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Well, he thought, it says Dead Man’s Copse on the map, doesn’t it? They used to do a lot of things like this in the old days, didn’t they? And the metal cage was just there to keep the corpses upright so that the ravens didn’t have to kneel. Good old-fashioned policing, you could call it, if you wanted to chill a spine or two. A pile of crumbling ancient bones at the foot of the gibbet testified to the old-fashioned policing at work.
Vimes felt the stealthy movement of a knife on the hairs of his neck.
A moment later Willikins got up off the ground and fastidiously brushed dirt from his clothing. “Oh, well done, sir!” he said, wheezing a little, owing to the shortness of breath. “I can see that I can’t put anything across you, commander.” He stopped, held his hand up to his nose and sniffed. “Blow me down, commander! There’s blood all over my clothes! You didn’t stick me, did you, sir? You just spun round and kicked me in the nuts, which I may say, sir, was done most expertly.”
Vimes sniffed. You learned to smell blood. It smelled like metal. Now, people would say that metal doesn’t smell, it does, but it smells like blood.
“You got up here on time?” said Vimes.
“Yes, sir. Didn’t see a living soul.” Willikins knelt down. “Didn’t see a thing. Wouldn’t have seen the blood if you hadn’t kicked me into a puddle of it. It’s all over the place.”
I wish I had Igor here, thought Vimes. These days he handed over the forensic to the experts. On the other hand, you acquired a forensics skill of your own and beyond the smell of blood he could smell butchery and unbelievable coincidence. Everybody sees everything in the countryside. Jefferson was going to meet Vimes, but here there was a definite shortage of Jefferson and no shortage whatsoever of blood while, at the same time, a noticeable absence of corpse. Vimes’ brain worked through things methodically. Of course, you took it for granted that if a citizen was surreptitiously going to tell a policeman a secret it was likely that somebody did not wish said citizen to say said thing. And if said citizen was found dead then said policeman, who had been seen to have a scrap with him earlier, might just be considered to be a tiny bit guilty when all is said and done, and while all was being said and all was being done, someone really intent on getting Vimes into difficulties would have left the corpse of the blacksmith there, wouldn’t they?
“Found something, sir,” said Willikins, straightening up.
“You what?”
“Found something, sir, felt along the ground, as you might say.”
“But it’s soaked with blood, man!”
This didn’t seem to worry Willikins. “Never minded blood, commander, leastways when it wasn’t mine.” There was some scrabbling, then light appeared: Willikins had shifted the trap door of a dark lantern. He handed it to Vimes and then held something small to the glow. “It’s a ring, sir. Looks like it’s been made of stone.”
“What? You mean it’s a stone with a hole in it?”
He heard Willikins sigh. “No, sir, it’s polished smooth. And there’s a claw in it. Looks like goblin to me.”
Vimes thought, all that blood. Severed claw. Goblins aren’t that big. Somebody bothered to come up here to kill a goblin. Where’s the rest of it?
In theory, moonlight should help the search, but moonlight is deceptive, creating shadows where shadows should not be, and the wind was getting up. Dark lantern or not, there was little he could do here.
The curtains were drawn and a few lights still burned in the Goblin’s Head. Apparently, there were licensing laws. A good copper should always be ready to test the strength of them. He led the way round to the back of the pub and knocked on the little wooden sliding panel set into the building’s back door. After a few moments Jiminy pulled the sliding panel aside and Vimes stuck his hand in the hole before the man could close it again.
“Not you, please, your grace, the magistrates would have my guts for garters!”
“And I’m sure they’ll be very decorative,” said Vimes, “but it won’t happen, because I’ll warrant that about a third of your regular customers are still imbibing intoxicating liquors at this hour, and probably at least one magistrate is among them…No, I take back that last remark. Magistrates do their drinking at home, where there are no licensing laws. I won’t say a word, but it’ll be a bad old day for the job if a thirsty copper can’t mump a night-time beverage from a former colleague.” He slapped some coins on the tiny shelf inside the little panel and added, “That should buy a double brandy for my man here, and for me the address of Mr. Jefferson, the smith.”
“You can’t treat me like this, you know.”
Vimes looked at Willikins. “Can I?”
The gentleman’s gentleman cleared his throat. “We are now in the world of feudal law, commander. You own the ground this public house stands on, but he has rights as strong as your own. If he has paid his rent, then you can’t even go into the property without his permission.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“Well, commander, as you know, I’ve had one or two holidays in the Tanty in my time, and one thing about prison is there are always a lot of books about the law lying around, criminals being very keen on going through the old legal smallprint, just in case it turns out that giving a rival gang member some cement boots and dropping him in the river might be legal after all. That kind of learning sticks.”
“But I’m investigating a mysterious disappearance now. The blacksmith was very keen to see me up the hill, but when I got up there there was nothing but a load of blood all over the place. Jefferson wanted to tell me something and you must know what that smells like to a copper.” Even though I’m not sure, said Vimes to himself. “Definitely something iffy, that’s for sure.”
The landlord shrugged. “Not my business, squire.”
Vimes’s hand gripped the landlord’s wrist before the man could pull it away and tugged him so hard that his face was up against the woodwork.
“Don’t you squire me. There’s something going down here, something wrong; I can feel it in my boots and, believe me, they are the most sensitive boots that ever were. The man who runs the village pub knows everything—I know that and so do you. If you’re not on my side you’re in my way and you know something, I can see it in your eyes. If it turns out you knew something of importance about the blacksmith you’ll have invited yourself to be an accessory after the fact, with a free option, if I can get the bit between my teeth, of before the fact, which leaves you right in the middle, and that’s a fact.”
Jiminy wriggled, but Vimes’s grip was steely. “Your badge doesn’t work here, Mr. Vimes, you know that!”
Vimes heard the tiny whine of fear in the man’s voice, but old coppers were tough. If you weren’t tough, you never became an old copper. “I’m going to let go, sir,” said Vimes, which is policeman’s code for “trembling arsehole.” “You think that legally around here I don’t have a leg to stand on. This may or may not be true, but my man here is not a policeman and is not accustomed to doing things nicely like we in the job do, and you might end up without a leg to stand on as well. I’m telling you this as a friend. We both know this game, eh? I expect you were working in the bar when the goblin was killed, yes?”
