Snuff

was
     actually quite interesting stuff about septic tanks and dunnakin divers and
     gongfermors and how dog muck helped make the very best leather, and other things
     that you never thought you would need to know, but once heard somehow lodged in
     your mind.
    Apparently it was by the author of Wee and if Young Sam had one vote for
     the best book ever written, then it would go to Wee . His enthusiasm was perhaps fanned all the more
     because a rare imp of mischief in Vimes led him to do all the necessary
     straining noises.
    Later, over dinner, Sybil quizzed him about his
     afternoon. She was particularly interested when he mentioned stopping by to
     watch the crockett.
    â€œOh they still play it? That’s wonderful! How did it
     go?”
    Vimes put down his knife and fork and stared
     thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment or two, then said, “Well, I was talking
     to Lord Rust for some of the time, and I had to leave, of course, because of
     Young Sam, but fortune favored the priests, when their striker managed to tump
     a couple of the farmers by a crafty use of the hamper. There were several appeals
     to the hat man about this, because he broke his mallet in so doing, and in my
     opinion the hat man’s decision was entirely correct, especially since the
     farmers had played a hawk maneuver.” He took a deep breath. “When play
     recommenced, the farmers still had not found their stride but got a breathing
     space when a sheep wandered onto the pitch and the priests, assuming that this
     would stop play, relaxed too soon, and Higgins J. fired a magnificent handsaw
     under the offending ruminant…”
    Sybil finally stopped him when she realized that the
     meal was growing very cold, and said, “Sam! How did you become an expert on the
     noble game of crockett?”
    Vimes picked up his knife and fork. “Please don’t
     ask me again,” he sighed. In his head meanwhile a little voice said, Lord Rust tells me there is nothing here for me. Oh
     dear, I’d better find out what it is, what?
    He cleared his throat and said, “Sybil, did you
     actually look at that book I’m reading to Young Sam?”
    â€œYes, dear. Felicity Beedle is the most famous
     children’s writer in the world. She’s been at it for years. She wrote Melvin and the Enormous Boil , Geoffrey and the Magic Pillow
     Case , The Little Duckling
     Who Thought He Was an Elephant …”
    â€œDid she write one about an elephant who thought he
     was a duckling?”
    â€œNo, Sam, because that would be silly. Oh, she also
     wrote Daphne and the Nose Pickers and Gaston’s Enormous
     Problem won for her the Gladys H. J. Ferguson
     award—the fifth time she’s been given it. She gets children interested in
     reading, you see?”
    â€œYes,” said Vimes, “but they’re reading about poo
     and brain-dead ducklings!”
    â€œSam, that’s part of the commonality of mankind, so
     don’t be so prudish. Young Sam’s a country boy now, and I’m very proud of him,
     and he likes books. That’s the whole point! Miss Beedle also finances
     scholarships for the Quirm College for Young Ladies. She must be quite wealthy
     now, but I hear she’s taken Apple Tree Cottage—you can practically see it from
     here, it’s on the side of the hill—and I think it right, if you don’t mind, of
     course, that we invite her here to the Hall.”
    â€œOf course,” said Vimes, though his dontmindedness
     was entirely due to the way his wife’s question had been phrased and the subtle
     resonances that Miss Beedle’s attendance was a done deal.

V imes slept a lot better that night, partly because he could feel that somewhere in the universe nearby there was a clue waiting for him to pull. That made his fingers itch already.
    In the morning, as he had promised, he took Young Sam horse riding. Vimes could ride, but hated doing so. Nevertheless, falling off the back of a pony onto one’s head was a skill that every young man should learn if only so that he resolved never to do it again.
    The rest of the day, however, did not work out well. Vimes, suspicions filling his mind, was metaphorically and only just short of literally dragged by Sybil to see her friend Ariadne, the lady blessed with the six daughters. In actual fact there were only five visible in the chintzy drawing room when Sybil and he were ushered in. He was