The MGC returns? C15+3
Saturday morning, in accordance with the best sort of schools anywhere, was a working classroom day at the Assassins' Guild School. This was necessary with so much ground to cover and so many classes to deliver. However, pupils were accorded the privilege of a half day off, and after lunch the teaching staff had time to themselves, usually to catch up with marking and lesson planning.
However, at the express order of Lord Downey, three of the teachers found themselves in the Contracts Office, looking for clients who met a very strict set of criteria.
Normally, files on prospective clients and contractees were released to Assassins on a strict "need to know" basis, normally only one at a time and then only to the Guild member expressing an interest in completing the contract. Open access to all files was unprecedented, and had been granted by Downey and the Dark Council to Joan Sanderson-Reeves, Alice Band and Johanna Smith-Rhodes. Even then, the Guild's Bursar, Mr Wimvoe, and a couple of selected minions, were in attendance and were fetching files to the ante-room where the three women sat: as with those prestigious libraries holding lots of rare books, they were not allowed to go to the shelves and select for themselves.
The selection criteria were simple.
The client had to be male;
The client had to be permanently resident in Ankh-Morpork;
They had to have a history of notoriously and shamelessly abusing wives or children;
Joan's reasoning was that as the serial killer known as the New Marriage Guidance Counsellor had, in the past, inadvertently killed men who already had Assassins' Guild contracts out on them, it made sense to look for others on the current contract list who were, in theory at least, candidates for the attention of the killer. As Joan also pointed out, the killer was strongly rumoured to charge over six thousand dollars for an inhumation, which is not small money, especially without Guild tax. People capable of antagonising people who could afford to pay that much are also able to afford Assassins' Guild fees – they certainly fell into the social and income bracket that attracted the attention of the Guild.
The plan was to work out a shortlist of candidates who could be seen as bait in a trap – the formal Assassins' Guild contract would be held in abeyance for a month, while resources were devoted to discreetly watching and observing.
Joan agreed the plan, at most, had a fifty percent chance of success: only a limited number of targets could be subjected to intense covert surveillance of the sort that would eat Guild and Watch resources, and there was no guarantee she, the suspected killer, would go after any of them. But the investigation in its current form was stalling, and it required some sort of reinvigoration.
Angua von Überwald and Inspecter André Loudweather of the Watch had been approached for assistance, and word had come back that Commander Vimes had given his approval, although he apparently wasn't too pleased about it. According to Angua, there were large dents in the office wall that hadn't been there yesterday. But she'd made the valuable observation that the method of killing had at least been constant: poisonous flowers or plants had been delivered to the client at his home or workplace, which cut down the number of places to watch. If he were to get himself killed in the street in a wholly unrelated attack – and here Angua shrugged – that was just bad luck. The resources available could only go so far.
With Watch backing, the women set about assembling their shortlist.
"How about this one?" Joan asked.
"The right honourable Gilbert Proctolo. Age forty-seven, married, two children. Resides on Moon Pond Lane. Upmarket Ankh, I see. The file notes in a very small paragraph following on from details of the sort of financial misdealing that led a disgusted associate to buy the contract, that he frequently gets drunk at home and takes it out on his wife and sons. She is frequently in Accident and Emergency at the Lady Sybil trying to pass the latest injury off as a far-fetched domestic accident"
"Sounds promising. Put him on the list" said Alice.
They read on in silence for a while. Then Alice tutted.
"Mr Martin Sendovolo. Forty-nine. Also resident in Moon Pond Lane. Is it something they put in the water? Fifty, socialite living on a trust fund, no job. Has made himself a nuisance by presuming a family link to the Venturis and has tried to get legal recognition as a Venturi heir. Apparently there may be some basis of truth, as the notes here are drawn from a copy of the family tree thought lost in the fire at the College of Heralds – that's sneaky, we keep copies in the Black Library? No doubt to be brought out to embarrass Sam Vimes when the time is right.
"He may have been a wrong-side-of-the-blanket child the old lord Venturi fathered on a girl with just enough nobility in her to make her a bloody nuisance. Hence the trust fund, to keep it quiet. But he isn't. Hence the contract. A disappointed man with exaggerated expectations and no achievements. Gets drunk, beats up wife. I wonder if she and Mrs Proctolo sit together in the hospital waiting room?"
"Put him on the list" Joan said. "How much is he worth, by the way? That much? "
She made a discreet note. Alice and Johanna smiled.
They read on. From time to time a new name was added to the shortlist. At Mr Wimvoe's insistence, they were only able to copy over the most minimal details of name, address, description and family members. But all Assassins are taught to have good memories, and teachers tend to be born with them.
"Mr Gerald Langworthy-Eccles" Alice read. Fifty-one. Married. Four children. Social climber and business entrepreneur. Is thought to be legitimising after making an unattributable fortune in unspecified transactions. He is now trying to buy favour in the upper classes by hosting lavish balls and parties. Has petitioned Vetinari, without success, for a title in recognition of Services to Business. The established nobility attend the parties but laugh at him behind his back. Treated with affable contempt, as a source of entertainment. Can get embittered. Care to guess who the punchbag is when he gets on a downer?"
Johanna frowned. "The name rings a bell. I remember he wes et en Embessy reception. Trying to expend his business into Howondaland. My oncle treated him coolly. But there's something else. Something recent."
She turned and called
"Mr Wimvoe? I believe your office takes copies of the Times every day? Mey I see the last week's?"
The newspapers were provided. To speed things along, they took two or three each, searching for the name Langworthy-Eccles.
"Ah, here it is, girls! From two days ago. Listen.
"Last night, the City Watch were called to a disturbance at a private house on Speedwell Lane"
"Where's thet?" Johanna inquired.
Just off Kingsway on the Hide Park side. Not quite the most upscale part of Ankh, but it attracts people who aspire to moving up to Scoone Avenue. Quite telling, for the man."
"Details are scanty, but the premises are believed to belong to the entrepreneur and free-market advocate Gerald Langworthy -Eccles (51). Following a society party, Mr Langworthy-Eccles is believed to have had a loud and noisy altercation with his wife. A Watch patrol was attracted by the sound of a female screaming in fear and pain, and the householder then had a noisy altercation with the Watch patrol, refusing them admission to the house and screaming that the Watch had no right to interfere in domestic disputes.
It is believed the Constable Precious Jolson (22) forced admission to the premises anyway, and discovered Mrs Langworthy-Eccles (46) in a state of some distress. She was later admitted to the Lady Sybil Free Hospital where her injuries were attended to. She would not talk to the Times, claiming her wounds were the result of a freak accident involving a door. While Doctor John Lawn (58) reminded us it is hospital policy not to break patient confidentiality, he did admit that it would have to be an oddly-shaped door to inflict injuries like that.
Mr Langworthy-Eccles attempted to make a personal complaint to Commander Vimes of the Watch, who personally attended to back up his officers despite being off-duty. Dressed in a rather fetching pink dressing-gown and blue fluffy-bunny slippers, Sir Samuel pointed out to Mr Langworthy-Eccles that he could hear the bloody screaming from across the road on the corner of Scoone Avenue where he happened to live, and that this was not the first time we've been woken up in the night like this, Gerald, and certainly not the first time your wife has presented at the Lady Sybil with suspicious bruising. If you want to complain, put it in writing and address it to the Palace and I'll see you in front of Lord Vetinari, are you hearing me, Gerald? Oh, and Constable Jolson patrols here tomorrow night, and the night after, and I'm pairing her with either Sergeant Angua or Constable von Humpedink, who both have a fairly robust attitude towards so-called domestics.
Sir Samuel concluded with "Any more noise from you tonight and you're in a cell, OK?". Then h3e congratulated his officers on a job well done and went home.
"Report by Sacharissa Cripslock" Joan concluded.
"How could we not tell?" mused Alice. The Times' leading investigative reporter was well known for being a Woman of Views, and one of her strongly-held views was that any man caught in domestic abuse should be buried at the bottom of a hole that was so deep he'd be hearing elephants.
They paused in silence.
"Joan" Alice said, "Do you remember Downey asked us if we had any plans to try to guide Dr Bellamy towards suitable candidates? And we said that anything we could think of sounded too much like planting evidence and she'd smell it a mile off? Well… she reads the Times, doesn't she?"
"And we didn't even need to plant this!" Joan said, exultantly. "If she hasn't put a socking great red ring around this article and clipped it out for future reference, she's not the woman I thought she was! And I can think of one other little thing we can do to help things along…"
"Lord Downey said to talk to him first" Johanna reminded her.
"Oh, we will" Joan said. How many's that now, girls? Nine? Let's just discuss them and whittle it down to six, and the job's done. Then we start thinking of surveillance. What's that clever little girl of yours doing, Johanna, the one you used to get into the Embassy and the florists? Round her up for me later, would you? And a couple more promising students. I've got a job for them!"
They packed up and finished, adding the Times article to the Langworthy-Eccles file, thanked Mr Wimvoe for his help, and went to discuss strategy over coffee.
There comes a moment in every criminal investigation where luck throws an easy ball towards the law enforcement bat. This had been a long time coming, but over a leisured Saturday breakfast made by her husband, Doctor Davinia Bellamy took the opportunity to catch up with the newspapers she'd only had time to skim during the week.
The frustration and sheer itch of not having been able to conclude a deadheading for some time was building up inside her. She knew herself well: she knew it would only be a matter of time. The only questions were who and when. She took another sip of her coffee and turned a page. And read.
Unseemly fracas at Mansion on Speedwell Road. Watch called.
Her coffee grew colder as she read. She smiled appreciatively at the description of Sam Vimes, an off-duty copper who'd evidently reached for the nearest dressing gown and slippers – even if they were Sybil's – before racing out to a crime happening practically across the street from him.
But that's Vimes. He runs to the scene of a crime regardless and he doesn't let go.
She filed the name of Mr Gerald Langworthy-Eccles for future attention. Her mind started making plans. Did they already have an account with her? It might be in the name of the senior housemaid or housekeeper. She'd have to check. But perhaps a speculative approach? Make contact with an offer to cater their floristry needs for these parties he has, Find a sympathetic downstairs maid who wants to let off steam about the bastard she works for and how he treats the mistress… or check out he family connections. Check if any friends or acquaintances are among my satisfied and discreet customers. Get them to drop a very discreet hint to the poor woman that these things can be resolved…
"Your coffee's going cold, Vinnie" Peter reminded her.
"Oh. So it is. Thank you." she said.
"So we're resolved on a plan, then?" André Loudweather inquired. "The Watch and the Palace deploy gargoyle resources at each of these six addresses, one as near to the front door, one as near to the tradesmen's entrance, as they can get. The gargoyles are shown iconographs of the woman we're looking for. So if she calls bearing flowers, and the gentleman of the house dies suddenly and inexplicably shortly afterwards, we've got her. In the meantime, Assassins' Guild resources are deployed, partly to exert psychological pressure on her in Pelicool Steps to scare her into making an error, and partly on deep penetration and covert surveillance missions on each of the six potential targets. Which the Guild may legitimately do, as all six are subject to Guild contract."
Agreement was nodded and murmured. André smiled.
"Good. I like the shape of this Mr Gerald Langworthy-Eccles. I agree that as his case featured in the times, it might give the lady ideas. Therefore we devote a proportionately larger share of our resources to his case. Everyone agreed? Good. Let's put the fine details together."
Some time later, André and Joan went for a walk from the Assassins' Guild around to Phelan's Well.
They nodded at each other, and entered the premises of Liona Keeble, Job Broker. Keeble, tall, thin, and slightly fey in his manner, nodded recognition to André as the ill-assorted pair passed through the boards, displaying job vacancies according to type and location.
"André!" Keeble called. "Always a pleasure! See you at the Club later?" His eyes took in Joan, in her Assassin black, and he instinctively realised she was not a woman to offend.
"We need a word, Liona." André nodded to the private office. Keeble nodded understanding, and asked his receptionist to prepare drinks. They went through together, and sat down.
Joan was introduced, and Keeble's face went carefully blank.
"I'm going to offer you the chance to help the Watch in its enquiries" André said, pleasantly. "We're about to launch a big undercover investigation. My colleague here is an investigator with the Assassins' Guild, by the way. Did I tell you it was a joint investigation?"
"And.. I can help, how, exactly?" Keeble said, cautiously.
"We can't use Watchmen or women. Apart from a few Cable Street Particulars, who are all needed on other investigations anyway, their faces and shapes are all too well known. I want to send vanilla people, new unknown faces, into various big houses undercover, in the guise of waiters, waitresses and domestic servants. I know you handle temporary as-and-when contracts, say somebody's catering for a house weekend or a big ball and extra below-stairs staff are needed. Well, Miss Sanderson-Reeves here is going to bring you a dozen or so temporary staff to be deployed in locations I will direct you to employ them in."
Joan nodded, and smiled encouragingly.
"They will need their records with you to be, er, slightly falsified, in case anyone checks. I want, for instance, no mention of the fact they all come from the Assassins' Guild School. They will all be perceived as having attended obscure and unknown schools and colleges either here or preferably overseas. Don't panic, they all know how to take instructions and knuckle down to hard work."
Joan added "You will, of course, pay them appropriately, as every school student welcomes pocket money. And the ones I'm sending you are all from places like Dimwell and the Shades. Scholarship pupils, d'you see. When people think of the Assassins' School, they think of cut-glass accents, children of the nobility, and double-barrelled names. If I send any of those out posing as downstairs maids and footmen, they'd be noticed. Dimwell kids won't. They won't get a second glance. And the others will be from overseas. You'll be getting one from Fourecks, for instance, and a very bright girl from Howondaland. Your job is to give them convincing paperwork and send 'em out to work."
As Keeble sagged slightly, André added "They're all fourteen and fifteen. Some of the boys will be older. And you know yourself, Liona, if they weren't in school at fourteen, they'd be working."
Keeble sighed. "This could ruin my reputation, you know. What if it goes wrong?"
"It won't. Trust me on this. And the Guild doesn't forget. It's a useful friend to make. Better than the alternative." Joan added.
"Ok, I'll do it" Keeble said, resignedly, spreading his hands in a classic shrug. Then he recovered, and asked
"See you down the club tonight? It's been a long time, no see!"
Joan, who in some respects was very tolerant, caught the reference to the Blue Cat Club (Ankh-Morpork's gay scene – all of it, in fact) and smiled, knowing another kind of force was at work here.
"Such a nice boy!" she exclaimed, indulgently.
On Pelicool Steps, Johanna Smith-Rhodes, dressed in her usual almost-military safari suit, with a bush hat to match, promenaded unhurriedly in the company of Emmanuelle Marie Lapoignard les Deux-Épées. While Johanna's clothing made a token nod towards Assassin status – her hat was black, her epaulettes were trimmed with black piping and she wore the purple teaching sash, as well as being festooned with obvious weapons – the dominant colour was veldt khaki. It was a style eccentricity the Guild tolerated in one of its young rising stars.1 (1) To an outside observer however, her clothing was White Howondaland with all the knobs turned up to eleven(2) 2.
Emmanuelle, by contrast, was wearing the full elegant black, in silk and satin, with just a teasing hint of décolletage. Her sword and dagger hung at her side as a gentle hint to people not to come too close unless invited.
As instructed, as they passed Bellamy's, the two very obvious Assassins gave the establishment a careful, almost disinterested, glance before walking on in the direction of the Brindisian restaurant, where two old friends in the same profession had booked to have lunch.
Inside the shop, Davinia Bellamy watched them walk past her window and quailed inside. She instantly recognised the redhead who was very clearly Howondalandian by her dress. She had never seen the dark-haired one before, but something in her poise, her elegance, her carriage, shouted "I am a killer! Do not cross me!" at the world. And those swords she wore at her waist…
Davinia could not help but go back to this time and again during the afternoon… the sight had unsettled her, badly. It kept intruding on her thoughts concerning deadheading Mr Gerald Langworthy-Eccles.
(1) Provided she wore the approved black if she was concluding a contract. Well, you can't have Assassins dressing how the hell they like for work, there has to be a dress code.
(2) Anyone trying to tell Johanna this risked a short educational encounter with her bush machete or her sjaembok. She wasn't short tempered or trying to make a point – for much the same reason it wouldn't have occurred to Crocodile Dundee to dress up appropriately for New York. But she was still proud of her country and origins.