Snuff

tuck him into bed before dinner.
    His prompt arrival got a nod of approval from Sybil, who gingerly handed him a new book to read to Young Sam.
    Vimes looked at the cover. The title was The World of Poo . When his wife was out of eyeshot he carefully leafed through it. Well, okay, you had to accept that the world had moved on and these days fairy stories were probably not going to be about twinkly little things with wings. As he turned page after page, it dawned on him that whoever had written this book, they certainly knew what would make kids like Young Sam laugh until they were nearly sick. The bit about sailing down the river almost made him smile. But interspersed with the scatology 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.
    ‘Oh, 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 favoured 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 manoeuvre.’ 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 on to 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?’
    ‘Yes, 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 …’
    ‘Did she write one about an elephant who thought he was a duckling?’
    ‘No, 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?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Vimes, ‘but they’re reading about poo and brain-dead ducklings!’
    ‘Sam, 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.’
    ‘Of course,’ said Vimes, though his don’tmindedness 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.
    Vimes slept a lot better that night, partly because he could feel that somewhere in the universe near by 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