Feet of Clay - Terry Pratchett [72]
“And you were all ill afterwards?” said Carrot, taking out his notebook.
“Sweating all night!”
“Couldn’t see straight!”
“I reckon I know every knothole on the back of the privy door!”
“I’ll write that down as a ‘definitely’,” said Carrot. “Was there anything else on the dinner menu?”
“Vole-au-vents and Cream of Rat,” said Gimlet. “All hygienically prepared.”
“How do you mean, ‘hygienically prepared’?” said Carrot.
“The chef is under strict orders to wash his hands afterwards.”
The assembled dwarfs nodded. This was certainly pretty hygienic. You didn’t want people going around with ratty hands.
“Anyway, you’ve all been eating here for years,” said Gimlet, sensing this slight veer in his direction. “This is the first time there’s been any trouble, isn’t it? My rats are famous!”
“Your chicken’s going to be pretty famous, too,” said Carrot.
There was laughter this time. Even Gimlet joined in. “All right, I’m sorry about the chicken. But it was that or very poor rats, and you know I only buy from Wee Mad Arthur. He’s trustworthy, whatever else you may say about him. You just can’t get better rats. Everyone knows that.”
“That’ll be Wee Mad Arthur in Gleam Street?” said Carrot.
“Yes. Not a mark on ’em, most of the time.”
“Have you got any left?”
“One or two.” Gimlet’s expression changed. “Here, you don’t think he poisoned them, do you? I never did trust that little bugger!”
“Inquiries are continuing,” said Carrot. He tucked his notebook away. “I’d like some rats, please. Those rats. To go.” He glanced at the menu, patted his pocket and looked questioningly out through the door at Angua.
“You don’t have to buy them,” she said wearily. “They’re evidence.”
“We can’t defraud an innocent tradesman who may be the victim of circumstances,” said Carrot.
“You want ketchup?” said Gimlet. “Only they’re extra with ketchup.”
The funeral carriage went slowly through the streets. It looked quite expensive, but that was Cockbill Street for you. People put money by. Vimes remembered that. You always put money by, in Cockbill Street. You saved up for a rainy day even if it was pouring already. And you’d die of shame if people thought you could afford only a cheap funeral.
Half a dozen black-clad mourners came along behind, altogether with perhaps a score of people who had tried at least to look respectable.
Vimes followed the procession at a distance all the way to the cemetery behind the Temple of Small Gods, where he lurked awkwardly among the gravestones and sombre graveyard trees while the priest mumbled on.
The gods had made the people of Cockbill Street poor, honest and provident, Vimes reflected. They might as well have hung signs saying “Kick me” on their backs and had done with it. But Cockbill Street people tended towards religion, at least of the less demonstrative kind. They always put a little life by for a rainy eternity.
Eventually the crowd around the graves broke up and drifted away with the aimless look of people whose immediate future contains ham rolls.
Vimes spotted a tearful young woman in the main group and advanced carefully. “Er…are you Mildred Easy?” he said.
She nodded. “Who are you?” She took in the cut of his coat and added, “Sir?”
“Was that old Mrs. Easy who used to do dressmaking?” said Vimes, taking her gently aside.
“That’s right…”
“And the…smaller coffin?”
“That was our William…”
The girl looked as if she were about to cry again.
“Can we have a talk?” said Vimes. “There are some things I hope you can tell me.”
He hated the way his mind worked. A proper human being would have shown respect and quietly walked away. But, as he’d stood among the chilly stones, a horrible apprehension had stolen over him that almost all the answers were in place now, if only he could work out the questions.
She looked around at the other mourners. They had reached the gate and were staring back