Snuff

rakes, and this, well, chieftain probably, who looked as though he was decomposing while standing up, didn’t want him to hurt them? He remembered the scattered flowers. The orphaned bergamot tea. The uneaten meal. They were trying to hide away from me? He nodded and said, ‘I do not attack anyone who isn’t attacking me, sir, and I will not start today. Can you tell me how this lady came to be … killed?’
    ‘She was thrown into our cave last night, Mister Po-leess-maan. She had gone out to check the rabbit snares. Thrown down like old bones , Mister Po-leess-maan, like old bones. No blood in her. Like old bones.’
    ‘What was her name?’
    The old goblin looked at Vimes as if shocked, and after a moment said, ‘Her name was The Pleasant Contrast of the Orange and Yellow Petals in the Flower of the Gorse . Thank you, Mister Po-leess-maan of the dark.’
    ‘I’m afraid I’m only just starting to investigate this crime,’ said Vimes, feeling unusually embarrassed.
    ‘I meant, Mister Po-leess-maan, thank you for believing that goblins have names. My name is Sound of the Rain on Hard Ground . She was my second wife.’
    Vimes stared at the rugged face that only a mother could tolerate and perhaps love, searching for any sign of anger or grief. There was just a sense of sorrow and hopeless resignation at the fact that the world was as it was and always would be and there was nothing that could be done. The goblin was a sigh on legs. In dejection he looked up at Vimes and said, ‘They used to send hungry dogs into the cave, Mister Po-leess-maan. Those were good days; we ate well.’
    ‘This is my land,’ said Vimes, ‘and I think I can see to it that you’re not disturbed here.’
    Something like a chuckle found its way through the old goblin’s ragged beard. ‘We know what the law is, Mister Po-leess-maan. The law is the land. You say, “This is my land”, but you did not make the land. You did not make your sheep, you did not make the rabbits on which we live, you did not make the cows, or the horses, but you say, “These things are mine”. This cannot be a truth. I make my axe, my pots, and these are mine. What I wear is mine. Some love was mine. Now it has gone. I think you are a good man, Mister Po-leess-maan, but we see the turning of the times. Maybe a hundred or two hundred years ago there was in the world what people called “the wilderness”, or “no man’s land”, or “wasteland”, and we lived in such places, we are waste people. There was the troll race , the dwarf race, the human race, and I am sorry for the goblin race that we cannot run so fast.’
    Somebody pulled at Vimes’s shirt. This time it was Feeney. ‘You’d best be going now, sir.’
    Vimes turned. ‘Why?’
    ‘Sorry, sir, but her ladyship did instruct you to be back for tea.’
    ‘We’re conducting a murder investigation, chief constable! I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m sure Mister Rain on Hard Ground here will understand. We must see for ourselves that the missing blacksmith is not here.’
    Feeney fidgeted. ‘I couldn’t help noticing that her ladyship was very expressive on the subject, sir.’
    Vimes nodded to the old goblin. ‘I’ll find out who killed your wife, sir, and I’ll bring them to justice.’ He paused on cue as another chorus of ‘Just ice!’ echoed around the caves. ‘But first I must, for police reasons, inspect the rest of this … establishment, if you have no objection.’
    The goblin looked at him bright-eyed. ‘And if I object, Mister Po-leess-maan?’
    Vimes matched his stare. ‘An interesting question,’ he said, ‘and if you threatened us with violence I would leave. Indeed, if you forbade me to search then I would leave, and, sir, the worst part is that I would not come back. Sir, I respectfully ask that I may in the pursuit of my inquiries be shown around the rest of these premises.’
    Was that a smile on the old goblin’s face? ‘Of course, Mister Po-leess-maan.’
    Behind the old goblin the rest of the crowd began to move away, presumably to either make pots or fill them. Rain on Hard Ground, who, it had to be assumed, because nothing had been said to the contrary, was either a chieftain (as Vimes would understand it) or simply a goblin tasked with talking to stupid humans, said, ‘You are seeking the blacksmith? He visits us sometimes. There is iron down here, not much, but he finds it useful. Of course it is no good for pots , but we trade it for food. I