Snuff

without evidence of stealing some ring or silver-handled brush that the lady of the house would probably find later, perhaps when she had finished the gin. That wasn’t supposed to be what coppers were for, although in reality, of course it was what coppers were for. It was about privilege, and young Vimes had hardly worn in his first pair of policeman’s boots when his sergeant had explained what that meant. It meant private law. In those days an influential man could get away with quite a lot if he had the right accent, the right crest on his tie or the right chums, and a young policeman who objected might get away without a job and without a reference.
    It wasn’t like that now, not even close.
    But in those days young Vimes had seen butlers as double-traitors to both sides and so the large man in the black tailcoat got a glare that skewered him. The fact that he gave Vimes a little nod did not help matters. Vimes lived in a world where people saluted.
    â€œI am Silver, the butler, your grace,” the man carefully intoned reprovingly.
    Vimes immediately grabbed him by the hand and shook it warmly. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Silver!”
    The butler winced. “It’s Silver, sir, not Mister.”
    â€œSorry about that, Mr. Silver. So what’s your first name?”
    The butler’s face was an entertainment. “ Silver , sir! Always Silver!”
    â€œWell, Mr. Silver,” said Vimes, “it’s an item of faith with me that once you get past the trousers all men are the same.”
    The butler’s face was wooden as he said, “That is as maybe, sir, but I am and always will be, commander, Silver. Good evening, your grace , ” the butler turned, “and good evening, Lady Sybil. It must be seven or eight years since anyone from the family came to stay. May we look forward to further visits? And might I please introduce to you my wife, Mrs. Silver, the housekeeper, whom I think you have not met before?”
    Vimes could not stop his mind translating the little speech as: I am annoyed that you ignored me to shake hands with the gardener …which, to be fair, was not deliberate. Vimes had shaken the gardener’s hand out of sheer, overpowering terror. The translation continued: and now I am worried that we might not be having such an easy life in the near future .
    â€œHold on a minute,” said Vimes, “my wife is a Grace as well, you know, that’s a bit more than a lady. Syb— Her Grace made me look at the score chart.”
    Lady Sybil knew her husband in the way people living next door to a volcano get to know the moods of their neighbor. The important thing is to avoid the bang.
    â€œSam, I have been Lady Sybil to all the servants in both our houses ever since I was a girl, and so I regard Lady Sybil as my name, at least among people I have come to look on as friends. You know that!” And, she added to herself, we all have our little quirks, Sam, even you.
    And with that scented admonition floating in the air, Lady Sybil shook the housekeeper’s hand, and then turned to her son. “Now it’s bed for you, Young Sam, straight after supper. And no arguing.”
    Vimes looked around as the little party stepped into the entrance hall which was to all intents and purposes an armory. It would always be an armory in the eyes of any policeman although, undoubtedly, to the Ramkins who had put the swords, halberds, cutlasses, maces, pikes and shields on every wall, the assemblage was no more than a bit of historical furniture. In the middle of it all was the enormous Ramkin coat of arms. Vimes already knew what the motto said, “What We Have We Keep.” You could call it…a hint.
    Soon afterward Lady Sybil was busily engaged in the huge laundry and ironing room with Purity the maid, whom Vimes had insisted she take on after the birth of Young Sam, and who, both he and his wife believed, had an understanding with Willikins, although exactly what it was they understood remained a speculation. The two women were engrossed in the feminine pastime of taking clothes out of some things, and putting them into other things. This could go on for a long time, and included the ceremony of holding some things up to the light and giving a sad little sigh.
    In the absence of anything else to do, Vimes headed back out to the magnificent flight of steps, where he lit a cigar. Sybil was adamant about no smoking in the house. A