19. The Gift

            Trouble, thy name is Vimes.

            After ranting to Sybil about Vetinari using a knife in the heart to throw him off the scent of the Pseudopolis Road accident, Vimes decided to go back to the beginning of his investigation. That is, to Mrs. Capelli. Weeks ago he'd asked the questions that were important at the moment but now there was a new set. A bit of snooping around the Merchants Guild and the Temple of Blind Io – which he knew the Patrician would find out about soon enough – had yielded a couple of interesting facts.

            It was late afternoon, and the windows in the Capelli house were open on the ground floor, where Mrs. Capelli spent most of her time. The upstairs rooms had been closed since the death of her husband and daughter. She sat Vimes in the dining room and fussed about for the china cups and cloth napkins.

            She cooked up the tea herself. Vimes didn't beat around the bush.

            "Can you tell me why you thought the carriage accident was political, Mrs. Capelli? Why specifically. We know it wasn't pleasant with Lord Snapcase but that didn't mean he went around causing random accidents." Vimes paused. Actually, Snapcase had gone around causing random bits of violence. That wasn't political, it was just madness. He let the question stand.

            "My dear departed husband spoke out against Snapcase in public, commander," she said.

            Vimes knew that. The people at the Merchants Guild who remembered Marco Capelli were specific about his political views.

            "Who did he want as Patrician instead of Snapcase?"

            "He hadn't quite made up his mind when he passed on to the side of the Great Io."

            Out of habit, Vimes took out a cigar and popped it in his mouth. Mrs. Capelli shook her head and he set it politely next to the saucer.

            "Looks like you've been getting a respectable pension from the guild, ma'am," he said.

            "Marco worked very hard for them. He was proud to serve as secretary."

            "I found out something interesting when I was there the other day. Ten higher officers of the guild have retired or died in the past fifteen years and they're getting less of a pension than you are as the wife of a secretary."

            Mrs. Capelli frowned. "I don't know why that should be."

            "In fact, it looks like the annual donations you make to the Convent of the Sisters of Blind Io is more than what the last two Merchants Guild presidents' widows are getting as total pensions." Vimes tapped the dining room table. "Your income from the pension is less than the money you're giving out. There can't be much left over from the sale of the shipyards after your husband's death. It makes me wonder how you manage."

            "I live frugally, commander," said Mrs. Capelli. "And I don't worry about such worldly things as finances. There are higher thoughts. The Benevolent Io gives comfort to those who…"

            Vimes ignored the lecture and decided to make an effort to keep his voice nice and polite. Watch commander or not, Mrs. Capelli had the right to throw him out of her house.

            "Can I at least ask why you didn't mention before that Lord Vetinari wanted to marry your daughter?"

            She stopped her recital of the goodness and mercy of Io, a look of genuine surprise on her face.

            "That's not true. They hardly knew each other. He only wanted to--" She hesitated.

            Vimes leaned forward in his chair out of eagerness, than backed up so he wouldn't look too eager.

            "Is Lord Vetinari paying you to be quiet about something?"

            "Money had nothing to do with it. It was generosity and decency. He only had my Isabella's good in mind." She started digging around in her apron for a handkerchief.

            "How so?"

            "He wanted to pay for her to go to the Pseudopolis School of Architecture. He was very clear he should remain anonymous. Even after her death. True modesty, that was. We'd accepted his help because…we couldn't afford it on our own, commander, not even when both shipyards were running at full capacity. We didn't want everyone to know how hard it was for us."

            Vimes shook his head. "Lord Vetinari wouldn't do something like that out of the goodness of his heart."

            "Oh, but he did! Would have," she corrected herself. "Isabella sent him some drawings and he was impressed with her talent. He came to see us and offered to support her studies."

            "He didn't give a reason?"

            "He said talent like that shouldn't be denied opportunity."

            Deflated, Vimes sat back in his seat and tried to think. Things weren't adding up again. Mrs. Capelli and Mrs. Figgers sounded like they were talking about two different Vetinaris, one who hardly knew Isabella, another who was apparently in love with her. The Patrician had backed up Mrs. Figgers' take on the relationship, which should have been suspicious to begin with. The stories fit too well. But then, if all Vetinari had really wanted  was to act as Isabella's patron, why was he so anxious to keep it all a secret?

            And there was still the question of crossbow bolts at the accident scene…

            "Did Lord Vetinari and your daughter meet regularly before the accident?"

            "Oh, no. Isabella didn't have much time for socializing. There was so much work to do at the Art School. Classes and assignments and lectures and Io only knows what. She was hardly ever home, she worked so hard, poor thing. Sometimes she wouldn't come home at all, but her instructors always sent us wonderful reports on her progress."

            Vimes slowly set down his tea cup.

            "When she didn't come home, you never wondered where she was?"

            "She stayed at the school. She said it was nice to trade ideas with the other students after the day's work was done. Sometimes there were evening classes too and it was easier for her to stay there afterward."

            "That's what she told you, that she stayed nights at school?"

            "It was only a few nights a week, commander. If she felt it necessary to stay there overnight, we trusted her judgement. She was always a very responsible young lady."

            And those were usually the ones who got away with murder, figuratively speaking, thought Vimes. Good girls used their reputations to their advantage, if they needed to. Who would ever entertain the thought that the hard-working, responsible, talented Isabella Capelli would lie to her own dear mother?

            "Lord Vetinari was at the funeral, wasn't he?" he asked.

            Mrs. Capelli nodded.

            "Do you remember if there was anything unusual about him?"

            "You can understand I was not paying too much attention to all of the guests…" She smiled sadly. "But I do remember what warmth it brought to my heart to see him show such genuine grief. He showed more sadness than half of our relatives."

            "He did?" This was not something Vimes could imagine.

            "Oh, yes. He had a cold, but it seemed clear to me why he really needed his handkerchief." She nodded. "Such a warm, generous heart."

**

            At the Palace, Lord Vetinari would have very much liked to have Commander Vimes in his office now for a nice discussion on why asking too many questions at the Merchants Guild, the Temple of Blind Io and Mrs. Capelli's was not, when you got right down to it, a sound professional move.

            What stopped him from sending Vimes a lightly veiled yet polite request to stop by for a chat was the Box.

            Four brawny men in hunter green carried the crate through a service entrance at the Palace and informed a servant that it was a gift from Lady Margolotta von Uberwald. They were ordered to carry it into a large store room.

            Lord Vetinari showed up with Isabella and half a dozen Palace guards with crossbows. He doubted there was anything dangerous in the box but caution was never misplaced.

            "Sorry 'bout the wait, yer lordship," said one of the delivery men. He had a bulbous nose that looked like a red-spotted turnip. "Had a spot of trouble up in the mountains." He hocked into a handkerchief, excused himself, and held up a clipboard and a grubby pencil. "Could you sign here, sir?"

            Lord Vetinari held the pencil fastidiously as he scribbled his initials.

            "Righto. Enjoy your item or items, and we hope in future that you use Gork & Sons Trans-Uberwaldean Delivery Systems for your Uberwald-Ankh-Morpork transport needs. Here's my card, sir."

            Lord Vetinari took the card while touching the least amount of it possible.

            The man, Gork apparently, waved for what were apparently his sons, to clear off. He pulled a crowbar out of his overalls.

            "Want me to do the honours? Included in the service."

            "Gracious of you," said the Patrician. He took Isabella's arm and moved to a spot with a good view of the front of the crate.

            Gork inserted the crowbar and heaved. Nails whined. Wood groaned and split. The guards flipped the safety catches on their crossbows.

            The front of the crate fell forward and banged on the floor. There was straw. Yellow, dry, tangled straw packing the box. Gork and Sons began energetically pulling it out and tossing it every which way until three of them disappeared deep into the crate, whispered amongst each other, counted to three and started backing out.

            The crossbows were at the ready again.

            There was the gleam of a little wheel. The shine of polished walnut. A flash of deep red velvet.

            Isabella put a hand over her mouth to dampen her laughter.

            Lord Vetinari approached the item Gork and Sons deposited on the discarded straw. It was, without a doubt, a chair. It wasn't the most magnificent chair he'd ever seen; it wasn't a throne, but it rolled and swivelled and had a sturdy back and lots of padding on the seat. It looked comfortable and functional.

            He took the envelope pinned to the back and opened it. Isabella read over his elbow.

            Your lordship,

            The strains of many years in office can show in the most unlikely of places. In ancient times, Emperor Shoi began secretly sitting on an encyclopaedia on his throne to hide the fact that his posture wasn't what it used to be. When King Taggery of Istanzia developed sores and a rather irritating itch in his nether regions, he had an extra thick saddle fashioned so he could continue his wars. Queen Nuth of Muntab had the excellent idea of carving a privy into her throne, making her bladder control problem less obvious to her subjects.

            Though this last innovation is not a part of the gift I sent you, I did order the construction of a chair that would keep your posture straight and your softer bits nestled in velvet. All rulers, at some point, need an appropriate chair of office. May this one allow you many more years of ruling in comfort.

            Sincerely,

            Lady Margolotta von Uberwald

           

            "What will she send you for the 20th year of your rule?" asked Isabella. "An ear horn, nose hair clippers and a thick pair of reading glasses?"

            Lord Vetinari settled himself into the chair. It really was comfortable in those places where comfort mattered after ten straight hours seated at your desk reading through, say, the newest version of the city budget. He bounced a little on the cushion. Yes, it would do very well.

**

            The Artist Guild hadn't existed as such fifteen years ago but the Ankh-Morpork School of Art was ancient. It was said that it began in the loft of an eccentric nobleman with no artistic talent whatsoever but, like most patrons, the ability to see and fund it in others. He'd willed his whole house to the city's artists and that was where the guild and school were to this day.

            Vimes sat in a small office on the second floor, a portfolio of Isabella's art work that her mother had given him on the table in front of him. Ulicious Huxter, M.F.A., P.D., peered down at it through his spectacles. With his bald, oblong head, he looked like a studious peanut.

            "Yes, yes, yes. I remember her." He straightened up and gave Vimes a questioning look. "She died, I remember. Tragedy."

            "She was apparently working very hard in her courses here before she died."

            Huxter smirked. "Who told you that?"

            Bullseye, thought Vimes.

            "Her mother."

            "Mothers. They know less about their children than they think, eh?" Huxter went to a cabinet and began rummaging around. "Miss Capelli was a promising student and she did work hard at first. She had to if she wanted to get into my courses. She came highly recommended by the other instructors. It surprised me that she lost interest after the first few sessions. Techniques of Perspective should have been right up her alley."

            He pulled a slip of paper from the cabinet and handed it to Vimes. It was a bill for a tidy sum of money, stamped: paid. 

            "She hardly ever came to class but she paid up in advance," said Huxter, "the same tuition as a resident student though I don't believe she was often here at night or at meals."

            "Didn't you contact her parents about her absence?"

            Huxter looked offended. "Do I have time to be a babysitter? Art students are notorious for being broke, commander. They show up to class and conveniently forget to pay for it. The last thing any of us were going to do is complain about a student who doesn't show up but who pays. We gave her passing grades and glowing progress reports and let it be." He gave Vimes a shrewd look. "We may be artists, sir, but we aren't fools."

** Next the Patrician speaks! (And yes, he's going to give some answers….)**