Snuff

in the unfamiliar and terrifying grip of philosophy and fetched up with, ‘Well, sir, I dare say cows make good mothers, but at the end of the day a calf is veal on the hoof, yes?’
    ‘Maybe, but what would you say if the calf walked up to you and said, “Hello, my name is Tears of the Mushroom”?’
    Feeney’s face once again frowned in the effort of novel cogitation. ‘I think I’d have the salad, sir.’
    Vimes smiled. ‘You were in a difficult position, lad, and I’ll tell you something: so am I. It’s called being a copper. That’s why I like it when they run. That makes it all so simple. They run and I chase. I don’t know if it’s metaphysical, or something like that. But there was a corpse. You saw it, so did I and so did Miss Beedle. Keep that in mind.’
    Young Sam was sitting on a hay bale in the farmyard, watching the horses come in. He ran to his dad, looking very pleased with himself, and said, ‘Dad, you know chickens?’
    Vimes picked up his son and said, ‘Yes, I have heard of them, Sam.’
    Young Sam wriggled out of his father’s grasp as if being picked up and swung around was inappropriate activity for a serious researcher in scatological studies, and looked solemn. ‘Do you know, Dad, that when a chicken does a poo, there’s a white bit on top which is the wee? Sometimes it’s like the icing on a bun, Dad!’
    ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ said Vimes. ‘I’ll remember that next time I eat a bun.’ And every time after that, he added to himself. ‘I suppose you know everything about poo now, Sam?’ he said hopefully, and he saw Willikins smile.
    Young Sam, still staring at a pile of chicken droppings through a little magnifying glass, shook his head without looking up. ‘Oh no, Dad, Mister …’ Here, Young Sam stopped and looked at Willikins hopefully.
    Willikins cleared his throat and said, ‘Mister Trout, one of the gamekeepers, was around half an hour ago, and of course your lad will strike up a conversation with anybody, and the upshot is that young Sam, it would appear, sir, would like to amass a collection of the droppings of a number of woodland creatures.’
    Gamekeepers, thought Vimes. He ran that across his brain and thought about who had actually rounded the goblins up three years ago. And then he thought, how important is that compared with the question who told them to? I think I’ve got the smell of this place: people do what they’re told because they’ve always done what they’re told. But gamekeepers are a canny lot; it’s not just human beings they have to outsmart. And remember, this is the countryside, where everybody knows everybody else, and notices everybody else. I don’t think Feeney is lying, so other people know what happened here one night three years ago. I mustn’t be a bull at a gate, Sybil said, and she’s right. I need to know where I’m treading. What happened happened three years ago. I can afford to take my time over this one. Aloud he said, ‘How far can I take this?’
    ‘It seems you’ve had a busy day, sir,’ said Willikins. ‘This morning you went down to the lock-up with a little tit who thinks he is a copper, and then, in company with a goblin, you and said little tit went up to Dead Man’s Copse, where you remained for quite some time, until you and the aforesaid little tit came out and you arrived here, minus one tit, just now.’ Willikins grinned at Vimes. ‘There’s people coming and going down in the kitchens all the time, sir, and gossip is a kind of currency when you get beyond the green door. You’ve got to remember, sir, that, despite Mister Silver’s dirty looks, I am the top nob below stairs and I can go where I like and do what I like and they can choke on it if they like. The whole of the hill is visible from some window or other in this house, and maids are very cooperative, sir. It seems that all the girls are busting for a job in the Scoone Avenue establishment. Very keen they are for the city lights, sir. Very cooperative. Also, I found quite a good telescope in the study. Remarkable view of Hangman’s Hill, you know. I could practically read your lips. Young Sam quite enjoyed the game of searching for Dad.’
    Vimes felt a pang of guilt at those words. This was supposed to be a family holiday, wasn’t it? But … ‘Someone killed a goblin girl up at Dead Man’s Copse,’ he said, his voice dull. ‘They made sure there was a lot of blood to give our keen young copper something