::London::
Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
::London::
"Thank you for allowing us to speak with you," Vetinari said to Nathan Llewelyn once we'd arrived with Mrs. MacAvoy. She still seemed rather ill at ease, even on the cab ride over, but all the same she never wavered in her decision to come without her husband. I did not push the issue.
Mr. Llewelyn was, of course, still in the hospital being treated for his burns (which covered the right side of his face and most of his right arm, but I could see almost immediately that they were not serious.
"You'll excuse me if I don't shake your hand, sairs," he said, holding up his bandaged right hand.
"Completely," said Vetinari, "It was, of course, a miracle that you survived at all. I understand you were right in the fireball when the bomb exploded."
"Aye," Llewelyn agreed, "And more of a miracle that it wasn't any bigger'n it was. Otherwise…" He trailed off.
"Otherwise your brother-in-law and little niece might have been caught in it," Vetinari finished.
Llewelyn hesitated, then nodded. "And Mrs Cavitz, I expect."
"In fact," Vetinari continued, "Had you not chosen to light your cigarette at that time things might have been considerably worse than they were."
"What're ye getting at, Mr. Holmes?" Llewelyn said, looking at Vetinari suspiciously.
"Only that miracles sometimes happen for the strangest of reasons. Tell me, Mr. Llewelyn, do you still keep contact with your parents?"
"Aye," he said, slightly mollified, "They didn't like Kathleen marrying who she did, but they learned to live with it, especially after she and her husband moved to London. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, aye?"
"I have often found that to be true. Tell me, Mr. Llewelyn… who brought the balloons?"
I saw for a moment a look of disorientation cross Llewelyn's face in response to the abrupt change in subject. Apparently Vetinari tended to follow a similar school of interrogation to Holmes'.
"Mr Cavitz had me bring the decorations," Llewelyn said, "He said to make them special, for Rebecca's birthday. I couldn't exactly refuse." I noticed that Llewelyn was starting to sweat a bit.
"Holmes," I said, "Maybe we should let the man rest. He's starting to look a bit feverish."
"Yes, of course… Watson, might I requisition a pencil and a sheet of paper from that notepad you keep referring to?"
I gave him the items he requested, and he wrote a brief note, tore it out of the pad, folded it in quarters, and handed it to Llewelyn.
"I shall allow you to decide your next course of action," Vetinari said simply, and we left.
When he had reached the doorway I heard the rustle of paper as Llewelyn unfolded the note, and a few moments later he let out a strangled cry. I started to turn, but Vetinari caught my arm in a strong grip and fairly dragged me away from his room.
"He'll be fine," Vetinari assured me, "I merely gave him something to think about."
"You know who did this, don't you?" I accused him, "Was it him?"
"All in good time, Watson. I merely have a single issue left to resolve before the puzzle is complete. Thank you for allowing us this interview, Mrs MacAvoy" –for we had by now reached the waiting room, where Mrs MacAvoy awaited our return—"It was most educational. I believe that I nearly have the mystery unfurled. Shall we return to the estate?"
As we walked Mrs MacAvoy back out to the waiting cab, we were suddenly confronted by the strangest pair of individuals ever to grace the streets of London.
*****
::Ankh-Morpork::
Holmes paused as he and his little entourage reached the alley and found it occupied.
"Miss Littlebottom, was it?" he enquired of the dwarf in magnifying goggles, who was currently examining a patch of the alley wall which was missing a few bricks. She glanced over at the assembled.
"Oh – g'day to you, Mr. Holmes. I won't ask if you had a good night's sleep because according to most accounts you didn't sleep at all." She glanced down and wrinkled her nose. "Nice dog."
"I was hoping to track our suspect by scent, and the dog was loaned to me," Holmes replied calmly. "Might I ask what *you* are doing?"
"Forensics. You might have heard of it – though considering the rumour that you don't believe in alchemy—"
"Alchemy is one thing. Forensics is quite another. I myself have studied various methods of analysing trace evidence – testing for blood, determining the chemical makeup of various toxins, and such – and I have consistently achieved my results without any magic or wizardry."
"You poor deprived child," Cheery deadpanned, and returned to her work, "If you don't mind, could you please not tread on the trace evidence?"
Holmes frowned but stepped back as she dripped something fizzy onto a sample mounted on a slide and peered through a lens at the result. She grunted in satisfaction and slipped the slide into a matchbox.
"Did you find anything useful?" Holmes asked as she turned to leave the alleyway.
"Nothing that would concern you, Mr. I Don't Believe In Alchemy," she sniffed, "It turned purple, is all."
Holmes ground his teeth. "*What* turned purple?" he asked, "If I have offended you in some way I apologise. I am obviously unfamiliar with my current surroundings, trying to assemble a puzzle that is missing half its pieces. I… would appreciate any help I can find."
Cheery sighed. "I was testing a sliver of metal I dug out of the wall. It's iron, fair quality, barely rusted. The fact that it's iron means it wasn't dug out by any of the Guilds – the ones that carry weapons get nice steel ones. The absence of rust means that the brick was dug out of the wall fairly recently – probably about a day or less before you were discovered in the Palace."
"How do you know the brick was dug out? It might have crumbled by itself." Ponder saw by Holmes' expression that he was testing Cheery, and wondered about the wisdom of this.
"You don't use a new dagger to dig at a hole in the wall," she returned, "And besides, there's a few flakes of gold around the hole. *Pure* gold."
"Like in the statue of the unfortunate Mr. Lightfoot?"
"Exactly. And I didn't need forensics to figure *that* out."
"Yes, of course… a dwarf trait."
"I expect everyone around here will be wondering where all this gold came from, and how to get more."
"If I have anything to do about it, no-one will ever find out."
"Right. In case you haven't noticed, someone who's overflowing with gold isn't gonna be able to hide for very long."
"Very well. I wish you luck in finding him, then. I expect it ought to be a walk in the park for such as yourself. In the meantime I shall employ my own methods."
"Did you just make a wager with Sgt Littlebottom?" Ponder asked as the dwarf tromped away.
"I don't recall doing as much," Holmes replied, "After all, a wager requires an ante, and I didn't wager anything."
"I feel sorry for anyone who stands between a dwarf and a potential source of gold."
"And of course if anyone has kidnapped him already…" Holmes smiled.
"Oh shit," Ponder concluded.
"Precisely. She will provide immense aid toward freeing him if he has run across any unscrupulous individuals."
"You just described 95% of the Ankh-Morpork population," Gaspode interjected.
Holmes offered the glove to Gaspode. "Now what I need you to do is follow the scent inside this glove."
"All right, if you think it'll help us beat a dwarf to a walking gold factory," Gaspode said, "But I fully expect a treat once this is all over – and *not* just a scritch behind the ears and a Good Boy, neither. I'm talking a nice big plate of ribs from Harga's. With the *good* steak sauce."
"If you *don't* get tracking right now, what you'll get is a swift kick," Holmes snapped.
"All right, all right, I'll get right on it. Just remember what I said – the *good* steak sauce." Gaspode snuffled inside the glove, and then proceeded to make a great show of analysing the scent. "Yup. Definitely from Genua. He smells like blackened catfish and curry." He put his nose to the ground, teetered at the first intimate noseful of concentrated Ankh-Morpork, and started snuffling and snorting in concentric circles.
Ponder's pocket started to chime. After a few startled moments, he fumbled the pocket omniscope out and opened it.
"Skazz?"
"The one and only, Ponder! I've got good news!" Skazz's voice chirped tinnily from the omniscope.
"What on the Disc are you wearing?!"
At this point Holmes' curiosity overcame his concentration on the case and he craned his head to see what Ponder was talking to. Framed in the omniscope crystal was Skazz, in a mostly-Victorian costume.
"I'm adapting, like you told me," Skazz explained, "You told me, adopt the local costume when you can. You told me, be inconspicuous. You told me—"
"I never said anything about colour-coordinating your outfit to your hair! You look like Lord Wonka of the Confectioners' Guild!"
"Why not? Looks like the men here do that anyway."
"If I may," Holmes said, "Most Londoners do not have purple hair."
"Who's that?" Skazz asked.
"That's Mr. Holmes – the chap who should be over there while His Lordship is over here. I do hope the Librarian is with you?"
"Yeah," Skazz said sourly, "unfortunately for my attempts to study the local culture."
The Librarian grabbed the omniscope from Skazz. The orangutan, Holmes noticed with something between bafflement and amusement, was also wearing a typical Londonian costume, though he didn't know of any tailor who would have been willing to make a suit of simian proportions.
"Ook ook eek ook-ook eek eek ook."
Ponder turned to the bewildered Holmes. "What's a Whitechapel?" he asked before Holmes could even begin to formulate a question.
"Whitechapel," Holmes said, "Is a district of London well known for its population of working ladies."
"What sort of work?" There was a slight edge to Ponder's question.
"You might recall Miss Roxanne," Holmes replied.
"Okay," Ponder replied calmly, then turned back to the omniscope. Skazz, I expressly forbid you to make any further anthropological studies of Whitechapel!"
"But, Ponder… you *did* tell us to study the culture of London, right?"
"Yes, but—"
"And Whitechapel is part of London, right?"
"Yes, but—"
"And it appears that visiting the domicile of one of these women is a rite of passage into manhood—and since it's a foreign culture, studying a rite of passage into manhood is anthropology, right?"
"Visiting a house of negotiable affection is *not* anthropology!" Ponder shouted.
"I guess you don't wanna hear my good news, then," Skazz sulked.
Just then, Gaspode barked to indicate he'd found the scent. Actually, he said, "Arf, arf. You done talking or you want to catch this guy later?"
"Come along, Stibbons," Holmes said, "We've got a man to catch."
Things got very complicated after that when Ponder and Holmes tried to turn and follow, for the very simple reason that – by accident or design – Gaspode's last two turns had wound the leash rather snugly around Holmes' legs.
*****
End Part 18.
Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
::London::
"Thank you for allowing us to speak with you," Vetinari said to Nathan Llewelyn once we'd arrived with Mrs. MacAvoy. She still seemed rather ill at ease, even on the cab ride over, but all the same she never wavered in her decision to come without her husband. I did not push the issue.
Mr. Llewelyn was, of course, still in the hospital being treated for his burns (which covered the right side of his face and most of his right arm, but I could see almost immediately that they were not serious.
"You'll excuse me if I don't shake your hand, sairs," he said, holding up his bandaged right hand.
"Completely," said Vetinari, "It was, of course, a miracle that you survived at all. I understand you were right in the fireball when the bomb exploded."
"Aye," Llewelyn agreed, "And more of a miracle that it wasn't any bigger'n it was. Otherwise…" He trailed off.
"Otherwise your brother-in-law and little niece might have been caught in it," Vetinari finished.
Llewelyn hesitated, then nodded. "And Mrs Cavitz, I expect."
"In fact," Vetinari continued, "Had you not chosen to light your cigarette at that time things might have been considerably worse than they were."
"What're ye getting at, Mr. Holmes?" Llewelyn said, looking at Vetinari suspiciously.
"Only that miracles sometimes happen for the strangest of reasons. Tell me, Mr. Llewelyn, do you still keep contact with your parents?"
"Aye," he said, slightly mollified, "They didn't like Kathleen marrying who she did, but they learned to live with it, especially after she and her husband moved to London. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, aye?"
"I have often found that to be true. Tell me, Mr. Llewelyn… who brought the balloons?"
I saw for a moment a look of disorientation cross Llewelyn's face in response to the abrupt change in subject. Apparently Vetinari tended to follow a similar school of interrogation to Holmes'.
"Mr Cavitz had me bring the decorations," Llewelyn said, "He said to make them special, for Rebecca's birthday. I couldn't exactly refuse." I noticed that Llewelyn was starting to sweat a bit.
"Holmes," I said, "Maybe we should let the man rest. He's starting to look a bit feverish."
"Yes, of course… Watson, might I requisition a pencil and a sheet of paper from that notepad you keep referring to?"
I gave him the items he requested, and he wrote a brief note, tore it out of the pad, folded it in quarters, and handed it to Llewelyn.
"I shall allow you to decide your next course of action," Vetinari said simply, and we left.
When he had reached the doorway I heard the rustle of paper as Llewelyn unfolded the note, and a few moments later he let out a strangled cry. I started to turn, but Vetinari caught my arm in a strong grip and fairly dragged me away from his room.
"He'll be fine," Vetinari assured me, "I merely gave him something to think about."
"You know who did this, don't you?" I accused him, "Was it him?"
"All in good time, Watson. I merely have a single issue left to resolve before the puzzle is complete. Thank you for allowing us this interview, Mrs MacAvoy" –for we had by now reached the waiting room, where Mrs MacAvoy awaited our return—"It was most educational. I believe that I nearly have the mystery unfurled. Shall we return to the estate?"
As we walked Mrs MacAvoy back out to the waiting cab, we were suddenly confronted by the strangest pair of individuals ever to grace the streets of London.
*****
::Ankh-Morpork::
Holmes paused as he and his little entourage reached the alley and found it occupied.
"Miss Littlebottom, was it?" he enquired of the dwarf in magnifying goggles, who was currently examining a patch of the alley wall which was missing a few bricks. She glanced over at the assembled.
"Oh – g'day to you, Mr. Holmes. I won't ask if you had a good night's sleep because according to most accounts you didn't sleep at all." She glanced down and wrinkled her nose. "Nice dog."
"I was hoping to track our suspect by scent, and the dog was loaned to me," Holmes replied calmly. "Might I ask what *you* are doing?"
"Forensics. You might have heard of it – though considering the rumour that you don't believe in alchemy—"
"Alchemy is one thing. Forensics is quite another. I myself have studied various methods of analysing trace evidence – testing for blood, determining the chemical makeup of various toxins, and such – and I have consistently achieved my results without any magic or wizardry."
"You poor deprived child," Cheery deadpanned, and returned to her work, "If you don't mind, could you please not tread on the trace evidence?"
Holmes frowned but stepped back as she dripped something fizzy onto a sample mounted on a slide and peered through a lens at the result. She grunted in satisfaction and slipped the slide into a matchbox.
"Did you find anything useful?" Holmes asked as she turned to leave the alleyway.
"Nothing that would concern you, Mr. I Don't Believe In Alchemy," she sniffed, "It turned purple, is all."
Holmes ground his teeth. "*What* turned purple?" he asked, "If I have offended you in some way I apologise. I am obviously unfamiliar with my current surroundings, trying to assemble a puzzle that is missing half its pieces. I… would appreciate any help I can find."
Cheery sighed. "I was testing a sliver of metal I dug out of the wall. It's iron, fair quality, barely rusted. The fact that it's iron means it wasn't dug out by any of the Guilds – the ones that carry weapons get nice steel ones. The absence of rust means that the brick was dug out of the wall fairly recently – probably about a day or less before you were discovered in the Palace."
"How do you know the brick was dug out? It might have crumbled by itself." Ponder saw by Holmes' expression that he was testing Cheery, and wondered about the wisdom of this.
"You don't use a new dagger to dig at a hole in the wall," she returned, "And besides, there's a few flakes of gold around the hole. *Pure* gold."
"Like in the statue of the unfortunate Mr. Lightfoot?"
"Exactly. And I didn't need forensics to figure *that* out."
"Yes, of course… a dwarf trait."
"I expect everyone around here will be wondering where all this gold came from, and how to get more."
"If I have anything to do about it, no-one will ever find out."
"Right. In case you haven't noticed, someone who's overflowing with gold isn't gonna be able to hide for very long."
"Very well. I wish you luck in finding him, then. I expect it ought to be a walk in the park for such as yourself. In the meantime I shall employ my own methods."
"Did you just make a wager with Sgt Littlebottom?" Ponder asked as the dwarf tromped away.
"I don't recall doing as much," Holmes replied, "After all, a wager requires an ante, and I didn't wager anything."
"I feel sorry for anyone who stands between a dwarf and a potential source of gold."
"And of course if anyone has kidnapped him already…" Holmes smiled.
"Oh shit," Ponder concluded.
"Precisely. She will provide immense aid toward freeing him if he has run across any unscrupulous individuals."
"You just described 95% of the Ankh-Morpork population," Gaspode interjected.
Holmes offered the glove to Gaspode. "Now what I need you to do is follow the scent inside this glove."
"All right, if you think it'll help us beat a dwarf to a walking gold factory," Gaspode said, "But I fully expect a treat once this is all over – and *not* just a scritch behind the ears and a Good Boy, neither. I'm talking a nice big plate of ribs from Harga's. With the *good* steak sauce."
"If you *don't* get tracking right now, what you'll get is a swift kick," Holmes snapped.
"All right, all right, I'll get right on it. Just remember what I said – the *good* steak sauce." Gaspode snuffled inside the glove, and then proceeded to make a great show of analysing the scent. "Yup. Definitely from Genua. He smells like blackened catfish and curry." He put his nose to the ground, teetered at the first intimate noseful of concentrated Ankh-Morpork, and started snuffling and snorting in concentric circles.
Ponder's pocket started to chime. After a few startled moments, he fumbled the pocket omniscope out and opened it.
"Skazz?"
"The one and only, Ponder! I've got good news!" Skazz's voice chirped tinnily from the omniscope.
"What on the Disc are you wearing?!"
At this point Holmes' curiosity overcame his concentration on the case and he craned his head to see what Ponder was talking to. Framed in the omniscope crystal was Skazz, in a mostly-Victorian costume.
"I'm adapting, like you told me," Skazz explained, "You told me, adopt the local costume when you can. You told me, be inconspicuous. You told me—"
"I never said anything about colour-coordinating your outfit to your hair! You look like Lord Wonka of the Confectioners' Guild!"
"Why not? Looks like the men here do that anyway."
"If I may," Holmes said, "Most Londoners do not have purple hair."
"Who's that?" Skazz asked.
"That's Mr. Holmes – the chap who should be over there while His Lordship is over here. I do hope the Librarian is with you?"
"Yeah," Skazz said sourly, "unfortunately for my attempts to study the local culture."
The Librarian grabbed the omniscope from Skazz. The orangutan, Holmes noticed with something between bafflement and amusement, was also wearing a typical Londonian costume, though he didn't know of any tailor who would have been willing to make a suit of simian proportions.
"Ook ook eek ook-ook eek eek ook."
Ponder turned to the bewildered Holmes. "What's a Whitechapel?" he asked before Holmes could even begin to formulate a question.
"Whitechapel," Holmes said, "Is a district of London well known for its population of working ladies."
"What sort of work?" There was a slight edge to Ponder's question.
"You might recall Miss Roxanne," Holmes replied.
"Okay," Ponder replied calmly, then turned back to the omniscope. Skazz, I expressly forbid you to make any further anthropological studies of Whitechapel!"
"But, Ponder… you *did* tell us to study the culture of London, right?"
"Yes, but—"
"And Whitechapel is part of London, right?"
"Yes, but—"
"And it appears that visiting the domicile of one of these women is a rite of passage into manhood—and since it's a foreign culture, studying a rite of passage into manhood is anthropology, right?"
"Visiting a house of negotiable affection is *not* anthropology!" Ponder shouted.
"I guess you don't wanna hear my good news, then," Skazz sulked.
Just then, Gaspode barked to indicate he'd found the scent. Actually, he said, "Arf, arf. You done talking or you want to catch this guy later?"
"Come along, Stibbons," Holmes said, "We've got a man to catch."
Things got very complicated after that when Ponder and Holmes tried to turn and follow, for the very simple reason that – by accident or design – Gaspode's last two turns had wound the leash rather snugly around Holmes' legs.
*****
End Part 18.