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?”
“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.