Going Postal

slightly ashamed.
    He liked Teemer and Spools. He liked the kind of business where you could actually speak to the man whose name was over the door; it meant it probably wasn’t run by crooks. And he liked the big, solid, unflappable workmen, recognizing in them all the things he knew he lacked, like stead-fastness, solidarity, and honesty. You couldn’t lie to a lathe or fool a hammer. They were good people, and quite unlike him…
    One way in which they were quite unlike him was that none of them, right now, probably had wads of stolen notepaper stuffed into their jackets.
    He really shouldn’t have done it, he really shouldn’t. It was just that Mr. Spools was a kind and enthusiastic man and the desk had been covered with examples of his wonderful work, and when the perforation press was being made people had been bustling around and not really paying Moist much attention and he’d…tidied up. He couldn’t help himself. He was a crook. What did Vetinari expect?

    T HE POSTMEN were arriving back as he walked into the building. Mr. Groat was waiting for him with a worried smile on his face.
    “How’s it going, Postal Inspector?” said Moist cheerfully.
    “Pretty well, sir, pretty well. There’s good news, sir. People have been giving us letters to post, sir. Not many yet, and some of them are a bit, er, jokey, but we got a penny of’f them every time. That’s seven pence, sir,” he added proudly, proffering the coins.
    “Oh boy, we eat tonight!” said Moist, taking the coins and pocketing the letters.
    “Sorry, sir?”
    “Oh, nothing, Mr. Groat. Well done. Er…you said there was good news. Is there any of the other sort, perhaps…?”
    “Um…some people didn’t like getting their mail, sir.”
    “Things got posted through the wrong doors?” said Moist.
    “Oh, no, sir. But old letters ain’t always welcome. Not when they’re, as it might be, a will. A will. As in Last Will and Testament, sir,” the old man added meaningfully. “As in, it turns out the wrong daughter got Mum’s jewelery twenty years ago. As it were.”
    “Oh dear,” said Moist.
    “The Watch had to be called in, sir. There was what they call in the papers a ‘rumpus’ in Weaver Street, sir. There’s a lady waiting for you in your office, sir.”
    “Oh gods, not one of the daughters?”
    “No, sir. She’s a writing lady from the Times . You can’t trust ’em, sir, although they do a very reasonable crossword,” Groat added conspiratorially.
    “What does she want me for?”
    “Couldn’t say, sir. I expect it’s ’cos you’re postmaster?”
    “Go and…make her some tea or something, will you?” said Moist, patting his jacket. “I’ll just go and…pull myself together…”
    Two minutes later, with the stolen paper tucked safely away, Moist strode into his office.
    Mr. Pump was standing by the door, fiery eyes banked, in the stance of a golem with no current task other than to exist, and a woman was sitting in the chair by Moist’s desk.
    Moist sized her up. Attractive, certainly, but dressing apparently to downplay the fact while artfully enhancing it. Bustles were back in fashion in the city for some inexplicable reason, but her only concession there was a bum-roll, which achieved a certain perkiness in the rear without the need to wear twenty-seven pounds of dangerously springloaded underwear. She was blond but wore her hair in a bag net, another careful touch, while a small and quietly fashionable hat perched on top of her head to no particular purpose. A large shoulder bag was by her chair, a notebook was on her knee, and she wore a wedding ring.
    “Mr. Lipwig?” she said brightly. “I am Miss Cripslock. From the Times .”
    Okay, wedding ring but nevertheless “Miss,” thought Moist. Handle with care. Probably has Views. Do not attempt to kiss hand .
    “And how can I assist the Times ?” he said, sitting down and giving her a non-condescending smile.
    “Do you intend to deliver all the backlog of mail, Mr. Lipwig?”
    “If at all possible, yes,” said Moist.
    “Why?”
    “It’s my job. Rain, snow, gloom of night, just like it says over the door.”
    “Have you heard about the fracas in Weaver Street?”
    “I heard it was a rumpus.”
    “I’m afraid it’s got worse. There was a house on fire when I left. Doesn’t that worry you?” Miss Cripslock’s pencil was suddenly poised.
    Moist’s face remained expressionless as he thought furiously.
    “Yes, it does, of course,” he