'Yes,' she said, giving up, 'that's right. And then I saw this poster. “The City Watche Needs Men! Be A Man In The City Watche!” So I thought I'd give it a go. After all, I'd only have something to gain.'
She waited to see if he'd fail to pick this one up, too. He did.
'Sergeant Colon wrote the notice,' said Carrot. 'He's a fairly direct thinker.'
He sniffed.
'Can you smell something?' he said. 'Smells like . . . a bit like someone's thrown away an old privy carpet?'
'Oh, thank you very much,' said a voice very low down, somewhere in the darkness. 'Oh, yes. Thank you very much. That's very wossname of you. Old privy carpet. Oh, yes.'
'Can't smell anything,' Angua lied.
'Liar,' said the voice.
'Or hear anything.'
Captain Vimes' boots told him he was in Scoone Avenue. His feet were doing the walking of their own volition; his mind was somewhere else. In fact, some of it was dissolving gently in Jimkin Bearhugger's finest nectar. If only they hadn't been so damn polite! There were a number of things he'd seen in his life which he'd always try, without success, to forget. Up until now he would have put, at the top of the list, looking at the tonsils of a giant dragon as it drew the breath intended to turn him into a small pile of impure charcoal. He still woke up sweating at the memory of the little pilot light. But he dreaded now that it was going to be replaced by the recollection of all those impassive dwarf faces, watching him politely, and the feeling that his words were dropping into a deep pit.
After all, what could he say? 'Sorry he's dead – and that's official. We're putting our worst men on the case' ?
The late Bjorn Hammerhock's house had been full of dwarfs – silent, owlish, polite dwarfs. The news had got around. He wasn't telling anyone anything they didn't know. Many of them were holding weapons. Mr Strong-inthearm was there. Captain Vimes had talked to him before about his speeches on the subject of the need for grinding all trolls in little bits and using them to make roads. But the dwarf wasn't saying anything now. He was just looking smug. There was an air of quiet, polite menace, that said: We'll listen to you. Then we'll do what we decide to do.
He hadn't even been sure which one was Mrs Ham-merhock. They all looked alike to him. When she was introduced – helmeted, bearded – he'd got polite, noncommittal answers. No, she'd locked his workshop and seemed to have mislaid the key. Thank you.
He'd tried to indicate as subtly as possible that a wholesale march on Quarry Lane would be frowned upon by the guard (probably from a vantage point at a safe distance) but hadn't the face to spell it out. He couldn't say: don't take matters into your own hands for the guard are mightily in pursuit of the wrongdoer, because he didn't have a clue where to start. Had your husband any enemies? Yes, someone put a huge great hole in him, but apart from that, did he have any enemies?
So he'd extracted himself with as much dignity as possible, which wasn't very much, and after a battle with himself which he'd lost, he'd picked up half a bottle of Bearhugger's Old Persnickety and wandered into the night.
Carrot and Angua reached the end of Gleam Street.
'Where are you staying?' said Carrot.
'Just down there.' She pointed.
'Elm Street? Not Mrs Cake's?'
'Yes. Why not? I just wanted a clean place, reasonably priced. What's wrong with that?'
'Well . . . I mean, I've nothing against Mrs Cake, a lovely woman, one of the best. . . but. . . well. . . you must have noticed . . .'
'Noticed what?'
'Well. . . she's not very . . . you know . . . choosy.'
'Sorry. I'm still not with you.'
'You must have seen some of the other guests? I mean, doesn't Reg Shoe still have lodgings there?'
'Oh, said Angua, 'you mean the zombie.'
'And there's a banshee in the attic.'
'Mr Ixolite. Yes.'
'And there's old Mrs Drull.'
'The ghoul. But she's retired. She does children's party catering now.'