Men at Arms

Angua. “Good grief.”
    “What did you expect?”
    “I don’t know. Anything. Something. Not nothing .”
    There was a joyless iron bedstead. The springs and mattress had sagged so that they formed a sort of mould, forcing anyone who got into it to instantly fold into a sleeping position. There was a washstand, under a broken mirror. On the stand was a razor, carefully aligned toward the Hub because Vimes shared the folk belief that this kept it sharp. There was a brown wooden chair with the cane seat broken. And a small chest at the foot of the bed.
    And that was all.
    “I mean, at least a rug,” said Angua. “A picture on the wall. Something.”
    Carrot deposited Vimes on the bed, where he flowed unconsciously into the shape.
    “Haven’t you got something in your room?” Angua asked.
    “Yes. I’ve got a cutaway diagram of No.5 shaft at home. It’s very interesting strata. I helped cut it. And some books and things. Captain Vimes isn’t really an indoors kind of person.”
    “But there’s not even a candle!”
    “He finds his way to bed by memory, he says.”
    “Or an ornament or anything .”
    “There’s a sheet of cardboard under the bed,” Carrot volunteered. “I remember I was with him in Filigree Street when he found it. He said ‘There’s a month’s soles in this, if I’m any judge.’ He was very pleased about that.”
    “He can’t even afford boots?”
    “I don’t think so. I know Lady Sybil offered to buy him all the new boots he wanted, and he got a bit offended about that. He seems to try to make them last.”
    “But you can buy boots, and you get less than him. And you send money home. He must drink it all, the idiot.”
    “Don’t think so. I didn’t think he’d touched the stuff for months. Lady Sybil got him on to cigars.”
    Vimes snored loudly.
    “How can you admire a man like this?” said Angua.
    “He’s a very fine man.”
    Angua raised the lid of the wooden chest with her foot.
    “Hey, I don’t think you should do that—” said Carrot wretchedly.
    “I’m just looking,” said Angua. “No law against that.”
    “In fact, under the Privacy Act of 1467, it is an—”
    “There’s only old boots and stuff. And some paper.” She reached down and picked up a crudely made book. It was merely a wad of irregular shaped bits of paper sandwiched together between card covers.
    “That belongs to Captain—”
    She opened the book and read a few lines. Her mouth dropped open.
    “Will you look at this? No wonder he never has any money!”
    “What d’you mean?”
    “He spends it on women! You wouldn’t think it, would you? Look at this entry. Four in one week!”
    Carrot looked over her shoulder. On the bed, Vimes snorted.
    There, on the page, in Vimes’ curly handwriting, were the words:
    Mrs. Gaskin, Mincing St: $5
    Mrs. Scurrick, Treacle St: $4
    Mrs. Maroon, Wixon’s Alley: $4
    Annabel Curry, Lobsneaks: $2
    “Annabel Curry couldn’t have been much good, for only two dollars,” said Angua.
    She was aware of a sudden drop in temperature.
    “I shouldn’t think so,” said Carrot, slowly. “She’s only nine years old.”
    One of his hands gripped her wrist tightly and the other prised the book out of her fingers.
    “Hey, let go !”
    “Sergeant!” shouted Carrot, over his shoulder, “can you come up here a moment?”
    Angua tried to pull away. Carrot’s arm was as immovable as an iron bar.
    There was the creak of Colon’s foot on the stair, and the door swung open.
    He was holding a very small cup in a pair of tongs.
    “Nobby got the coff—” he began, and stopped.
    “Sergeant,” said Carrot, staring into Angua’s face, “Lance-Constable Angua wants to know about Mrs. Gaskin.”
    “Old Leggy Gaskin’s widow? She lives in Mincing Street.”
    “And Mrs. Scurrick?”
    “In Treacle Street? Takes in laundry now.” Sergeant Colon looked from one to the other, trying to get a handle on the situation.
    “Mrs. Maroon?”
    “That’s Sergeant Maroon’s widow, she sells coal in—”
    “How about Annabel Curry?”
    “She still goes to the Spiteful Sisters of Seven-Handed Sek Charity School, doesn’t she?” Colon smiled nervously at Angua, still not sure of what was happening. “She’s the daughter of Corporal Curry, but of course he was before your time—”
    Angua looked up at Carrot’s face. His expression was unreadable.
    “They’re the widows of coppers?” she said.
    He nodded. “And one orphan.”
    “It’s a tough old