He stared at William. ‘Anything you feel you want to tell me?’ he said.
‘Uh … we had a bit of a problem …’
‘Never! Really? Do tell!’
‘The dogs took fright when Mr Chriek took a picture of them,’ said William. This was absolutely true. Dark light was frightening enough even if you knew what was happening.
Vimes glared at Otto, who looked miserably at his feet.
‘Well now,’ said Vimes. ‘Shall I tell you something? They’re electing a new Patrician today—’
‘Who?’ said William.
‘I don’t know,’ said Vimes.
Sacharissa blew her nose and said: ‘It’ll be Mr Scrope, of the Shoemakers and Leatherworkers.’
Vimes gave William a suspicious look. ‘How do you know that?’ he said.
‘Everyone knows,’ said Sacharissa. ‘That’s what the young man in the bakery said this morning.’
‘Oh, where would we be without rumour?’ said Vimes. ‘So this is not a day, Mr de Worde, for … things to go wrong. My men are talking to some of the people who brought dogs along. Not many of them, I have to admit. Most of them don’t want to talk to the Watch. Can’t think why, we’re very good listeners. Now is there anything you want to tell me?’ Vimes looked around the room and back to William. ‘Everyone’s staring at you, I notice.’
‘The Times does not need any help from the Watch,’ said William.
‘Helping wasn’t what I had in mind.’
‘We haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘I’ll decide that.’
‘Really? That’s an interesting point of view.’
Vimes glanced down. William had taken his notebook out of his pocket. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see.’ He reached down to his own belt and pulled out a blunt, dark length of wood.
‘You know what this is?’ he said.
‘It’s a truncheon,’ said William. ‘A big stick.’
‘Always the last resort, eh?’ said Vimes evenly. ‘Rosewood and Llamedos silver, a lovely piece of work. And it says on this little plate here that I’m supposed to keep the peace, and you, Mr de Worde, don’t look like part of that right now.’
They locked gazes.
‘What was the odd thing Lord Vetinari did just before the … accident?’ said William, so quietly that probably only Vimes heard it.
Vimes didn’t even blink. But after a moment he laid the truncheon down on the desk, with a click that sounded unnaturally loud in the silence.
‘Now you put your notebook down, lad,’ he suggested, in a quiet voice. ‘That way, it’s just me and you. No … clash of symbols.’
This time, William could see where the path of wisdom lay. He put down the book.
‘Right,’ said Vimes. ‘And now you and me are going to go over to the corner there, while your friends tidy up. Amazing, isn’t it, how much furniture can get broken, just by taking a picture?’
He went and sat down on an upturned washtub. William made do with a rocking horse.
‘All right, Mr de Worde, we’ll do this your way,’ said Vimes.
‘I didn’t know I had a way.’
‘You’re not going to tell me what you know, are you?’
‘I’m not sure what I know,’ said William. ‘But I … think … Lord Vetinari did something remarkable not long before the crime.’
Vimes pulled out his own notebook and thumbed through it.
‘He entered the palace by the stables some time before seven o’clock and dismissed the guard,’ he said.
‘He’d been out all night?’
Vimes shrugged. ‘His lordship comes and goes. The guards don’t ask him where and why. Have they been talking to you?’
William was ready for the question. He just didn’t have an answer. But the palace guard, insofar as he’d met them, weren’t men chosen for imagination or flair but for a kind of obstructive loyalty. They didn’t sound like a potential Deep Bone.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Oh, you don’t think so?’
Hold on, hold on … Deep Bone claimed to know the dog Wuffles, and a dog ought to know if his master was acting oddly, dogs liked routine …
‘I think it’s very unusual for his lordship to be outside the palace at that time,’ said William carefully. ‘Not part of the … routine.’
‘Nor is stabbing your clerk and trying to run off with a very heavy sack of cash,’ said Vimes. ‘Yes, we noticed that, too. We’re not stupid. We only look stupid. Oh … and the guard said he smelled spirits on his lordship’s breath.’
‘Does he drink?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice.’
‘He’s got a drinks cabinet in his office.’
Vimes smiled. ‘You noticed that? He likes other people to drink.’
‘But all that might mean was that he was plucking up the courage to—’ William began, and stopped. ‘No, that’s not Vetinari. He’s not that sort.’
‘No. He isn’t,’ said Vimes. He sat back. ‘Perhaps you’d better … think again, Mr de Worde. Maybe … maybe … you can find someone to help you think better.’
Something in his manner suggested that the informal part of the discussion was well and truly over.
‘Do you know much about Mr Scrope?’ said William.
‘Tuttle Scrope? Son of old Tuskin Scrope. President of the Guild of Shoemakers and Leatherworkers for the past seven years,’ said Vimes. ‘Family man. Old-established shop in Wixon’s Alley.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Mr de Worde, that’s all the Watch knows about Mr Scrope. You understand? You wouldn’t want to know about some of the people we know a lot about.’
‘Ah.’ William’s brow wrinkled. ‘But there’s not a shoe shop in Wixon’s Alley.’
‘I never mentioned shoes.’
‘In fact the only shop that is even, er, remotely connected with leather is—’
‘That’s the one,’ said Vimes.
‘But that sells—’
‘Comes under the heading of leatherwork,’ said Vimes, picking up his truncheon.
‘Well, yes … and rubber work, and … feathers … and whips … and … little jiggly things,’ said William, blushing. ‘But—’
‘Never been in there myself, although I believe Corporal Nobbs gets their catalogue,’ said Vimes. ‘I don’t think there’s a Guild of Makers of Little Jiggly Things, though it’s an interesting thought. Anyway, Mr Scrope is all nice and legal, Mr de Worde. Nice old family atmosphere, I understand. Makes buying … this and that, and little jiggly things … as pleasant as half a pound of humbugs, I don’t doubt. And what rumour is telling me is that the first thing nice Mr Scrope will do is pardon Lord Vetinari.’
‘What? Without a trial?’
‘Won’t that be nice?’ said Vimes, with horrible cheerfulness. ‘A good start to his term of office, eh? Clean sheet, fresh start, no sense in raking up unpleasantness. Poor chap. Overwork. Bound to crack. Didn’t get enough fresh air. And so on. So he can be put away in some nice quiet place and we’ll be able to stop worrying about this whole wretched affair. A bit of a relief, eh?’
‘But you know he didn’t—’