Vimes stared at her and thought, she’s probably telling the truth. “He’s not hiding in some part of the mine, is he?”
“No, I’ve looked. I’ve looked everywhere. No note, nothing. And his parents have no idea either. He’s a bit of a free spirit, but he’s not the sort of person to go away without telling me.” She looked down, clearly embarrassed.
The silence said a lot. Vimes broke it by saying, “The murder of that poor girl on the hill will not go unpunished while I live. I’m taking it personally, you might say. I think someone was trying to set me up and mud sticks.” He paused. “Tell me—these pots the goblins make. Do they carry them around all the time?”
“Well, yes, of course, but only the ones they’re filling at the moment, obviously,” said Miss Beedle, with a trace of annoyance. “Is this relevant?”
“Well, a policeman, you might say, thinks in goblin language: everything is contingent on everything else. Incidentally, how many other people know that you have a tunnel into the hill?”
“What makes you think I have a tunnel going into the hill?”
“Let me see now. This place is practically at the foot of the hill, and if I lived here I’d have dug out a decent wine cellar for myself. That’s one reason, and the other is because I saw the flash in your eyes when I asked you the question. Would you like me to ask you the question again?”
The woman opened her mouth to speak, and Vimes raised a finger. “Not finished yet. What isn’t as simple is the fact that the other day you arrived in the cave without anybody seeing you walk up the hill. Everyone tells me that there are eyes watching you everywhere in the country and, as luck would have it, I had a few working for me yesterday. Please don’t waste my time. You’ve committed no crime that I know of—you understand being kind to goblins is not a crime?” He thought about that and added, “Although perhaps some people round here might think it is. But I don’t and I’m not stupid, Miss Beedle. I saw that goblin head in the pub. It looked as if it’s been there for years. Now, I just want to go back up to the cave without anybody seeing me, if you don’t mind, because I have a few questions to ask.”
Miss Beedle said, “You want to interrogate the goblins?”
“No, that word suggests that I mean to bully them. I simply have to obtain the information I need to know before I start to investigate the murder of the girl. If you don’t want to help me, I’m afraid that will be your choice.”
The next day Sergeant Colon did not turn up for work. Mrs. Colon sent a note around by a boy as soon as she got back from work herself.*
There was nothing romantic about Fred Colon when she got home, and so after sweeping the floor, doing the washing-up, wiping all the surfaces and spending some time teasing out the lumps of mud that had got caught on the doormat, she made haste to Pseudopolis Yard—after visiting her friend Mildred who had a rather nice porcelain jug and basin set she wanted to sell. When she eventually got to the Watch House she explained that Fred was terribly poorly, and sweating cobs and gabbling about rabbits.
Sergeant Littlebottom was sent to investigate, and returned looking solemn as she climbed the steps to Vimes’s office, now occupied by Captain Carrot. You could tell he was the occupant now not simply because he was sitting in the chair, which was a persuasive hint, but also because all the paperwork was done and aligned, a trait which always impressed Inspector A. E. Pessimal, a small man who had the heart of a lion and the physical strength of a kitten and the face, disposition and general demeanor that would make even hardened accountants say, “Just look at him. Doesn’t he look like a typical accountant to you?”
But this didn’t worry the lion heart of A. E. Pessimal. He was the Watch’s secret weapon. There wasn’t a bookkeeper in the city who would like to see a visit from A. E. Pessimal unless, of course, he was perfectly innocent—although generally that could be ruled out, because Mr. and Mrs. Pessimal’s little boy could track an error all the way through the ledger and down into the cellar where the real books had been hidden. And all Inspector A. E. Pessimal wanted for his genius was a meticulously calculated wage and a chance, every now and again, to go out on the streets with a real policeman, swinging his truncheon and glaring at trolls.
Carrot leaned back. “So how’s Fred getting on, Cheery?”
“Nothing much that I can see, really, um…”
“That was a big um, Cheery.”
The trouble was that Captain Carrot had a friendly, honest and open face, that made you want to tell him things. It didn’t help that Sergeant Littlebottom held a small torch for the captain, even though he was well and truly spoken for—he was also a dwarf, well, technically, and you can’t help how you dream. “Well…” she began reluctantly.
Carrot leaned forward. “Yes, Cheery?”
She gave in. “Well, sir, it’s unggue. You come from Copperhead…Did you run into many goblins up there?”
“No, but I know that unggue is their religion, if you can call it that.”
Cheery Littlebottom shook her head, trying to get out of her mind some speculation about the part a reasonably high stool might play in a relationship, and telling herself that Sergeant Hammer-of-Gold, over in the Dolly Sisters Watch House, caught her eye every time she was busily catching his eye when they happened to meet on patrol, and was probably a really good catch if she could pluck up the courage to ask him if he was actually male.* She said, “Unggue is not a religion, it’s a superstition. The goblins don’t believe in Tak,* sir, they’re savages, scavengers, but…” She hesitated again. “There’s something I was told once, and it’s unbelievable, but sometimes they eat their babies, sir, or at least, the mother will eat her child, her newborn child, if there’s famine. Can you believe that?”
Carrot’s mouth dropped open for a moment, and then a small voice said, “Yes, I think I can, sergeant, if you would excuse my saying so.”
A. E. Pessimal looked defiantly at their expressions and tried to stand a little straighter. “It’s a matter of logic, you see? No food? But the mother may survive by reconsuming the child, as it were, whereas, if all other food has been exhausted, then the child will die. In fact the child is dead as soon as the conundrum is postulated. The mother, on the other hand, might, by so doing, survive for long enough for more food to be found and become available, and in the course of time may bear another child.”
“You know, that is a very accountancy thing to say!” said Cheery.
A. E. Pessimal remained calm. “Thank you, Sergeant Littlebottom, I shall take that as a compliment because the logic is impeccable. It’s what is known as the dreadful logic of necessity. I’m well versed in the logistics of survival situations.”
The chair creaked as Captain Carrot leaned forward. “No offense meant, Inspector Pessimal, but may I enquire as to what kind of issues of survival arise during double-entry bookkeeping?”
A. E. Pessimal sighed. “It can get pretty hazardous as the end of the fiscal year draws near, captain. However, I take your point and would like you to understand that I believe I have read every single memoir, manual, log, and message in a bottle—by which I mean, of course, message taken from a bottle—that is currently available, and I can assure you that you would be amazed at the terrible decisions that sometimes have to be made by a group of people so that some, if not all, may live. Classically we have the shipwrecked sailors adrift in an open boat far on the ocean with succor extremely unlikely. Generally, the procedure is to eat one another’s legs, although sooner or later the supply of legs is going to run, if I may use the word, out; and then arises the question who will die so that some may live. Dreadful algebra, captain.” Only then did A. E. Pessimal blush. “I’m sorry. I know that I am a small, weak man, but I have amassed a large library; I dream of dangerous places.”
“Perhaps you should walk through the Shades, inspector,” said Carrot, “you wouldn’t have to dream. Do carry on, Chee
ry.”