'Mmm?' she said.
'Oi don't know. Shall I ask him to go away?' said a voice from around keyhole level.
Angua thought quickly. The other residents had warned her about this. She waited for her cue.
'Oh, thanks, love. Oi was forgetting,' said the voice.
You had to pick your time, with Mrs Cake. It was difficult, living in a house run by someone whose mind was only nominally attached to the present. Mrs Cake was a psychic.
'You've got your precognition switched on again, Mrs Cake,' said Angua, swinging her legs out of bed and rummaging quickly through the pile of clothes on the chair.
'Where'd we got to?' said Mrs Cake, still on the other side of the door.
'You just said, “I don't know, shall I ask him to go away?” Mrs Cake,' said Angua. Clothes! That was always the trouble! At least a male werewolf only had to worry about a pair of shorts and pretend he'd been on a brisk run.
'Right.' Mrs Cake coughed. ' “There's a young man downstairs asking for you”,' she said.
' “Who is it?”,' said Angua.
There was a moment's silence.
'Yes, oi think that's all sorted out,' said Mrs Cake. 'Sorry, dear. Oi get terrible headaches if'n people don't fill in the right bits. Are you human, dear?'[12]
'You can come in, Mrs Cake.'
It wasn't much of a room. It was mainly brown. Brown oilcloth flooring, brown walls, a picture over the brown bed of a brown stag being attacked by brown dogs on a brown moorland against a sky which, contrary to established meteorological knowledge, was brown. There was a brown wardrobe. Possibly, if you fought your way through the mysterious old coats[13] hanging in it, you'd break through into a magical fairyland full of talking animals and goblins, but it'd probably not be worth it.
Mrs Cake entered. She was a small fat woman, but made up for her lack of height by wearing a huge black hat; not the pointy witch variety, but one covered with stuffed birds, wax fruit and other assorted decorative items, all painted black. Angua quite liked her. The rooms were clean,[14] the rates were cheap, and Mrs Cake had a very understanding approach to people who lived slightly unusual lives and had, for. example, an aversion to garlic. Her daughter was a werewolf and she knew all about the need for ground floor windows and doors with long handles that a paw could operate.
'He's got chainmail on,' said Mrs Cake. She was holding a bucket of gravel in either hand. 'He's got soap in his ears, too.'
'Oh. Er. Right.'
'Oi can tell 'im to bugger off if you like,' said Mrs Cake. 'That's what I allus does if the wrong sort comes round.
Especially if they've got a stake. I can't be having with that sort of thing, people messing up the hallways, waving torches and stuff.'
produced a large red and white handkerchief and blew his nose with a humorous honking sound.
'Classic,' he said. 'It's what he would have wanted.'
'Have you any idea what happened?' said Colon.
'Oh, yes. Brother Grineldi did the old heel-and-toe trick and tipped the urn down—'
'I mean, why did Beano die?'
'Um. We think it was an accident,' said Boffo.
'An accident,' said Colon flatly.
'Yes. That's what Dr Whiteface thinks.' Boffo glanced upwards, briefly. They followed his gaze. The rooftops of the Assassins' Guild adjoined the Fools' Guild. It didn't do to upset neighbours like that, especially when the only weapon you had was a custard pie edged with short-crust pastry.
'That's what Dr Whiteface thinks,' said Boffo again, looking at his enormous shoes.
Sergeant Colon liked a quiet life. And the city could spare a clown or two. In his opinion, the loss of the whole boiling could only make the world a slightly happier place. And yet . . . and yet . . . honestly, he didn't know what had got into the Watch lately. It was Carrot, that wras what it was. Even old Vimes had picked it up. We don't let things lie any more . . .
'Maybe he was cleaning a club, sort of thing, and it accidentally went off,' said Nobby. He'd caught it, too.