Feet of Clay - Terry Pratchett [56]
She tested this one anyway.
A few minutes later she was scrabbling furiously through her notebook. The first sample she’d taken from the pantry (one portion of duck pâté) was down here as Sample #3. What about #1 and #2? No, #1 had been the white clay from Misbegot Bridge, so what had been #2?
She found it.
But that couldn’t be right!
She looked up at the glass tube. Metallic arsenic grinned back at her.
She’d retained a bit of the sample. She could test again, but…perhaps it would be better to tell someone…
She hurried along to the main office, where a troll was on duty. “Where’s Commander Vimes?”
The troll grinned. “In der Gleam…Littlebottom.”
“Thank you.”
The troll turned back to address a worried-looking monk in a brown cassock. “And?” he said.
“Best if he tells it himself,” said the monk. “I only work on the next bench.” He put a small jar of dust on the desk. It had a bow tie around it.
“I want to complain most emphatically,” said the dust, in a shrill little voice. “I was working there only five minutes and then splash. It’s going to take days to get back into shape!”
“Working where?” said the troll
“Nonesuch Ecclesiastical Supplies,” said the worried monk, helpfully.
“Holy water section,” said the vampire.
“You’ve found arsenic?” said Vimes.
“Yes, sir. Lots. The sample’s full of it. But…”
“Well?”
Cheery looked at her feet. “I tried my process again with a test sample, sir, and I’m sure I’m doing it right…”
“Good. What was it in?”
“That’s just it, sir. It wasn’t in anything from the palace. Because I’d got a bit confused and tested the stuff I found under Father Tubelcek’s fingernails, sir.”
“What?”
“There was grease under his nails, sir, and I thought maybe it could’ve come from whoever attacked him. Off an apron or something…I’ve still got some left if you want a second opinion, sir. I wouldn’t blame you.”
“Why would the old man be handling poison?” said Carrot.
“I thought he might have scratched the murderer,” said Cheery. “You know…put up a fight…”
“With the Arsenic Monster?” said Angua.
“Oh, gods,” said Vimes. “What time is it?”
“Bingely bingely beep bong!”
“Oh, damn…”
“It’s nine of the clock,” said the organizer, poking its head out of Vimes’s pocket. “‘I was unhappy because I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet.’”
The Watchmen exchanged glances.
“What?” said Vimes, very carefully.
“People like it if I occasionally come up with a little aphorism or inspiring Thought For The Day,” said the imp.
“So how did you meet this man with no feet?” said Vimes.
“I didn’t actually meet him,” said the imp. “It was a general metaphorical statement.”
“Well, that’s it, then,” said Vimes. “If you’d met him you could have asked him if he had any boots he didn’t have any use for.”
There was a squeak as he pushed the imp back into its box.
“There’s more, sir,” said Cheery.
“Go on,” said Vimes wearily.
“And I had a careful look at the clay we found at the murder scenes,” said Cheery. “Igneous said it had a lot of grog in it—old powdered pottery. Well…I chipped a bit of Dorfl to compare and I can’t be sure but I got the iconograph demon to paint really small details and…I think there’s some clay just like his in there. He’s got a lot of iron oxide in his clay.”
Vimes sighed. All around them people were drinking alcohol. One drink would make it all so clear.
“Any of you know what any of this means?” he said.
Carrot and Angua shook their heads.
“Is it supposed to make sense if we know how all the pieces fit together?” Vime demanded, raising his voice.
“Like pieces of a jigsaw, sir?” Cheery ventured.
“Yes!” said Vimes, so loudly that the room went