Feet of Clay

that’s arsenic ,” said Boggis.
    “Good gods, is it?” said Vimes, swallowing. “Amazing! I’ve got this dwarf downstairs, you know, clever little bugger, spends all his time with pipes and chemicals and things to find out what is arsenic and what isn’t, and all the time here’s you able to spot it just by looking! I’ve got to hand it to you!”
    He dropped the torn packet into Boggis’s hand, but the thief jerked back and the packet tumbled to the floor, spraying its contents.
    “Excuse me,” said Carrot. He knelt down and peered at the powder.
    It is traditionally the belief of policemen that they can tell what a substance is by sniffing it and then gingerly tasting it, but this practice had ceased in the Watch ever since Constable Flint had dipped his finger into a blackmarket consignment of ammonium chloride cut with radium, said “Yes, this is definitely slab wurble wurble sclup,” and had to spend three days tied to his bed until the spiders went away.
    Nevertheless, Carrot said, “I’m sure this isn’t poisonous,” licked his finger and tried a bit.
    “It’s sugar,” he said.
    Downey, his composure severely compromised, waved a finger at Vimes. “You admitted it was dangerous!” he screamed.
    “Right! Take too much of it and see what it does to your teeth!” bellowed Vimes. “What did you think it was?”
    “We had information…” Boggis began.
    “Oh, you had information, did you?” said Vimes. “You hear that, Captain? They had information. So that’s all right!”
    “We acted in good faith,” said Boggis.
    “Let me see,” said Vimes. “Your information was something on the lines of: Vimes is dead-drunk in the Watch House and he’s got a bag of arsenic in his desk? And I’ll just bet you wanted to act in good faith, eh?”
    Mrs. Palm cleared her throat. “This has gone far enough. You are correct, Sir Samuel,” she said. “We were all sent a note.” She handed a slip of paper to Vimes. It had been written in capitals. “And I can see we have been misinformed,” she added, glaring at Boggis and Downey. “Do allow me to apologize. Come, gentlemen.”
    She swept out of the door. Boggis followed her quickly.
    Downey dabbed at his nose. “What’s the guild price on your head, Sir Samuel?” he said.
    “Twenty thousand dollars.”
    “Really? I think we shall definitely have to upgrade you.”
    “Delighted. I shall have to buy a new beartrap.”
    “I’ll, er, show you out,” said Carrot.
    When he hurried back he found Vimes leaning out of the window and feeling the wall below it.
    “Not a brick dislodged,” Vimes muttered. “Not a tile loose…and the front office has been manned all day. Odd, that.”
    He shrugged and walked back to his desk, where he picked up the note.
    “And I shouldn’t think we’ll be able to find any Clues on this,” he said. “There’s too many greasy fingermarks all over it.” He put down the paper and glared at Carrot. “When we find the man responsible,” he said, “somewhere at the top of the charge sheet is going to be Forcing Commander Vimes To Tip a Whole Bottle of Single Malt on to the Carpet. That’s a hanging offense.” He shuddered. There were some things a man should not have to do.
    “It’s disgusting!” said Carrot. “Fancy them even thinking that you’d poison the Patrician!”
    “I’m offended that they think I’d be daft enough to keep the poison in my desk drawer,” said Vimes, lighting a cigar.
    “Right,” said Carrot. “Did they think you were some kind of fool who’d keep evidence like that where anyone could find it?”
    “Exactly,” said Vimes, leaning back. “That’s why I’ve got it in my pocket.”
    He put his feet on the desk and blew out a cloud of smoke. He’d have to get rid of the carpet. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life working in a room haunted by the smell of departed spirits.
    Carrot’s mouth was still open.
    “Oh, good grief,” said Vimes. “Look, it’s quite simple, man. I was expected to go ‘At last, alcohol!’, and chugalug the lot without thinking. Then some respectable pillars of the community”—he removed the cigar from his mouth and spat—“were going to find me, in your presence, too—which was a nice touch—with the evidence of my crime neatly hidden but not so well hidden that they couldn’t find it.” He shook his head sadly. “The trouble is, you know, that once the taste’s got you it never lets go.”
    “But you’ve