::Ankh-Morpork::
Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
Sherlock Holmes threw his shoulder against the weather-beaten door to which Gaspode had led them. It had looked thin, but it didn't even rattle in its frame under the blow.
"Are you quite sure this is the place?" he asked, addressing Ponder as much as Gaspode.
"I can see something inside," Ponder confirmed, "glowing in the octarine – it looks like a man. I suspect it's our chap."
"I only ask because I don't expect we'll be able to get in the door."
"Barricaded? Stuck? Locked?"
"If this were a matter of a stuck door or a lock I suspect a few swift kicks would break the door. He likely barricaded himself in, to avoid discovery or to keep from hurting others. The question is how to get him out again."
"Well, if we got a troll to help—"
"I would prefer to avoid trolls for the time being, Stibbons. Besides – assuming that his very touch can turn things to gold, and assuming that he did so to the elements of his barricade, he might as well have blocked the door with a dead whale." He glanced around, but the lone window on his floor was also blocked with debris. "Do you see any other ways in?"
"As a matter of fact," Ponder said, "I do."
Holmes glanced at the wizard, who was looking up. He followed Ponder's gaze to a single window on the top floor that was not obscured by boards.
"Let me rephrase that," Holmes said, "Do you see any other *accessible* ways in? I am not a spider."
"Mr Holmes, how much do you weigh?"
Holmes looked at Ponder, narrowing his eyes. "Why?"
Several minutes, one heated argument, and an irrefutable point later, Holmes found himself clinging, white-knuckled, to the side of the building, trying not to look down. The fact that he was inverted didn't help, but the tail of his borrowed raincoat had fallen over his head, so that most of what he saw was waterproofed canvas. Intellectually, he realised that his grip was only hindering the upward motion of the levitation spell, but it took all his willpower to let go of the bricks long enough to continue working his way upward. He had never in his wildest dreams (a) imagined that he would be not only cheating but openly defying one of the most universal laws of physics with the help of a graduate student in a funny hat.
He felt himself drifting away from the building, and there was a moment of throat-tightening panic and stomach-turning vertigo as he lost his grip entirely and somersaulted crazily, limbs flailing. When he finally settled upright, he was still floating unsupported about twenty feet above the street and five feet away from the wall, but that wasn't really the point.
"Stibbons!" he barked at Ponder, his voice unexpectedly shrill.
"Sorry," Ponder called up, though he didn't sound the least bit so, "just try not to cling to the wall so much."
Holmes glanced up from his impossible vantage point and re-located the window, only three feet above him.
"Up a bit," he called down, "and gently, if you would be so kind." He drifted upwards, as lightly as a bit of down fluff, until he was level with the window. "All right, stop. Forward, please. Good." He lifted the sash and pulled himself in, not remembering Ponder's explanation of line-of-sight spell ranges until he was completely inside.
Ponder, standing outside, saw a year's accumulation of dust puff out the open window, kicked up when gravity reclaimed the detective.
*
(a) Which, admittedly, weren't all that wild, even if he'd had a piece of bad steak the evening before.
*****
::London::
I had to go over the ensuing sequence in my head several times before I quite worked out exactly what had happened. Apparently, at the instant I'd shouted my warning about Cavitz's gun, Vetinari had flicked one of his hands in Cavitz's direction, the result of which caused the shot to go wide and hit the doorframe near Llewellyn's shoulder. When my ears stopped ringing from the gunshot, I realised that Cavitz was screaming – which was no wonder, because upon investigation I saw the man's right arm crucified to the parlour wall, with Mrs Hudson's boning knife stuck through his forearm just below the wrist. It was also, therefore, no surprise that he'd dropped the gun. I glanced to Vetinari for an explanation, not really expecting one, for Vetinari was already advancing on the poor man pinned to the wall.
"Now that I have your *undivided* attention, Mr Cavitz," Vetinari hissed, "Perhaps we might be allowed to continue." Shocked silence descended on the parlour – and it was no wonder, for knife-throwing is not generally seen in polite company, let alone the parlour. On the other hand, Holmes and I had, on numerous occasions, seen many events also not generally seen in polite company. "Thank you. You shall be relieved to note, Watson, the bleeding is not severe as long as the knife remains in place, and as long as he does not move too energetically to free himself he won't nick any crucial blood vessels or tear the wound. After all, what would be the point of finding the culprit if he bleeds to death before he can be brought to justice? Mr Llewellyn, it was good of you to come so swiftly. I believe you were about to say something before we were so rudely interrupted?"
Llewellyn took a deep breath, clearly unnerved by Vetinari's accuracy with throwing cutlery. "I wasn't going to say anything in the beginning, you realise," he said, "And in fact had I realised how happy my sister was with Sean and what a beautiful little daughter they had, I wouldn't have agreed to help Mr Cavitz… but when I first came to London my main thought was rescuing Kathleen from the man she'd married." He chuckled bitterly. "And here I nearly ruined your life anyway, Kat. I guess I just wasn't thinking straight. But of course, once you'd handed me that note, Mr Holmes, I knew that the game was up and I'd better come clean… for Kathleen's sake." He pulled the note out of his pocket and handed it to Vetinari, who turned it over to me.
It read: "Your use of hydrogen was cunning."
"Hydrogen!" I exclaimed, "Of course!"
"Yes, hydrogen," Vetinari said, "A hydrogen-filled balloon will float like a helium balloon… with the added bonus that hydrogen is explosively flammable. And of course, even the best-made toy balloon will leak air. Was the original plan to allow the hydrogen to build up in preparation for the birthday candles?"
Llewellyn nodded miserably. "But then I saw Rebecca, and had a chance to talk to Sean, and I couldn't go through with it. I had to do something to stop it before someone got hurt."
"So… you went into the very thick of the hydrogen cloud on the pretence of lighting a cigarette and struck a match." Vetinari turned to his audience. "Boom. He likely survived only by a miracle, but he saved his sister's family." He turned to Cavitz. "And you, sir… your reaction when the parlour exploded was *not* to ask if the man caught in it was hurt. *You* shouted at him for lighting that cigarette – not because your wife can't abide the smoke but because you knew that your plans had gone up with that fireball. You, Mr Cavitz, who plotted to set a bomb at a child's birthday party, to use a birthday cake as a weapon… you are beneath my contempt. And as such I shall take great satisfaction in sending you my bill for services rendered."
"Your bill?!" Cavitz blurted, "You put a knife through my arm, you ruin my life, and now you're sending me your BILL?!" He looked like he wanted to advance on Vetinari, but his arm was still pinned. "Just who the h-ll do you think you are?!"
Vetinari got a quiet, contemplative smile on his face. He turned on his heel, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket.
"To answer your question," Vetinari said calmly, "I know the one person in all of London that I am not. I am not Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective of Baker Street." I could only watch as he wiped away all the makeup that he had so carefully applied to cover his goatee and mask his pale complexion. "Who I am is largely irrelevant, but remember my face well – because if you refuse to pay this bill in full, or do anything to annoy me or bother the MacAvoys, I *will* find you and deal with you once and for all. Is that understood?"
I saw Cavitz pale in the face of Vetinari's deadly promise, and he appeared to age several years. He nodded mutely. Vetinari nodded in satisfaction.
"Watson," he said, "would you go and fetch me something to bandage this man's arm after I pull the knife out?" To Cavitz, he added, "I do so hate to see a wild animal suffer needlessly."
Mr MacAvoy took me to the washroom to get a hand towel, which I used to bandage Cavitz's wrist once Vetinari had released him. As promised, the bleeding was not severe enough to indicate damage to any of the major blood vessels; the boning knife had passed exactly between the radius and ulna with alarming precision, considering the distance and speed of the throw.
"Come, Watson," Vetinari said, "Our work here is completed. Mr MacAvoy, please take your employer to the hospital, and be certain to alert the authorities. Take Mr Llewellyn with you to corroborate your story."
Once the arrangements had been made, Vetinari and I left for Baker Street for the last time.
*****
End of Part 20.
Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
Sherlock Holmes threw his shoulder against the weather-beaten door to which Gaspode had led them. It had looked thin, but it didn't even rattle in its frame under the blow.
"Are you quite sure this is the place?" he asked, addressing Ponder as much as Gaspode.
"I can see something inside," Ponder confirmed, "glowing in the octarine – it looks like a man. I suspect it's our chap."
"I only ask because I don't expect we'll be able to get in the door."
"Barricaded? Stuck? Locked?"
"If this were a matter of a stuck door or a lock I suspect a few swift kicks would break the door. He likely barricaded himself in, to avoid discovery or to keep from hurting others. The question is how to get him out again."
"Well, if we got a troll to help—"
"I would prefer to avoid trolls for the time being, Stibbons. Besides – assuming that his very touch can turn things to gold, and assuming that he did so to the elements of his barricade, he might as well have blocked the door with a dead whale." He glanced around, but the lone window on his floor was also blocked with debris. "Do you see any other ways in?"
"As a matter of fact," Ponder said, "I do."
Holmes glanced at the wizard, who was looking up. He followed Ponder's gaze to a single window on the top floor that was not obscured by boards.
"Let me rephrase that," Holmes said, "Do you see any other *accessible* ways in? I am not a spider."
"Mr Holmes, how much do you weigh?"
Holmes looked at Ponder, narrowing his eyes. "Why?"
Several minutes, one heated argument, and an irrefutable point later, Holmes found himself clinging, white-knuckled, to the side of the building, trying not to look down. The fact that he was inverted didn't help, but the tail of his borrowed raincoat had fallen over his head, so that most of what he saw was waterproofed canvas. Intellectually, he realised that his grip was only hindering the upward motion of the levitation spell, but it took all his willpower to let go of the bricks long enough to continue working his way upward. He had never in his wildest dreams (a) imagined that he would be not only cheating but openly defying one of the most universal laws of physics with the help of a graduate student in a funny hat.
He felt himself drifting away from the building, and there was a moment of throat-tightening panic and stomach-turning vertigo as he lost his grip entirely and somersaulted crazily, limbs flailing. When he finally settled upright, he was still floating unsupported about twenty feet above the street and five feet away from the wall, but that wasn't really the point.
"Stibbons!" he barked at Ponder, his voice unexpectedly shrill.
"Sorry," Ponder called up, though he didn't sound the least bit so, "just try not to cling to the wall so much."
Holmes glanced up from his impossible vantage point and re-located the window, only three feet above him.
"Up a bit," he called down, "and gently, if you would be so kind." He drifted upwards, as lightly as a bit of down fluff, until he was level with the window. "All right, stop. Forward, please. Good." He lifted the sash and pulled himself in, not remembering Ponder's explanation of line-of-sight spell ranges until he was completely inside.
Ponder, standing outside, saw a year's accumulation of dust puff out the open window, kicked up when gravity reclaimed the detective.
*
(a) Which, admittedly, weren't all that wild, even if he'd had a piece of bad steak the evening before.
*****
::London::
I had to go over the ensuing sequence in my head several times before I quite worked out exactly what had happened. Apparently, at the instant I'd shouted my warning about Cavitz's gun, Vetinari had flicked one of his hands in Cavitz's direction, the result of which caused the shot to go wide and hit the doorframe near Llewellyn's shoulder. When my ears stopped ringing from the gunshot, I realised that Cavitz was screaming – which was no wonder, because upon investigation I saw the man's right arm crucified to the parlour wall, with Mrs Hudson's boning knife stuck through his forearm just below the wrist. It was also, therefore, no surprise that he'd dropped the gun. I glanced to Vetinari for an explanation, not really expecting one, for Vetinari was already advancing on the poor man pinned to the wall.
"Now that I have your *undivided* attention, Mr Cavitz," Vetinari hissed, "Perhaps we might be allowed to continue." Shocked silence descended on the parlour – and it was no wonder, for knife-throwing is not generally seen in polite company, let alone the parlour. On the other hand, Holmes and I had, on numerous occasions, seen many events also not generally seen in polite company. "Thank you. You shall be relieved to note, Watson, the bleeding is not severe as long as the knife remains in place, and as long as he does not move too energetically to free himself he won't nick any crucial blood vessels or tear the wound. After all, what would be the point of finding the culprit if he bleeds to death before he can be brought to justice? Mr Llewellyn, it was good of you to come so swiftly. I believe you were about to say something before we were so rudely interrupted?"
Llewellyn took a deep breath, clearly unnerved by Vetinari's accuracy with throwing cutlery. "I wasn't going to say anything in the beginning, you realise," he said, "And in fact had I realised how happy my sister was with Sean and what a beautiful little daughter they had, I wouldn't have agreed to help Mr Cavitz… but when I first came to London my main thought was rescuing Kathleen from the man she'd married." He chuckled bitterly. "And here I nearly ruined your life anyway, Kat. I guess I just wasn't thinking straight. But of course, once you'd handed me that note, Mr Holmes, I knew that the game was up and I'd better come clean… for Kathleen's sake." He pulled the note out of his pocket and handed it to Vetinari, who turned it over to me.
It read: "Your use of hydrogen was cunning."
"Hydrogen!" I exclaimed, "Of course!"
"Yes, hydrogen," Vetinari said, "A hydrogen-filled balloon will float like a helium balloon… with the added bonus that hydrogen is explosively flammable. And of course, even the best-made toy balloon will leak air. Was the original plan to allow the hydrogen to build up in preparation for the birthday candles?"
Llewellyn nodded miserably. "But then I saw Rebecca, and had a chance to talk to Sean, and I couldn't go through with it. I had to do something to stop it before someone got hurt."
"So… you went into the very thick of the hydrogen cloud on the pretence of lighting a cigarette and struck a match." Vetinari turned to his audience. "Boom. He likely survived only by a miracle, but he saved his sister's family." He turned to Cavitz. "And you, sir… your reaction when the parlour exploded was *not* to ask if the man caught in it was hurt. *You* shouted at him for lighting that cigarette – not because your wife can't abide the smoke but because you knew that your plans had gone up with that fireball. You, Mr Cavitz, who plotted to set a bomb at a child's birthday party, to use a birthday cake as a weapon… you are beneath my contempt. And as such I shall take great satisfaction in sending you my bill for services rendered."
"Your bill?!" Cavitz blurted, "You put a knife through my arm, you ruin my life, and now you're sending me your BILL?!" He looked like he wanted to advance on Vetinari, but his arm was still pinned. "Just who the h-ll do you think you are?!"
Vetinari got a quiet, contemplative smile on his face. He turned on his heel, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket.
"To answer your question," Vetinari said calmly, "I know the one person in all of London that I am not. I am not Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective of Baker Street." I could only watch as he wiped away all the makeup that he had so carefully applied to cover his goatee and mask his pale complexion. "Who I am is largely irrelevant, but remember my face well – because if you refuse to pay this bill in full, or do anything to annoy me or bother the MacAvoys, I *will* find you and deal with you once and for all. Is that understood?"
I saw Cavitz pale in the face of Vetinari's deadly promise, and he appeared to age several years. He nodded mutely. Vetinari nodded in satisfaction.
"Watson," he said, "would you go and fetch me something to bandage this man's arm after I pull the knife out?" To Cavitz, he added, "I do so hate to see a wild animal suffer needlessly."
Mr MacAvoy took me to the washroom to get a hand towel, which I used to bandage Cavitz's wrist once Vetinari had released him. As promised, the bleeding was not severe enough to indicate damage to any of the major blood vessels; the boning knife had passed exactly between the radius and ulna with alarming precision, considering the distance and speed of the throw.
"Come, Watson," Vetinari said, "Our work here is completed. Mr MacAvoy, please take your employer to the hospital, and be certain to alert the authorities. Take Mr Llewellyn with you to corroborate your story."
Once the arrangements had been made, Vetinari and I left for Baker Street for the last time.
*****
End of Part 20.