Snuff

… No, I take back that last remark. Magistrates do their drinking at home, where there are no licensing laws. I won’t say a word, but it’ll be a bad old day for the job if a thirsty copper can’t mump a night-time beverage from a former colleague.’ He slapped some coins on the tiny shelf inside the little panel and added, ‘That should buy a double brandy for my man here, and for me the address of Mister Jefferson, the smith.’
    ‘You can’t treat me like this, you know.’
    Vimes looked at Willikins. ‘Can I?’
    The gentleman’s gentleman cleared his throat. ‘We are now in the world of feudal law, commander. You own the ground this public house stands on, but he has rights as strong as your own. If he has paid his rent, then you can’t even go into the property without his permission.’
    ‘How do you know all this stuff?’
    ‘Well, commander, as you know, I’ve had one or two holidays in the Tanty in my time, and one thing about prison is there are always a lot of books about the law lying around, criminals being very keen on going through the old legal smallprint, just in case it turns out that giving a rival gang member some cement boots and dropping him in the river might be legal after all. That kind of learning sticks.’
    ‘But I’m investigating a mysterious disappearance now. The blacksmith was very keen to see me up the hill, but when I got up there there was nothing but a load of blood all over the place. Jefferson wanted to tell me something and you must know what that smells like to a copper.’ Even though I’m not sure, said Vimes to himself. ‘Definitely something iffy, that’s for sure.’
    The landlord shrugged. ‘Not my business, squire.’
    Vimes’s hand gripped the landlord’s wrist before the man could pull it away and tugged him so hard that his face was up against the woodwork.
    ‘Don’t you squire me. There’s something going down here, something wrong; I can feel it in my boots and, believe me, they are the most sensitive boots that ever were. The man who runs the village pub knows everything – I know that and so do you. If you’re not on my side you’re in my way and you know something, I can see it in your eyes. If it turns out you knew something of importance about the blacksmith you’ll have invited yourself to be an accessory after the fact, with a free option, if I can get the bit between my teeth, of before the fact, which leaves you right in the middle, and that’s a fact.’
    Jiminy wriggled, but Vimes’s grip was steely. ‘Your badge doesn’t work here, Mister Vimes, you know that!’
    Vimes heard the tiny whine of fear in the man’s voice, but old coppers were tough. If you weren’t tough, you never became an old copper. ‘I’m going to let go, sir ,’ said Vimes, which is policeman’s code for ‘trembling arsehole’. ‘You think that legally around here I don’t have a leg to stand on. This may or may not be true, but my man here is not a policeman and is not accustomed to doing things nicely like we in the job do, and you might end up without a leg to stand on as well. I’m telling you this as a friend. We both know this game, eh? I expect you were working in the bar when the goblin was killed, yes?’
    ‘I didn’t know a bloody goblin was killed, did I? So how would I know when it may or may not have happened? My advice, sir ,’ said Jiminy, with the same coded inflection that Vimes had used, ‘would be to report the matter to the authorities in the morning. That would be young Upshot, calls himself a copper. Look, I came here to retire, Vimes, and staying alive is part of that. I do not poke my nose into that which does not concern me. And I know there’s a lot of things that you could do and I know you ain’t going to do them, but just so’s you don’t go home empty-handed, Jethro lives where all blacksmiths live, right in the centre of the village overlooking the green. He lives with his old mum, so I wouldn’t disturb her at this time of night. And now, gents, I’d better shut the pub. Don’t want to break the law.’
    The panel slid back, and there was the sound of a bolt slotting into place. A moment later, to the time-honoured cry of ‘Ain’t you lot got no homes to go to?’, they heard the front door open and the lane filled with men trying to get their brains to go in the direction of their feet, or vice versa.
    In the shadows of the pub’s back yard, which smelled of old barrels , Willikins said,