Making Money - Terry Pratchett [42]
“No, I hardly know anyone yet.”
“So you don’t know if you can trust her?”
“Trust her?”
Sacharissa sighed. “This is not like you, Moist. She’s just given a plate of food to the most valuable dog in the world. A dog that some people might like to see dead.”
“Why shouldn’t—” Moist began. They both turned to Mr. Fusspot, who was already licking the empty plate up the length of the table with an appreciative gronf-gronf noise.
“Er…can you see yourself out?” said Moist, hurrying toward the sliding plate.
“If you’re in any doubt, stick your fingers down his throat!” said Sacharissa from the door with what Moist considered an inappropriate amount of amusement.
He grabbed the dog and hurried through the far door, after the girl. It led to a narrow and not particularly well-decorated corridor with a green door at the end, from which came the sound of voices.
Moist barged through it.
In the small, neat kitchen beyond, a tableau greeted him. The young woman was backed against a table, and a bearded man in a white suit was wielding a big knife. They looked shocked.
“What’s going on!” Moist yelled.
“Er, er…you just ran through the door and shouted?” said the girl. “Was something wrong? I always give Mr. Fusspot his appetizer about now.”
“And I’m doing his entrée,” said the man, bringing the knife down on a tray of offal. “It’s chicken necks stuffed with giblets, with his special toffee pudding for afters. And who’s asking?”
“I’m the—I’m his owner,” said Moist, as haughtily as he could manage.
The chef removed his white hat. “Sorry, sir, of course you are. The gold suit and everything. This is Peggy, my daughter. I’m Aimsbury, sir.”
Moist had managed to calm down a little. “Sorry,” he said. “I was just worried that someone might try to poison Mr. Fusspot…”
“We were just talking about that,” said Aimsbury. “I thought that—hold on, you don’t mean me, do you?”
“No, no, certainly not!” said Moist to the man still holding a knife.
“Well, all right,” said Aimsbury, mollified. “You’re new, sir, you’re not to know. That Cosmo kicked Mr. Fusspot once!”
“He’d poison anyone, he would,” said Peggy.
“But I go down to the market every day, sir, and select the little dog’s food myself. And it’s stored downstairs in the cool room, and I have the only key.”
Moist relaxed. “You couldn’t knock out an omelet for me, could you?” he said.
The chef looked panicky.
“That’s eggs, right?” he said nervously. “Never really got involved with cooking eggs, sir. He has a raw one in his steak tartare on Fridays and Mrs. Lavish used to have two raw ones in her gin and orange juice every morning, and that is about it between me n’ eggs. I’ve got a pig’s head sousing if you’d fancy some of that. Got tongue, hearts, marrowbone, sheep’s head, nice bit o’ dewlap, melts, slaps, lights, liver, kidneys, beccles—”
In his youth, Moist had been served a lot off that menu. It was exactly the sort of food that one should serve to kids if one wanted them to grow up skilled in the arts of bare-faced lying, sleight of hand, and camouflage. As a matter of course, Moist had hidden those strange, wobbly meats under his vegetables, on one occasion achieving a potato twelve inches high.
Light dawned.
“Did you cook much for Mrs. Lavish?” said Moist.
“Nossir. She lived on gin, vegetable soup, her morning pick-me-up, and—”
“Gin,” said Peggy firmly.
“So you’re basically a dog chef?”
“Canine, sir, if it’s all the same to you. You may have read my book? Cooking with Brains?” Aimsbury said this rather hopelessly, and rightly so.
“Unusual path to follow,” said Moist.
“Well, sir, it enables me to…it’s safer…well, the truth is, I have an allergy, sir.” The chef sighed. “Show him, Peggy.”
The girl nodded, and pulled a grubby card out of her pocket.
“Please don’t say this word, sir,” she said, and held it up.
Moist stared.
“You just can’t avoid it in the catering business, sir,” said Aimsbury miserably.
This wasn’t the time, really wasn’t the time. But if you weren’t interested in people, then you didn’t have the heart of a trickster.
“You’re allergic to g—this