Vimes had found old Stoneface's journal in the Unseen University library. The man had been hard, no doubt about that. But they were hard times. He'd written: 'In the Fyres of Struggle let us bake New Men, who Will Notte heed the old Lies.' But the old lies had won in the end.
He said to people: you're free. And they said hooray, and then he showed them what freedom costs and they called him a tyrant and, as soon as he'd been betrayed, they milled around a bit like barn-bred chickens who've seen the big world outside for the first time, and then they went back into the warm and shut the door -
'Bing bong bingely beep.'
Vimes sighed and pulled out his organizer.
'Yes?'
'Memo: Appointment with bootmaker, 2pm,' said the imp.
'It's not two o'clock yet and that was Tuesday in any case,' said Vimes.
'So I'll cross it off the list of Things To Do, then?'
Vimes put the disorganized organizer back in his pocket and went and looked out of the window again.
Who had a motive for poisoning Lord Vetinari?
No, that wasn't the way to crack it. Probably, if you went to some outlying area of the city and confined your investigations to little old ladies who didn't get out much, what with all the wallpaper over the door and everything, you might be able to find someone without a motive. But the man stayed alive by always arranging matters so that a future without him represented a riskier business than a future with him still upright.
The only people, therefore, who'd risk killing him were madmen - and the gods knew Ankh-Morpork had enough of them - or someone who was absolutely confident that if the city collapsed he'd be standing on top of the pile.
If Fred were right - and the sergeant was generally a good indicator of how the man in the street thought because he was the man in the street - then that person was Captain Carrot. But Carrot was one of the few people in the city who seemed to like Vetinari.
Of course, there was one other person who stood to gain.
Damn, thought Vimes. It's me, isn't it...
There was another knock at the door. He didn't recognize this one.
He opened the door cautiously.
'It's me, sir. Littlebottom.'
'Come in, then.' It was nice to know there was at least one person in the world with more problems than him. 'How is his lordship?'
'Stable,' said Littlebottom.
'Dead is stable,' said Vimes.
'I mean he's alive, sir, and sitting up reading. Mr Doughnut made up some sticky stuff that tasted of seaweed, sir, and I mixed up some Gloobool's Salts. Sir, you know the old man in the house on the bridge?'
'What old... oh. Yes.' It seemed a long time ago. 'What about him?'
'Well... you asked me to look around and ... I took some pictures. This is one, sir.' He handed Vimes a rectangle that was nearly all black.
'Odd. Where'd you get it?'
'Er... have you ever heard the story about dead men's eyes, sir?'
'Assume I haven't had a literary education, Littlebottom.'
'Well... they say...'
'Who say?'
'They, sir. You know, they.'