Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
::Still London::
The cab over to the Cavitz residence was quite silent. I dared not ask what Vetinari had done with the bundle, nor did I feel I would be comforted if I knew. He, on the other hand, had reapplied the makeup to mask his beard for the investigation (at least he was consistent in that!) and, as he had taken the bundle with him into the next room to finish getting dressed, I could only assume that it or its contents were somewhere about his person.
He, meanwhile, stared rather intently out the window at the passing scenery, as though trying to memorise the route or his surroundings for later retrieval. For all the attention he paid me he might as well have been alone in the cab. I was used to silent cab rides - I was not used to being apprehensive of the man in the cab with me.
So it was with great relief on my part that we soon arrived at the Cavitz residence, a stately old manor of no great pretension. Two of the windows in the front had been thrown open, though nobody appeared to be in the room within - presumably this was the parlour, still being aired out from the explosion.
Mr MacAvoy greeted us as we approached the front door.
"Good morning!" he said, "I didn't expect you to start so soon - I only told the Cavitzes I'd hired you just last night."
"I expect they will welcome any aid we can provide," Vetinari said blandly as Mr MacAvoy showed us in, "After all, it is not every day one's parlour explodes during a birthday party - and this must be the charming Mrs MacAvoy. Good morning to you, madam, my name is Sherlock Holmes. Your husband requested my aid in investigating the unfortunate incident at your daughter's birthday party."
I mentally scrambled to keep up with the change of subject, wondering how he could go from speaking of bombs to greeting new acquaintances so abruptly. Vetinari clasped the hand of the lady in question, a raven-haired beauty in the standard uniform of a housekeeper, with every ounce of respect, in much the same way he'd greeted Mrs Hudson. I wondered idly if Vetinari's propensity for reflexive diplomacy might cause problems for the real Sherlock Holmes later on - Mrs MacAvoy was blushing at Vetinari's charm - but that was a matter best left till later.
"And this," he continued, finally including me, "is Dr Watson, whom Mr MacAvoy has already met. He will be aiding in the investigation."
I murmured a greeting as Vetinari darted off towards the parlour; I'm afraid I had to be a bit abrupt with Mrs MacAvoy in order to keep an eye on him.
When I caught up with him he was surveying the scene, standing in the middle of the room with his slender hands clasped behind his back like he was looking at a painting. Mr MacAvoy was there with him, describing where everything had been. As I drew level with Vetinari, I noticed that his gaze was fixed on one corner of the room, to the left of the windows and near the ceiling, where I observed some of the paint had been scorched, presumably by the explosion. The curtain rod nearest the site was also bare of any drapery. The curtains of the adjacent window appeared to be scorched as well, but not severely damaged.
"If I may interrupt," Vetinari said, inclining his head towards the corner in question, "Is that where the fireball originated?"
"Yes, right over there," MacAvoy confirmed, "And Nathan was standing right there, in front of the window." He indicated the bare window.
"Was the window open or shut at the time?"
"Well, it had been shut, but like I said Mrs Cavitz doesn't like cigarette smoke so he opened the window before lighting up."
Vetinari strolled over to the area and examined it minutely, pacing the area of scalded paint from one side to the other, then examining the ceiling.
"And was any device found afterwards?" he asked, "Anything at all in this area? Shrapnel or the like?"
"Nothing - just bits of rubber from the balloons. Mr Holmes, what sort of person would do something like this? I mean, Rebecca is utterly terrified to come in here anymore, and Kathleen has been on edge since it happened..."
"Understandably so... if the blast were any larger it could very well have killed someone." As he spoke, he poked at the scorched paint with a finger. "Who indeed would set an explosive at a child's birthday party? Watson, come take a look at this, please."
I joined Vetinari at the site and obediently examined the area. "What do you see?" I asked.
"The question is not what I see," he replied, "It is what I don't see."
I looked closer, realising the absurdity of looking for the absence of something.
"Shrapnel," he finally supplied, "Pock marks. Any remains of an incendiary device. Where are they?"
I saw his point. The wall plaster, though scorched by the heat of the explosion, was otherwise unmarked. I had, in my military career, had the opportunity to see the effects of various explosives (though not in a civilian setting such as this), and most of them left some sort of evidence behind, whether stuck in the architecture or, at the risk of seeming insensitive, in the victims. A bomb was a very peculiar murder weapon - but this was certainly a peculiar sort of bomb.
"Now who the hell is this?" I heard behind us, startling me.
"Mr MacAvoy," Vetinari said, "I expect you will be more than happy to introduce us to Mr Cavitz."
*****
End Part 13
*****
::Still London::
The cab over to the Cavitz residence was quite silent. I dared not ask what Vetinari had done with the bundle, nor did I feel I would be comforted if I knew. He, on the other hand, had reapplied the makeup to mask his beard for the investigation (at least he was consistent in that!) and, as he had taken the bundle with him into the next room to finish getting dressed, I could only assume that it or its contents were somewhere about his person.
He, meanwhile, stared rather intently out the window at the passing scenery, as though trying to memorise the route or his surroundings for later retrieval. For all the attention he paid me he might as well have been alone in the cab. I was used to silent cab rides - I was not used to being apprehensive of the man in the cab with me.
So it was with great relief on my part that we soon arrived at the Cavitz residence, a stately old manor of no great pretension. Two of the windows in the front had been thrown open, though nobody appeared to be in the room within - presumably this was the parlour, still being aired out from the explosion.
Mr MacAvoy greeted us as we approached the front door.
"Good morning!" he said, "I didn't expect you to start so soon - I only told the Cavitzes I'd hired you just last night."
"I expect they will welcome any aid we can provide," Vetinari said blandly as Mr MacAvoy showed us in, "After all, it is not every day one's parlour explodes during a birthday party - and this must be the charming Mrs MacAvoy. Good morning to you, madam, my name is Sherlock Holmes. Your husband requested my aid in investigating the unfortunate incident at your daughter's birthday party."
I mentally scrambled to keep up with the change of subject, wondering how he could go from speaking of bombs to greeting new acquaintances so abruptly. Vetinari clasped the hand of the lady in question, a raven-haired beauty in the standard uniform of a housekeeper, with every ounce of respect, in much the same way he'd greeted Mrs Hudson. I wondered idly if Vetinari's propensity for reflexive diplomacy might cause problems for the real Sherlock Holmes later on - Mrs MacAvoy was blushing at Vetinari's charm - but that was a matter best left till later.
"And this," he continued, finally including me, "is Dr Watson, whom Mr MacAvoy has already met. He will be aiding in the investigation."
I murmured a greeting as Vetinari darted off towards the parlour; I'm afraid I had to be a bit abrupt with Mrs MacAvoy in order to keep an eye on him.
When I caught up with him he was surveying the scene, standing in the middle of the room with his slender hands clasped behind his back like he was looking at a painting. Mr MacAvoy was there with him, describing where everything had been. As I drew level with Vetinari, I noticed that his gaze was fixed on one corner of the room, to the left of the windows and near the ceiling, where I observed some of the paint had been scorched, presumably by the explosion. The curtain rod nearest the site was also bare of any drapery. The curtains of the adjacent window appeared to be scorched as well, but not severely damaged.
"If I may interrupt," Vetinari said, inclining his head towards the corner in question, "Is that where the fireball originated?"
"Yes, right over there," MacAvoy confirmed, "And Nathan was standing right there, in front of the window." He indicated the bare window.
"Was the window open or shut at the time?"
"Well, it had been shut, but like I said Mrs Cavitz doesn't like cigarette smoke so he opened the window before lighting up."
Vetinari strolled over to the area and examined it minutely, pacing the area of scalded paint from one side to the other, then examining the ceiling.
"And was any device found afterwards?" he asked, "Anything at all in this area? Shrapnel or the like?"
"Nothing - just bits of rubber from the balloons. Mr Holmes, what sort of person would do something like this? I mean, Rebecca is utterly terrified to come in here anymore, and Kathleen has been on edge since it happened..."
"Understandably so... if the blast were any larger it could very well have killed someone." As he spoke, he poked at the scorched paint with a finger. "Who indeed would set an explosive at a child's birthday party? Watson, come take a look at this, please."
I joined Vetinari at the site and obediently examined the area. "What do you see?" I asked.
"The question is not what I see," he replied, "It is what I don't see."
I looked closer, realising the absurdity of looking for the absence of something.
"Shrapnel," he finally supplied, "Pock marks. Any remains of an incendiary device. Where are they?"
I saw his point. The wall plaster, though scorched by the heat of the explosion, was otherwise unmarked. I had, in my military career, had the opportunity to see the effects of various explosives (though not in a civilian setting such as this), and most of them left some sort of evidence behind, whether stuck in the architecture or, at the risk of seeming insensitive, in the victims. A bomb was a very peculiar murder weapon - but this was certainly a peculiar sort of bomb.
"Now who the hell is this?" I heard behind us, startling me.
"Mr MacAvoy," Vetinari said, "I expect you will be more than happy to introduce us to Mr Cavitz."
*****
End Part 13