‘Yeah, he uses steak and cuts little legs in it and covers it with rat sauce!’
‘I don’t know, you try to do your best at very reasonable prices and this is the thanks you get?’ said Gimlet hotly. ‘It’s hard enough to make ends meet as it is!’
‘You don’t even make ’em of the right meat!’
Carrot sighed. There were no public health laws in Ankh-Morpork. It would be like installing smoke detectors in Hell.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘But you can’t get poisoned by steak. No, honestly. No. No, shut up, all of you. No, I don’t care what your mothers told you. Now, I want to know about this poisoning, Gimlet.’
Gimlet struggled to his feet.
‘We did Rat Surprise last night for the Sons of Bloodaxe annual dinner,’ he said. There was a general groan. ‘And it was rat.’ He raised his voice against the complaining. ‘You can’t use anything else – listen – you’ve got to have the noses poking through the pastry, all right? Some of the best rat we’ve had in for a long time, let me tell you!’
‘And you were all ill afterwards?’ said Carrot, taking out his notebook.
‘Sweating all night!’
‘Couldn’t see straight!’
‘I reckon I know every knothole on the back of the privy door!’
Ill write that down as a “definitely”,’ said Carrot. ‘Was there anything else on the dinner menu?’
‘Vole-au-vents and Cream of Rat,’ said Gimlet. ‘All hygienically prepared.’
‘How do you mean, “hygienically prepared”?’ said Carrot.
‘The chef is under strict orders to wash his hands afterwards.’
The assembled dwarfs nodded. This was certainly pretty hygienic. You didn’t want people going around with ratty hands.
‘Anyway, you’ve all been eating here for years,’ said Gimlet, sensing this slight veer in his direction. This is the first time there’s been any trouble, isn’t it? My rats are famous!’
‘Your chicken’s going to be pretty famous, too,’ said Carrot.
There was laughter this time. Even Gimlet joined in. ‘All right, I’m sorry about the chicken. But it was that or very poor rats, and you know I only buy from Wee Mad Arthur. He’s trustworthy, whatever else you may say about him. You just can’t get better rats. Everyone knows that.’
That’ll be Wee Mad Arthur in Gleam Street?’ said Carrot.
‘Yes. Not a mark on ’em, most of the time.’
‘Have you got any left?’
‘One or two.’ Gimlet’s expression changed. ‘Here, you don’t think he poisoned them, do you? I never did trust that little bugger!’
‘Enquiries are continuing,’ said Carrot. He tucked his notebook away. ‘I’d like some rats, please. Those rats. To go.’ He glanced at the menu, patted his pocket and looked questioningly out through the door at Angua.
‘You don’t have to buy them,’ she said wearily. “They’re evidence.’
‘We can’t defraud an innocent tradesman who may be the victim of circumstances,’ said Carrot.
‘You want ketchup?’ said Gimlet. ‘Only they’re extra with ketchup.’
The funeral carriage went slowly through the streets. It looked quite expensive, but that was Cockbill Street for you. People put money by. Vimes remembered that. You always put money by, in Cockbill Street. You saved up for a rainy day even if it was pouring already. And you’d die of shame if people thought you could afford only a cheap funeral.
Half a dozen black-clad mourners came along behind, together with perhaps a score of people who had tried at least to look respectable.
Vimes followed the procession at a distance all the way to the cemetery behind the Temple of Small Gods, where he lurked awkwardly among the gravestones and sombre graveyard trees while the priest mumbled on.
The gods had made the people of Cockbill Street poor, honest and provident, Vimes reflected. They might as well have hung signs saying ‘Kick me’ on their backs and had done with it. Yet Cockbill Street people tended towards religion, at least of the less demonstrative kind. They always put a little life by for a rainy eternity.
Eventually the crowd around the graves broke up and drifted away with the aimless look of people whose immediate future contains ham rolls.
Vimes spotted a tearful young woman in the main group and advanced carefully. ‘Er. . . are you Mildred Easy?’ he said.
She nodded. ‘Who are you?’ She took in the cut of his coat and added, ‘sir?’
Was that old Mrs Easy who used to do dressmaking?’ said Vimes, taking her gently aside.
That’s right
‘And the . . . smaller coffin?’
That was our William
The girl looked as if she were about to cry again.
‘Can we have a talk?’ said Vimes. There are some things I hope you can tell me.’
He hated the way his mind worked. A proper human being would have shown respect and quietly walked away. But, as he’d stood among the chilly stones, a horrible apprehension had stolen over him that almost all the answers were in place now, if only he could work out the questions.
She looked around at the other mourners. They had reached the gate and were staring back curiously at the two of them.
‘Er … I know this isn’t the right time,’ said Vimes. ‘But, when the kids play hopscotch in the street, what’s the rhyme they sing? “Salt, mustard, vinegar, pepper?”, isn’t it?’
She stared at his worried grin. That’s a skipping rhyme,’ she said coldly. ‘When they play hopscotch they sing “Billy Skunkins is a brass stud”. Who are you?’
‘I’m Commander Vimes of the Watch,’ said Vimes. So … Willy Scuggins would live on in the street, in disguise and in a fashion . . . And old Stoneface was just some guy on a bonfire . . .
Then her tears came.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ said Vimes, as soothingly as he could. ‘I was brought up in Cockbill Street, that’s why I … I mean I’m . . . I’m not here on … I’m not out to … look, I know you took food home from the palace. That’s all right by me. I’m not here to … oh, damn, would you like my handkerchief? I think your one’s full.’
‘Everyone does it!’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Anyway, cook never says nothing …” She began to sob again.
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Everyone takes a few things,’ said Mildred Easy. ‘It’s not like stealing.’
It is, thought Vimes treacherously. But I don’t give a damn.
And now . . . he’d got a grip on the long copper rod and was climbing into a high place while the thunder muttered around him. The, er, the last food you sto were given,’ he said. ‘What was it?’
‘Just some blancmange and some, you know, that sort of jam made out of meat. . .’
‘Pate?’
‘Yes. I thought it would be a little treat…”
Vimes nodded. Rich, mushy food. The sort you’d give to a baby who was peaky and to a granny who hadn’t got any teeth.
Well, he was on the roof now, the clouds were black and threatening, and he might as well wave the lightning conductor. Time to ask . . .
The wrong question, as it proved.
Tell me,’ he said, ‘what did Mrs Easy die of?’
‘Let me put it like this,’ said Cheery. ‘If these rats had been poisoned with lead instead of arsenic, you’d have been able to sharpen their noses and use them as a pencil.’
She lowered the beaker.
‘Are you sure?’ said Carrot.
‘Yes.’
‘Wee Mad Arthur wouldn’t poison rats, would he? Especially not rats that were going to be eaten.’
‘I’ve heard he doesn’t like dwarfs much,’ said Angua.
‘Yes, but business is business. No one who does a lot of business with dwarfs likes them much, and he must supply every dwarf cafe and delicatessen in the city.’
‘Maybe they ate arsenic before he caught them?’ said Angua.’People use it as a rat poison, after all . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Carrot, in a very deliberate way. ‘They do.’
‘You’re not suggesting that Vetinari tucks into a nice rat every day?’ said Angua.
‘I’ve heard he uses rats as spies, so I don’t think he uses them as elevenses,’ said Carrot. ‘But it’d be nice to know where Wee Mad Arthur gets his from, don’t you think?’
‘Commander Vimes said he was looking after the Vetinari case,’ said Angua.
‘But we’re just finding out why Gimlet’s rats are full of arsenic/ said Carrot, innocently. ‘Anyway, I was going to ask Sergeant Colon to look into it.’
‘But . . . Wee Mad Arthur?’ said Angua. ‘He’s mad.’
‘Fred can take Nobby with him. I’ll go and tell him. Um. Cheery?’
‘Yes, Captain?’
‘You’ve been, er, you’ve been trying to hide your face from me … oh. Did someone hit you?’
‘No, sir!’
‘Only your eyes look a bit bruised and your lips-‘
‘I’m fine, sir!’ said Cheery desperately.
‘Oh, well, if you say so. I’ll… er, I’ll. . . look for Sergeant Colon, then …”