Snuff (17 page)

Not knowing what to say, he said it anyway: “Pleased to meet you, Tears of the Mushroom.” Vimes held out his hand. The goblin girl looked at it, then looked at him, and then turned to Miss Beedle, who said, “They don't shake hands, commander. For people who seem so simple they're astoundingly complicated.”

She turned to Vimes. “It would seem, commander, that providence has brought you here in time to solve the murder of the goblin girl, who was an excellent pupil. I came up here as soon as I heard, but the goblins are used to undeserved and casual death. I'll walk with you to the entrance, and then I've got a class to teach.”

Vimes tugged at Feeney to make him keep up as they followed Miss Beedle and her charge toward the surface and blessed fresh air. He wondered what had become of the corpse. What did they do with their dead? Bury them, eat them, throw them on the midden? Or was he just not thinking right, a thought which itself had been knocking at his brain for some time. Without thinking, he said, “What else do you teach them, Miss Beedle? To be better citizens?”

The slap caught him on the chin, probably because even in her anger Miss Beedle realized that he still had his steel helmet on. It was a corker, nonetheless, and out of the corner of his stinging gaze he saw Feeney take a step back. At least the boy had some sense.

“You are the gods' own fool, Commander Vimes! No, I'm not teaching them to be fake humans, I'm teaching them how to be goblins, clever goblins! Do you know that they have only five names for colors? Even trolls have around sixty, and a lot more than that if they find a paint salesman! Does this mean goblins are stupid? No, they have a vast number of names for things that even poets haven't come up with, for things like the way colors shift and change, the melting of one hue into another. They have single words for the most complicated of feelings; I know about two hundred of them, I think, and I'm sure there are a lot more! What you may think are grunts and growls and snarls are in fact carrying vast amounts of information! They're like an iceberg, commander: most of them is where you can't see or understand, and I'm teaching Tears of the Mushroom and some of her friends so that they may be able to speak to people like you, who think they are dumb. And do you know what, commander? There isn't much time! They're being slaughtered! It's not called that, of course, but slaughter is how it ends, because they're just dumb nuisances, you see. Why don't you ask Mr. Upshot what happened to the rest of the goblins three years ago, Commander Vimes?”

And with that Miss Beedle turned on her heel and disappeared down into the darkness of the cave with Tears of the Mushroom bobbing along behind her, leaving Vimes to walk the last few yards out into the glorious sunlight.

T
he feeling that hit Samuel Vimes when he stepped into the vivid light of day was as if somebody had pushed an iron wire through his body and then, in one moment, pulled it out again. It was all he could do to keep his balance and the boy grabbed him by the arm. Full marks, Vimes thought, for being either smart enough to see how the land lay, or at least smart enough not to make a run for it just now.

He sat down on the turf, relishing the breeze through the gorse bushes and sucking in pure fresh air. Whatever you thought about goblins, their cave had the kind of atmosphere about which people say, “I should wait two minutes before going in there, if I was you.”

“I'd like to talk with you, chief constable,” he said now. “Copper to copper. About the past and maybe about the shape of things to come.”

“Actually, I meant to thank you, commander, for thinking that I'm a policeman.”

“Your father was policeman down here three years ago, yes?”

Feeney stared straight ahead. “Yes, sir.”

“So, what happened with the goblins, Feeney?”

Feeney cleared his throat. “Well, Dad told me and Mum to stay indoors. He said we was not to look, but he couldn't tell us not to listen, and there was a lot of shouting and I don't know what, and it upset my old mum no end. I heard later that a load of goblins had been taken out of the hill, but Dad never spoke about it until much later. I think it broke him, sir, it really did. He said he watched while a bunch of men, gamekeepers and roughs mostly, came down from the cave dragging goblins behind them, sir. Lots of them. He said what was so dreadful was that the goblins were all sort of meek, you know? Like they didn't know what to do.”

Vimes relented a little at the sight of Feeney's face. “Go on, lad.”

“Well, sir, he told me people came out of their houses and there was a lot of running about and he started to ask questions and, well, the magistrates said it was all right because they were nothing more than vermin, and they were going to be taken down to the docks where they could earn their living for a change and not bother other people. It was all right, Dad said. They were going somewhere sunny, a long way away from here.”

“Just out of interest, Mr. Feeney, how could he know that?”

“Dad said the magistrates were very firm about it, sir. They were just to be put to work for their living. He said that it was doing them a favor. It wasn't as if they were going to be killed.”

Vimes kept his expression deliberately blank. He sighed. “If it was without their consent, then that would be slavery, and if a slave doesn't work for his living he's dead. Do you understand?”

Feeney looked at his boots. If eyeballs had polish on them his boots would have been gleaming. “After he told me this, my dad told me that I was a copper now and I was to look after Mum, and he gave me the truncheon and his badge. And then his hands started shaking, sir, and a few days later he was dead, sir. I reckon something snuck up on him, sir, in his head, like. It overcame him.”

“Have you heard about Lord Vetinari, Feeney? I can't say I like him all that much but sometimes he's bang on the money. Well, there was a bit of a fracas, as we say, and it turned out that a man had a dog, a half-dead thing, according to bystanders, and he was trying to get it to stop pulling at its leash, and when it growled at him he grabbed an ax from the butcher's stall beside him, threw the dog to the ground and cut off its back legs, just like that. I suppose people would say ‘Nasty bugger, but it was his dog,' and so on, but Lord Vetinari called me in and he said to me, ‘A man who would do something like that to a dog is a man to whom the law should pay close attention. Search his house immediately.' The man was hanged a week later, not for the dog, although for my part I wouldn't have shed a tear if he had been, but for what we found in his cellar. The contents of which I will not burden you with. And bloody Vetinari got away with it again, because he was right: where there are little crimes, large crimes are not far behind.”

Vimes stared at the rolling acres stretching out below: his fields, his trees, his fields of yellow corn…All his, even though he'd never planted a seed in his life, except for the time when he was a kid and he tried to grow mustard and cress on a flannel, which he'd then thrown up because no one had told him he should have washed the flannel first to get all the soap out. Not a good background for a landowner. But…His land, right? And he was sure that neither he nor Sybil had ever said yes to turning a lot of sad-looking goblins out of the mess they were pleased to call a home and taking them to who knew where.

“Nobody told us!”

Feeney leaned back to escape that particular ball of wrath. “I wouldn't know about that, sir.”

Vimes stood up and stretched his arms. “I've heard enough, lad, and I've had enough too! It's time to report to a higher authority!”

“I think it'd take at least a day and a half to get a galloper to the city, sir, and you'd have to be lucky with horses.”

Sam Vimes began to walk smartly down the hill. “I was talking about Lady Sybil, lad.”

S
ybil was in a drawing room full of teacups and ladies when Vimes arrived at the Hall in a run, with Feeney lagging behind. She took one look at him and said, rather more brightly than warranted, “Oh, I see you have something to discuss with me.” She turned to the ladies, smiled and said, “Please do excuse me, ladies. I must just have a brief word with my husband.” And with that she grabbed Vimes and pulled him none too gently back into the hallway. She opened her mouth to deliver a wifely sermon on the importance of punctuality, sniffed and recoiled. “Sam Vimes, you stink! Did you fall into something rural? I've hardly seen you since breakfast! And why are you still dragging that young policeman behind you? I'm sure he's got something more important to do. Didn't he want to arrest you? Is he coming to tea? I hope he washes first.” This was said to Vimes but aimed at Feeney, who was keeping his distance and looked ready to run.

“That was a misunderstanding,” said Vimes hastily, “and I'm sure that if I ever find out where my escutcheon is there won't be a stain on it, but Mr. Feeney here has been generously and of his own free will imparting information to me.”

And by the time the husband and wife conversation was in full swing, containing shouted whispers on the lines of “Surely not!” and “I think he's telling the truth,” Feeney looked ready to sprint.

“And they didn't put up a fight?” said Sybil. The young policeman tried to avoid her gaze, but she had the kind of gaze that came around to find you wherever you stood.

“No, your ladyship,” was all he managed.

Lady Sybil looked at her husband and shrugged. “There would be one hell of a fight with someone who wanted to take
me
off to a place I didn't want to go to,” she said, “and I thought goblins had weapons? Pretty nasty fighters, so I've heard. I'd have thought there'd have been a war! We would have heard about it! From the way you talk about it, it sounds as if they were sleepwalking. Or perhaps they were starving? I haven't noticed very many rabbits around here, compared with when I was a little girl. And why leave some behind? It's all a bit of a puzzle, Sam. Nearly everyone around here is a family friend—” She held up a hand quickly. “I wouldn't dream of asking you to fail in your duty, Sam, you must understand that, but be careful and be sure of every step. And please, Sam—and I know you, Sam—don't go at it like a bull at a gate. People round here might get the wrong idea.”

Sam Vimes was certain that he did have the wrong idea and his brow wrinkled as he said, “I don't know, Sybil, how does a bull go at a gate? Does it just stop and look puzzled?”

“No, dear, it smashes everything to pieces.”

Lady Sybil gave a warning smile and brushed herself down. “I don't think we need detain you any longer, Mr. Upshot,” she said to the grateful Feeney. “Do remember me to your dear mother. If she doesn't mind, I'd like to meet her while I'm down here again to talk about old times. In the meantime I suggest you leave via the kitchen, no matter what my husband thinks about a policeman using the servants' entrance, and tell Cook to supply you with, well, anything your mother would like.”

She turned to her husband. “Why don't you escort him down there, Sam? And since you're enjoying the fresh air, why not go and find Young Sam? I think he's back in the barnyard, with Willikins.”

Feeney was silent as they went down the long corridors, but Vimes sensed the boy's mind working its way through a problem, which came out when he said, “Lady Sybil is a very nice kind lady, isn't she, sir?”

“I do not need to be reminded of that,” said Vimes, “and I'd like you to understand that she stands in vivid contrast to me. I get edgy when I think there's a crime unsolved. A crime unsolved is against nature.”

“I keep thinking of the goblin girl, sir. She looked like a statue, and the way she spoke, well, I don't know what to say. I mean, they can be a bloody nuisance—they'll have the laces out of your boots if you don't move quick enough—but when you see them in their cave you realize there's, well, kids, old granddad goblins and—”

“Old mum goblins?” Vimes suggested quietly.

Once again, Mrs. Upshot's little boy struggled in the unfamiliar and terrifying grip of philosophy and fetched up with, “Well, sir, I dare say cows make good mothers, but at the end of the day a calf is veal on the hoof, yes?”

“Maybe, but what would you say if the calf walked up to you and said, ‘Hello, my name is Tears of the Mushroom?' ”

Feeney's face once again frowned in the effort of novel cogitation. “I think I'd have the salad, sir.”

Vimes smiled. “You were in a difficult position, lad, and I'll tell you something: so am I. It's called being a copper. That's why I like it when they run. That makes it all so simple. They run and I chase. I don't know if it's metaphysical, or something like that. But there
was
a corpse. You saw it, so did I and so did Miss Beedle. Keep that in mind.”

Y
oung Sam was sitting on a hay bale in the farmyard, watching the horses come in. He ran to his dad, looking very pleased with himself, and said, “Dad, you know chickens?”

Vimes picked up his son and said, “Yes, I have heard of them, Sam.”

Young Sam wriggled out of his father's grasp as if being picked up and swung around was inappropriate activity for a serious researcher in scatological studies, and looked solemn. “Do you know, Dad, that when a chicken does a poo, there's a white bit on top which is the wee? Sometimes it's like the icing on a bun, Dad!”

“Thank you for letting me know,” said Vimes. “I'll remember that next time I eat a bun.” And every time after that, he added to himself. “I suppose you know everything about poo now, Sam?” Vimes said hopefully, and he saw Willikins smile.

Young Sam, now staring at a pile of chicken droppings through a little magnifying glass, shook his head without looking up. “Oh no, Dad, Mr. …” Here, Young Sam stopped and looked at Willikins hopefully.

Willikins cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Trout, one of the gamekeepers, was around half an hour ago, and of course your lad will strike up a conversation with anybody, and the upshot is that young Sam, it would appear, sir, would like to amass a collection of the droppings of a number of woodland creatures.”

Gamekeepers, thought Vimes. He ran that across his brain and thought about who had actually rounded the goblins up three years ago. And then he thought, how important is that compared with the question
who told them to?
I think I've got the smell of this place: people do what they're told because they've always done what they're told. But gamekeepers are a canny lot; it's not just human beings they have to outsmart. And remember, this is the countryside, where everybody knows everybody else, and notices everybody else. I don't think Feeney is lying, so other people know what happened here one night three years ago. I mustn't be a bull at a gate, said Sybil, and she's right. I need to know where I'm treading. What happened happened three years ago? I can afford to take my time over this one. Aloud he said, “How far can I take this?”

“It seems you've had a busy day, sir,” said Willikins. “This morning you went down to the lockup with a little tit who thinks he is a copper, and then, in company with a goblin, you and said little tit went up to Dead Man's Copse, where you remained for quite some time, until you and the aforesaid little tit came out and you arrived here, minus one tit just now.” Willikins grinned at Vimes. “There's people coming and going down in the kitchens all the time, sir, and gossip is a kind of currency when you get beyond the green door. You've got to remember, sir, that, despite Mr. Silver's dirty looks, I am the top nob below stairs and I can go where I like and do what I like and they can
choke
on it if they like. The whole of the hill is visible from some window or other in this house, and maids are very cooperative, sir. It seems that all the girls are busting for a job in the Scoone Avenue establishment. Very keen they are for the city lights, sir. Very cooperative. Also, I found quite a good telescope in the study. Remarkable view of Hangman's Hill, you know. I could practically read your lips. Young Sam quite enjoyed the game of searching for Dad.”

Vimes felt a pang of guilt at those words. This was supposed to be a family holiday, wasn't it? But…“Someone killed a goblin girl up at Dead Man's Copse,” he said, his voice dull. “They made sure there was a lot of blood to give our keen young copper something that he could think of as a case. He's floundering; I don't think he's ever seen a corpse before.”

Willikins looked genuinely taken aback. “What, never? Maybe I'll retire down here, except I'd die of boredom.”

A thought struck Vimes and he said, “When you were looking through the telescope, did you see anyone else go up the hill?”

Willikins shook his head. “No, sir, just you.”

They both turned to watch Young Sam, who was carefully drawing chicken poo in his notebook, and Willikins said quietly, “You've got a good lad there, very bright. Make the most of the time, sir.”

Vimes shook his head. “Gods know you're right, but, well, she was cut about, and with steel, definitely steel.
They
only have stone weapons. They cut her about to make certain there was enough blood that even a stupid flatfoot would spot it. And she was named after the colors of a flower.”

There was a disapproving noise from Willikins. “Coppers shouldn't get sentimental, it's bad for the judgement. You said it yourself. You find yourself in some bloody awful domestic scene and you think things could be improved by kicking the shit out of somebody, only how do you know when to stop? That's what you said. You said whacking a bloke in a fight is one thing, but when he's been cuffed, it ain't right.”

To Vimes's surprise Willikins tapped him on the shoulder in a kindly way (you'd know it instantly if Willikins tapped you in an unfriendly way).

“Take my advice, commander, and have tomorrow off, too. There's a boating house on the lake, and later you could take the little lad out in the woods, which are, by all accounts, knee-deep in poo of all sorts. He'll be in poo heaven! Oh, and he also told me that he wants to go and see the smelly skull man again. I'll tell you what, I reckon with a mind like his, he'll be Archchancellor of Unseen University by the time he's sixty!”

Willikins must have seen the grimace on Vimes's face, because he went on, “Why so surprised sir? He might want to be an alchemist, right? Don't say you'd want him to be a copper: you wouldn't, would you? At least when you're a wizard people don't try to kick you in the fork, right? Of course you do have to go up against dreadful creatures from hellish dimensions, but they don't carry knives, and you get training. Worth thinking about, commander, 'cos he's growing like a weed and you should be putting him on the right track through life. And now, if you'll excuse me, commander, I'm off to annoy the servants.”

Willikins took a few steps then stopped, looked at Vimes and said, “Look at it like this, sir, if you take some time off, the guilty will be no less guilty, and the dead won't get any less dead, and her ladyship will not try to behead you with a coat hanger.”