Discworld 39 - Snuff

by Terry Pratchett

  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 led 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 w
ith 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?”

  “That’s a harp, isn’t it? A goblin playing a harp?”

  Miss Beedle seemed embarrassed by the fuss. “Certainly, why shouldn’t she? Strangely enough, her large hands are suited to the instrument. I don’t think she understands the concept of reading music yet, and I have to help her tune it, but she does play very well. Heaven knows where she’s getting the music from … ”

  “Heaven?” said Vimes, adding urgently, “How long will she be playing? Have I got time to bring Sybil over here?” He didn’t wait for an answer but hurried off down the lane, clambered over a gate, caused a flock of sheep to explode in all directions, swore at a kissing gate, jumped over the ha-ha, completely ignored the he-he and totally avoided the ho-hum. He hurtled down the drive, scampered up the steps and, providentially, went through the front door at exactly the same time as a footman swung it open.

  Sybil was taking tea with a group of ladies, which appeared to be obligatory procedure in the afternoons, but Vimes leaned against the wall and panted out, “You must come and listen to this music! Bring Young Sam! Bring these ladies if they want to come, but whatever you do, come on! I’ve never heard anything so good!”

  Sybil looked around. “Well, we were just breaking up, Sam. You know, you look very flushed. Is anything the matter?” She looked imploringly at her friends, who were already rising in their seats, and said, “I do hope you’ll forgive me, ladies. It’s so very difficult being the wife of an important man.” There was a slight barb to the last syllable. “I’m sure, Sam, that whatever it is can wait until I’ve said goodbye to my guests, yes?”

  And so Sam Vimes shook hands, smiled, shook hands, smiled and fretted until the last twitterer had tweeted and the last lady had left.

  Having seen the final carriage away, Lady Sybil came back in, flopped into a chair in front of Sam and listened to Vimes’s garbled account.

  “And this is that young goblin girl Miss Beedle has been teaching to talk?”

  Vimes was almost frantic. “Yes! And she plays wonderful music! Wonderful!”

  “Sam Vimes, when I take you to a concert you fall asleep in ten minutes. Do you know what? You’ve convinced me. Let’s go, shall we?”

  “Where?” said Vimes, in husbandly confusion.

  Sybil affected surprise. “Why, to hear the young lady play the harp, of course. I thought that was what you wanted. I’ll go and get my jacket while you find Young Sam, please? He’s in the laboratory.”

  For Vimes, bewilderment was now accumulating. “The … ”

  “The laboratory, Sam! You know my family were famous meddlers, don’t you? Willikins is in there with him, and I believe they’re dissecting some, shall I say, excrement? Make certain they’ve both washed their hands—thoroughly,” she added, on the way out of the room. “And tell them I was emphatic, and tell Young Sam what emphatic means!”

  The coach stood empty in the lane. They hadn’t dared knock on the door, not while that heavenly music was drifting out of the cottage window. Sybil was in tears, but often she looked up, and said things like, “That shouldn’t be possible on a harp!” Even Young Sam was transfixed, standing there with his little mouth open, while the music rushed in and, for a moment upon the world, lifted all hearts and forgave all sins—not having its work cut out in the case of Young Sam, a part of Vimes managed to reflect, but doing a sterling and heavyweight job on his father. And when the music stopped Young Sam said, “More!” and that went for his parents, too. They stood there, not looking at one another, and then the cottage door opened and Miss Beedle stepped out.

  “I saw you out there, of course. Do come in, but quietly. I’ve made lemonade.” She led them through the hall and turned into the living room.

  Tears of the Mushroom must have been forewarned by Miss Beedle. She sat on a chair next to the harp with her oversized hands clasped demurely over her apron. Wordlessly, Young Sam walked over to her and cuddled her leg. The goblin girl looked panicky and Vimes said, “Don’t worry, he just wants to show that he loves you.” And he thought, I’ve just told a goblin not to be frightened of my son because he loves her and the world has turned upside-down and all sins are forgiven, except possibly mine.

  As the coach rattled gently back toward Ramkin Hall Lady Sybil said quietly to Vimes, “I understand that the young lady goblin who was …murdered could play the harp as well as Miss Mushroom.”

  Vimes stirred from his inner thoughts and said, “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh yes,” said Sybil, in a curiously chatty voice. “Apparently Miss Beedle wants young goblin girls to have something to be proud of.” She cleared her throat, and, after a pause, said, “Do you have any suspects, Sam?”

  “Oh yes, two. I have the testimony of a reliable witness that they were in the area after the event, and I’m beginning to consider a chain of events that might lead me also to the whereabouts of Mr. Jefferson the smith. This is the countryside, after all. Everyone sees where you go and you never know who is behind a hedge. I believe they may have heard him invite me to Dead Man’s Copse on what The Times would call ‘that fateful night.’ ”

  Sybil looked down at Young Sam, dozing between them, and said, “Do you know where they live?”

  “Yes, one of them at least. I think the other one just hangs around, as they say.” And now the rattle of gravel under wheel told them that they were going down the long drive.

  Sybil cleared her throat again, and in a quiet voice said, “I fear you may have felt that I was being rather acerbic to you, Sam, on the subject of letting your professional concerns get in the way of our holiday. I may, at times, have been somewhat …blunt.”

  “Not at all, Sybil, I fully understood your concern.”

  It seemed that Lady Sybil really could have done with some cough drops, but she carried on carefully and said, “Sam, I’d be very grateful if you could see your way clear to perhaps taking Willikins with you to wherever it is that these scoundrels poison the world with their existence, and bring them to justice, if you would be so good.”

  He could feel her trembling with rage and said, “I was considering doing so as soon as possible, my dear, but I must tell you that things may not go entirely in accordance with the rulebook. After all, I’m out of my jurisdiction here.”

  But his wife said, “You’re a stickler for the book, Sam, and I admire that, but the jurisdiction of a good man extends to the end of the world—though who will you take them to? Havelock would hang them, you know that. But he’s a long way away. Nonetheless, Sam, I am certain of one thing and it’s this: the worst thing you can do is nothing. Go to it, Sam.”

  “Actually, Sybil, I was considering delivering them to the local justices.”

  “What? They’re a terrible bunch, apparently using what they call the law here for their own ends! There’ll be an enormous stink!”


  Vimes smiled. “Oh dear, do you really think so?”

  There was no point going to bed, thought Vimes later that evening, and so he kissed his wife goodnight and went to the snooker room where Willikins was idly demonstrating one of the more socially acceptable skills he had learned during a misspent youth. The man straightened up when Vimes walked in and said, “Good evening, commander. Would you like a sustaining drink to be going on with?”

  Vimes also indulged in a rare cigar because, well, what good is a snooker room without smoke twisting among the lights and turning the air a desolate blue, the color of dead hopes and lost chances?

  Willikins, who knew the protocol, waited until Vimes had made his shot before coughing gently. “Oh, well done, sir, and I understand her ladyship is somewhat vexed about the goblin situation, sir. I believe this to be the case, sir, because I met her in the corridor earlier and she used language I haven’t heard on the lips of a woman since my old mother passed away, gods bless her soul, if they can find it. But, well done again, sir.”

  Vimes laid his cue aside. “I want to get them all, Willikins. It’s no good slamming up some local thug.”

  “Yes indeed, commander, it’s all about potting the black.”

  Vimes looked up from his fiery drink. “I can see you must have played a lot in your time, Willikins. Did you ever see Pelvic Williams? Very religious man in his way, lived somewhere in Hen-and-Chickens Court with his sister, played like I’ve never seen anyone else play before or since. I swear he could make a ball jump the table, roll along the edge and drop back onto the cloth just where he wanted it, to drop neatly into the pocket.” Vimes gave a grunt of satisfaction, and went on, “Of course, everyone used to say that was cheating, but he used to stand there, as meek as milk, just repeating ‘The ball dropped.’ Tell you the truth, the reason he never got beaten up was that it was an education watching the man. He once sank a ball by bouncing it off the lamp and a pint mug. But, like he said, the ball dropped.” Vimes relaxed and said, “The trouble is, of course, that in real life rules are more stringent.”