The footman looked him up and down. He didn’t get out much. He’d heard rumours – who hadn’t? -that working in the Watch was the rightful king of Ankh-Morpork. He’d have to admit that, if you wanted to hide a secret heir to the throne, you couldn’t possibly hide him more carefully than under the face of C. W. St J. Nobbs.
On the other hand . . . the footman was something of an historian, and knew that in its long history even the throne itself had been occupied by creatures who had been hunchbacked, one-eyed, knuckle-dragging and as ugly as sin. On that basis Nobby was as royal as they came. If, technically, he wasn’t hunchbacked, this was only because he was hunched front and sides, too. There might be a time, the footman thought, when it paid to hitch your wagon to a star, even if said star was a red dwarf.
‘You’ve never been to one of these affairs before, m’lord?’ he said.
‘First time,’ said Nobby.
Tm sure your lordship’s blood will rise to the occasion,’ said the footman weakly.
I’ll have to go, Angua thought as they hurried through the fog. I can’t go on living from month to month.
It’s not that he’s not likeable. You couldn’t wish to meet a more caring man.
That’s just it. He cares for everyone. He cares about everything. He cares indiscriminately. He knows everything about everyone because everyone interests himf and the caring is all general and never personal. He doesn’t think personal is the same as important.
If only he had some decent human quality, like selfishness.
I’m sure he doesn’t think about it that way, but you can tell the werewolf thing is upsetting him underneath. He cares about the things people say behind my back, and he doesn’t know how to deal with them.
What was it those dwarfs said the other day? One said something like, ‘She feels the need/ and the other one said, ‘Yeah, the need to feed.’ I saw his expression. I can handle that sort of thing . . . well, most of the time . . . but he can’t. If only he’d thump someone. It wouldn’t do any good but at least he’d feel better.
It’s going to get worse. At best I’m going to get caught in someone’s chicken-house, and then the midden is really going to hit the windmill. Or I’ll get caught in someone’s room . . .
She tried to shut out the thought but it didn’t work. You could only control the werewolf, you couldn’t tame it.
It’s the city. Too many people, too many smells . . .
Maybe it would work if we were just alone somewhere, but if I said, ‘It’s me or the city,’ he wouldn’t even see there was a choice.
Sooner or later, I’ve got to go home. It’s the best thing for him.
Vimes walked back through the damp night. He knew he was too angry to think properly.
He’d got nowhere, and he’d travelled a long way to get there. He’d got a cartload of facts and he’d done all the right logical things, and to someone, somewhere, he must look like a fool.
He probably looked like a fool to Carrot already. He’d kept coming up with bright ideas – proper policeman’s ideas – and each one had turned out to be a joke. He’d bullied and shouted and done all the proper things, and none of it had worked. They hadn’t found a thing. They’d merely increased their amount of ignorance.
The ghost of old Mrs Easy rose up in his inner vision. He couldn’t remember much about her. He’d been just another snotty kid in a crowd of snotty kids, and she’d been just another worried face somewhere on top of a pinny. One of Cockbill Street’s people. She’d taken in needlework to make ends meet and kept up appearances and, like everyone else in the street, had crept through life never asking for anything and getting even less.
What else could he have done? They’d practically scraped the damn wallpaper off the wal
He stopped.
There was the same wallpaper in both rooms. In every room on that floor. That horrible green wallpaper.
But… no, that couldn’t be it. Vetinari had slept in that room for years, if he slept at all. You can’t sneak in and redecorate without someone noticing.
In front of him, the fog rolled aside. He caught a glimpse of a candlelit room in a nearby building before the cloud flowed back.
The fog. Yes. Dampness. Creeping in, brushing against the wallpaper. The old, dusty, musty wallpaper . . .
Would Cheery have tested the wallpaper? After all, in a way you didn’t actually see it. It wasn’t in the room because it was defining what the room was. Could you actually be poisoned by the walls’?
He hardly dared think the thought. If he let his mind settle on the suspicion it’d twist and fly away, like all the others.
But . . . this was it, said his secret soul. All the messing around with suspects and Clues . . . that was just something to keep the body amused while the back of the brain toiled away. Every real copper knew you didn’t go around looking for Clues so that you could find out Who Done It. No, you started out with a pretty good idea of Who Done It. That way, you knew what Clues to look for.
He wasn’t going to have another day of bafflement interspersed with desperately bright ideas, was he? It was bad enough looking at Corporal Littlebottom’s expression, which seemed to be getting a little more colourful every time he saw it.
He’d said, ‘Ah, arsenic’s a metal, right, so maybe the cutlery has been made of it?’ He wouldn’t forget the look on the dwarfs face as Cheery tried to explain that, yes, it might be possible to do that, provided you were sure that no one would notice the way it dissolved in the soup almost instantly.
This time he was going to think first.
‘The Earl of Ankh, Corporal the Rt. Hon. Lord C. W. StJ. Nobbs!’
The buzz of conversation stopped. Heads turned. Somewhere in the crowd someone started to laugh and was hurriedly shushed into silence by their neighbours.
Lady Selachii came forward. She was a tall, angular woman, with the sharp features and aquiline nose that were the hallmarks of the family. The impression was that an axe was being thrown at you.
Then she curtsied.
There were gasps of surprise around her, but she glared at the assembled guests and there was a smattering of bows and curtsies. Somewhere at the back of the room someone started to say, ‘But the man’s an absolute oik’ and was cut off.
‘Has someone dropped something?’ said Nobby nervously. Ill help you look, if you like.’
The footman appeared at his elbow, bearing a tray. ‘A drink, m’lord?’ he said.
‘Yeah, okay, a pint of Winkles,’ said Nobby.
Jaws fell. But Lady Selachii’s rose to the occasion. ‘Winkles?’ she said.
‘A type of beer, your ladyship,’ said the footman.
Her ladyship hesitated only a moment. ‘I believe the butler drinks beer,’ she said. ‘See to it, man. And I’ll have a pint of Winkles, too. What a novel idea.’
This caused a certain effect among those guests who knew on which side of the biscuit their pate was spread.
‘Indeed! Capital suggestion! A pint of Winkles here, too!’
‘Hawhaw! Gweat! Winkles for me!’
‘Winkles all round!’
‘But the man’s an absolute ti’
‘Shut up!’
Vimes crossed the Brass Bridge with care, counting the hippos. There was a ninth shape, but it was leaning against the parapet and muttering to itself in a familiar and, to Vimes at least, an unmenacing way. Faint air movements wafted towards him a smell that out-smelled even the river. It proclaimed that ahead of Vimes was a ding-a-ling so big he’d been upgraded to a clang-a-lang.
‘. . . Buggrit buggrit I told ’em, stand it up and pull the end orf! Millennium hand and shrimp! I told ’em, sez I, and would they poke . . .’
‘Evening, Ron,’ said Vimes, without even bothering to look at the figure.
Foul Ole Ron fell into step behind him. ‘Buggrit they done me out of it so they did . . .’
‘Yes, Ron,’ said Vimes.
‘. . . And shrimp . . . buggrit, say I, bread it on the butter side . . . Queen Molly says to watch your back, mister.’
‘What was that?’
‘. . . Sowter fry it!’ said Foul Ole Ron innocently. Trouser the lot of’em, they did me out of it, them and their big weasel!’
The beggar lurched around and, filthy coat dragging its hems along the ground, limped away into the fog. His little dog trotted along in front of him.