Making Money

‘That’s good. That’s good. What is your first name, Cranberry?’

‘Don’t know, sir. Foundling.’

‘How sad. Your life must have been very hard.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The world can be so very harsh at times.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Would you be so good as to kill Mr Bent tonight?’

‘I have made a mental note, sir. I will take an associate and undertake the task an hour before dawn. Most of Mrs Cake’s lodgers will be out at that time and the fog will be thickest. Fortunately, Mrs Cake is staying with her old friend Mrs Harms-Beetle in Welcome Soap tonight. I checked earlier, having anticipated this eventuality.’

‘You are a craftsman, Cranberry. I salute you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Have you seen Heretofore anywhere?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I wonder where he’s got to? Now go off and have your supper, anyway. I will not be dining tonight.

‘Tomorrow I will change,’ he said aloud, when the door had shut behind Cranberry.

He reached down and drew the sword. It was a thing of beauty.

In the picture opposite, Lord Vetinari raised an eyebrow and said: ‘Tomorrow you will be a beautiful butterfly.’

Cosmo smiled. He was nearly there. Vetinari had gone completely mad.

Mr Bent opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

After a few seconds this uninspiring view was replaced by an enormous nose, with the rest of a worried face some distance beyond it.

‘You’re awake!’

Mr Bent blinked and refocused and looked up at Miss Drapes, a shadow against the lamplight.

‘You had a bit of a funny turn, Mr Bent,’ she said, in the slow, careful voice people use for talking to mental patients, the elderly, and the dangerously armed.

‘A funny turn? I did something funny?’ He raised his head from the pillow, and sniffed.

‘You are wearing a necklace of garlic, Miss Drapes?’ he said.

‘It’s … a precaution,’ said Miss Drapes, looking guilty, ‘against … colds … yes, colds. You can’t be too careful. How do you feel, in yourself?’

Mr Bent hesitated. He wasn’t certain how he felt. He wasn’t certain who he was. There seemed to be a hole inside him. There was no himself in himself.

‘What has been happening, Miss Drapes?’

‘Oh, you don’t want to worry about all that,’ said Miss Drapes, with fragile cheerfulness.

‘I believe I do, Miss Drapes.’

‘The doctor said you weren’t to get excited, Mr Bent.’

‘I to the best of my knowledge have never been excited in my life, Miss Drapes.’

The woman nodded. Alas, the statement was so easy to believe.

‘Well, you know Mr Lipwig? They say he stole all the gold out of the vault! …’ And the story unfolded. It was in many places speculation both new and second-hand, and because Miss Drapes was a regular reader of the Tanty Bugle it was recounted in the style and language in which tales of ’orrible murder are discussed.

What shocked her was the way the man just lay there. Once or twice he asked her to go back over a detail, but his expression never changed. She tried to add excitement, she painted the walls with exclamation marks, and he did not budge.

‘—and now he’s banged up in the Tanty,’ Miss Drapes said. ‘They say he will be hangèd by the neck until dead. I think hangèd is worse than just being hanged.’

‘But they cannot find the gold …’ whispered Mavolio Bent, leaning back against the pillow.

‘That’s right! Some say it has been spirited away by dire accomplices!’ said Miss Drapes. ‘They say informations have been laid against him by Mr Lavish.’

‘I am a damned man, Miss Drapes, judged and damned,’ said Mr Bent, staring at the wall.

‘You, Mr Bent? That’s no way to talk! You, who’ve never made a mistake?’

‘But I have sinned. Oh, indeed I have! I have worshipped false idols!’

‘Well, sometimes you can’t get real ones,’ said Miss Drapes, patting his hand and wondering if she should call someone. ‘Look, if you want absolution, I understand the Ionians are doing two sins for one this week—’

‘It’s caught me,’ he whispered. ‘Oh dear, Miss Drapes. There is something rising inside that wants to get out!’

‘Don’t you worry, we’ve got a bucket,’ said Miss Drapes.

‘No! You should go, now! This will be horrible!’

‘I’m not going anywhere, Mr Bent,’ said Miss Drapes, a study in determination. ‘You’re just having a funny turn, that’s all.’

‘Ha!’ said Mr Bent. ‘Ha … ha … haha …’ The laugh climbed up his throat like something from the crypt.

His skinny body went rigid and arched as if it was rising from the mattress. Miss Drapes flung herself across the bed, but she was too late. The man’s hand rose, trembling, and extended a finger towards the wardrobe.

‘Here we are again!’ Bent screamed.

The lock clicked. The doors swung open.

In the cupboard was a pile of ledgers, and something … shrouded. Mr Bent opened his eyes and looked up into those of Miss Drapes.

‘I brought it with me,’ he said, as if talking to himself. ‘I hated it so much but I brought it with me. Why? Who runs the circus?’