Disclaimer: See Part 1.
*****
::Ankh-Morpork::
Well, thought Vimes, there went that theory.
Lord Dunnykins not only denied that the man calling himself Holmes was a cardholding
Guildsman, but he declared that he would be too gangly and awkward to be a true thief.
Holmes accepted all the snide comments with alarming placidity, then launched his counterattack.
"So, how long have you been courting her?" he asked brightly, the question coming apparently
from nowhere.
Dunnykins blinked. "Courting?" he asked, with entirely too much innocence, "Courting whom?"
"Yes," Holmes replied coolly, "A young lady with long blond hair who favours perfume scented
with jasmine and lavender, with whom you occasionally spend the evening drinking brandy (and in
fact did so last night), and on whom you have placed such favour as to give her one of your rings
as a token of your esteem."
Dunnykins sputtered, turned several shades of red, and finally turned to Vimes.
"I want Lightfoot found! I will not accept failure!" The Guildmaster's voice had jumped half an
octave since the last time he spoke, Vimes noticed with pokerfaced satisfaction as Dunnykins
flounced out. After the footsteps faded, Vimes turned back to Holmes and opened his mouth.
"I suppose you didn't noticed that he smelt of both perfume and brandy," Holmes remarked
before Vimes could say anything, "nor that he had a few blond hairs clinging to his sleeve, nor
that there was a shadow on one of his fingers where a ring had been."
Vimes shut his mouth. There was a long pause.
"I bet you enjoyed that," Vimes said finally.
"Under the circumstances, yes," Holmes replied, "Ordinarily I would not do that."
"Then again, Dunnykins is a prick to everyone."
"So I gathered. By the way, his problem seems to be an intriguing one." Holmes leaned on the
crossbar of the cell door, examining his nails as though expecting Vimes to say something further.
"So you think you can find Lightfoot?" Vimes ventured.
"Missing persons are not the most difficult cases I've handled."
"Within his timeframe?"
"What timeframe would that be?" Holmes finally looked up.
"He'll probably want him found by yesterday."
"Ah, yes. One of those."
"Of course, you will be working *with* the Watch, not independently," Vimes added, just to
make sure Holmes knew he was going to be kept on a leash until Vimes discovered his role - if
any - in Vetinari's disappearance.
"Well, as long as I'm working with the Watch," Holmes replied, "I should like the Watch to work
with me as well."
"How do you mean?" Vimes asked cautiously.
"Clothing. I cannot conduct an investigation in a nightshirt." He didn't need to mention the
underwear.
Vimes had an evil thought. He grinned, a sure warning sign to anyone who knew him. "We can
get a Seamstress here within the hour, if you'd like."
"I would prefer a tailor... but I suppose a seamstress will have to do."
"You won't be disappointed, Mr. Holmes. The Seamstresses of Ankh-Morpork are world-
renowned for their talents."
Vimes' mood had significantly improved as he returned to his office to compose a brief note to
Mrs. Palm.
*****
::London::
A few hours later I found myself breakfasting with a slightly shorter approximation of Holmes,
thanks to Mrs. Hudson's last-minute tailoring. However, she had refused to alter any of Holmes'
beloved dressing-gowns, so the one Vetinari wore as he ate had the sleeves tidily rolled up, while
the hem puddled on the floor about his feet. The subject of footwear had yet to be addressed.
Vetinari ate with the delicacy of a cat, with the odd habit of not starting his meal until I had
chewed and swallowed my first bite of food. Holmes had, of course, taught me well in the
observation of another's mannerisms, and it seemed to me that Vetinari was either a gourmet of
all the senses or a deeply suspicious man.
"It is one of my own quirks," he explained cursorily when I asked him about his minute culinary
observation, "Considering those of your friend, I should not think you would pay undue attention
to any of mine." He looked at me so keenly that I felt the subject was rather irrevocably closed.
This is not to say that he was a particularly unpleasant man over breakfast. His overall manner
was as polite as his unusual circumstances allowed, and he had the exquisite table manners of
someone who was dining with the Queen rather than a retired army physician. I became so at
ease in his company that I decided to broach one relatively minor detail of his appearance.
"I expect you'll shave after breakfast, then?" I half-asked, half-reminded him.
His expression sharpened. "Shave?" he echoed, a forkful of eggs pausing halfway to his mouth.
He made it sound as though I had ordered him to shave his head rather than his goatee.
"Yes," I said, "Holmes tends to be fastidious about his appearance... and cleanshaven."
He looked at me so hard for so long without blinking that I became distinctly uncomfortable.
However, I did not recant, if that was his intention.
"This was your idea, Mr. Vetinari..." I began.
"Do I look untidy to you?" It was a challenge.
"No, not at all, just... not quite like Holmes."
"Well," he said, stuffing the bite of egg into his mouth, "I am not Holmes."
"You're supposed to be him!" I protested.
"No. I am *supposed* to be a distant cousin of his, pretending to be him. There is a difference."
"And with me being your only source of information about him, I should think you'd listen to my
advice," I huffed.
"This is why I abhor advisors," he murmured, rubbing his forehead, then added aloud, "You said
your friend was also a dabbler in makeup and disguises. Any aberrations in my appearance can
easily be explained away by this habit. If all else fails, I am a distant cousin. Do you understand?"
I was, understandably, alarmed with the speed at which his pleasant demeanour had evaporated in
the face of the issue of his appearance. "So," I said slowly, "The beard is not negotiable?"
"Absolutely not. I would rather look like myself when I am returned to Ankh-Morpork than be
killed by my own staff, taken for a poor imposter."
I looked for any signs that he might have been exaggerating. I found none.
"I have enough issues to deal with when I look as I should," he concluded, and the goatee became
another untouchable subject; whether it was for genuine concerns for his own safety or more
spurious ones of vanity I could not readily tell. I amended my opinion of him to include
moodiness.
I sighed. It was still four hours before the case began, and already I had managed to become very
irritated with the man.
*****
::Ankh-Morpork::
"You must be joking," Holmes decreed flatly.
He stood in Vimes' quarters in Pseudopolis Yard, the privacy of which Vimes had graciously
offered him so the Seamstress could do her job properly.
As soon as Roxanne strolled in, Holmes knew something was horribly amiss, and somehow it was
Vimes' fault.
"You're the seamstress Vimes sent for?" Holmes asked of the young woman, clad in red only
according to a certain liberal definition of "clad". There were certain traits that Holmes tended to
expect in a reputable seamstress, such as conservative dress, a soft-spoken demeanour, and at the
very least a tape measure. He did not expect spike heels that looked as though they could be used
as weapons(a), plainly visible stockings that looked as though they were recycled from fishnets(b),
and hair styled such that it looked as though a poodle had exploded on her head(c). Overall, it
looked as though, if she had any talent with a tape measure, it was the sort of talent that he did
not care to explore.
"Of course I am, hon," Roxanne informed him cheerfully as he pulled the bathrobe (borrowed
from Carrot, the only human anywhere near Holmes' height) tighter around himself like it was a
suit of terrycloth armour. "What else could I be, in this uniform?"
Holmes, ever the gentleman, elected not to answer.
"Vimesy said in his note that this was your first time working with our esteemed Guild," she
continued, heedless, "so let me just give you a run-down of the services we offer--"
"No need," Holmes interrupted tersely, "I know precisely what I want."
"Ohhh, the take-charge type. Pretty rare for a first-timer."
Holmes set his jaw against the onslaught of innuendo. "I would like a suit of clothing, in a
conservative style or whatever passes for it in this city, including shoes or boots, and all the...
foundations."
"Foundations?"
"Underthings." The word came out reluctantly, like a shy child entreated to give Auntie May a
great big kiss.
Roxanne looked at him askance. "Oh, you want *that* kind of Seamstress."
"And what other sort is there?" asked Holmes, in his patented asking-a-question-to-which-the-
answer-is-already-blindingly-obvious tone of voice. "The way I see it, madam, either there has
been a gross misunderstanding, or someone is attempting to play a prank on both of us."
Roxanne pursed her painted lips in annoyance. "I should say so. Excuse me." She returned to
the doorway, moving in a way that made Holmes feel vaguely seasick, and leaned out into the
hallway. "VIIIIIIMES!" she yowled.
There was an explosion of laughter from downstairs. Roxanne glanced over her shoulder at
Holmes.
"Excuse me. Someone's about to lose their testicles - not you," she added as Holmes's knees
huddled together for mutual comfort, "You've been a good sport about this whole thing, all
things considered. You've got 'tourist' written all over you, that's your problem."
"Not by choice, madam."
Roxanne giggled. "'Madam.' I like that. You're cute. I'll get you some clothes, toot sweet.
Don't worry about a thing.
Strangely, Holmes remained thoroughly uncomforted.
*
(a) They frequently were.
(b) They weren't.
(c) No poodles were injured in the making of this hairstyle.
*****
End of Part 4.
*****
::Ankh-Morpork::
Well, thought Vimes, there went that theory.
Lord Dunnykins not only denied that the man calling himself Holmes was a cardholding
Guildsman, but he declared that he would be too gangly and awkward to be a true thief.
Holmes accepted all the snide comments with alarming placidity, then launched his counterattack.
"So, how long have you been courting her?" he asked brightly, the question coming apparently
from nowhere.
Dunnykins blinked. "Courting?" he asked, with entirely too much innocence, "Courting whom?"
"Yes," Holmes replied coolly, "A young lady with long blond hair who favours perfume scented
with jasmine and lavender, with whom you occasionally spend the evening drinking brandy (and in
fact did so last night), and on whom you have placed such favour as to give her one of your rings
as a token of your esteem."
Dunnykins sputtered, turned several shades of red, and finally turned to Vimes.
"I want Lightfoot found! I will not accept failure!" The Guildmaster's voice had jumped half an
octave since the last time he spoke, Vimes noticed with pokerfaced satisfaction as Dunnykins
flounced out. After the footsteps faded, Vimes turned back to Holmes and opened his mouth.
"I suppose you didn't noticed that he smelt of both perfume and brandy," Holmes remarked
before Vimes could say anything, "nor that he had a few blond hairs clinging to his sleeve, nor
that there was a shadow on one of his fingers where a ring had been."
Vimes shut his mouth. There was a long pause.
"I bet you enjoyed that," Vimes said finally.
"Under the circumstances, yes," Holmes replied, "Ordinarily I would not do that."
"Then again, Dunnykins is a prick to everyone."
"So I gathered. By the way, his problem seems to be an intriguing one." Holmes leaned on the
crossbar of the cell door, examining his nails as though expecting Vimes to say something further.
"So you think you can find Lightfoot?" Vimes ventured.
"Missing persons are not the most difficult cases I've handled."
"Within his timeframe?"
"What timeframe would that be?" Holmes finally looked up.
"He'll probably want him found by yesterday."
"Ah, yes. One of those."
"Of course, you will be working *with* the Watch, not independently," Vimes added, just to
make sure Holmes knew he was going to be kept on a leash until Vimes discovered his role - if
any - in Vetinari's disappearance.
"Well, as long as I'm working with the Watch," Holmes replied, "I should like the Watch to work
with me as well."
"How do you mean?" Vimes asked cautiously.
"Clothing. I cannot conduct an investigation in a nightshirt." He didn't need to mention the
underwear.
Vimes had an evil thought. He grinned, a sure warning sign to anyone who knew him. "We can
get a Seamstress here within the hour, if you'd like."
"I would prefer a tailor... but I suppose a seamstress will have to do."
"You won't be disappointed, Mr. Holmes. The Seamstresses of Ankh-Morpork are world-
renowned for their talents."
Vimes' mood had significantly improved as he returned to his office to compose a brief note to
Mrs. Palm.
*****
::London::
A few hours later I found myself breakfasting with a slightly shorter approximation of Holmes,
thanks to Mrs. Hudson's last-minute tailoring. However, she had refused to alter any of Holmes'
beloved dressing-gowns, so the one Vetinari wore as he ate had the sleeves tidily rolled up, while
the hem puddled on the floor about his feet. The subject of footwear had yet to be addressed.
Vetinari ate with the delicacy of a cat, with the odd habit of not starting his meal until I had
chewed and swallowed my first bite of food. Holmes had, of course, taught me well in the
observation of another's mannerisms, and it seemed to me that Vetinari was either a gourmet of
all the senses or a deeply suspicious man.
"It is one of my own quirks," he explained cursorily when I asked him about his minute culinary
observation, "Considering those of your friend, I should not think you would pay undue attention
to any of mine." He looked at me so keenly that I felt the subject was rather irrevocably closed.
This is not to say that he was a particularly unpleasant man over breakfast. His overall manner
was as polite as his unusual circumstances allowed, and he had the exquisite table manners of
someone who was dining with the Queen rather than a retired army physician. I became so at
ease in his company that I decided to broach one relatively minor detail of his appearance.
"I expect you'll shave after breakfast, then?" I half-asked, half-reminded him.
His expression sharpened. "Shave?" he echoed, a forkful of eggs pausing halfway to his mouth.
He made it sound as though I had ordered him to shave his head rather than his goatee.
"Yes," I said, "Holmes tends to be fastidious about his appearance... and cleanshaven."
He looked at me so hard for so long without blinking that I became distinctly uncomfortable.
However, I did not recant, if that was his intention.
"This was your idea, Mr. Vetinari..." I began.
"Do I look untidy to you?" It was a challenge.
"No, not at all, just... not quite like Holmes."
"Well," he said, stuffing the bite of egg into his mouth, "I am not Holmes."
"You're supposed to be him!" I protested.
"No. I am *supposed* to be a distant cousin of his, pretending to be him. There is a difference."
"And with me being your only source of information about him, I should think you'd listen to my
advice," I huffed.
"This is why I abhor advisors," he murmured, rubbing his forehead, then added aloud, "You said
your friend was also a dabbler in makeup and disguises. Any aberrations in my appearance can
easily be explained away by this habit. If all else fails, I am a distant cousin. Do you understand?"
I was, understandably, alarmed with the speed at which his pleasant demeanour had evaporated in
the face of the issue of his appearance. "So," I said slowly, "The beard is not negotiable?"
"Absolutely not. I would rather look like myself when I am returned to Ankh-Morpork than be
killed by my own staff, taken for a poor imposter."
I looked for any signs that he might have been exaggerating. I found none.
"I have enough issues to deal with when I look as I should," he concluded, and the goatee became
another untouchable subject; whether it was for genuine concerns for his own safety or more
spurious ones of vanity I could not readily tell. I amended my opinion of him to include
moodiness.
I sighed. It was still four hours before the case began, and already I had managed to become very
irritated with the man.
*****
::Ankh-Morpork::
"You must be joking," Holmes decreed flatly.
He stood in Vimes' quarters in Pseudopolis Yard, the privacy of which Vimes had graciously
offered him so the Seamstress could do her job properly.
As soon as Roxanne strolled in, Holmes knew something was horribly amiss, and somehow it was
Vimes' fault.
"You're the seamstress Vimes sent for?" Holmes asked of the young woman, clad in red only
according to a certain liberal definition of "clad". There were certain traits that Holmes tended to
expect in a reputable seamstress, such as conservative dress, a soft-spoken demeanour, and at the
very least a tape measure. He did not expect spike heels that looked as though they could be used
as weapons(a), plainly visible stockings that looked as though they were recycled from fishnets(b),
and hair styled such that it looked as though a poodle had exploded on her head(c). Overall, it
looked as though, if she had any talent with a tape measure, it was the sort of talent that he did
not care to explore.
"Of course I am, hon," Roxanne informed him cheerfully as he pulled the bathrobe (borrowed
from Carrot, the only human anywhere near Holmes' height) tighter around himself like it was a
suit of terrycloth armour. "What else could I be, in this uniform?"
Holmes, ever the gentleman, elected not to answer.
"Vimesy said in his note that this was your first time working with our esteemed Guild," she
continued, heedless, "so let me just give you a run-down of the services we offer--"
"No need," Holmes interrupted tersely, "I know precisely what I want."
"Ohhh, the take-charge type. Pretty rare for a first-timer."
Holmes set his jaw against the onslaught of innuendo. "I would like a suit of clothing, in a
conservative style or whatever passes for it in this city, including shoes or boots, and all the...
foundations."
"Foundations?"
"Underthings." The word came out reluctantly, like a shy child entreated to give Auntie May a
great big kiss.
Roxanne looked at him askance. "Oh, you want *that* kind of Seamstress."
"And what other sort is there?" asked Holmes, in his patented asking-a-question-to-which-the-
answer-is-already-blindingly-obvious tone of voice. "The way I see it, madam, either there has
been a gross misunderstanding, or someone is attempting to play a prank on both of us."
Roxanne pursed her painted lips in annoyance. "I should say so. Excuse me." She returned to
the doorway, moving in a way that made Holmes feel vaguely seasick, and leaned out into the
hallway. "VIIIIIIMES!" she yowled.
There was an explosion of laughter from downstairs. Roxanne glanced over her shoulder at
Holmes.
"Excuse me. Someone's about to lose their testicles - not you," she added as Holmes's knees
huddled together for mutual comfort, "You've been a good sport about this whole thing, all
things considered. You've got 'tourist' written all over you, that's your problem."
"Not by choice, madam."
Roxanne giggled. "'Madam.' I like that. You're cute. I'll get you some clothes, toot sweet.
Don't worry about a thing.
Strangely, Holmes remained thoroughly uncomforted.
*
(a) They frequently were.
(b) They weren't.
(c) No poodles were injured in the making of this hairstyle.
*****
End of Part 4.