Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

Vimes looked around at the now-familiar surroundings of the Yard. “Oh,” he said.

“Me and Nobby have been doing some detector-ing,” said Colon. “You know that house that got melted? Well, no-one lives there. It's just rooms that get hired out. So we found out who hires them. There's a caretaker who goes along every night to put the chairs away and lock up. He wasn't half creating about it being burned down. You know what caretakers are like.”

He stood back, waiting for the applause.

“Well done,” said Vimes dutifully, dunking the figgin into the tea.

“There's three societies use it,” said Colon. He extracted his notebook. “To wit, viz, The Ankh-Morpork Fine Art Appreciation Society, hem hem, the Morpork Folk-Dance and Song Club, and the Elucidated Brethren of the Ebon Night.”

“Why hem hem?” said Vimes.

“Well, you know. Fine Art. It's just men paintin' pictures of young wimmin in the nudd. The altogether,” explained Colon the connoisseur. “The caretaker told me. Some of them don't even have any paint on their brushes, you know. Shameful.”

There must be a million stories in the naked city, thought Vimes. So why do I always have to listen to ones like these?

“When do they meet?” he said.

“Mondays, 7.30, admission ten pence,” said Colon, promptly. “As for the folk-dance people-well, no problem there. You know you always wondered what Corporal Nobbs does on his evenings off?”

Colon's face split into a watermelon grin.

“No!” said Vimes incredulously. “Not Nobby?”

“Yep!” said Colon, delighted at the result.

“What, jumping about with bells on and waving his hanky in the air?”

“He says it is important to preserve old folkways,” said Colon.

"Nobby? Mr Steel-toecaps-in-the-groin, I-was-just-checking-the-doorhandle-and-it-opened-all-by-itself ?''

“Yeah! Funny old world, ain't it? He was very bashful about it.”

“Good grief,” said Vimes.

“It just goes to show, you never can tell,” said Colon. “Anyway, the caretaker said the Elucidated Brethren always leave the place in a mess. Scuffed chalk marks on the floor, he said. And they never put the chairs back properly or wash out the tea urn. They've been meeting a lot lately, he said. The nuddy wimmin painters had to meet somewhere else last week.”

“What did you do with our suspect?” said Vimes.

“Him? Oh, he done a runner, Captain,” said the sergeant, looking embarrassed.

“Why? He didn't look in any shape to run anywhere.”

“Well, when we got back here, we sat him down by the fire and wrapped him up because he kept on shivering,” said Sergeant Colon, as Vimes buckled his armour on.

“I hope you didn't eat his pizzas.”

“Errol et 'em. It's the cheese, see, it goes all-”

“Goon.”

“Well,” said Colon awkwardly, “he kept on shivering, sort of thing, and groaning on about dragons and that. We felt sorry for him, to tell the truth. And then he jumps up and runs out of the door for no reason at all.”

Vimes glanced at the sergeant's big, open, dishonest face.

“No reason?” he prompted.

“Well, we decided to have a bite, so I sent Nobby out to the baker's, see, and, well, we fought the prisoner ought to have something to eat . . .”