes could register absolute flat-faced incomprehension as well as any copper born. It radiated a searchlight of ignorance, but that was fine because Miss Beedle was prepared to be a fountainhead of information. “I’m sure you know what everybody knows, commander, which is that goblins do, I might say religiously, store certain bodily secretions in pots, in the belief that these must be reunited with their corpse when they are buried. This obligation is called unggue. All goblins must, by custom, which is very strict among goblins, maintain the Unggue Had, the trinity of snot, nail clippings and earwax. The missing pot in this case is the pot of cat, which contains nail clippings. Don’t get misled by the word ‘cat.’ Felines don’t come into the picture…it’s simply that there are only so many syllables in the world.”

  “And this is the first time you’ve heard that it’s missing, Miss Beedle?”

  “Well, this is my first time down here since yesterday, and it’s a difficult time to talk to her family, as you may imagine…”

  “I see,” said Vimes, though he didn’t, not very much—although he could sense a tiny bead of light growing in the darkness of his mind. He glanced again at Young Sam, who was studying the potmaker with every sign of forensic interest. That’s my boy. He continued, “Did they look for the pot?”

  “Looked everywhere, commander, even outside. And it’ll be quite small. You see, every goblin makes a set of pots which are kept deep inside the cave. I don’t know where they are, though in most other things they trust me. This is because humans steal pots. For this reason, most goblins make other comparatively small pots for daily use and for when they leave the cave, and decant them into the larger pots later, in secret.” She tried to smile, and said, “I’m sure this seems quite outlandish to you, commander, but the making and maintaining of the pots is to them a religion in itself.”

  At this point Samuel Vimes was not keen to be heard giving his views about pots, so he contented himself with saying, “Is it possible that another goblin might have stolen the pot? Anyway, what size is ‘quite small’?”

  Miss Beedle gave him a surprised look. “If you trust me on anything, commander, trust me on this. No goblin would dream of stealing another goblin’s pot. The concept of doing so would be totally alien to them, I assure you. The size? Oh, usually similar to a lady’s compact or perhaps a snuffbox. They have a shine on them like opals.”

  “Yes,” said Vimes, “I know,” and he thought bright colors in the dark. He said, “I don’t want to be difficult, but could I borrow another of the poor lady’s pots? I might need one to show people what it is I’m looking for.”

  Miss Beedle looked surprised again. “That would be impossible, but I think that if I talk to Tears of the Mushroom she might, just might, loan you one of hers, in which case I may say you will be a very special person, commander. A pot usually changes hands only because of distress, but Tears of the Mushroom spends a lot of time with me and has learned, shall I say, the uses of flexible thinking and, if I may say so, she has taken a little bit of a shine to you.”

  She walked away, leaving the startled Vimes and Young Sam to their own devices. Here and there, goblins were doing whatever they did, tending small fires, sleeping, or in many cases fussing with their pots. And a few just sat there staring blankly at nothing at all, like a policeman wondering how you spell phantasmagorical.

  And a new image dragged itself out of Vimes’s memory. It was of a lot of little blue men shouting, “Crivens!” Ah yes, the Nac Mac Feegle! They lived in holes in the ground as well. Admittedly, these were said to be rather more salubrious than this midden-ridden cave system, but however you looked at it, they were in the same situation as the goblins. They lived on the edge too, but they—they danced on the edge, they jumped up and down on it, made faces at it, thumbed their snotty noses at it, refused to see the peril of their situation and, in general, seemed to have a huge appetite for life, alcohol, adventure and alcohol. As a copper, he shouldn’t say it, because they could be a bloody nuisance, but there was something commendable about the cheerfully feisty way they faced, well, everything…

  Somebody tugged at his sleeve. He looked down into the face of Tears of the Mushroom, with Miss Beedle standing over her like a chaperone. The other goblin girls stood behind the pair of them like an Ephebian chorus.

  The solemn voice from the little face said, “Hearts must give, Mr. Po-leess-man.”

  With dreadfully bad timing, Miss Beedle broke in like an overactive schoolteacher, and Vimes was privately overjoyed to see a brief look of annoyance on Tears of the Mushroom’s face.

  “She means that if she is to trust you with a pot, then you must trust her with something equally valuable. I suppose you would call it a hostage situation.”

  No, I wouldn’t, Vimes thought, looking into the dark eyes of the goblin girl. That was a strange thing: when he got past the features, which at best could be considered homely, depending on what kind of home you had in mind, the eyes were as human as you could imagine. They had a depth that not even the brightest animal could achieve. He reached for his wallet, and Miss Beedle said sharply, “Money won’t do!”

  He ignored her and finished pulling out the picture of Young Sam that he took everywhere and carefully passed it to Tears of the Mushroom, who took it as if holding a rare and delicate object—which, from the point of view of Vimes, it certainly was. She looked at it, then down at the boy himself, who gave her a cheery smile, and her eyes confirmed that the grimace on her face was in fact an answering smile. For Young Sam, the goblin cave was an interesting fairyland. You had to admire his ability not to be immediately frightened of anything.

  Tears of the Mushroom looked back at the picture and then back at Young Sam and then at the face of Vimes. She tucked the picture carefully into her apron and pulled out her hand, holding a small, iridescent pot. She held it out to Vimes, her hand trembling slightly, and he found himself taking it gingerly in both hands. Then Tears of the Mushroom said in her strange voice, like a living filing cabinet, “Hearts have given.” Which almost brought Vimes to his knees.

  He thought: it could just as well have been her head grinning on the pub wall! Som
eone is going to burn!

  In the back of his mind a cheerful voice said, “Well done, Commander Vimes, at last you are singing from my hymn sheet!”

  He ignored it, feeling the little pot; it was as smooth as skin. Whatever it was made to contain, and he wasn’t going to ask, the contents were masked by a carved latticework of flowers and mushrooms.

  In the cool depths of his cellar, Mr. Jiminy the publican was preparing for the evening rush when he heard a sound in the darkness among the barrels. He dismissed it as being yet another rat until a hand was clamped over his mouth.

  “Excuse me, sir, I have reason to believe that you can help me with my inquiries.” The man struggled, but Vimes knew every trick when it came to apprehending a suspect. He hissed, “You know who I am, sir, and I know what you are. We’re both coppers and we’ve been around the houses. You said that the barman sees everything, hears everything and says nothing, and I’m a fair man, Mr. Jiminy, but I’m investigating a murder. A murder, sir, the capital crime, and maybe something much, much worse. So excuse me if I take the view that those who aren’t behind me are standing in my way, with all that that entails.”

  Jiminy was running out of breath now, and squirming feebly. “Oh, too much of the booze and too little walking the beat, I fancy,” said Vimes. “Now, I would not ask a man to break the barman’s solemn oath, so when I take my hand away, we’ll sit down peacefully and play a little game of charades. I’m letting go…now.”

  The barman wheezed a curse, and added, “You didn’t need to do that, commander. I’ve got a bad chest, you know!”

  “Not as bad as it might otherwise be, Mr. Jiminy. And now a word on the subject of being too clever.”

  The publican glared as Vimes went on, “I’m strictly a copper. I don’t kill people unless they’re trying to kill me. You may be aware of my batman, Mr. Willikins. You saw him the other day. Regrettably he’s more direct, and also extremely loyal. A few years ago, to save my family, he killed an armed dwarf with a common ice knife. And he has other talents: among them, I have to say, is that he can iron a shirt as crisply as any man I know. And, as I say, very loyal indeed. C’mon, Jiminy. I’m a copper and you’re a copper. You’re still a copper whatever you say—the stain never leaves you. You know what I can do and I know what you can do and you’re smart enough to choose the right side.”

  “All right, you don’t need to rub it in,” Jiminy grumbled. “We both know about the ins and outs.” His voice was suddenly and almost theatrically helpful as he crooned, “How may I help you, officer, just like the good citizen that I am?”

  Vimes carefully pulled out of his coat the little pot. It was indeed about the size of a snuffbox. The incongruity was not lost on Vimes: in one pocket he held the glorious gem, quite likely the repository of goblin snot, and in the other he had his own small snuffbox. How hilarious would it be if he’d mixed them up?

  Jiminy certainly reacted when he saw it, although he probably thought he hadn’t. There is a subtle difference between hiding your reaction and showing that you are hiding your reaction.

  “All right, all right, Mr. Vimes, you’re right. We don’t have to play games, old coppers like us. I give in. I know what that is. Seen one like it recently, as a matter of fact.”

  “And?”

  “I can give you a name, Mr. Vimes. ’Cos why? Cause he’s a nut job, a toe rag, and he ain’t from around here. Name of Stratford, or so they call him. A knife cove, the kind of bloke you never want to see walk through your pub door, I don’t mind telling you. He isn’t often here, thank goodness. The other day was the first time I’ve seen him in months. I don’t know where he kips, but the snotty bugger he was hanging out with is called Ted Flutter, works for young Lord Rust up at Hangnail. His lordship is big in tobacco, so they tell me.” Jiminy stopped.

  Vimes interpreted this in exactly the way Jiminy wanted, he was sure. Lord Rust was up to something, Jiminy was insinuating, and throwing a bone to Vimes to get the man off his back. Some people would have thought this despicable, but the man was an ex-policeman, after all.

  Jiminy gave a little cough as he endeavored to find another victim for Vimes to pursue. “But Flutter, well, you know, he’s just a bloke. If someone needs help for something or other, he’s the kind of bloke who’d be the lookout or be told to take away the bones. When not up to mischief I think he hangs wallpaper and runs a turkey farm up on the road toward Overhang. You can’t miss it, it’s a stinky ol’ place and he doesn’t take care of his birds. Not entirely all there, in my opinion.”

  Vimes seized his opening. “Tobacco, eh? Oh yes, Mr. Jiminy, I did think I smelled rather more tobacco down here than might otherwise be expected, and, of course, as a policeman, it’s something that I’ll have to look into, perhaps, when time allows.” He winked, and Jiminy nodded knowingly.

  With the atmosphere now tentatively upbeat, Jiminy said, “They brings a few barrels up here some nights and then picks it up again as and when. All right, I know it’s the revenue and all that, but I don’t see the harm. And since we understand one another so well, Mr. Vimes, I’ve been here for only three years. I know there was some stuff way back, maybe they did scrag a few goblins, I don’t know, not my business. Don’t know why, don’t know who, if you get my meaning?” Jiminy was sweating like a pig, Vimes noticed.

  There are times when reacting the way that simple, common decency requires fails to serve a higher purpose, and because of this Vimes merely gave the man a little smile and said, “One day, Mr. Jiminy, I’ll bring a lady here. I think she’d be very interested to see your establishment.”

  Jiminy was puzzled but had the grace to say, “I’ll look forward to it, commander.”

  “What I’m trying to say,” said Vimes, “is that if this pub still has the head of a goblin hanging over the bar the next time I’m here there’ll be a mysterious fire, do you understand? No doubt you want to keep in with young Lord Rust and his chums, because it always pays to keep in with the powerful. I know that well enough. You’ll find me a good friend, Mr. Jiminy, and I’d like to suggest to you that it would not be in your interest to have Commander Vimes as your enemy. Just a word to the wise, you know, one copper to another.”

  With forced cheerfulness Jiminy said, in a voice that dripped butter and sugar, “No one ever said that Constable Jiminy didn’t know how the wind was blowing, and since you’ve been so gracious as to visit my humble establishment I think I can take the view that the wind has begun to blow due Vimes.”

  Vimes lifted the cellar hatch to depart and said, “Oh, so do I, Mr. Jiminy, so do I, and if ever the weathercock decides to blow the other way, I’ll bite its bloody head off.”

  Jiminy smiled uncertainly and said, “Do you have jurisdiction here, commander?”

  And was dragged by the shirt to within an inch of Vimes’s face, eyeball to eyeball, and Vimes said, “Try me.”

  Feeling rather chirpy after this interlude, Vimes jogged to the lane that led to the hill and found Miss Beedle and Tears of the Mushroom at the door of the cottage. By the look of it they had been picking apples; several baskets of fruit had been piled up. He thought that Tears of the Mushroom smiled when she saw him, although how could you tell, really? Goblin faces were hard to read.

  The pot was dutifully traded back for the picture, and Vimes couldn’t help noticing, because he always made a point of noticing, that both he and the girl tried surreptitiously to examine their precious items without causing offense. He was sure he heard Miss Beedle stifle a sigh of relief. “Did you find the murderer?” she said, leaning forward anxiously. She turned to the girl. “Go inside, dear, while I talk to Commander Vimes, will you?”

  “Yes, Miss Beedle, I will go inside as you request.”

  There it was again: a language of little boxes, opening and shutting as required. The girl disappeared into the house, and Vimes said, “I have information that two men were in the pub on the night of the murder, and one of them certainly had a pot. Neither of them, I’ve been l
ed to believe, was a pillar of society.”

  Miss Beedle clapped her hands. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? You have them bang to rights!”

  It always embarrassed Samuel Vimes when civilians tried to speak to him in what they thought was “policeman.” If it came to that, he hated thinking of them as civilians. What was a policeman, if not a civilian with a uniform and a badge? But they tended to use the term these days as a way of describing people who were not policemen. It was a dangerous habit: once policemen stopped being civilians the only other thing they could be was soldiers. He sighed. “As far as I know, miss, it is not illegal to have a goblin pot. Neither is it, strictly speaking, illegal to be described as not a pillar of society. Do goblins sign their pots in some way?”

  “Oh yes, indeed, commander, goblin pots are always distinctive. Do these criminals have a modus operandi?”

  Vimes’s heart sank. “No, and I don’t think they’d know one if they saw it.” He tried to say this firmly, because Miss Beedle looked as if she would at any moment turn out with a magnifying glass and a bloodhound.

  Then, falling across his world like a rainbow of sound, came music, drifting out of the open cottage window. He listened with his mouth open, entirely forgetting the conversation.

  His Grace the Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, was not a man who made a point of frequenting performances of classical music, or indeed any music that you couldn’t whistle on the way home. But apparently being a nob carried with it a requirement to attend the opera, the ballet and as many musical events as Sybil could drag him to. Fortunately, they generally had a box, and Sybil, very wisely, having dragged him to the performance, did not subsequently drag him into consciousness. But some of it seeped through and it was enough for him to know that what he was hearing was the real, highbrow stuff: you couldn’t hum it, and at no point did anybody shout “Whoops! Have a banana!” It was the pure quill of music, a sound that came close to making you want to fall on your knees and promise to be a better person. He turned wordlessly to Miss Beedle, who said, “She’s very good, isn’t she?”