Snuff (Discworld 39)

Sybil cleared her throat again, and in a quiet voice said, “I fear you may have felt that I was being rather acerbic to you, Sam, on the subject of letting your professional concerns get in the way of our holiday. I may, at times, have been somewhat…blunt.”

“Not at all, Sybil, I fully understood your concern.”

It seemed that Lady Sybil really could have done with some cough drops, but she carried on carefully and said, “Sam, I’d be very grateful if you could see your way clear to perhaps taking Willikins with you to wherever it is that these scoundrels poison the world with their existence, and bring them to justice, if you would be so good.”

He could feel her trembling with rage and said, “I was considering doing so as soon as possible, my dear, but I must tell you that things may not go entirely in accordance with the rulebook. After all, I’m out of my jurisdiction here.”

But his wife said, “You’re a stickler for the book, Sam, and I admire that, but the jurisdiction of a good man extends to the end of the world—though who will you take them to? Havelock would hang them, you know that. But he’s a long way away. Nonetheless, Sam, I am certain of one thing and it’s this: the worst thing you can do is nothing. Go to it, Sam.”

“Actually, Sybil, I was considering delivering them to the local justices.”

“What? They’re a terrible bunch, apparently using what they call the law here for their own ends! There’ll be an enormous stink!”

Vimes smiled. “Oh dear, do you really think so?”

There was no point going to bed, thought Vimes later that evening, and so he kissed his wife goodnight and went to the snooker room where Willikins was idly demonstrating one of the more socially acceptable skills he had learned during a misspent youth. The man straightened up when Vimes walked in and said, “Good evening, commander. Would you like a sustaining drink to be going on with?”

Vimes also indulged in a rare cigar because, well, what good is a snooker room without smoke twisting among the lights and turning the air a desolate blue, the color of dead hopes and lost chances?

Willikins, who knew the protocol, waited until Vimes had made his shot before coughing gently. “Oh, well done, sir, and I understand her ladyship is somewhat vexed about the goblin situation, sir. I believe this to be the case, sir, because I met her in the corridor earlier and she used language I haven’t heard on the lips of a woman since my old mother passed away, gods bless her soul, if they can find it. But, well done again, sir.”

Vimes laid his cue aside. “I want to get them all, Willikins. It’s no good slamming up some local thug.”

“Yes

indeed, commander, it’s all about potting the black.”

Vimes looked up from his fiery drink. “I can see you must have played a lot in your time, Willikins. Did you ever see Pelvic Williams? Very religious man in his way, lived somewhere in Hen-and-Chickens Court with his sister, played like I’ve never seen anyone else play before or since. I swear he could make a ball jump the table, roll along the edge and drop back onto the cloth just where he wanted it, to drop neatly into the pocket.” Vimes gave a grunt of satisfaction, and went on, “Of course, everyone used to say that was cheating, but he used to stand there, as meek as milk, just repeating ‘The ball dropped.’ Tell you the truth, the reason he never got beaten up was that it was an education watching the man. He once sank a ball by bouncing it off the lamp and a pint mug. But, like he said, the ball dropped.” Vimes relaxed and said, “The trouble is, of course, that in real life rules are more stringent.”

“Yes indeed, commander,” said Willikins. “Where I used to play the only rule was that after you’d hit your opponent over the head with your cue you had to be able to run very fast. I understand from her ladyship that you might be requiring my assistance tonight?”

“Yes, please. We’re going to the village of Hangnails. It’s about twenty miles upriver.”

Willikins nodded. “Yes indeed, sir, once the seat of the Hangnail family and most notably of Lord Justice Hangnail, who famously declared that he never took account of any plea of not guilty on the basis that ‘criminals always lie’ and was, by happy chance, the Worshipful Master of the Benevolent Company of Rope Makers and Braiders. With any luck, we’ll not see his like again.”

“Excellent, Willikins, and we’ll stop en route to pick up our keen young local constable, who’ll see fair play. I intend to make sure of that.”

“Glad to hear it, sir,” said Willikins, “but bear this in mind: what does it matter once the ball has dropped?”

It was Mrs. Upshot who opened the cottage door, gave a little scream, slammed the door, opened the door to apologize for slamming the door, and then shut the door carefully, leaving Vimes on the doorstep. Thirty seconds later Feeney opened the door, with his nightshirt tucked into his trousers. “Commander Vimes! Is something wrong?” he said, trying valiantly to tuck all the nightshirt inside.

Vimes rubbed his hands together briskly. “Yes, Chief Constable Upshot, almost everything is, but there is one part that can be made right with your help. Regarding the murder of the goblin girl, I have sufficient information to warrant apprehending two men for questioning. This is your manor, so professionally speaking I think it’s only right and proper that you assist me with the arrests.”

Vimes took a step into the room so that the face of Willikins was visible, and went on, “And I think you know Willikins, my manservant, who has volunteered to drive my coach and, of course, provide me with a clean white shirt should I need it.”

“Yerrr,” growled Willikins, turning to wink at Vimes.

“Chief Constable Upshot, I’d be obliged if you would arm yourself with whatever you think you might need and, since you don’t have a pair of handcuffs worth a damn, oh I’m so sorry, then at least can you source some rope?”

The face of Feeney Upshot was a whole palette of conflicting emotions. I’ll be working with the famous Commander Vimes—hooray! But this is big and serious—oh dear. But it’ll be like being a real policeman—hooray! But there’s already a hot water bottle in my bed—oh dear. On the other hand, if it all goes wrong, well, after all, the Duke of Ankh owns most of this place, so he’ll have to take most of the blame—hooray! And maybe if I distinguish myself I can get a job in the city, so that my mum can live in a place where you don’t lie awake at night listening to the mice fighting the cockroaches—hooray!*

It was a treat for Vimes to watch the lad’s face in the candlelight, especially as Feeney moved his lips as he thought. And so he said, “I’m sure, Chief Constable Upshot, that assistance in this matter will be very helpful to your future career.”

This last comment caused Mrs. Upshot, peering over her son’s shoulder, to flush with pride and say, “Hark at his grace, Feeney! You could make something of yourself, just like I’m always telling you! No arguing now, off you go, my lad.”

This motherly advice was punctuated by Mrs. Upshot bobbing up and down so fast that she could have been harnessed to a sewing machine. Thank goodness for old mums, Vimes thought, as Feeney eventually got into the coach with a flask of hot tea, a spare pair of clean drawers and half an apple pie.

As the wheels started to turn, and after Feeney had finished waving to his old mum out of the window, Vimes, balancing carefully against the rocking, lit the little spirit lamp that was all the coach had for illumination. He fell back into his seat again and said, “I’d be grateful, lad, if you would take some time to write down in your notebook everything I’ve said to you since I arrived this evening. It might be of assistance to both of us.” Feeney practically saluted, and Vimes continued, “When we saw the dead goblin girl the other day, Mr. Feeney, did you make a note of that in your notebook?”