Snuff

Apparently it was by the author of Wee and if Young Sam had one vote for the best book ever written, then it would go to Wee. His enthusiasm was perhaps fanned all the more because a rare imp of mischief in Vimes led him to do all the necessary straining noises.

Later, over dinner, Sybil quizzed him about his afternoon. She was particularly interested when he mentioned stopping by to watch the crockett.

‘Oh, they still play it? That’s wonderful! How did it go?’

Vimes put down his knife and fork and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment or two, then said, ‘Well, I was talking to Lord Rust for some of the time, and I had to leave, of course, because of Young Sam, but fortune favoured the priests, when their striker managed to tump a couple of the farmers by a crafty use of the hamper. There were several appeals to the hat man about this, because he broke his mallet in so doing, and in my opinion the hat man’s decision was entirely correct, especially since the farmers had played a hawk manoeuvre.’ He took a deep breath. ‘When play recommenced, the farmers still had not found their stride but got a breathing space when a sheep wandered on to the pitch and the priests, assuming that this would stop play, relaxed too soon, and Higgins J. fired a magnificent handsaw under the offending ruminant …’

Sybil finally stopped him when she realized that the meal was growing very cold, and said, ‘Sam! How did you become an expert on the noble game of crockett?’

Vimes picked up his knife and fork. ‘Please don’t ask me again,’ he sighed. In his head meanwhile a little voice said, Lord Rust tells me there is nothing here for me. Oh dear, I’d better find out what it is, what?

He cleared his throat and said, ‘Sybil, did you actually look at that book I’m reading to Young Sam?’

‘Yes, dear. Felicity Beedle is the most famous children’s writer in the world. She’s been at it for years. She wrote Melvin and the Enormous Boil, Geoffrey and the Magic Pillow Case, The Little Duckling Who Thought He Was an Elephant …’

‘Did she write one about an elephant who thought he was a duckling?’

‘No, Sam, because that would be silly. Oh, she also wrote Daphne and the Nose Pickers, and Gaston’s Enormous Problem won for her the Gladys H. J. Ferguson award – the fifth time she’s been given it. She gets children interested in reading, you see?’

‘Yes,’ said Vimes, ‘but they’re reading about poo and brain-dead ducklings!’

‘Sam, that’s part of the commonality of mankind, so don’t be so prudish. Young Sam’s a country boy now, and I’m very proud of him, and he likes books. That’s the whole point! Miss Beedle also finances scholarships for the Quirm College for Young Ladies. She must be quite wealthy now, but I hear she’s taken Apple Tree Cottage – you can practically see it from here, it’s on the side of the hill – and I think it right, if you don’t mind, of course, that we invite her here to the Hall.’

‘Of course,’ said Vimes, though his don’tmindedness was entirely due to the way his wife’s question had been phrased and the subtle resonances that Miss Beedle’s attendance was a done deal.

Vimes slept a lot better that night, partly because he could feel that somewhere in the universe near by there was a clue waiting for him to pull. That made his fingers itch already.

In the morning, as he had promised, he took Young Sam horse-riding. Vimes could ride, but hated doing so. Nevertheless, falling off the back of a pony on to one’s head was a skill that every young man should learn if only so that he resolved never to do it again.

The rest of the day, however, did not work out well. Vimes, suspicions filling his mind, was metaphorically and only just short of literally dragged by Sybil to see her friend Ariadne, the lady blessed with the six daughters. In actual fact there were only five visible in the chintzy drawing room when Sybil and he were ushered in. He was feted as ‘the Dear Brave Commander Vimes’ – he hated that shit, but under Sybil’s benign but careful gaze he was wise enough not to say so, at least not in those precise words. And so he grinned and bore it while they fluttered around him like large moths, and he waved away yet more teacakes, and cups of tea that would have been welcome were it not that they looked and tasted like what proper tea turns into shortly after you drink it. As far as Sam Vimes was concerned, he liked tea, but tea was not tea if, even before drinking, you could see the bottom of the cup.