Disclaimer: See Part 1.
*****
::London::
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
A red-haired gentleman now stood in the entryway, wearing the well-tailored but oft-mended clothing of a professional servant, but he wore the patches and repairs with the poise of familial pride, as though they were badges of honour.
"I am he," said Vetinari, rising and offering his hand to the gentleman, who obviously had no inkling of the truth.
Our new client clasped Vetinari's hand. "My name is Sean MacAvoy," he said, getting a slightly odd look on his face as he studied "Holmes."
"Something wrong?" Vetinari asked blandly.
"Probably nothing. I just expected you to be taller, is all."
Vetinari smiled indulgently. "You have no idea how often I hear that. Come. Have a seat and tell me all about this fateful birthday party."
Watching Vetinari slip into his role as Holmes was vaguely unnerving, though I had at least the comfort of knowing that he eschewed my friend's more noxious habits, such as smoking a pipe or conducting chemical experiments - when confronted with Holmes' chemical apparatus, in fact, Vetinari had asked if Holmes was an alchemist on the side. I indicated to him that Holmes was not in the practice of turning lead into gold or any such rubbish, to which he coolly replied that neither were the Guild Alchemists in the fabled Ankh-Morpork he had mentioned earlier. He added, however, that the Alchemists were especially adept at turning gold into less gold, the practical applications of which I failed to understand.
But I digress.
"Three days ago was my daughter Rebecca's eleventh birthday," said Mr. MacAvoy as he folded himself into the proffered chair, his voice flavoured with a slight Irish brogue, "I don't know who would be callous enough to set a bomb at a child's birthday party--"
"That's why you're here," Vetinari interjected, smoothly but firmly, "to find out. Please start at the beginning."
"Well," said the other, a bit taken aback by the interruption but quick to recover, "you have probably already noticed that my family is not native to England, though we've been here for several years. My wife Kathleen and I moved here from Ireland when Rebecca was very small, mainly because Kathleen's parents never approved of me, being a farmer's son, even though I hadn't lived at home for about a year when we wed. But we loved each other and we were determined to work it out, even if we had to move to England to do it.
"We worked hard to make our way here, and we never had very much, just enough to live on. It was only in the past year that I got settled in a good job as a driver for a wealthy family and we were able to save enough to have a proper birthday party for Rebecca, with gifts and everything. It was nothing lavish, but we wanted to make it a special day for her."
"How did you commemorate the day?" Vetinari prompted.
"Well, my employer allowed us to decorate their parlour with balloons and streamers and the like, and Kathleen and I bought gifts. Kathleen baked a cake and decorated it with sugar frosting."
"Was it just the three of you, then, at the party?"
"Mr. Cavitz - my employer - and his wife attended, and Mrs. Morris, the head housekeeper - she thinks the world of Rebecca and I suspect she sneaks her candy every now and then - and Kathleen's brother, Nathan."
"Your wife's brother lives in London, then?" Vetinari asked; to my private horror he pronounced London as though it were two separate words: Lon-Don. Mr. MacAvoy, in his distress, failed to notice, something for which I was quite grateful.
"Not until recently. We met by chance by one of the clubs Mr. Cavitz frequents and he said he'd moved here maybe eight months prior, after his own trade in Ireland collapsed."
"What was his trade up to that point?"
"He kept an apothecary in the country, so the more rural folk didn't have to travel all the way to one of the towns to get their medicine."
"I see. Describe what happened at the party - everything that led up to the incident mentioned in your note." Vetinari was leaning forward slightly at this point, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers steepled before his impassive lips in what seemed to me a slightly intimidating manner, and from my point of view his profile resembled that of a crow examining a bit of carrion.
"Well," said Mr MacAvoy, "Everything was going quite well at first... the decorations arrived and we put them up, and Rebecca was so excited about the whole thing - you know, it was her first real birthday party - but just as we were about to light the candles on the cake, there was this explosion--"
"Where did it start?" The question was, I thought, rather abrupt.
"Er, in the corner, I think. Nathan got caught in it - he was right over there when it happened."
"What was in that corner?"
Mr MacAvoy looked blankly at Vetinari. "Nothing flammable - just a cluster of helium balloons."
"Hm. The explosion - was it loud?"
"I honestly don't remember, Mr. Holmes. Everything happened so fast - all I remember was this big red fireball in the corner and then everyone was screaming."
By this time I was starting to get annoyed with this line of questioning - of course Mr MacAvoy wouldn't be able to remember any details of such a tragedy. His next question redeemed him slightly.
"Your brother-in-law - is he quite all right?" Vetinari's tone was still rather detached, but now it carried a note of diplomatic sympathy.
"Oh. Um, he survived, if that's what you're asking, but he was burned pretty badly, being right there when it happened. It was a miracle nobody was killed, but I still want to find out what happened."
"And how does Mr Cavitz feel about all this? It was his parlour, after all."
"That's the only odd bit. He yelled at Nathan for lighting a cigarette in the parlour. I mean, the poor man was already in wretched condition, but I don't see what a cigarette has to do with anything."
"Does Mr Cavitz himself smoke?"
"I don't know. I know Mrs Cavitz deplores cigarette smoke, but there were still ashtrays about."
"Thank you, Mr MacAvoy. If you will but leave the address where this incident took place, I shall be sure to look into the matter."
Mr MacAvoy scribbled the address, then looked pained. "I know, sir, that you charge a fee for your services--"
Vetinari waved a hand sharply to cut him off. "If this proves to be other than a regrettable accident, I shall send the bill to the responsible party." I nearly fell out of my chair. Vetinari merely gave me a look of inquisitive benevolence, as though he honestly saw no aberration in this practice. "It would, after all, only be the proper monetary penalty for someone who would attempt to firebomb a child's birthday party, wouldn't you agree, Watson?" Without awaiting my reply (I was too flabbergasted to formulate one anyway), he returned his attention to Mr MacAvoy. "I assure you, Mr MacAvoy, that I will devote all available resources to this case."
Mr MacAvoy was almost delirious with gratitude, pumping Vetinari's hand with such enthusiasm that I feared his shoulder would be dislocated, and bowed several times as he backed towards the door.
I was at least polite enough to wait until MacAvoy had left the front stoop before whirling on Vetinari.
"Have you gone mad?!" I exploded, "Holmes has never billed the perpetrator in any crime with his service fees - no matter how heinous the crime! I can't even be sure that such a debt would be legally enforceable."
He examined his nails. "What would you prefer I do - charge MacAvoy? I'm a politician, not a sadist - I learned at least that much in school."
"And where, pray, does one go to learn to be a politician like yourself?" I had heard that some of the more expensive boarding schools catered to such highbrow snobs as he, but I wasn't prepared for his answer.
"The Assassin Academy," he said, at casually as if he were mentioning Oxford. That rather shut me up on the topic of his past for the rest of the afternoon, for I suddenly had the horrible feeling that this, at least, was the truth.
*****
End of Part 6.
*****
::London::
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
A red-haired gentleman now stood in the entryway, wearing the well-tailored but oft-mended clothing of a professional servant, but he wore the patches and repairs with the poise of familial pride, as though they were badges of honour.
"I am he," said Vetinari, rising and offering his hand to the gentleman, who obviously had no inkling of the truth.
Our new client clasped Vetinari's hand. "My name is Sean MacAvoy," he said, getting a slightly odd look on his face as he studied "Holmes."
"Something wrong?" Vetinari asked blandly.
"Probably nothing. I just expected you to be taller, is all."
Vetinari smiled indulgently. "You have no idea how often I hear that. Come. Have a seat and tell me all about this fateful birthday party."
Watching Vetinari slip into his role as Holmes was vaguely unnerving, though I had at least the comfort of knowing that he eschewed my friend's more noxious habits, such as smoking a pipe or conducting chemical experiments - when confronted with Holmes' chemical apparatus, in fact, Vetinari had asked if Holmes was an alchemist on the side. I indicated to him that Holmes was not in the practice of turning lead into gold or any such rubbish, to which he coolly replied that neither were the Guild Alchemists in the fabled Ankh-Morpork he had mentioned earlier. He added, however, that the Alchemists were especially adept at turning gold into less gold, the practical applications of which I failed to understand.
But I digress.
"Three days ago was my daughter Rebecca's eleventh birthday," said Mr. MacAvoy as he folded himself into the proffered chair, his voice flavoured with a slight Irish brogue, "I don't know who would be callous enough to set a bomb at a child's birthday party--"
"That's why you're here," Vetinari interjected, smoothly but firmly, "to find out. Please start at the beginning."
"Well," said the other, a bit taken aback by the interruption but quick to recover, "you have probably already noticed that my family is not native to England, though we've been here for several years. My wife Kathleen and I moved here from Ireland when Rebecca was very small, mainly because Kathleen's parents never approved of me, being a farmer's son, even though I hadn't lived at home for about a year when we wed. But we loved each other and we were determined to work it out, even if we had to move to England to do it.
"We worked hard to make our way here, and we never had very much, just enough to live on. It was only in the past year that I got settled in a good job as a driver for a wealthy family and we were able to save enough to have a proper birthday party for Rebecca, with gifts and everything. It was nothing lavish, but we wanted to make it a special day for her."
"How did you commemorate the day?" Vetinari prompted.
"Well, my employer allowed us to decorate their parlour with balloons and streamers and the like, and Kathleen and I bought gifts. Kathleen baked a cake and decorated it with sugar frosting."
"Was it just the three of you, then, at the party?"
"Mr. Cavitz - my employer - and his wife attended, and Mrs. Morris, the head housekeeper - she thinks the world of Rebecca and I suspect she sneaks her candy every now and then - and Kathleen's brother, Nathan."
"Your wife's brother lives in London, then?" Vetinari asked; to my private horror he pronounced London as though it were two separate words: Lon-Don. Mr. MacAvoy, in his distress, failed to notice, something for which I was quite grateful.
"Not until recently. We met by chance by one of the clubs Mr. Cavitz frequents and he said he'd moved here maybe eight months prior, after his own trade in Ireland collapsed."
"What was his trade up to that point?"
"He kept an apothecary in the country, so the more rural folk didn't have to travel all the way to one of the towns to get their medicine."
"I see. Describe what happened at the party - everything that led up to the incident mentioned in your note." Vetinari was leaning forward slightly at this point, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers steepled before his impassive lips in what seemed to me a slightly intimidating manner, and from my point of view his profile resembled that of a crow examining a bit of carrion.
"Well," said Mr MacAvoy, "Everything was going quite well at first... the decorations arrived and we put them up, and Rebecca was so excited about the whole thing - you know, it was her first real birthday party - but just as we were about to light the candles on the cake, there was this explosion--"
"Where did it start?" The question was, I thought, rather abrupt.
"Er, in the corner, I think. Nathan got caught in it - he was right over there when it happened."
"What was in that corner?"
Mr MacAvoy looked blankly at Vetinari. "Nothing flammable - just a cluster of helium balloons."
"Hm. The explosion - was it loud?"
"I honestly don't remember, Mr. Holmes. Everything happened so fast - all I remember was this big red fireball in the corner and then everyone was screaming."
By this time I was starting to get annoyed with this line of questioning - of course Mr MacAvoy wouldn't be able to remember any details of such a tragedy. His next question redeemed him slightly.
"Your brother-in-law - is he quite all right?" Vetinari's tone was still rather detached, but now it carried a note of diplomatic sympathy.
"Oh. Um, he survived, if that's what you're asking, but he was burned pretty badly, being right there when it happened. It was a miracle nobody was killed, but I still want to find out what happened."
"And how does Mr Cavitz feel about all this? It was his parlour, after all."
"That's the only odd bit. He yelled at Nathan for lighting a cigarette in the parlour. I mean, the poor man was already in wretched condition, but I don't see what a cigarette has to do with anything."
"Does Mr Cavitz himself smoke?"
"I don't know. I know Mrs Cavitz deplores cigarette smoke, but there were still ashtrays about."
"Thank you, Mr MacAvoy. If you will but leave the address where this incident took place, I shall be sure to look into the matter."
Mr MacAvoy scribbled the address, then looked pained. "I know, sir, that you charge a fee for your services--"
Vetinari waved a hand sharply to cut him off. "If this proves to be other than a regrettable accident, I shall send the bill to the responsible party." I nearly fell out of my chair. Vetinari merely gave me a look of inquisitive benevolence, as though he honestly saw no aberration in this practice. "It would, after all, only be the proper monetary penalty for someone who would attempt to firebomb a child's birthday party, wouldn't you agree, Watson?" Without awaiting my reply (I was too flabbergasted to formulate one anyway), he returned his attention to Mr MacAvoy. "I assure you, Mr MacAvoy, that I will devote all available resources to this case."
Mr MacAvoy was almost delirious with gratitude, pumping Vetinari's hand with such enthusiasm that I feared his shoulder would be dislocated, and bowed several times as he backed towards the door.
I was at least polite enough to wait until MacAvoy had left the front stoop before whirling on Vetinari.
"Have you gone mad?!" I exploded, "Holmes has never billed the perpetrator in any crime with his service fees - no matter how heinous the crime! I can't even be sure that such a debt would be legally enforceable."
He examined his nails. "What would you prefer I do - charge MacAvoy? I'm a politician, not a sadist - I learned at least that much in school."
"And where, pray, does one go to learn to be a politician like yourself?" I had heard that some of the more expensive boarding schools catered to such highbrow snobs as he, but I wasn't prepared for his answer.
"The Assassin Academy," he said, at casually as if he were mentioning Oxford. That rather shut me up on the topic of his past for the rest of the afternoon, for I suddenly had the horrible feeling that this, at least, was the truth.
*****
End of Part 6.