Men at Arms

figure.
    No clowns were funny. That was the whole purpose of a clown. People laughed at clowns, but only out of nervousness. The point of clowns was that, after watching them, anything else that happened seemed enjoyable. It was nice to know there was someone worse off than you. Someone had to be the butt of the world.
    But even clowns are frightened of something, and that is the white-faced clown. The one who never gets in the way of the custard. The one in the shiny white clothes, and the deadpan white make-up. The one with the little pointy hat and the thin mouth and the delicate black eyebrows.
    Dr. Whiteface.
    “Who are these gentlemen?” he demanded.
    “Er—” Boffo began.
    “Night Watch, sir,” said Colon, saluting.
    “And why are you here?”
    “Investigating our inquiries as to the fatal demise of the clown Beano, sir,” said Colon.
    “I rather think that is Guild business, sergeant. Don’t you?”
    “Well, sir, he was found in the—”
    “I am sure it is something we don’t need to bother the Watch with,” said Dr. Whiteface.
    Colon hesitated. He’d prefer to face Dr. Cruces than this apparition. At least the Assassins were supposed to be unpleasant. Clowns were only one step away from mime artists, too.
    “No, sir,” he said. “It was obviously an accident, right?”
    “Quite so. Brother Boffo will show you to the door,” said the head clown. “And then,” he added, “he will report to my office. Does he understand?”
    “Yes, Dr. Whiteface,” mumbled Boffo.
    “What’ll he do to you?” said Nobby, as they headed for the gate.
    “Hat full of whitewash, probably,” said Boffo. “Pie inna face if I’m lucky.”
    He opened the wicket gate.
    “A lot of us ain’t happy about this,” he whispered. “I don’t see why those buggers should get away with it. We ought to go round to the Assassins and have it out with them.”
    “Why the Assassins?” said Colon. “Why would they kill a clown?”
    Boffo looked guilty. “I never said a thing!”
    Colon glared at him. “There’s definitely something odd happening, Mr. Boffo.”
    Boffo looked around, as if expecting a vengeful custard pie at any moment.
    “You find his nose,” he hissed. “You just find his nose. His poor nose!”
    The gate slammed shut.
    Sergeant Colon turned to Nobby.
    “Did exhibit A have a nose, Nobby?”
    “Yes, Fred.”
    “Then what was that about?”
    “Search me.” Nobby scratched a promising boil. “P’raps he meant a false nose. You know. Those red ones on elastic? The ones,” said Nobby, grimacing, “they think are funny. He didn’t have one.”
    Colon rapped on the door, taking care to stand out of the way of any jolly amusing booby traps.
    The hatch slid aside.
    “Yes?” hissed Boffo.
    “Did you mean his false nose?” said Colon.
    “His real one! Now bugger off!”
    The hatch snapped back.
    “Mental,” said Nobby, firmly.
    “Beano had a real nose. Did it look wrong to you?” said Colon.
    “No. It had a couple of holes in it.”
    “Well, I don’t know about noses,” said Colon, “but either Brother Boffo is dead wrong or there’s something fishy going on.”
    “Like what?”
    “Well, Nobby, you’re what I might call a career soldier, right?”
    “’S’right, Fred.”
    “How many dishonorable discharges have you had?”
    “Lots,” said Nobby, proudly. “But I always puts a poultice on ’em.”
    “You’ve been on a lot of battlefields, ain’t you?”
    “Dozens.”
    Sergeant Colon nodded.
    “So you’ve seen a lot of corpses, right, when you’ve been ministering to the fallen—”
    Corporal Nobbs nodded. They both knew that “ministering” meant harvesting any personal jewelery and stealing their boots. In many a faraway battlefield the last thing many a mortally wounded foeman ever saw was Corporal Nobbs heading toward him with a sack, a knife and a calculating expression.
    “Shame to let good stuff go to waste,” said Nobby.
    “So you’ve noticed how dead bodies get…deader,” said Sergeant Colon.
    “Deader than dead?”
    “You know. More corpsey,” said Sergeant Colon, forensic expert.
    “Goin’ stiff and purple and suchlike?”
    “Right.”
    “And then sort of manky and runny…”
    “Yes, all right—”
    “Makes it easier to get the rings off, mind you—”
    “The point is, Nobby, that you can tell how old a corpse is. That clown, for e.g. You saw him, same as me. How long, would you say?”
    “About 5’ 9”, I’d say. His boots