“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.
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?”
“Yes, sir!” Feeney nearly saluted again. “My granddad told me always to write everything down in my notebook!”
They bounced in their seats as the coach hit a stone and Vimes said quietly, “Did he ever tell you to accidentally sometimes turn over two pages at once so that you had the occasional blank page?”
“Oh, no, sir. Should I?”
The seat bounced them up and down again as Vimes said, “Strictly speaking, lad, the answer is no, especially if you never work with me. Now please write it all down, just as I asked. And since I am not as young as you, I’m going to try to get some rest.”
“Yessir, I understand that, sir. Just one thing, sir? Mr. Stoner, the Clerk to the Magistrates, came to see me this afternoon, and had a chat and said not to bother about the goblin girl because goblins are officially vermin. He was very kind, and brought some brandy for my old mum, and he said that you were a fine gentleman but tended to get a bee in your bonnet, sir, what with being upper-class and out of touch, sir. Sir? Sir? Have you gone to sleep, sir?”
Vimes turned his head and in honeyed tones said, “Did you make a note of that in your notebook, lad?”
“Oh, yessir!”
“And you still got in this coach with me? Why did you do that, Mr. Feeney?”
Gravel rattled behind them and it seemed some time before Feeney Upshot had assembled his thoughts to his satisfaction. He said, “Well, Commander Vimes, I thought, well, that Mr. Stoner he’s a nob more or less, and so is Commander Vimes, only he’s a duke and is therefore a very big nob and if you’re going to get caught between nobs, maybe you’d better pick the biggest one to be on the side of.” He heard Vimes grunt, and continued, “And then, sir, I thought, well, I was up there, I saw that poor creature and what had been done to her, and I remembered that Stoner had tried to make a fool out of me by making me arrest your good self, sir, and I thought about the goblins and I thought, well, they’re mucky and smelly and the old goblin was crying, and animals don’t cry and goblins, well, they make stuff, beautiful stuff and as for pinching our pig swill and being generally mucky, we surely ain’t short of humans around here who are pretty big in that respect, I could tell you some stories, and so I thought some more and I thought, well, that Mr. Stoner, I thought he must have got it wrong.”
There was a rumbling as the coach went over a bridge and then the sound of wheels on packed flints was back. Feeney said anxiously, “Is that all right, sir?” He waited nervously. And then the voice of Vimes, and this time sounding rather far away said, “Do you know what that little speech you made was called, Mr. Feeney?”
“Don’t know, sir, it’s just what I think.”
“It was called redemption, Mr. Feeney. Hold on to it.”
Vimes woke from a doze in which he had dreamed about Young Sam playing a harp, and by the time he had understood that this was a dream the noise of the coach wheels had changed as they sl
owed down and stopped.
Willikins slid open the small slot that allowed discourse between passenger and coachman and said quietly, “Rise and shine, sir, we’re about a quarter of a mile from Hangnails, population thirty-seven and still stupid. And you can smell turkey from here and wish you bloody well couldn’t, excuse my Klatchian. I surmised that it might be a good idea to walk quietly the rest of the way, sir.”
Vimes got down from the coach and stamped the cramp out of his limbs. The air stank with the curiously invasive smell of birds; not even goblins persecuted the sinuses one half so badly. But this was a tiny distraction compared with the thrill, yes, the thrill. How long was it since he had led a dawn raid? Far too long, that’s how long, and now captains and senior sergeants got the job while he stayed in the office, being the Ankh-Morpork City Watch. Well, not today.
Whispering as they walked through the knee-high mist, he said, “You, Chief Constable Upshot, you will hammer on the front door when I give you the signal, and I will be stationed outside the back door in case the gentleman does a runner, okay?”
They were nearing the property now, yes, they would just need the two of them. The farmhouse looked barely big enough to have two doors, let alone three.
“What shall I say, commander?” hissed Feeney.
“Oh, blimey, you’re the bloody son and grandson of coppers, my lad, what the hell do you think you should shout? Let me give you a clue. It does not include the word ‘please.’ I’ll give you a whistle when I’m in position, got it? Good.”
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