“You are?”

“I keep on forgetting: is it crying on the outside and laughing on the inside? I always get it mixed up.”

“About this Beano—” Colon began.

“We're just holding his funeral,” said the little clown. “That's why my trousers are at half-mast.”

They stepped out into the sunlight again.

The inner courtyard was lined with clowns and fools. Bells tinkled in the breeze. Sunlight glinted off red noses and the occasional nervous jet of water from a fake buttonhole.

The clown ushered the guards into a line of fools.

“I'm sure Dr Whiteface will talk to you as soon as we've finished,” he said. “My name's Boffo, by the way.” He held out his hand hopefully.

“Don't shake it,” Colon warned.

Boffo looked crestfallen.

A band struck up, and a procession of Guild members emerged from the chapel. A clown walked a little way ahead, carrying a small urn.

“This is very moving,” said Boffo.

On a dais on the opposite side of the quadrangle was a fat clown in baggy trousers, huge braces, a bow tie that was spinning gently in the breeze, and a top hat. His face had been painted into a picture of misery. He held a bladder on a stick.

The clown with the urn reached the dais, climbed the steps, and waited.

The band fell silent.

The clown in the top hat hit the urn-carrier about the head with the bladder—once, twice, three times…

The urn-bearer stepped forward, waggled his wig, took the urn in one hand and the clown's belt in the other and, with great solemnity, poured the ashes of the late Brother Beano into the other clown's trousers.

A sigh went up from the audience. The band struck up the clown anthem “The March of the Idiots”, and the end of the trombone flew off and hit a clown on the back of the head. He turned and swung a punch at the clown behind him, who ducked, causing a third clown to be knocked through the bass drum.

Colon and Nobby looked at one another and shook their heads.

Boffo produced a large red and white handkerchief and blew his nose with a humorous honking sound.

“Classic,” he said. “It's what he would have wanted.”

“Have you any idea what happened?” said Colon.

“Oh, yes. Brother Grineldi did the old heel-and-toe trick and tipped the urn down—”

“I mean, why did Beano die?”

“Um. We think it was an accident,” said Boffo.

“An accident,” said Colon flatly.

“Yes. That's what Dr Whiteface thinks.” Boffo glanced upwards, briefly. They followed his gaze. The rooftops of the Assassins' Guild adjoined the Fools' Guild. It didn't do to upset neighbours like that, especially when the only weapon you had was a custard pie edged with short-crust pastry.

“That's what Dr Whiteface thinks,” said Boffo again, looking at his enormous shoes.

Sergeant Colon liked a quiet life. And the city could spare a clown or two. In his opinion, the loss of the whole boiling could only make the world a slightly happier place. And yet… and yet… honestly, he didn't know what had got into the Watch lately. It was Carrot, that was what it was. Even old Vimes had picked it up. We don't let things lie any more…

“Maybe he was cleaning a club, sort of thing, and it accidentally went off,” said Nobby. He'd caught it, too.

“No-one'd want to kill young Beano,” said the clown, in a quiet voice. “He was a friendly soul. Friends everywhere.”

“Almost everywhere,” said Colon.

The funeral was over. The jesters, jokers and clowns were going about their business, getting stuck in door-ways on the way. There was much pushing and shoving and honking of noses and falling of prats. It was a scene to make a happy man slit his wrists on a fine spring rang.

“All I know is,” said Boffo, in a low voice, “that when I saw him yesterday he was looking very… odd. I called out to him when he was going through the gates and—”

“How do you mean, odd?” said Colon. I am detectoring, he thought, with a faint touch of pride. People are Helping me with My Inquiries.

“Dunno. Odd. Not quite himself—”

“This was yesterday?”

“Oh, yes. In the morning. I know because the gate rota—”

“Yesterday morning?”

“That's what I said, mister. Mind you, we were all a bit nervous after the bang—”

“Brother Boffo!”

“Oh, no—” mumbled the clown.

A figure was striding towards them. A terrible figure.

No clowns were funny. That was the whole purpose of a clown. People laughed at clowns, but only out of nervousness. The point of clowns was that, after watching them, anything else that happened seemed enjoyable. It was nice to know there was someone worse off than you. Someone had to be the butt of the world.

But even clowns are frightened of something, and that is the white-faced clown. The one who never gets in the way of the custard. The one in the shiny white clothes, and the deadpan white make-up. The one with the little pointy hat and the thin mouth and the delicate black eyebrows.

Dr Whiteface.

“Who are these gentlemen?” he demanded.

“Er—” Boffo began.

“Night Watch, sir,” said Colon, saluting.

“And why are you here?”

“Investigating our inquiries as to the fatal demise of the clown Beano, sir,” said Colon.

“I rather think that is Guild business, sergeant. Don't you?”

“Well, sir, he was found in the—”

“I am sure it is something we don't need to bother the Watch with,” said Dr Whiteface.

Colon hesitated. He'd prefer to face Dr Cruces than this apparition. At least the Assassins were supposed to be unpleasant. Clowns, were only one step away from mime artists, too.

“No, sir,” he said. “It was obviously an acddent, right?”

“Quite so. Brother Boffo will show you to the door,” said the head clown. “And then,” he added, “he will report to my office. Does he understand?”

“Yes, Dr Whiteface,” mumbled Boffo.

“What'll he do to you?” said Nobby, as they headed for the gate.

“Hat full of whitewash, probably,” said Boffo. “Pie inna face if I'm lucky.”

He opened the wicket gate.

“A lot of us ain't happy about this,” he whispered. “I don't see why those buggers should get away with it. We ought to go round to the Assassins and have it out with them.”

“Why the Assassins?” said Colon. “Why would they kill a clown?”

Boffo looked guilty. “I never said a thing!”

Colon glared at him. “There's definitely something odd happening, Mr Boffo.”

Boffo looked around, as if expecting a vengeful custard pie at any moment.

“You find his nose,” he hissed. “You just find his nose. His poor nose!”

The gate slammed shut.

Sergeant Colon turned to Nobby.

“Did exhibit A have a nose, Nobby?”

“Yes, Fred.”

“Then what was that about?”

“Search me.” Nobby scratched a promising boil. “P'raps he meant a false nose. You know. Those red ones on elastic? The ones,” said Nobby, grimacing, “they think are funny. He didn't have one.”

Colon rapped on the door, taking care to stand out of the way of any jolly amusing booby traps.

The hatch slid aside.

“Yes?” hissed Boffo.

“Did you mean his false nose?” said Colon.

“His real one! Now bugger off!”

The hatch snapped back.

“Mental,” said Nobby, firmly.

“Beano had a real nose. Did it look wrong to you?” said Colon.

“No. It had a couple of holes in it.”

“Well, I don't know about noses,” said Colon, “but either Brother Boffo is dead wrong or there's something fishy going on.”

“Like what?”

“Well, Nobby, you're what I might call a career soldier, right?”

“'S'right, Fred.”

“How many dishonourable discharges have you had?”

“Lots,” said Nobby, proudly. “But I always puts a poultice on 'em.”

“You've been on a lot of battlefields, ain't you?”

“Dozens.”

Sergeant Colon nodded.

“So you've seen a lot of corpses, right, when you've been ministering to the fallen—”