'Oh, yes. Er, when she was alive,' said Moist, and cursed himself and the unknown letter writer. He was losing it, he really was.

'This is not a murder investigation, sir,' said the sergeant calmly.

'Are you sure? In the circumstances—'

'We've made it our business to be sure, sir,' said the sergeant, 'in the circumstances!

'Don't think it was the family, then?'

'No, sir. Or you.'

'Me?' Moist was suitably open-mouthed at the suggestion.

'Mrs Lavish was known to be very ill,' said Mr Slant. 'And it seems that she took quite a shine to you, Mr Lipwig. She has left you her little dog, Mr Fusspot.'

'And also a bag of toys, rugs, tartan coats, little bootees, eight collars including one set with diamonds and, oh, a vast amount of other stuff,' said Sergeant Angua. She squeaked the rubber bone again.

Moist's mouth shut. 'The dog,' he said in a hollow voice. 'Just the dog? And the toys?'

'You were expecting something more?' said Angua.

'I wasn't expecting even that!' Moist looked at the hamper. It was suspiciously silent.

'I gave him one of his little blue pills,' said Nobby Nobbs helpfully. 'They knocks him out for a little while. Don't work on people, though. They tastes of aniseed.'

'All this is a bit… odd, isn't it?' said Moist. 'Why's the Watch here? The diamond collar? Anyway, I thought the will wasn't read until after the funeral…'

Mr Slant coughed. A moth flew out of his mouth. 'Yes indeed. But knowing the contents of her will, I thought it prudent to hasten to the Royal Bank and deal with the most…'

There was a very long pause. For a zombie, the whole of life is a pause, but it seemed that he was looking for the right word.

'… problematical bequests immediately,' he finished.

'Yes, well, I suppose the little doggie needs feeding,' said Moist, 'but I wouldn't have thought that—'

'The… problem, if such it be, is in fact his paperwork,' said Mr Slant.

'Wrong pedigree?' said Moist.

'Not his pedigree,' said Mr Slant, opening his briefcase. 'You may be aware that the late Sir Joshua left a one per cent share in the bank to Mr Fusspot?'

A cold, black wind began to blow through Moist's mind.

'Yes,' he said. 'I am.'

'The late Mrs Lavish has left him another fifty per cent. That, by the customs of the bank, means that he is the new chairman, Mr Lipwig. And you own him.'

'Hold on, an animal can't own—'

'Oh, but it can, Mr Lipwig, it can!' said Slant, with lawyerly glee. 'There is a huge body of case law. There was even, once, a donkey who was ordained and a tortoise who was appointed a judge. Obviously the more difficult trades are less well represented. No horse has yet held down a job as a carpenter, for example. But dog as chairman is relatively usual.'

'This makes no sense! She hardly knows me!' And his mind chimed in with: oh yes she does! She had you bang to rights in a blink!

'The will was dictated to me last night, Mr Lipwig, in the presence of two witnesses and Mrs Lavish's physician, who declared her very sound of mind if not of body.' Mr Slant stood up. 'The will, in short, is legal. It does not have to make sense.'

'But how can he, well, chair meetings? All he does with chairs is sniff the legs!'

'I assume he will in fact act as chairman through you,' said the lawyer. There was a squeak from Sergeant Angua.

And what happens if he dies?' said Moist.

Ah, thank you for reminding me,' said Mr Slant, taking a document from the case. 'Yes, it says here: the shares will be distributed among any remaining members of the family.'

'Any remaining members of the family? What, his family? I don't think he's had much of a chance to have one!'

'No, Mr Lipwig,' said Slant, 'the Lavish family.'

Moist felt the winds grow colder. 'How long does a dog live?'

'An ordin'ry dog?' said Nobby Nobbs. 'Or a dog who stands between a bunch of Lavishes and another fortune?'

'Corporal Nobbs, that was a pertinent remark!' snapped Sergeant Angua.

'Sorry, sarge.'

'Ahem.' A cough from Mr Slant liberated another moth. 'Mr Fusspot is used to sleeping in the Manager's Suite at the bank, Mr Lipwig,' he said. 'You will sleep there too. It is a condition of the bequest.'

Moist stood up. 'I don't have to do any of this,' he snapped. 'It's not like I've committed a crime! You can't run people's lives from beyond the grav— well, you can, sir, no problem there, but she can't just—'

A further envelope was produced from the briefcase. Mr Slant was smiling, which is never a good sign.

'Mrs Lavish also wrote this personal heartfelt plea to you,' he said. 'And now, sergeant, I think we should leave Mr Lipwig alone.'

They departed, although after a few seconds Sergeant Angua walked back in and without saying a word or catching his eye walked over to the bag of toys and dropped the squeaky rubber bone.

Moist walked over to the basket and lifted the lid. Mr Fusspot looked up, yawned, and then reared up on his cushion and begged. His tail wagged uncertainly once or twice and his huge eyes filled with hope.

'Don't look at me, kid,' said Moist, and turned his back.

Mrs Lavish's letter was drenched in lavender water, slightly spiced with gin. She wrote in a very neat, old-lady hand:

Dear Mr Lipwig,

I feel that you are a dear, sweet man who will look after my little Mr Fusspot. Please be kind to him. He has been my only friend in difficult times. Money is such a crude thing in these circumstances, but the sum of $20,000 annually will be paid to you (in arrears) for performing this duty, which I beg you to accept.

If you do not, or if he dies of unnatural causes, your arse will belong to the Guild of Assassins. $100,000 is lodged with lord Downey, and his young gentlemen will hunt you down and gut you like the weasel you are, Smart Boy!

May the gods bless you for your kindness to a widow in distress.

Moist was impressed. Stick and carrot. Vetinari just used stick, or hit you over the head with the carrot.

Vetinari! Now there was a man with some questions to answer!

The hairs on the back of his neck, trained by decades of dodging in any case and suddenly made extra sensitive with Mrs Lavish's words still bouncing in his skull, bristled in terror. Something came through the window and thunked! into the door. But Moist was already diving for the carpet when the glass broke.

Shuddering in the door was a black arrow.

Moist crawled across the carpet, reached up, grabbed the arrow and ducked down again.

In exquisite white writing, like the inscription on some ancient ring, were the words: GUILD OF ASSASSINS — 'WHEN STYLE MATTERS'.

It had to be a warning shot, right? Just a little grace note, yes? A sort of emphasis? Just in case?

Mr Fusspot took this opportunity to leap out of his basket and lick Moist's face. Mr Fusspot didn't care who he was or what he'd done, he just wanted to be friends.

'I think,' said Moist, giving in, 'that you and me ought to go walkies.'

The dog gave an excited little yip and went and tugged at the bag of accessories until it fell over. He disappeared inside, tail wagging madly, and came out dragging a little red velvet doggie coat on which the word 'Tuesday' was embroidered.

'Lucky guess, boy,' said Moist, as he buckled it up. This was difficult, because he was being washed by dog goo all the while.

'Er, you wouldn't know where your lead is, would you?' Moist ventured, trying not to swallow. Mr Fusspot bounced off to the bag and returned again with a red leash.

'O-kay,' said Moist. 'This is going to be the fastest walky in the history of walkies. It is, in fact, going to be a runny…'

As he reached up for the door handle, the door opened. Moist found himself staring up at two terracotta-coloured legs that were as thick as tree trunks.