“Sometimes,” said Vimes. “What can I do for you?”
The man looked apprehensively at Lady Sybil, who was sitting comfortably in the corner with a little smile on her face, and said, “Your grace, I’m afraid I must serve you with this Cease and Desist order, on behalf of the board of magistrates for this county. I am very sorry about this, your grace, and I hope you will understand that it does go against the grain to have to do this to a gentleman, but no one is above the law and the law must be obeyed. I myself am William Stoner, clerk to said justices—” Mr. Stoner hesitated because Vimes had strolled over to the door.
“Just making sure you don’t leave in a hurry,” said Vimes, as he locked the door. “Do sit down, Mr. Stoner, because you’re just the man I want to talk to.”
The clerk sat down carefully, clearly not wanting to be that man. He held in front of him a scroll with a red wax seal affixed, the kind of thing believed to make a document official—or at least expensive and difficult to understand, which, in fact, amounts to the same thing.
Suddenly, Vimes realized that all those years being confronted by Lord Vetinari had in fact been a masterclass, had he but known. Well, it was time for the examination. He went back to his chair, sat back comfortably, steepled his fingers together and frowned at the clerk over the top of them for ten whole seconds, a length of time that used to unnerve him every time it happened, and so should surely work on this little tit.
Then he cracked the silence with, “Mr. Stoner, several nights ago murder was committed on my land. Landownership means something around here, doesn’t it, Mr. Stoner? It appears that this was done to implicate me in the disappearance of one Jethro Jefferson, a blacksmith. You may consider me somewhat offended, but that was nothing like the amount of offense I experienced when I met Constable Feeney Upshot, our local copper, a decent lad, kind to his old mum, who nevertheless seemed to feel that he answered to a mysterious board of magistrates, rather than to the law. The magistrates? Who are the magistrates? Some kind of local body? There appears to be no oversight on these people, no circuit judge and— I haven’t finished talking yet!”
Mr. Stoner, his face gray, sank back into his seat. So did Vimes, trying not to catch Sybil’s eye in case she laughed. He made his face a mask of calm again and continued, “And it appears, Mr. Stoner, that officially, in this parish, goblins are vermin. Rats are vermin, so are mice, and I believe that pigeons and crows may be also. But they don’t play the harp, Mr. Stoner, they don’t make exquisitely configured pots, and, Mr. Stoner, they do not beg for mercy, although I must say I’ve seen the occasional mouse attempt it by wriggling its nose winsomely, which did indeed lead me to put the hammer down. But I digress. Goblins may be wretched, unhygienic and badly fed, and in that they are pretty much like the commonality of most of mankind. Where will your magistrates put the ruler, Mr. Stoner? Then again we don’t use a ruler in Ankh-Morpork, because once the goblins are vermin, then the poor are vermin, and the dwarfs are vermin, and the trolls are vermin. She wasn’t vermin and she pleaded not to die.”
He leaned back and waited for Mr. Stoner to realize that he did in fact have the power of speech. When he did so, the clerk dealt with his situation in true clerkly fashion, by ignoring it. “Nevertheless, Mr. Vimes, you are out of your jurisdiction and, I may say, encouraging Constable Upshot in ways of thinking and, I might say, behavior that will bode ill for him in his career—”
The clerk got no further than that because Vimes interrupted with, “What career? He has no career! He’s a copper all by himself, except maybe for some pigs. He’s a good lad at heart, doesn’t scare easy, and he writes with a clear, round hand and can spell, too, which in my book makes him automatically sergeant material. As for bloody jurisdiction, murder is the crime of crimes. According to the Omnians it was the third crime ever committed!* I know of no society anywhere in the world that doesn’t consider it a crime to be pursued with vigor, understand? And as for the law, don’t try to talk to me about the law. I am not above the law, but I stand right underneath it, and I hold it up! And currently I work with Mr. Feeney, and we have an accessory to murder in his cell, and justice, not convenience, will be served.”
“Well done, Sam,” said Sybil loyally, giving the small but distinctive clap that people give when they want other people to join in.
Mr. Stoner, on the other hand, simply said, “Well done, sir, but nevertheless my instructions are to arrest you. The magistrates have sworn me in as a policeman, you see, and young Upshot has been relieved of his duties.” He winced, because of the sudden freeze.
Vimes stood up and said, “I don’t think I’m going to allow you to arrest me today, Mr. Stoner! I dare say Sybil will allow you a cup of tea, should you want it, but I’m going to see Chief Constable Upshot.” And he stood up, unlocked the door and walked out of the room, out of the Hall and, at a reasonable speed, headed down to the lockup.
Halfway down, Willikins overtook him, saying, “I couldn’t help hearing all that garbage, commander, on account of how I was listening at the door as per section five of the gentleman’s gentleman’s code. What a nerve! You’ll need me to watch your back!”
Vimes shook his head. “I don’t think a civilian should get involved, Willikins.”
Willikins had to run faster, because Vimes was speeding up, but he managed to gasp out, “That is a hell of a thing for you to say to me, commander.” And hurried on regardless.
Something was going on at the lockup—it looked to Vimes as though it might be a domestic disturbance, a ruckus, possibly a fracas or even a free-for-all, in which case it was definitely unlucky for some. A happy thought occurred: yes, maybe it was an affray, always a useful word because nobody is quite certain what it means, but it sounds dangerous.
Vimes burst out laughing as soon as he saw what was going on. Feeney was standing in front of the lockup, his face beetroot red and his ancestral truncheon in his hands. Quite possibly it had already been used on the small mob trying to assault the lockup, because there was a man lying on the floor clutching his groin and groaning. However, Vimes’s lengthy experience told him that the man’s carefully targeted misfortune had a lot to do with Mrs. Upshot, who was in a semicircle of men, all of them ready to jump back as soon as she waved her broomstick at them. “Don’t you dare say my lad Feeney ain’t a copper! He is a copper, and so was his dad, and his granddad and his great-granddad before him.” She paused for a moment and went on, grudgingly, “Pardon me, I tell a lie, he was a criminal, but anyway that’s nearly like being a copper!”
The broomstick made a whooshing sound as she swung it backward and forward. “I know you lot! Some of you is gamekeepers, and some of you is smugglers, and a few of you is bastards, excuse my Klatchian!” By now she had caught sight of Vimes, and pausing only to bring her broomstick down like a mallet on the foot of a man who made a step in the wrong direction, she pointed her finger at Vimes and yelled, “See him? Now he is a gentleman, and also a great copper! You can tell a real copper, like my Henry, gods bless his soul, and Commander Vimes too, ’cos they’ve got proper badges what have been used to open thousands of beer bottles, I dare say, and believe me one of them would hurt you if they tried to stick it up your nose. The flimsy bits of cardboard you boys is waving makes me laugh! Come any further, Davey Hackett,” she said to the nearest man, “and I will shove this broomstick in your ear, trust me, I will!”
Vimes scanned the mob, trying to sort out the vile and dangerous from the innocent and stupid, and was about to brush off a fly from his head when he heard the gasp from the crowd, and saw the arrow on the cobbles and Mrs. Upshot looking at her broom falling into two pieces.
In theory, Mrs. Upshot should have screamed, but she had been around coppers for a long time, and so, face red, she pointed at the broken broom and said, as only an old mum could say, “That cost half a dollar! They don’t grow on trees, you know! It wants paying for!”
Ins
tantly there was the jingle of frantic hands in pockets. One man with great presence of mind removed his hat and coins showered into it. Since many of these coins were dollars and half-dollars snatched in haste, Mrs. Upshot would clearly be self-sufficient in broomsticks for life.
But Feeney, who had been simmering, smacked the hat to the ground just as it was proffered. “No! That’s like a bribe, Ma! Someone shot at you. I saw the arrow, it came straight out of this lot, right out the middle! Now I want you to go inside, Ma, ’cos I’m not going to lose you as well as Dad, understand? Damn well get inside the house, Ma, the reason being, the moment you shut the door I intend to show these gentlemen their manners!”
Feeney was on fire. If a chestnut had fallen on his head it would have exploded, and his rage, pure righteous rage—the kind of rage in which a man might find the idea and the inclination and, above all, the stamina to beat to death everyone around him—was a pant-wetting concern to the befuddled citizens quite outweighing the secondary one, which was that there was at least six dollars of anybody’s money lying there on the cobbles, and how much of it could they get away with reclaiming?
Vimes did not say a word. There was no room to say a word. A word might dislodge the brake that held retribution in check. Feeney’s ancestral club over his shoulder looked like a warning from the gods. In his hands it would be sudden death. No one dared run; of a certainty, to run would be to make yourself a candidate for whistling oaken crushing.
Now, perhaps, was the time. “Chief Constable Upshot, may I have a word, as one policeman to another?”
Feeney turned on Vimes a bleary look, like a man trying to focus from the other end of the universe. One of the outlying men took this as a cue to leg it, and behind the crowd there was a thump and the voice of Willikins, saying, “Oh, I do beg your pardon, your grace, but this gentleman stumbled over my feet. Regrettably, I have very large feet.” And, to accompany the apology, Willikins held up a man whose nose would probably look a lot better by the end of next week.
All eyes turned to Willikins, except those of Vimes—because there in the shadows, keeping his distance from the mob, was that bloody lawyer again. Not with the mob, obviously, a respectable lawyer could not be part of a mob, oh no, he was just there watching.
Feeney glared at the rest of the men, because tripping can come so easily to a man. “I appreciate your man’s assistance, commander, but this is my manor, if you know what I mean, and I will have my say.”
Feeney was panting heavily, but his gaze swept backward and forward to find the first man to move or even look like someone about to move some time in the future. “I am a policeman! Not always a good one or a clever one, but I am a policeman and the man in my lockup is my prisoner, and I’ll defend him to the death, and if it’s the death of some bastards who stood in front of my old mum with crossbows they didn’t know how to use, well, so be it!” He lowered his voice to less than a scream. “Now, I know you, just like my father did, and granddad too—well some of you at least—and I know you ain’t as bad as all that—”
He stopped for a moment, staring. “What are you doing here, Mr. Stoner? Standing there next to a mob? Have you been making a few pockets jingle?”
“That statement is actionable, young man,” said Stoner.
Vimes carefully made his way to Stoner and whispered, “I won’t say you’re pushing your luck, Mr. Stoner, because your luck ran out the moment you set eyes on me.” He tapped the side of his nose. “A word to the wise: I’ve got big feet too.”
Oblivious to this, Feeney went on, “What I want you all to know is that a few nights ago a goblin girl up on the hill was chopped up while she was pleading for her life. That’s bad. Very bad! And one reason is that a man who can chop up a goblin girl will chop up your sister one day. But I will help my … ” Feeney hesitated and then said, “colleague, Commander Vimes, and will bring those responsible to justice. And that ain’t all, oh dear me not by a long chalk, because you see I know, just like you do, that three years ago a load of goblins were grabbed in the night and rounded up to be sent down the river. My poor old dad did what he was told and turned a blind eye, but I ain’t doing the same thing. I don’t know if any of you helped, and right now that don’t concern me overmuch, ’cos folks around here tend to do what they’re told, although maybe some like doing what they’re told more than others.”
Feeney turned around, making certain that all knew they were included. “And I know something else! I know that late yesterday, when we were actually on the way to Hangnails, a bunch of goblins from Overhang were grabbed and put on an ox boat down the river to—”
“What! Why haven’t you told me all this before?” Vimes shouted.
Feeney didn’t look in his direction, keeping his gaze on the mob. “What before? Sorry, commander, but it’s been all go and I only found out just before this bunch arrived, since when it’s all got busy. The boat probably came past here while we were still opening barrels in Hangnails. This lot wanted me to hand over my—your—our prisoner, and then of course my old mum got involved, as it were, and you know it’s always difficult when it involves an old mum. I never told anyone to move, did I?!”
This was to a man in some distress who was almost bent double with his hands on his groin.
“I’m very sorry, er, Feeney, er, Constable, er, Chief Constable Upshot, but I really need the privy, if it’s all the same to you, please, thanking you very much?”
Vimes looked down at the crouching man and said, “Oh, dear me, it’s you, Mr. Stoner! Willikins! Do take him somewhere where he can go about his business, will you? But be sure to bring him back here. And if it turns out that he didn’t really need to do any business, do him the courtesy of making sure that he does.” He wanted to say a great deal more at this time, but this was, after all, Feeney’s patch and the lad was surprisingly good at it, when it came to pushing people who pushed old mums.
And the boy hadn’t finished yet; his mood had simply moved from molten steel to cold, hard iron. “Before I tell you what happens next, gentlemen, I’d like to draw your attention to the goblin sitting up there in the tree, watching you all. All you who are locals know Stinky, and you know sometimes you give him a kick, or sometimes he blags a cigarette off you, and sometimes he runs you a little errand, yes?”
There was a sense of sweating relief among the crowd that the worst appeared to be over now. In fact it had only just begun. “Commander Vimes would like you to know, and so indeed would I, that the law applies to everybody, and that means it applies to goblins as well.”
There was a certain amount of nodding at that and Feeney continued, “But if the law applies to goblins then goblins have rights and if goblins have rights then it would be right to have a goblin policeman attached to the Shire force.”
Vimes looked at Feeney with amazement and a not inconsiderable amount of admiration. That had got them: they had all been nodding and he had led them by the nod and before they knew it they were nodding at a goblin officer.
“Well, gentlemen, I am intending to make Stinky a probationary special constable, just so he can keep me up to date with what’s happening up on the hill. He’ll have a badge, and anyone giving him a kick from now on will be assaulting a police officer in the course of his duty. I think the penalty for doing that is not just being hanged, but also to let you bounce up and down for a bit afterward. This is an internal force decision, which does not require the authority of any magistrate. Is that not so, Commander Vimes?”
Vimes was amazed at how his mouth responded without any reference to his brain. “Yes, Chief Constable Upshot, as per section 12, part 3 of the Laws and Ordinances of Ankh-Morpork, generally considered a model for police procedure,” he added confidently, knowing that no one present would have ever clapped eyes on them and would quite likely not be able to read them even if they had.
Inside Vimes winced. He’d got away with
having dwarfs, trolls and finally even werewolves and vampires in the Watch, albeit on certain obvious conditions, but that had been the result of leverage over the years. Vetinari always said, “What is normal? Normal is yesterday and last week and last month taken together.” And, Vimes supposed, they had slipped things in one at a time to allow normal to gradually evolve—although Mr. Stinky, or rather Probationary Special Constable Stinky, had really better confine his policing activities to the cave. Yes, not such a bad idea at that, indeed if only he could get them to leave chickens alone maybe normal would have a chance. After all, people seemed quite easy about having their rights and liberties taken away by those they looked up to, but somehow a space on the perch was a slap in the face, and treated as such.
And now Feeney, getting out of breath, was nearly talked out. “I can’t force any of you to tell me anything, but is there any one of you anxious to help me with my inquiries?”
Vimes tried not to let anyone see his expression, least of all Feeney. Of course, Captain Carrot had once been like that and—was it possible?—maybe even young Sam Vimes had been like that too, but surely anyone could see that you never expect people who are part of a crowd to put up their hand and pipe up, “Yes, constable! I’d be very happy to tell you everything I know, and I’d like these fine gentlemen here to be my witnesses.”
What you did do after a performance like that was just wait, wait until somebody sidles up and whispers something when you are alone, or just tilts his head in the right direction, or, and this had happened to Vimes, writes three initials in the spilled beer on a bar top and industriously wipes it clean within two seconds. Some bright spark would think: you never know your luck; after all, Feeney could be a coming man, right? And a happy relationship might come in handy, one day.
Vimes blew away the pink cloud of embarrassment. “Well, gentlemen, speaking as commander of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, it seems to me that your senior police officer is being considerably lenient with you. I would not be, so be grateful for him. How many of these … ” and here Vimes inserted a sneer, “gentlemen do you really know, Chief Constable Upshot?”
Discworld 39 - Snuff Page 27
