Chapter Six

In which the Watchmen fail to be surprised by the secret compartment, for once and the umpteenth shoe is dropped with a bang

"S- Your Grace?"

Over the years, Vimes had acquired a great deal of control over his expressions. It was the sort of gift that came of having been shot at and stabbed at for almost seven years solid, with occasional breaks for tea time on both sides. So it was that he was able to glance up at Madam Roberta Meserole with a completely impassive expression.

"Good afternoon, Madam," he said. "What's the problem?"

She didn't bother with the niceties. "I understand you and your good men -" Vimes had a sudden coughing fit, which she ignored "- are investigating this unpleasant business with my companions?"

"Er, yes," said Vimes weakly, once he had recovered. "That's right."

"Then something I discovered just now may interest you."

"What is it?"

"I think you had best see for yourself." She swept out of the room, a fine layer of dust rising up from where her skirt swooshed past. Cursing under his breath, he followed.

Her coach was parked around the side of the Watch House. It was, to his complete lack of surprise, completely done up in purple. Madam, who he realized was standing next to the open door, presumably used it as a sort of camouflage.

"It's inside, Commander."

He looked.

A trapdoor had been opened up in the floor to reveal a fairly shallow opening, useful only for storing fairly flat things, like, say, a crossbow. It was coated in a thin layer of dust, which had in one central area been disturbed. Vimes frowned at it. There was also a discolored patch that could have been water or could have been something else.

Well, he knew what his bet was on. He stood back and met Madam's eyes.

"Did you know about this compartment?" he asked, on a hunch.

"Why, yes," she said, innocently. "I had it custom installed. For practical purposes, you understand."

"And...?"

"But I don't believe I ever got around to telling Louisa about it. And I make sure to close and lock it after I've removed everything I need from it."

"Then that does seem curious. I assume you found it unlocked and open, then?"

"Unlocked, and not closed properly."

He waved a hand. "Right. Hmm."

Vimes glared at the stain for a while, and then said, flatly, "Thank you for showing me this, Madam. I'll be with you in a moment."

He dashed into the Watch House, to the dismay of Corporal Ping, who was unfortunate enough to be standing near the door at the time, and snapped "Right, everyone! Listen up!

Who saw Sally last?"

"Me, sir," volunteered Mica, a troll officer. "She just went out on patrol with Nobby."

"Damn. Nobby? Damn.(a)"

He deliberated for a moment and then headed down to Igor's cell.

Angua looked up as Vimes entered. "Sir? Is something the matter?"

"In specific or in general?" he said, and then, without waiting for an answer, continued, "Yes. Look, do you think that smell would knock you out if you smelled it again?"

"I... maybe, sir. It could just have been shock, from, from the you know-"

"Are you willing to see? I wouldn't normally ask this, but Sally's out and it's already a day old; I don't want to wait any longer than I have to."

"Are you sure it's the same scent?"

"No, I'm not. It was in Madam's coach, though."

"Oh." She hesitated for a moment, then stood up. "I'll go, sir."

"Good. C'mon."

They proceeded back outside at a more leisurely pace, and discovered Madam chatting pleasantly with Carrot, who had just returned from his shift, which Vimes considered to be entirely typical for both of them.

"Move, Carrot," he said cheerfully.

"Sorry, sir," said the red-haired young man, stepping to the side. Madam looked amused, but Vimes was more interested in Angua's reaction.

She was eyeballing(b) the compartment with a definite air of unease, but at least she didn't seem to be on the verge of collapse. At one point she leaned fully in to get a better - view wasn't exactly the word, he supposed. Whatever. Scent, perhaps.

Eventually, she stood up and, sparing one sideways glance at Madam, nodded mutely.

He winced slightly. "The same?"

"The very same."

Bloody, bloody damn. "It's certainly relevant to the case, Madam. Unfortunately there's not much we can tell you, as yet."

"No? Are you sure?"

Vimes sure he could hear a slight double meaning. "Yes, Madam."

"What a pity. We are glad of your assistance, of course. Good day to you, Sergeant Angua. Gentleman." With a brilliant smile, she got back into the coach and closed the door.

Vimes was about to ask her to stop and wait for them to get their forensics unit head's expert analysis, but then he remembered their forensics unit head had apparently gone mad and, sighing, watched them go.

(a) To be fair, Vimes' reaction had as much to do with last night's dreams as any recent misdemeanor of Nobby's. However, looking at the corporal's complete history pretty effectively negates this excuse.

(b) Technically as a sergeant she was only allowed to go up to expression 2b, Honest Doubt, but since she was using 4 (eyeballing) on an inanimate object Vimes graciously decided to ignore for the transgression.

---

Lady Louisa was taking advantage of Madam's absence to close the shade on her window.

It was an innocuous enough movement. The only effect it had was to stop the nice, hot wind from entering her bedroom. Stuffiness was really a small price to pay.

Inside, it was quite dim. The room was reduced to a series of criss-crossing gray shadows.

One of the darker ones solidified into the shape of a tall, thin man and stepped towards her.

"My lord," she said calmly, without turning to face him.

"Louisa," said the shadow's voice, in honeyed tones, "my dear, you have made an absolute botch of the whole thing."

"Really," said Louisa. "How so?"

"Alerting the Watch?"

"I thought you were confident of your plan?"

"Of course I was. But the Watch is dangerous."

"Oh, come now! A rag-tag bunch of fools and misfits, incompetent -"

"In Pseudopolis, quite so. In Ankh-Morpork, only the former can be even stretched to apply."

"Madam would have gone if I had not."

"I doubt it. She does not like publicity."

"Yes, but she's curious about that man, Vimes. I saw her looking at him." A hint of a whine was starting to enter the young woman's tone.

"Indeed you did, dearest," said the voice, more soothing, now, presumably for fear of a tantrum. "And it was well observed. But she might not have alerted them to her personal mystery. In any case, we must deal as best we can, now."

She looked at the dark figure. "Do you really think we must worry about the Watch?"

"Do a little research, love, and I am sure you will agree."

"If you tell me so, my lord, I will, of course, believe you."

"As it should be."

He touched her cheek. She closed her eyes and lifted her face slightly, but after a moment he let go and seemed, curiously, to fade into the background like that famous type of cat, leaving behind only the glint in his eye and the queerly white glow of his grin.

"Farewell, for now," he said, in soulful tones, and disappeared completely.

Death, who was watching from the shadows, where he had paused in the act of ushering the shade of a lurking, and now even more poisonous, cockroach into the next world, shook his head.

DRAMA, he intoned. Then a thought seemed to strike him and he began to give off an air of frowning, insofar as it is possible for a skull to frown.

WHAT, HIM AGAIN? he said to no one in particular, and disappeared in what appeared to be something of a hurry.

---

"Well, that was helpful," growled Vimes, eyeing the back of the coach balefully as it rolled away from them.

"It does mean you were justified in setting the gargoyles on them, sir," murmured Angua.

"Ha! Not as if they're going to find anything. These are politicians we're dealing with here."

"Er... sir?" said Carrot, who had been politely waiting for them to finish. "Cheery's gone, sir."

"I kind of figured, what with all that 'soft people' talk. What's gotten into her?"

"I don't know, Mister Vimes. But..."

"But what? Speak up!"

"I found something in her lab, sir. I think it might be a Clue."

"Oh, no," said Vimes. "Like we haven't got enough on our hands already!"

"I know, sir. If you'll just come look at it? And, er, you should probably come too, Angua..."

It had been a beaker, by the looks of it, but what it was now was a serious hazard to anyone walking around barefoot(a). Shards of glass were scattered liberally across the rough wooden floor, and there was a large stain, similar - or so it seemed to Vimes, who admittedly had something of a one track mind - to that in the coach, if on a rather bigger scale.

"Sergeant?"

She looked pale, and Vimes added hastily, "Ifyouneedtodon'thesitatetostepoutside-", but she shook her head and smiled weakly. "I'll be fine, I think. It was... fresh in your office, but this has faded, obviously."

"There's too much to be accounted for by what she scraped up off the remains of your desk," she started.

"That would be the dart some bastard shot at me," said Vimes, helpfully. "Did no one mention that to you? There was lots of exciting things happening that night, really."

"Oh. That would explain it, then. All the same smell, anyway."

"Huh," muttered the Commander. "Then -"

"Perhaps Sergeant Angua here should get some fresh air now, sir, if you don't need her," said Carrot tactfully.

"What? Oh. Right. Yes. Go on, Angua. Huh," he said again, and was promptly lost to the world.

Angua looked at Carrot. Carrot looked back. They both, being policemen and, significantly, policemen trained by Vimes, were able to keep straight faces, but it was a close thing.

(a) It was, in fact, a sharp retort, something the Chief Butt of the Fools' Guild might have felt slightly better to know, once he stopped dribbling.

---

Sam Vimes set off for home at five twenty, leaving himself a rather wide margin before the clocks of the city struck six and he would need to be in Young Sam's bedroom, story book in hand. He stopped on the way at Cable Street, home base of the Cable Street Particulars.

He'd always felt a little bit uneasy, reviving a secret police force, probably more uneasy than Carrot, although he didn't show it. He, after all, could remember the other Cable Street force; the one that inspired hushed whispers behind cupped hands in pubs, and was only secret in the sense that it could move almost anywhere without official reprimand. But the concept behind it was a necessary one. He made sure to keep it tightly regulated, though.

Just in case. Because maybe the spirit of the past could... seep through, twist things, corrupt them, though he should have thought that burning the place down would have purged its memory, there were always ashes.

Coppers are just as superstitious as other people, only more so.

He tried to put those sorts of thoughts aside, though, when dealing with the actual people of Cable Street.

"Evening, Andre," he said as the door swung closed behind him. The blond young man started in his seat, where he had (understandably) been dozing. The Cable Street Watch House didn't get much business during daylight hours, after all.

"Oh, hello, Mister Vimes. Didn't see you there. Er... what do you need?" the Special Constable said hurriedly, sitting up slightly and trying to look busy.

"No rush," said Vimes pleasantly, because causing pain and discomfort unto the deserving was one of life's little pleasures. "How's Christine doing?"

"Very well, sir, except for her tendency to occasionally burst into song while washing dishes."

"You have amazing reserves of patience, man."

"She's not that bad, sir," said Andre, looking hurt.

"No, no, of course not." He waited.

"Uh... was there something I can do for you, sir?"

"In fact there is something you can do for me. Have a search done through all your files for notable alchemists or people in similar areas of work who might possibly have a motive for... I don't know... any sort of crime, I suppose."

The other man blinked. "Alchemists?"

"Yep."

"But - alchemists, sir? I mean -"

"Take my word for it, lad."

"Yes, sir."

"Good man. And now I must be off. My best wishes toward..." he groped for a moment "...right, Christine, and your hopeful relief from her musical affliction."

Andre opened his mouth, then gave up. Vimes was already gone.

The Watch Commander went home in a pensive mood, his feet leading the way(a) over the familiar cobblestones. The sun had set by the time he arrived at the Scoone Avenue manor with ten minutes to go, and the sky was the pale grey-blue of twilight. Willikins, when he obligingly opened the door, thought that the man seemed surprisingly amiable, considering the events of the day.

This changed fairly quickly, however, when just as he was about to step inside someone shot him. Twice. One missed, and skittered away down the gravel path, unnoticed, but the second found its mark, or at least found a mark.

"Ow!" he yelled, and clutched his side.

"Your Grace?" said the butler, clearly alarmed.

But Vimes was staring at the calm, silent street. Gingerly, he raised the dart he had just pulled out of his side to his face and gazed at it.

It was bloody, and looked incredibly evil. What held his attention, however, was the syringe attached to one end.

"Should sir perhaps come inside?" said Willikins, after a moment.

"Good idea," said Vimes, vaguely. "Good man. Genius."

He stepped inside. Willikins shut the door firmly.

"Would sir be wanting a bandage?" he said to Vimes, who was prodding the tiny hole curiously. One finger was already being stained red.

"I suppose sir does."

Willikins evaporated.

"That seems," said Vimes, to the empty corridor, "to be the first shoe dropped. Or possibly the third. The last? What do you think, boys and girls..."

He was right about the latter, as it happened.

(a) This sounds like it ought to be the reasonably common way of things, but it is not, in fact true. Many people, at least on the Ankh side of the river, walk chest first. Seamstresses tend to use their hips first and foremost, other body parts as a last resort. Alchemists, on the other hand, often appear to be leading with their heads, because of the way they spend most of their time hunched over, hands shielding their fragile skulls.

One cannot, upon reflection, really blame them.