Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
::Ankh-Morpork::
It was just past dawn when Vimes, Vimes' headache, and a cup of Damn Fine Coffee (tm) came to question the Palace intruder.
Ricocheting off half-plate armour is, obviously, not a hospitable stimulus to lucid thought. Nor, he thought to himself, is living in Ankh-Morpork. The Watch Commander and Duke of Ankh- Morpork(a) looked at the thin man sprawled bonelessly on the narrow cot in the cell, and wondered how and why he had broken into the Palace, gotten into the Patrician's bedroom, and changed into his pyjamas. Well. Stranger things had happened. Just not to the Patrician. Not recently, anyway. Speaking of Vetinari, where the hell had he gotten to?
Vimes, ever the inquiring mind, decided to get some answers from the readiest source.
"Wake up!" he barked.
"Mng?" The suspect raised a hand and rubbed his face. He opened his eyes as he encountered the bruises that naturally come from an unarmoured man trying to force his way through armoured guards at a run. "Where am I?" he added, having gone from concussed confusion to wide awake disorientation in about two seconds.
"You're in jail," Vimes informed him, "You were caught trying to break into the Patrician's Palace. Now what do you have to say for yourself?"
"If it helps, I wasn't breaking *in*," the other man said acidly, "I was trying to get *out*."
"Oh, well, that's different." Vimes barely suppressed an eyeroll.(b) "Look, regardless of which way you were headed, I'll need some information." He consulted the form in his hand, even though he knew the damn thing by heart by now. "Name."
"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I expect you may have heard of me."
"As a matter of fact," Vimes informed him, "I haven't. Home address."
Holmes watched him carefully. "221B Baker Street."
Vimes looked up. "Your *real* address."
"That *is* my real address."
"Listen, I know this whole city like the back of my hand, and I can honestly tell you that there is no such address in Ankh-Morpork."
Holmes sighed. "Of *course* not. I live in London."
"London." Vimes repeated flatly. Of course he gets the delusional ones. All right, if that was how he was going to be... "What is your occupation, then, on 221 Baker Street in London?"
"I am a consulting detective."
"So, you're a policeman."
"I did not say that I was on any police force, now did I?"
"Of course not, Mr. Holmes," Vimes agreed flatly, in the tone people usually reserved for the Bursar of Unseen University.
"I am a private citizen who also works as an amateur consulting detective. The method is simplicity itself... though I don't imagine you would think so."
There was a dangerous pause as Vimes tried valiantly to not throttle Mr. Sherlock Wisearse.
"All right. What have you *detected* so far?"
Holmes sat up on the edge of the cot, rearranging the hem of the nightshirt in a vain attempt to make it cover his knees. "Where would you like me to start?" There wasn't even a particle of sarcasm in his voice.
Vimes decided to challenge him. "Start with me." After all, Holmes had only known Vimes for maybe sixty seconds.
Holmes steepled his fingers in quiet contemplation. "You are a high-ranking official, both as a police officer and perhaps socially as well. I would be very surprised if you were not higher than a Captain. You grew up in a rough neighbourhood, a background which coaxed you towards law enforcement in your early to middle teens, where you have been ever since. You're happily married to a woman of higher status than you - though I'm not implying that her status was your reason for marriage. You are very set in your ways, though you find your everyday routine to be frequently stressful."
There was a pause slightly longer than Vimes would have liked.
"And now," Vimes finally said, "I guess this is the bit where I say something like, 'Good heavens, how did you know all that?' And then you say something mysterious like, 'I have my ways' and look smug."
It was Holmes' turn to look a bit surprised and slightly affronted. "Actually I would have been happy to explain it to you, but it seems you aren't in the mood."
"Between you, me, and the cot, Mr. Holmes, I get enough of that crap from the Patrician."
"I see. Would it surprise you, sir, to learn that you have a very flustered man upstairs, wearing new boots, waiting to see you?"
Vimes paused and listened. After a few moments, he heard the muffled tap-tap-tap of boots, indicating that the feet in them were pacing.
"No," Vimes said, too late to allow him to save face, "I'll be back shortly to continue this."
"By all means," Holmes said, "After all, it seems that I shall be unable to pursue my own duties as long as I am here, and I am curious as to what could be so important as to demand the attention of the Commander of the City Watch."
Vimes, who had been walking away, stopped and whirled to face Holmes. Holmes smiled puckishly and tapped the left side of his chest. Vimes looked at the corresponding region on his own uniform and saw, to his annoyance, the gleaming copper badge that proudly proclaimed his rank and profession. He glared at Holmes, turned back, and stomped away to see what the hell was wrong upstairs.
He found Lord Dunnykins of the Thieves' Guild wearing heel-dents in the floor of his office with the fury of his pacing, and cleared his throat. Dunnykins stopped short and whirled to face Vimes. Dunnykins, true to the overlapping codes of Guildmasters and Thieves, was the sort of popinjay that Vimes always swore he would never let himself become, bedecked in so much finery that he would be the target of the very Guild he headed were he not in fact the head. He made peacocks look conservative.
"It's about damned time you got here!" the Guildmaster snapped, "We have a situation at the Guild."
"So I guessed," Vimes replied as he settled into the chair behind his desk, a chair which by now was so old the seat had worn itself into the exact contours of his posterior. He waved a hand vaguely towards the opposite chair. "Have a seat."
"I'll stand, thank you."
"Sit or I'll have someone seat you. I believe Cpl Bauxite has the privilege this week."
Lord Dunnykins entertained a brief mental picture of the troll in question, and the resulting operation could not be described so much him sitting as his knees trying to flee out from under him. By some miracle he wound up in the proffered chair.
"Now," Vimes said pleasantly, lacing his fingers on the desk in front of him in exaggerated respect, "What sort of a situation do the Thieves have that requires the Watch? A sudden outbreak of amateur muggers?"
"I don't appreciate you making light of this. It's a very serious matter."
"By all means, enlighten me."
"Lightfoot is missing."
Vimes blinked once, slowly. "A mascot?"
Dunnykins' jaw tightened in annoyance. "Nathaniel Lightfoot is one of my most promising students. His parents paid for him to be sent to school in Ankh-Morpork."
"They must be so proud."
"He's *missing*!" Dunnykins insisted. "Nobody's seen him for three days, and students are supposed to report in at least every other day. I've already asked at the Assassin's Guild, and they deny any involvement... but you know how they can be."
"Yes... I am acutely aware of that. If it'll make you happy, perhaps you'd like to take a look at someone we recently caught trying to break into the Palace, and see if he's your Mr. Lightfoot."
At the very least, Vimes thought as he led the Guildmaster downstairs, I might find out who this guy is...
*
(a) who, to the vast annoyance of nearly everyone of noble blood, stubbornly refused to dress like either, because he thought it made him look like a complete idiot.
(b) the unique talent of not rolling one's eyes when a situation so clearly calls for it was a skill Vimes had carefully cultivated for dealing with Vetinari. Otherwise he would likely have been in the scorpion pit more than he was on patrol.
*****
::London::
The greatest preliminary challenge of that first day was, in my opinion, not only debriefing Mr. Vetinari on some of the well-known quirks and talents of my friend but also enlisting Mrs. Hudson's aid in getting him looking presentable. As stoic as our housekeeper was in the face of such things as round-the-clock visitors and noxious chemical experiments, she certainly did not appreciate being recruited at six in the morning to alter a suit of Holmes' clothing to fit the shorter man.
Vetinari graciously stepped in and coaxed Mrs. Hudson out of throwing her other bedroom slipper at me with a very simple explanation:
"I am a distant cousin of Sherlock Holmes," he lied smoothly, "And I am dismayed to discover that he failed to brief you on the situation beforehand, madam."
"Brief me?" she asked, the slipper still upraised.
Vetinari smiled disarmingly. "He was called away on an emergency and, for various reasons, was forced to leave in the middle of the night. He asked me to stand in for him on this case, hoping that no-one would be the wiser." He spread his hands, still draped in the overlong sleeves of the night-dress. "We have not seen each other since we were schoolboys. A slight miscalculation in our respective appearances would, under the circumstances, be perfectly understandable."
I silently conceded that he might very well be able to pass himself off as Prince Edward if he so chose, let alone Sherlock Holmes. The idea seemed to suit him very well, for reasons that I did not understand at the time.
"Well," said Mrs. Hudson finally as she lowered the slipper, "I do see a bit of a resemblance between you and Mr. Holmes. Mainly about the brow and nose."
"So you will understand why the good doctor has awakened you at such a hellish hour for some emergency tailorwork... just so I'm presentable for this afternoon's interview with his new client."
"Oh, yes, of course. I'm not an expert seamstress, you understand, but I can take up a few hems for you."
For some reason Mrs. Hudson's statement about her skills as a seamstress made Vetinari clear his throat oddly, but I decided to let it pass without comment.
"Come, Watson," Vetinari said suddenly to me, "Let us give the lady the opportunity to get dressed before she begins her work."
As we ascended back to the rooms I ordinarily shared with Holmes, I turned to the glib liar I had found myself watching over.
"Yes?" he prompted as I looked for a polite way to phrase the question.
"Is this a normal part of your daily activities?" I asked finally.
"Not as such," he said, "But one must learn to adapt to a given situation. As long as Mrs. Hudson does not know the whole truth, she will not have to play a role."
"A role?"
"As far as she knows, what I have told her is the truth. Therefore, if she maintains the farce, she will not be lying. I suggest limiting our circle of trust in this matter, if Mr. Holmes is as famous as you imply. Back where I come from, the underworld virtually polices itself... but beyond that there is one man in particular who polices everyone else. I think that if he ever retired, a lot of clandestine circles would be made very happy. Your friend Holmes sounds a lot like him."
"Oh," I said, "He's a friend of yours, then?"
"He's a city employee. His wages come out of the Palace coffers, but beyond that we barely tolerate each other."
"Oh." There wasn't much I could say in response to that.
*****
End of Part 3
*****
::Ankh-Morpork::
It was just past dawn when Vimes, Vimes' headache, and a cup of Damn Fine Coffee (tm) came to question the Palace intruder.
Ricocheting off half-plate armour is, obviously, not a hospitable stimulus to lucid thought. Nor, he thought to himself, is living in Ankh-Morpork. The Watch Commander and Duke of Ankh- Morpork(a) looked at the thin man sprawled bonelessly on the narrow cot in the cell, and wondered how and why he had broken into the Palace, gotten into the Patrician's bedroom, and changed into his pyjamas. Well. Stranger things had happened. Just not to the Patrician. Not recently, anyway. Speaking of Vetinari, where the hell had he gotten to?
Vimes, ever the inquiring mind, decided to get some answers from the readiest source.
"Wake up!" he barked.
"Mng?" The suspect raised a hand and rubbed his face. He opened his eyes as he encountered the bruises that naturally come from an unarmoured man trying to force his way through armoured guards at a run. "Where am I?" he added, having gone from concussed confusion to wide awake disorientation in about two seconds.
"You're in jail," Vimes informed him, "You were caught trying to break into the Patrician's Palace. Now what do you have to say for yourself?"
"If it helps, I wasn't breaking *in*," the other man said acidly, "I was trying to get *out*."
"Oh, well, that's different." Vimes barely suppressed an eyeroll.(b) "Look, regardless of which way you were headed, I'll need some information." He consulted the form in his hand, even though he knew the damn thing by heart by now. "Name."
"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I expect you may have heard of me."
"As a matter of fact," Vimes informed him, "I haven't. Home address."
Holmes watched him carefully. "221B Baker Street."
Vimes looked up. "Your *real* address."
"That *is* my real address."
"Listen, I know this whole city like the back of my hand, and I can honestly tell you that there is no such address in Ankh-Morpork."
Holmes sighed. "Of *course* not. I live in London."
"London." Vimes repeated flatly. Of course he gets the delusional ones. All right, if that was how he was going to be... "What is your occupation, then, on 221 Baker Street in London?"
"I am a consulting detective."
"So, you're a policeman."
"I did not say that I was on any police force, now did I?"
"Of course not, Mr. Holmes," Vimes agreed flatly, in the tone people usually reserved for the Bursar of Unseen University.
"I am a private citizen who also works as an amateur consulting detective. The method is simplicity itself... though I don't imagine you would think so."
There was a dangerous pause as Vimes tried valiantly to not throttle Mr. Sherlock Wisearse.
"All right. What have you *detected* so far?"
Holmes sat up on the edge of the cot, rearranging the hem of the nightshirt in a vain attempt to make it cover his knees. "Where would you like me to start?" There wasn't even a particle of sarcasm in his voice.
Vimes decided to challenge him. "Start with me." After all, Holmes had only known Vimes for maybe sixty seconds.
Holmes steepled his fingers in quiet contemplation. "You are a high-ranking official, both as a police officer and perhaps socially as well. I would be very surprised if you were not higher than a Captain. You grew up in a rough neighbourhood, a background which coaxed you towards law enforcement in your early to middle teens, where you have been ever since. You're happily married to a woman of higher status than you - though I'm not implying that her status was your reason for marriage. You are very set in your ways, though you find your everyday routine to be frequently stressful."
There was a pause slightly longer than Vimes would have liked.
"And now," Vimes finally said, "I guess this is the bit where I say something like, 'Good heavens, how did you know all that?' And then you say something mysterious like, 'I have my ways' and look smug."
It was Holmes' turn to look a bit surprised and slightly affronted. "Actually I would have been happy to explain it to you, but it seems you aren't in the mood."
"Between you, me, and the cot, Mr. Holmes, I get enough of that crap from the Patrician."
"I see. Would it surprise you, sir, to learn that you have a very flustered man upstairs, wearing new boots, waiting to see you?"
Vimes paused and listened. After a few moments, he heard the muffled tap-tap-tap of boots, indicating that the feet in them were pacing.
"No," Vimes said, too late to allow him to save face, "I'll be back shortly to continue this."
"By all means," Holmes said, "After all, it seems that I shall be unable to pursue my own duties as long as I am here, and I am curious as to what could be so important as to demand the attention of the Commander of the City Watch."
Vimes, who had been walking away, stopped and whirled to face Holmes. Holmes smiled puckishly and tapped the left side of his chest. Vimes looked at the corresponding region on his own uniform and saw, to his annoyance, the gleaming copper badge that proudly proclaimed his rank and profession. He glared at Holmes, turned back, and stomped away to see what the hell was wrong upstairs.
He found Lord Dunnykins of the Thieves' Guild wearing heel-dents in the floor of his office with the fury of his pacing, and cleared his throat. Dunnykins stopped short and whirled to face Vimes. Dunnykins, true to the overlapping codes of Guildmasters and Thieves, was the sort of popinjay that Vimes always swore he would never let himself become, bedecked in so much finery that he would be the target of the very Guild he headed were he not in fact the head. He made peacocks look conservative.
"It's about damned time you got here!" the Guildmaster snapped, "We have a situation at the Guild."
"So I guessed," Vimes replied as he settled into the chair behind his desk, a chair which by now was so old the seat had worn itself into the exact contours of his posterior. He waved a hand vaguely towards the opposite chair. "Have a seat."
"I'll stand, thank you."
"Sit or I'll have someone seat you. I believe Cpl Bauxite has the privilege this week."
Lord Dunnykins entertained a brief mental picture of the troll in question, and the resulting operation could not be described so much him sitting as his knees trying to flee out from under him. By some miracle he wound up in the proffered chair.
"Now," Vimes said pleasantly, lacing his fingers on the desk in front of him in exaggerated respect, "What sort of a situation do the Thieves have that requires the Watch? A sudden outbreak of amateur muggers?"
"I don't appreciate you making light of this. It's a very serious matter."
"By all means, enlighten me."
"Lightfoot is missing."
Vimes blinked once, slowly. "A mascot?"
Dunnykins' jaw tightened in annoyance. "Nathaniel Lightfoot is one of my most promising students. His parents paid for him to be sent to school in Ankh-Morpork."
"They must be so proud."
"He's *missing*!" Dunnykins insisted. "Nobody's seen him for three days, and students are supposed to report in at least every other day. I've already asked at the Assassin's Guild, and they deny any involvement... but you know how they can be."
"Yes... I am acutely aware of that. If it'll make you happy, perhaps you'd like to take a look at someone we recently caught trying to break into the Palace, and see if he's your Mr. Lightfoot."
At the very least, Vimes thought as he led the Guildmaster downstairs, I might find out who this guy is...
*
(a) who, to the vast annoyance of nearly everyone of noble blood, stubbornly refused to dress like either, because he thought it made him look like a complete idiot.
(b) the unique talent of not rolling one's eyes when a situation so clearly calls for it was a skill Vimes had carefully cultivated for dealing with Vetinari. Otherwise he would likely have been in the scorpion pit more than he was on patrol.
*****
::London::
The greatest preliminary challenge of that first day was, in my opinion, not only debriefing Mr. Vetinari on some of the well-known quirks and talents of my friend but also enlisting Mrs. Hudson's aid in getting him looking presentable. As stoic as our housekeeper was in the face of such things as round-the-clock visitors and noxious chemical experiments, she certainly did not appreciate being recruited at six in the morning to alter a suit of Holmes' clothing to fit the shorter man.
Vetinari graciously stepped in and coaxed Mrs. Hudson out of throwing her other bedroom slipper at me with a very simple explanation:
"I am a distant cousin of Sherlock Holmes," he lied smoothly, "And I am dismayed to discover that he failed to brief you on the situation beforehand, madam."
"Brief me?" she asked, the slipper still upraised.
Vetinari smiled disarmingly. "He was called away on an emergency and, for various reasons, was forced to leave in the middle of the night. He asked me to stand in for him on this case, hoping that no-one would be the wiser." He spread his hands, still draped in the overlong sleeves of the night-dress. "We have not seen each other since we were schoolboys. A slight miscalculation in our respective appearances would, under the circumstances, be perfectly understandable."
I silently conceded that he might very well be able to pass himself off as Prince Edward if he so chose, let alone Sherlock Holmes. The idea seemed to suit him very well, for reasons that I did not understand at the time.
"Well," said Mrs. Hudson finally as she lowered the slipper, "I do see a bit of a resemblance between you and Mr. Holmes. Mainly about the brow and nose."
"So you will understand why the good doctor has awakened you at such a hellish hour for some emergency tailorwork... just so I'm presentable for this afternoon's interview with his new client."
"Oh, yes, of course. I'm not an expert seamstress, you understand, but I can take up a few hems for you."
For some reason Mrs. Hudson's statement about her skills as a seamstress made Vetinari clear his throat oddly, but I decided to let it pass without comment.
"Come, Watson," Vetinari said suddenly to me, "Let us give the lady the opportunity to get dressed before she begins her work."
As we ascended back to the rooms I ordinarily shared with Holmes, I turned to the glib liar I had found myself watching over.
"Yes?" he prompted as I looked for a polite way to phrase the question.
"Is this a normal part of your daily activities?" I asked finally.
"Not as such," he said, "But one must learn to adapt to a given situation. As long as Mrs. Hudson does not know the whole truth, she will not have to play a role."
"A role?"
"As far as she knows, what I have told her is the truth. Therefore, if she maintains the farce, she will not be lying. I suggest limiting our circle of trust in this matter, if Mr. Holmes is as famous as you imply. Back where I come from, the underworld virtually polices itself... but beyond that there is one man in particular who polices everyone else. I think that if he ever retired, a lot of clandestine circles would be made very happy. Your friend Holmes sounds a lot like him."
"Oh," I said, "He's a friend of yours, then?"
"He's a city employee. His wages come out of the Palace coffers, but beyond that we barely tolerate each other."
"Oh." There wasn't much I could say in response to that.
*****
End of Part 3