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There were worse ways to spend a holiday, Moist thought. And frankly, if it meant he didn't have to look at the dead and dismembered body, he'd take it. A faked argument between himself and Willikins won him a sympathetic supper from the castle's cook, and from there he began teasing out gossip and information from the gathered servants. Lord Pannyik had had a screaming fit behind closed doors after being so calm about the corpse in public. The famous actress returning to Genua incognito insisted on having two maids in the room with her at all times since the discovery; since she was only travelling with three, this invited an invective of complaining from the remaining maid while everyone clucked and patted her shoulder. Moist wrote busily under the table. Hopefully Vimes wouldn't mind the penmanship.
In fact, he seemed almost relieved to receive the crisscrossed paper of scribbles. From the cracked window and the high fire, both Vimes and Adora Belle seemed to have been exiled from the main sitting room. Moist had trained himself not to cough too hard since marrying, but the smoke still lingering in the room came very near to making him forget himself. "Got anything from hobnobbing?"
"Too many suspects," Vimes said absently, squinting down at Moist's writing. "If we didn't know the train tracks being blocked was an accident I'd say the murderer did it on purpose to muddy the snow*."
*The Ankh being considered quite muddied already in the Morporkian idiom.
"I'd've blocked the tracks well before the castle instead of after," Adora Belle said from her corner of the room. "A great lot of strangers needing to stay doesn't bump the suspect list with pots of money on the line, and there's plenty already who didn't like the dead man. Are you going to be staying with Willikins tonight?"
At this non sequitur, both men turned to look at her.
"I don't mind having a servant for a lover," she continued, unperturbed, "but you both need to make up your mind whether you're keeping up this charade and having my husband appear at meals, or some other excuse while you're finding a killer."
"Why don't you say I'm ill," Moist blurted before Vimes could answer. "Then you can stay here as if you're caring for me without having to share the dinner table."
Vimes gave them both a stare that made his nickname quite apparent, but shrugged and returned to his squinting.