Death's Jest-Book

3

Letter Received Mon 17 ^ th PP

St Godric’s College

Cambridge

Sat Dec 15th The Quaestor's Lodging

My dear Mr Pascoe,

Honestly, I really didn't mean to bother you again, but things have been happening that I need to share and, I don't know why, you seemed the obvious person.

Let me tell you about it.

I got down to the Welcome Reception in the Senior Common Room, which I found to be already packed with conference delegates, sipping sherry. Supplies of free booze are, I gather, finite at these events and the old hands make sure they're first at the fountain.

The delegates fall roughly into two groups. One consists of more senior figures, scholars like Dwight who have already established their reputations and are in attendance mainly to protect their turf while attempting to knock others off their hobby-horses.

The second group comprises youngsters on the make, each desperate to clock up the credits you get for attendance at such do's, some with papers to present, others hoping to make their mark by engaging in post-paper polemic.

I suppose that to the casual eye I fitted into this latter group, with one large difference – they all had their feet on the academic ladder, even if the rung was a low one.

Of course I didn't take all this in at a glance as you might have done. No, but I related what I saw and heard to what Sam Johnson had told me in the past and also to the more recent and even more satirical picture painted by dear old Charley Penn when he learned I was about to attend what he called my first 'junket'.

'Remember this’ he said. 'However domesticated your academic may look, he is by instinct and training anthropophagous. Whatever else is on the menu, you certainly are!'

Anthropophagous. Charley loves such words. We still play Paronomania, you know, despite the painful memories it must bring him. But where was I?

Oh yes, with such forewarning – and with the experience behind me of having been thrown with even less preparation into Chapel Syke – I felt quite able to survive in these new waters. But in fact I didn't even have to work at it. Unlike at the Syke where I had to seek King Rat out and make myself useful to him, here at God's he came looking for me.

As I stood uncertainly just within the doorway, the only person I could see in that crowded room that I knew was Dwight Duerden. He was talking to a long skinny Plantagenet-featured man with a mane of blond hair so bouncy he could have made a fortune doing shampoo ads. Duerden spotted me, said something to the man, who immediately broke off his conversation, turned, smiled like a time-share salesman spotting an almost hooked client, and swept towards me with the American in close pursuit.

'Mr Roote!' he said. 'Be welcome, be welcome. So delighted you could join us. We are honoured, honoured.'

Now the temptation is to class anyone who talks like this, especially if his accent makes the Queen sound Cockney and his manner is by Irving out of Kemble and he's wearing a waistcoat by Rennie Mackintosh with matching bow tie, as a prancing plonker. But Charley's warning still sounded in my mind so I didn't fall about laughing, which was just as well as Duerden said, 'Franny, meet our conference host, Sir Justinian Albacore.'

I said, 'Glad to meet you, Sir Justinian.'

The plonker flapped a languid hand and said, 'No titles, please, I'm J. C. Albacore to my readers, Justinian to my acquaintance, plain Justin to my friends. I hope you will feel able to call me Justin. May I call you Franny?'

'Wish I had a title I could ignore,' said Duerden sardonically.

'Really, Dwight? That must be the one thing Cambridge and America have in common, a love of the antique. When I worked in the sticks, they'd have thrown stones at me if I'd tried to use my title. But here at God's, antiquity both in fact and in tradition is prized above rubies. Our dearest possession is one of the earliest copies of the Vita de Sancti Godrici, you really must see it while you're here, Franny. Gentlemen -' this to a group of distinguished looking old farts – 'let me introduce Mr Roote, a new star in our firmament and one which we have hopes will burn very brightly.'

Like Joan of Arc, I thought. Or Guy Fawkes.

During all this prattle, I was trying to work out Albacore's game. Did he really think I was such an innocent abroad that simply by giving me a nice room and bulling me up in front of the nobs he could sweet talk Sam's unique research notes out of me in time to incorporate them in his own book?

Perhaps looking down on the world from the mountain deanery of a Cambridge college gives a man a hearty contempt for the little figures scuttling around below. If so, I assured myself grandiloquently, he would soon find that he'd underestimated me.

Instead, I quickly came to realize that I'd underestimated him.

After the reception we all adjourned to a lecture room where the official business of the conference began with a formal opening followed by a keynote address from Professor Duerden on the theme 'Imagining What We Know: Romanticism and Science'.

It was interesting enough, he had a dry Yankee wit (he comes from Connecticut; fate and a tendency to bronchitis took him to California) and was a master in the art of being provocative without going out on a limb. I listened with interest from my reserved seat on the front row, but part of my mind remained concentrated on the puzzle of Albacore, whose duties as chair of the meeting kept him from his other task of stroking my ego.

But when the lecture and subsequent discussions were over and we were all dispersing to our rooms, my new friend Justin was at my side again, his hand on my elbow as he guided me out into the quad and away from the general drift of delegates.

'And what did you think of our transatlantic friend?' he said.

'It was a real honour to hear him,' I gushed. 'I thought he put things so well, though I've got to admit, a lot of it was well over my head.'

I'd decided to have a bit of fun with this idiot by playing the eager and enthusiastic but not too bright student and seeing where that led. I didn't expect my performance to provoke cynical laughter.

'Oh, I don't think so, young Franny,' he said, still chuckling. 'I think an idea would have to be very deep indeed to be over your head.'

This didn't sound like simple flannel any more.

'Sorry?' I said. 'Don't quite follow,'

'No? I'm simply letting you know what a great respect I've got for your mental capacities, dear boy.'

I said, 'That's very flattering, but you hardly know me.'

'On the contrary. You and I are long acquainted and I know all your ways.'

He looked down at me from his height, eyes twinkling like distant stars.

And suddenly I was there.

J.C. to his readers. Justinian to his acquaintance. Justin to his friends.

And to his wife, Jay.

I said, 'You're Amaryllis Haseen's husband.'

It seems so obvious now. Probably you with your fine detective mind got there long before me. But you can see how the revelation bowled me over, especially as I'd spent so much time earlier today raking up that bit of my past for your benefit. Nothing is for nothing in this life, so Frere Jacques preaches. The past isn't another country. It's just a different part of the maze we travel through, and we shouldn't be surprised to find ourselves re-entering the same stretch from a different angle.

Albacore was spelling things out.

'My wife developed a very high opinion of your potential, Franny. She says that in terms of simple academic cleverness you are bright enough to hold your own in most company. But she also detected in you another kind of cleverness. How did she put it? A mind fit for stratagems, an eye for the main chance, nimble of thought, sharp in judgment, ruthless in execution. Oh yes, you made a big impression on her.'

I said, 'And on you too, from the sound of it.'

'Hardly’ he said, smiling. 'I was amused when she told me how you neatly got her in a neck lock. But at the time I was on my way from the ghastly wasteland of South Yorkshire back to God's own college, and apart from a little chortle at the idea of dear Sam Johnson being landed with a cunning convict as a PhD student, I never gave you another thought. Not of course till I heard about poor Sam's sad demise. Couldn't make the obsequies myself, but a friend described the dramatic part you played in them, and I thought, hello, could that be that chappie whatsisname? Then I heard that Loopy Linda had appointed you as Sam's literary heir or executor or some such thing, which was when I asked Amaryllis to dig out all her old case notes.'

'I'm surprised you didn't just read her book,' I said.

He shuddered and said, 'Can't stand the way she writes, dear boy. Subject matter is generally tedious and her style is what I call psycho-barbarous. In any case, it's the marginalia of her case notes that make the most interesting reading. Unless she is wrong, which she rarely is, you are someone I can do business with.'

'The business being the redistribution of Sam Johnson's Beddoes research,' I said.

‘There. I knew I was right. No need to soft soap a supple mind.'

'No? Then why do I feel so well oiled?' I wondered. 'The Q's Lodging, all these flattering introductions.'

'Samples,' he said. 'Simply samples. When you're getting down to a trade-off, you have to give the man you're trading with a taste of your wares. You see, I'm very aware that while I know what you have to offer, you may have doubts about what's in my poke. It's little enough unless it's what you want, and then it's the world. It is this -'

He made a ring master's gesture which comprehended the quad, and all the buildings around it, and much much more.

'If it is something you're not interested in, then we must look for other incentives,' he went on. 'But if, as from my brief observation of you in person I begin to hope, this cloistered life of ours, in which the intellect and the senses are so deliriously catered for, and the inhibiting morals kept firmly in their place, has some strong attraction, then we can get down to business straight off. I have influence, I have contacts, I know where many bodies are buried, I can put you on a fast-track academic career, get you on the cultural chat shows, if that is your desire, I can put you in the way of editors and publishers. In short, I can be thy protector and thy guide, in thy most need to go by thy side. So, do I judge right? Can we do business?'

This was straight talking with a vengeance. This was complete no-holds-barred honesty, which is always a cause for grave suspicion.

Time to test him out with some of the same.

'If I want these things you offer,' 1 said, 'what is to stop me getting them for myself? I am, as you acknowledge, bright. I may be, as your wife alleges, ruthlessly manipulative. Your book, I presume, is mainly a reworking of the few known facts of Beddoes' Continental life, embellished, no doubt, by whatever you were able to lift from Sam before he became aware of your perfidy.'

That hit home, just a flicker of reaction, but I got used to reading flickers in the Syke when not to read them could mean losing a game of chess. Or an eye.

I pressed on.

'Sam, however, as your interest confirms you know, had tracked down a substantial body of new material in various forms. Wherever your book stood in relation to his, coming before or after, it was always going to stand in the shade.'

I paused again.

He said, 'And your point is…?'

I said, 'And my point is, why should I bargain for what is already within my grasp?'

He smiled and said, 'You mean, complete Sam's book yourself, bathe in what would be mainly a reflected glory, then make your own way onward and upward? Perhaps you could do it. But it's a hard road, and other men's flowers quickly wilt. I naturally cannot be expected to agree with what you say about my book being in the shade, though what I am certain of is that it will be in the way. But if you can find someone willing to take a punt on a total unknown, then perhaps you should go ahead, dear Franny’

He knew, the bastard knew, that Sam's pusillanimous publishers had developed feet so cold they were walking on chilblains.

He saw my reaction and pressed his advantage.

'How's your thesis going, by the way? Have you found a new supervisor? Now there's a thought. Perhaps I could offer my own services? It would mean moving to Cambridge, but if you're heading high, no harm starting on the upper slopes, is there?'

Perhaps I should have said, get thee behind me, Satan! But any belief I might have had in my own divine indestructibility vanished back at Holm Coultram College when, despite my very best efforts, you managed to finger my collar.

So, please don't despise me, I said I'd think about it.

I thought about it all evening, paying little attention to the conference sessions I attended and barely picking at the buffet supper that was laid on for us. (There's a big formal dinner in the college hall tomorrow night, but meanwhile, sherry apart, it's the appetites of the intellect that are being catered for.)

And I'm still thinking about it now even as I write. Please forgive me if I seem to be going on at unconscionable length, but in all the world there is no one I can talk to so fully and frankly as I can to you.

Time for bed. Will I sleep? I thought I had learned in prison how to sleep anywhere in any conditions, but tonight I think I may find it hard to close my eyes. Thoughts wriggle round my head like little snakes nesting in a skull. What do I owe to dear Sam? What do I owe to myself? And whose patronage was the more precious, Linda Lupin's or Justin Albacore's? Which would a wise man put his trust in?

Goodnight, dear Mr Pascoe. At least I hope it will be for you. For me I see long white hours lying awake pondering these matters, and above all the problem of how I'm going to reply to Albacore's offer.

‘I was wrong!

I slept like a log and woke to a glorious morning, bright winter sunshine, no wind, a nip in the air but only such as turned each breath I took into a glass of champagne. I was up early, had a hearty breakfast, and then went out for a walk to clear my head and still my nerves before I read Sam's paper at the nine o'clock session. I left the college by its rear gate and strolled along beside the Cam, admiring what they call the Backs. The Backs! Only utter certainty of beauty allows one to be so throwaway about it. Oh, it's a glorious spot this Cambridge, Mr Pascoe. I'm sure you know it well, though I can't recall whether you're light or dark blue. This is a place for youth to expand its soul in, and despite everything, I still feel young.

I didn't see Albacore until I arrived in the lecture theatre a few minutes before nine and saw his cunicular nose twitch with relief. He must have been worrying that his 'straight talk' last evening had been too much for my weak stomach and I'd done a runner!

He'd arranged for me to have a plenary session and every chair was taken. He didn't hang about – perhaps recognizing more than I did at that moment just how nervous I was – but introduced me briefly with, mercifully, only a short formal reference to Sam's tragic death, while I sat there staring down at the opening page of my lost friend's paper.

Its title was, 'Looking for the Laughs in Death's Jest-Book'.

I read the first sentence – In his letters Beddoes refers to his play Death's Jest-Book as a satire: but on what? – and tried to turn the printed words into sounds coming from my mouth, and couldn't.

There was a loud cough. It came from Albacore, who had taken his place in the front row. And next to him, looking up at me with those big violet eyes I recalled from our sessions in the Syke, was his wife, Amaryllis Haseen.

Perhaps the sight of her was the last straw that broke what remained of my nerve.

Rising from my chair was the hardest thing I'd ever done in my life. I must have looked like a drunk as I walked the few steps to the lectern. Fortunately it was a solid old-fashioned piece of furniture, otherwise it would have shaken with me as I hung on to it with both hands to control my trembling. As for my audience, it was as if they were all sitting at the 'bottom of a swimming pool and I was trying to see them through a surface broken by ripples and sparkling with sun-starts. The effort made me quite nauseous and I raised my eyes to the back of the lecture theatre and stared at the big clock hanging on the wall there. Slowly its hands swam into focus. Nine o'clock precisely. The distant sound of bells drifted into the room. I lowered my eyes. The swimming-pool effect was still evident, except in the case of one figure sitting in the middle of the back row. Him I could see pretty clearly with no more distortion than might have come if I'd been looking through glass. And yet I knew that this must be completely delusional.

For it was you, Mr Pascoe. There you were, looking straight at me. For a few seconds our gazes locked. Then you smiled encouragingly and nodded. And in that moment everyone else came into perfect focus, I stopped trembling, and you vanished.

Wasn't that weird? This letter I'm writing must have created such a strong subconscious image of you that my mind, desperately seeking stability, externalized it in my time of need.

Whatever the truth of it, all nerves vanished and I was able to put on a decent show.

I even managed to say a few words about Sam, nothing too heavy. Then I read his paper on Death's Jest-Book. Do you know the play? Beddoes conceived it at Oxford when he was still only twenty-one. 'I am thinking of a very Gothic-styled tragedy for which I have a jewel of a name – DEATH'S JESTBOOK – of course no one will ever read it.' He was almost right, but as he worked on it for the rest of his short life, it has to be pretty central to any attempt to analyse his genius.

Briefly, it's about two brothers, Isbrand and Wolfram, whose birthright has been stolen, sister wronged, and father slain by Duke Melveric of Munsterberg. Passionate for revenge, they take up residence at the ducal court, Isbrand in the. role of Fool, Wolfram as a knight. But Wolfram finds himself so attracted to the Duke that, much to Isbrand's horror and disgust, they become best buddies.

Sam's theory is that the whole eccentric course of Beddoes' odd life was dictated by his sense of being left adrift when his own dearly beloved father died at a tragically early age. One aspect of the poet's search for ways to fill the gap left by this very powerful personality is symbolized, according to Sam, by Wolfram finding solace not in killing his father's killer but rather in turning him into a substitute father. Unfortunately, for the integrity of the play that is, this search had many other often conflicting aspects, all of which dominate from time to time, leading to considerable confusion of plot and tone. As for Death, he is by turns a jester and a jest, a bitter enemy and a seductive friend. Keats, you will recall, claimed sometimes to be half in love with easeful death. No such pussy-footing about for our Tom. His was a totally committed all-consuming passion!

Back to my conference debut. I finished the paper without too much stuttering, managed to add a few comments of my own, and finally took questions. Albacore was in there first, his question perfectly weighted to give me every chance to shine. Thereafter he managed the session like an expert ringmaster, guiding, encouraging, gentling, and always keeping me at the centre of things. Afterwards I was congratulated by everyone whose congratulation I would have prayed for. But not Albacore. He didn't come near me, though I caught his eye occasionally through the crowd and received a friendly smile.

I knew what he was doing, he was showing me what he could do.

And I discovered by listening and asking questions some interesting things about the set-up here. At God's the Master is top dog, the present one being a somewhat remote and ineffectual figure, leaving the real power in the hands of his 2i/c, the Dean. (The Quaestor, incidentally, is what they call their bursar.) Albacore in fact is presently deputizing for the Master, who's on a three-month sabbatical at the University of Sydney. (Sydney, for godsake! During an English winter! These guys know how to arrange things!) On his return he will be entering the last year of his office. Albacore naturally enough is in the van of contenders for his job, but, this being Cambridge, the succession is by no means cut and dried. A big successful book, appearing just as the hustings reached their height, would be a very useful reminder to the electorate (which is to say, God's dons – sounds like the Vatican branch of the Mafia, doesn't it?) that Albacore could still cut the mustard academically, and its hoped-for popular success would give him a chance to demonstrate that he had Open Sesames to the inner chambers of that media world where so many of your modern dons long to strut their stuff.

Oh, the more I got the rich sweet smell of it, the more I thought, this is the life for me! Reading and writing, wheeling and dealing, life in the cloisters and life in the fast lane running in parallel, with winters in the sun for those who made the grade.

But I wasn't going to rush into a decision as important as this. I slipped away back here to the Lodging to think it all through and there seemed no better way of doing this than pouring out all my thoughts and hopes to you. Like that vision I had of you this morning, it's almost like having you here in the room with me. I can sense your approval at the now final decision I have reached.

This quiet, cloistered but not inactive nor unexciting life in these most ancient and fructuous groves of academe is what I want. And if giving up Sam's research is the only way for me to get it, I'm sure that's what-he'd have wanted me to do.

So the die is cast. I'll stroll out now and post this letter, then perhaps catch one of the afternoon sessions. If I bump into Albacore, I won't give him any hint of the way I'm thinking. Let him sweat till tonight at least! Thanks for your help.

Yours in gratitude,

Franny Roote

On Monday morning, the mail had arrived just as Pascoe was about to leave.

He took it into the kitchen and carefully divided it into three piles – his own, Ellie's and mutual (mainly Christmas cards).

In his pile there were two envelopes bearing the St Godric's coat of arms.

Ellie was on the school run, which gave him a free choice of reaction and action.

He tore open the first letter. Not that he knew it was the first as it had exactly the same postmark on it as the second. But a quick glance down the opening page confirmed this one started where the previous letter had left off.

When he came to the bit about Roote's vision of himself at the back of the lecture theatre, he stopped reading for a minute while he debated whether it should make him feel more or less worried about himself. Less, he decided. Or maybe more. He read on. He had no ocular delusion of the man's presence as he read but he could feel Roote's influence reaching out of the words and trying to tie him into his life. To what end? It wasn't clear. But to no good end, of that he was absolutely certain.

Perhaps the second letter would make things clearer.

He felt curiously reluctant to open it, but sat for some while with it in his hand, growing (his suddenly Gothic imagination told him) heavier by the minute.

A noise brought him out of his reverie. It was the front door opening. Ellie's voice called, ‘Peter? You still here?'

Now he could get what he'd been wishing for not very long ago, Ellie's sane and sensible reaction.

Instead he found himself stuffing both letters, the read and the unread, into his pocket.

'Here you are,' she said, coming into the kitchen. 'I thought you'd have been gone by now. It's the Linford case today, isn't it? I hope they lock the bastard up and throw away the key.'

Ellie's usually tender heart stopped bleeding and became engorged with indignation at mention of Liam Linford.

'Don't fret,' he said to Ellie now. 'We've got the little shitbag tied up. Rosie OK?'

'You bet. It's all Nativity Play rehearsals. She's taken young Zipper's card, allegedly to prove to Miss Martingale that angels really did play the clarinet. But I reckon she wants to boast about her sexual conquests to her mates.'

'Oh God. The Nativity Play. When is it? Friday? I suppose we have to go?'

'You bet your sweet life,' she said. 'What's happened to the great traditionalist who nearly blew a gasket when there was that petition to ban it on the grounds it was ethnically divisive? What was it you said? "Give in on this and it's roast turkey and poppadoms next." Now you don't want to go! You're a very confused person, DCI Pascoe.'

'Of course I want to go. I've even asked Uncle Andy to guarantee I've got God's own imprimatur. I'm just worried a non-speaking angel's part isn't going to satisfy Rosie.'

'At least Miss Martingale has persuaded her that having Tig in the manger would not be such a good idea, and I don't doubt she'll talk her out of the clarinet solo too.'

'Maybe. But she told me last night that it seems odd to her that when the innkeeper told Mary there was no room, the angels didn't come down and give him a good kicking.'

'It's a fair point,' said Ellie. 'Having all that power and not using it never made much sense to me either.'

He kissed her and went out. She was right, as usual, he thought. He was a very confused person, not at all like the cool, rational, thoughtful mature being Franny Roote pretended to believe in.

The unread letter bulked large in his pocket. Maybe it should stay unread. Whatever game Roote was playing clearly required two players.

On the other hand, why should he fear a contest? What was it Ellie had just said? 'Having all that power and not using it never made much sense to me.'

He turned out of the morning traffic stream into a quiet side street and parked.

It was a long, long letter. Two-thirds of the way through it he reached for his morning paper which he hadn't had time to read yet, and found what he was looking for on an inside page.

'Oh, you bastard,' he said out loud, finished the letter, started the car, did a U-turn and reinserted himself aggressively into the traffic flow.

Letter 3. Received Mon Dec 17 ^ th P. P

St Godric’s College

Cambridge

My dear Mr Pascoe,

Again so soon! But measured by swings of emotion, how very much time has passed!

Still buoyed up by my sense of having made a wise decision, and been approved in it by you, I went down to dinner tonight, posting my last letter en route, and found Albacore waiting to offer me a choice of dry or very dry sherry. I displayed my independence by refusing both and demanding gin. Then, because I wanted to relax and enjoy myself, I relented and told him that, subject to detail and safeguards, he had a deal.

'Excellent,' he said. 'My dear Franny, I couldn't be more pleased. Amaryllis, my love, come and renew old acquaintance.'

She hadn't hung around after my paper, but here she was in a sheer silk gown cut low enough to make a man forget the spur of fame. She greeted me like an old friend, kissing me on the lips and chatting away about other inmates of the Syke as though we were talking of old acquaintance from the tennis club.

It really was an excellent night. Everything about it – the setting, the food, the wine, the atmosphere, the conversation – confirmed the wisdom of my decision. I was seated between Amaryllis and Dwight Duerden, there being too few female delegates to allow the usual gender hopping (academia is equal opportunity land, but not that equal!) and the pressure, too frequent to be coincidental, from Amaryllis's thigh, made me wonder if this happy night might not be brought in every sense to a fitting climax.

Perhaps fortunately, the opportunity didn't arise. After the dinner Albacore invited some few of us (the most distinguished plus myself) back to the Dean's Lodging, all men save for Amaryllis, and she soon retired as the cigars came out and the atmosphere thickened with aromatic fumes. It was deliriously old fashioned, and I loved it.

Albacore was by now treating me like a younger brother, and when Dwight requested a tour of the Lodging, he put his arm round my shoulder and the two of us led the way.

The D's Lodging was a sort of early eighteenth-century annexe to the original college building and must have stuck out like a new nose on an old star's face for a time. But Cambridge of all places has the magic gift of taking unto itself all things new and wearing their newness off them with loving care till in the end they too are part of the timeless whole. It was a fine old building with that feel I so much love of a lived-in church, infinitely more splendid than the Q's suite of rooms (what must the Master's Habitation, a small mansion situated on a grassy knoll in the college grounds overlooking the river, be like?) and full of what should have been a stylistic hodge-podge of furniture, statuary and paintings had they not also succumbed to the unifying aura of that magical world.

I lusted for it all, and I think Justin sensed my yearning, and felt how much closer it bound me to his desires, and grappled me to him ever more lightly as the tour proceeded.

The study was for me the sanctus sanctorum, lit with a dim religious light, its book-lined walls emanating that glorious odour of old leather and paper which I think of as the incense of scholarship. At its centre stood a fine old desk, ornately carved and with a tooled leather top large enough for a pair of pygmies to play tennis on.

Dwight, miffed perhaps to find himself behind me in the Dean's pecking order, said, 'How the hell do you work in this gloom? And where do you hide your computer?'

'My what?' cried Alabacore indignantly. 'Compute me no computers! When my publisher suggested that in the interest of speed it would be useful if he could have my Beddoes book on disk, I replied, "Certainly, if you can provide me with a large enough disc of Carrara marble and a monumental mason capable of transcribing my words!" Press keys and produce letters on a screen and what have you got? Nothing! An electronic tremor which an interruption of the electrical supply can destroy. Show me one great work which has been produced by word-processing. When I write with my pen, I am writing on my heart and what is inscribed there will take the rubber of God to erase.'

I sensed that Dwight, who probably had a computerized khazi, was drunk enough to tell his host he was talking crap, so, not wanting this atmosphere I was so much enjoying to be soured by dissent, I essayed a light-hearted diversion.

'God uses rubbers, does he?' I said. 'Must have burst when he was into Mary.'

Such blasphemous vulgarity is evidently much enjoyed at High Tables. Like kids saying bum, says Charley Penn, they're excited by their own outrageousness. Certainly it worked here, everyone responding with their own kind of amusement, the well-born Brits with that head-nodding chortle which passes for laughter in their class, the plebs with loud guffaws, and Dwight and a couple of fellow Americans with a kind of whooping bray.

After that Dwight asked in a conciliatory tone how then did Justin work, and Albacore, apologizing now for being a silly old Luddite, showed him his complex but clearly highly efficient card-index system and opened drawers to reveal reams of foolscap (no vulgar A4 for our Justinian!) closely covered with his elegant scrawl.

'And this is your new book?' said Dwight. 'The only copy? Jesus, how do you sleep sound at night?'

'A lot easier than you do, I suspect,' responded Albacore. 'My handwritten pages hold no attraction for a burglar. A computer on the other hand is something worth stealing, as are disks. Also no one can hack into manuscript and see what I'm up to, or copy chunks in a couple of seconds to pre-empt my ideas. Your electronic words, dear Dwight, are by comparison the common currency of the air. Someone coughs a continent away and you can catch a killing virus.'

I headed off what might have been a provoking defence of the computer by asking Albacore to what extent he felt his book might bring Beddoes in out of the cold at the perimeter of British romantic literature and into its warm centre.

'I don't even try’ he retorted. 'It's my thesis that to understand him we must treat him not as a minor English but as a significant European writer. He was – most appositely at this present period in our history – a very good European. Byron's the only other who comes close to him. They both loved Europe, not merely because they found it warmer and cheaper than back home, but for its history and culture and peoples.'

He expanded on this for a little while, almost addressing me directly. It was as if now that he'd won our little contest he wanted to put the memory of the arm-twisting and near-bribery behind us and demonstrate that he was a serious Beddoes scholar.

The others listened happily too, sitting on the deep leather armchairs and sofa which the spacious room afforded, drinking from their brandy balloons and puffing on their genuine Havanas till the aromatic smoke almost hid the decorated ceiling. I sometimes think that it will not be the least of the twentieth century's philistinisms that it has destroyed the art of enjoying tobacco. Like the poet said, a fuck is only a fuck, but a good cigar is a smoke.

Long before he bored his audience (the great talkers are also masters of timing) Albacore stopped talking about Beddoes and invited us all to admire the copy of the Vita S. Godrid which he mentioned to me earlier and which he'd brought from the secure room of the college library for our delectation. Merely to handle something of such beauty and antiquity was enough for most of us, but Dwight with that lack of embarrassment about money which is the mark of a civilized American, cut to the chase and said, 'How much would it fetch on the open market?'

Albacore smiled and said, 'Why, this is a pearl worth more than all your tribe, Dwight. Think what you have here. A contemporary copy of the contemporary life written by a man who actually visited Godric in his hut at Finchale, Reginald of Durham, a man himself of such piety and erudition that these qualities are said by tradition to be accorded to all subsequent clerks who bear that name and title. In other words you are touching the book that touched the hand of a man who touched the hand of the saint himself. Who could put a price on something like this?'

'Well,' said Dwight, unputdown, 'I know a dealer called Trick Fachmann in St Poll who'd take a shot at it.'

Even Albacore laughed, and now the conversation became general, running like quicksilver from tongue to tongue, good thing following good thing, wisdom and wit doled out in a prodigality of plenty, and I felt tears prick my eyes at the sense of privilege and pleasure in being part of this company in this place at this time.

If it were now to die, 'twere now to be most happy…

I could have stayed there forever, but all things have their natural foreordained ends, and finally we dispersed, some to their student staircases, Dwight and I making our unsteady way back to the Q's Lodging, arm in arm for mutual support.

I undressed and climbed into bed, but I could not go to sleep. At first it was because of my excitement at the world of profit and delight which seemed to be opening up before me. But then a sudden and complete reversal took place… from the migh t/ Of joy in minds that can no further go, / As high as we have mounted in delight / In our dejection do we sink as low. Which is why, dear Mr Pascoe, my old leech-gatherer, I am sitting here propped up against my pillow, penning these words to you. Have I done the right thing in giving in to Albacore? In my last letter I was sure I had your approval. Now I am equally certain that you with your strong principles and unmoveable moral convictions will despise me for my venality. It's so very important for me to get you to see my side of things. I am an innocent abroad here, a pygmy jousting with giants. It is not always given to us to choose the instruments of our elevation. You must have felt this sometimes in your relationship with the egregious Dalziel. You may well have wished on occasion that the glittering prizes of your career were not in the gift of such a one. And by indignities men come to dignities. And it is sometimes base.

So if I seem to be asking for your blessing, it is beca

Another interruption!

What soaps my letters are turning out to be, every instalment ending in a cliffhanger!

And this time what a climactic interruption, fit to rank with those end-of-series episodes of shows like Casualty and ER designed to whet your what-happens-next appetite to such an edge that you will return as hungry as ever after the summer break.

But I mustn't be frivolous. What we have here isn't soap, it's reality. And it's tragic.

It was the fearful clamour of a bell which distracted me.

I leapt out of bed and rushed to the open window. Since my time in the Syke, I always sleep with my window open whatever the season. Looking out into the quad I could see nothing, but I could hear away to the right a growing hubbub of noise and, when I thrust my head out into the night air and looked towards it, it seemed to me that the dark outline of the building forming that side of the quad was already being etched against the sky by the rosy wash of dawn.

Except it was far too early for dawn and anyway I was looking north.

Pausing only to thrust my feet into my shoes and drag a raincoat round my shoulders, I rushed out into the night.

Oh God, the sight I saw when I passed from the Q's quad to the D's quad!

It was the Dean's Lodging, no longer a thing of beauty but now crouched there, squat and ugly as a marauding monster, with a great tongue of flame coiling out of a downstairs window and greedily licking its facade.

I hurried forward, eager to help but not knowing how I could. Firemen bearing hoses from the engine, which seemed to have got wedged under a Gothic arch that gave the only vehicular approach to this part of the college, some wearing breathing apparatus, moved around me with that instancy of purpose which marks the assured professional.

'What's happening for God's sake?' I cried to one who paused beside me to cast an assessing eye over the scene.

'Old building,' he said laconically. 'Lots of wood. Three centuries to dry out. These places are bonfires waiting to be lit. Who're you?'

I'm a…' What was I? Suddenly I didn't know. I'm at a conference here.'

'Oh,' he said, losing interest. 'Need someone who knows who's likely to be in there.'

'I do know,' I said quickly.

He turned out to be the Assistant Chief Fire Officer, a good-looking young man in a clean-cut kind of way.

I told him that, as far as I knew, Sir Justinian and Lady Albacore were the only inmates of the Lodging and tried to indicate from my memory of our tour where they were likely to be found. All of this he repeated into his walkie-talkie. Behind him as we talked, I could see that the fire had reached the upper storeys. My heart began to misgive me that we were witnessing a truly terrible tragedy. Then his radio crackled with the good news that Amaryllis was safe and well. But my joy at hearing this was immediately diluted by the lack of any news about Justin.

It began to rain quite heavily at this point, which was good news for the firefighters. I could see no point in catching my death of cold watching a fire, so I returned to my room and letter. Might as well go on writing as I doubt if I shall be able to fall asleep.

Wrong again!

I was woken in my chair by Dwight shaking my shoulder.

As I struggled out of sleep I could see from his face the news was not good.

Indeed it was the worst.

They'd found Justinian Albacore's body on the ground floor where the fire had been at its fiercest.

I was devastated. I had little cause to love the man but perhaps something in his mockingly subtle character appealed to me and I'd found last night that I had no problem with the prospect of spending much time in his company.

Dwight wanted to talk but all I wanted was to be left to myself.

I got dressed and went outside. The shell of the Dean's Lodging, gently steaming in a Fennish drizzle, stood as a dreadful illustration of the power of flames. As I stood and contemplated it I was joined by my handsome young Fire Officer who gave me the fullest picture they could piece together of last night's events.

It seems that Amaryllis had been woken by Justin getting out of bed in the early hours. Drowsily she asked him what was up, to which he replied he thought he'd heard something downstairs but it was probably nothing so why didn't she go back to sleep, which she did. She woke again some time later to find the room full of smoke. On the landing outside her bedroom she found things even worse with flames plainly visible at the foot of the stairs. She retreated into her room and rang the fire brigade. Then, pausing only to put on slacks, T-shirt, several warm pullovers and a little make-up, she opened the bedroom window which overlooked the roof of an architecturally incongruous conservatory, built by an orchidomaniac Victorian dean before there were such things as conservation orders, on to which she descended with the help of a drainpipe and from which she slid into the arms of the first fireman on the scene.

As for Justin, all that is possible at the moment is speculation.

It seems likely that when he descended the stairs he found his study already well ablaze. His awareness that lying within was the college's greatest treasure, Reginald of Durham's Vita S. Godrid, which he had personally and recklessly removed from the college library, must have blinded his judgment. Instead of raising the alarm, he probably rushed inside to rescue the precious manuscript but found himself driven back by the heat to the threshold where, overcome by fumes, he collapsed and died.

From what I can see for myself and from what my new friend told me, it's pretty clear that not only has the Vita been reduced to ashes, but not a page of Albacore's Beddoes manuscript or a single card from his card-index system can have survived the inferno.

It is still early days to reach conclusions about causes, but when I told the Fire Officer that we had all been sitting around the study last night drinking brandy and smoking cigars, his large blue eyes sparkled and he made a note in his note-pad.

The conference has naturally been cancelled and, after a morning spent answering questions and making statements, I am sitting here once more writing to you, dear Mr Pascoe, in the hope of clearing my thoughts.

I know you will think me selfish, but deep down beneath all my real sorrow over Justinian's death is a tiny nugget of self-pity. All my hopes have died too, all the glorious dreams of a Cambridge future I was having only last night.

Poor old me, eh?

One more interruption, this one, I hope, definitely the last!

As I wrote my last self-pitying sentence, Dwight came into the room and said with that American directness, 'So what are your plans now, Franny, boy?'

'Plans?' I said bitterly. 'Plans need a future and I don't seem to have one’

He laughed and said, 'Jesus, Fran, don't go soft on me. It's an ill wind… Seems to me you've got a great future. From what I've picked up over the last couple of days, you've inherited a half-written book about Beddoes which looks like it's got the field clear after what happened last night. Tell me, you got any deal going with a Brit publisher?'

'Well, no,' I said and explained the situation.

'And there's no way these guys can come back at you now and say they've got a claim to anything that Dr Johnson did while he was taking their money?'

'No. In fact I've got a written disclaimer. It seemed a good thing to ask for…'

'I'll say!' he said approvingly. 'So now you can go ahead and finish the book any which way you want and make your name, right?'

I thought about it. This was an aspect of the tragedy that hadn't occurred to me before. Truly, God works in a mysterious way!

He said, 'Ever think about getting it published in the States? Lot of interest in Beddoes over there, you know. Lot of money available too, if you know where to look.'

I said, 'Really? I wish I knew where to look then!'

'I do,' he said. 'My own university publishers have been stirring themselves recently. They're just waking to the truth I've been telling them for years, either you grow or you die. Tell you what, I'm going to pack now, then I'm being driven up to London

'Down,' I said.

'Sorry?'

'I think from Cambridge you always go down to London. Or anywhere.'

He came close to me and said, 'Listen Fran, that's the kind of thinking you want to get out of your head. OK, Cambridge was once the place to be, but that was costume drama time. Nothing stays still. Either you go away from it or it goes away from you. Hell, I was in Uzbekistan recently and being an old Romantic I wanted to take a look at the Aral Sea. Well, I got to where my battered Baedeker said it ought to be and you know what I found? Nothing. Desert. The Russkis have been siphoning off so much water for so long that it's shrunk to half its size. I talked to this old guy still living in the house he was born in and he pointed to the cracked stony ground outside his front door and said that when he was a kid he used to run out of the house naked on a summer morning and dive straight into the waves. Now he'd have to run two hundred fucking miles! Same thing with Cambridge. It's all dried up. Look real close at it and what do you see? It's an old movie set where they once did a few good things, but now the cameras and the lights and the action have moved on. Nothing as sad as an old movie set that's been left to rot in the rain. Think about it, Fran. I'll be moving out in an hour. Hope you'll be with me.'

Well, after that I needed a walk to clear my head. Once more I strolled along the Backs. Only this time I looked at all those ancient buildings with a very different eye.

And you know what I saw this time? Not temples to beauty and learning, not a peaceful haven where a man could drop anchor and enjoy shore leave for ever more.

No, I saw it with eyes from which Dwight had removed the scales, and what I saw was an old movie set, looking sad as hell in the rain!

Why on earth would I want to spend my days gossiping and bitching and boozing my life away in a dump like this?

So now I'm packed – my few things only take a minute to throw together – and waiting for Dwight. He should be ready soon, so at last I'll bring this letter to a conclusion rather than an interruption.

I hope I've cleared the air between us. Perhaps some time in the future I may be moved to write to you again. Who knows? In the meantime, as the year draws to its close, may I once again wish yourself and your lovely family a very Merry Christmas?

Yours on the move per ardua ad astral

Franny Roote

‘Sore arse and rusty bum,' said Andy Dalziel.

'What?'

The Aral Sea. Christ, I've not thought of that for years. You never know what's going to stick, do you? Is it really drying up?'

'I don't know, sir,' said Peter Pascoe. 'But does it matter? I mean

'Matters if you dive in and it's not there,' said Dalziel reprovingly. 'Sore arse and rusty bum! Old Eeenie would be chuffed.'

Pascoe looked at Edgar Wield and saw only an incomprehension to match his own.

His decision to bring up Roote's letters at the CID meeting was mainly pragmatic. He'd spent much of the morning so far following up various lines of enquiry relating to Roote and did not doubt that the eagle eye of Andy Dalziel above and the cat eye of Edgar Wield below would have noticed this, so it was best to make it official. But that triumphant feeling that his enemy had delivered himself into his hands had gradually faded. Indeed recollecting it now made him feel faintly ashamed. The investigation of crime should be a ratiocinative process, not a crusade. So he had introduced the letters in calm measured tones and passed them to his colleagues without (he hoped) letting it show how desperate he was for their confirmation that here was cause for concern.

Instead he was getting the Fat Man, like some portly prophet, speaking in tongues!

The rambling continued.

'He once said to me, old Beenie, "Dalziel," he said, "if ever I want to torture a man of letters, I'll make you read blank verse to him." Right sharp tongue on him, knew how to draw blood. But, God, it were a long boring poem! Mebbe that's why I recall the end, because I were so pleased it had got there!'

'What poem?' said Pascoe, abandoning his efforts to swim against this muddy tide.

'I told you. Sore arse and rusty bum, did you learn nowt at that poncy kindergarten of thine?' said Dalziel. Then relenting he added, ' "Sohrab and Rustum" were its Sunday name, but we all called it sore arse and rusty bum. Do you not know it?'

Pascoe shook his head.

'No? Oh well, I expect by the time you got to school, it 'ud be all this modern stuff, full of four letter words and no rhymes.'

'Blank verse doesn't rhyme,' said Pascoe unwisely.

'I know it bloody doesn't. But it doesn't need to 'cos it sounds like poetry, right? And it's a bit miserable. This poem's right miserable. Sore Arse kills Rusty Bum and then finds out the bugger's only his own son. So he sits there all night next to the body in the middle of this sort of desert, the Chorasmian waste he calls it, while all around these armies are busy doing what armies do, one of the saddest scenes in Eng. Lit., Beenie said, and this river, the Oxus, keeps on rolling by. Bit like "OF Man River" really.'

'So where's the Aral Sea come in?' asked Pascoe.

‘I’m telling you,' said Dalziel.

He struck a pose and started to declaim in a sing-song schoolboy kind of way, end-stopping each line with no regard for internal punctuation or overall sense.

'…. till at last.

The long 'd-for dash of waves is heard and wide.

His luminous home of waters opens bright.

And tranquil from whose floor the new-bathed stars.

Emerge and shine upon the Aral Sea.

'Now that's fucking poetry, no mistake,' he concluded.

'And that's the end of this sore and rusty poem?' said Pascoe. 'And old Beenie…?'

'Mr Beanland, MA Oxon. He could have thrown chalk for England. Put your eye out at twenty feet. He went on and on about this Aral Sea, how remote and beautiful and mysterious it were. And now this Yank says it's drying up, and tourists go to see it, and it's not there. Like life, eh? Like fucking life.'

'It isn't a correspondence that leaps up and hits me in the eye,' said Pascoe sourly.

'Which is what I'd do if I had a stick of chalk,' growled the Fat Man. 'Any road, talking of correspondence, why'm I wasting precious police time reading your mail?'

'Because it's from Franny Roote, because it contains implied threats, because in it he admits complicity in several crimes. And,' Pascoe concluded, like an English comic at the Glasgow Empire seeing his best gags sink in a sea of indifference and desperately reaching for any point of contact, 'because he refers to you as Rumbleguts.'

But even this provocation to complicity failed.

'Oh aye. When you've been insulted by experts that sounds like a term of endearment’ said the Fat Man indifferently.

'Glad to find you so philosophical’ said Pascoe. 'But the threats

'What threats? I can't see no threats. How about you, Wieldy? You see any threats?'

The sergeant glanced apologetically at Pascoe and said, 'Not as such.'

'Not as such’ mimicked Dalziel. 'Meaning not at fucking all! The bugger goes out of his way to say that he's not writing a threatening letter. In fact he seems to rate you so highly, it wouldn't surprise me if he ended up sending you a Valentine card!'

‘That's all part of it, don't you see? Like this play he goes on about, Death's Jest-Book, it's all some kind of grisly joke. That stuff about the ambiguities of revenge, one brother becoming dead friendly with the Duke, the other bursting with hate, that's Roote telling me how he feels.'

'No it's not. In fact I recall he says quite clear he feels like the friendly brother. And all these crimes you're going on about, what would they be?'

Pascoe opened the file he was carrying and produced several sheets of paper.

'You've not been playing with your computer again?' said Dalziel. 'You'll go blind.'

'Harold Bright, known as Brillo’ said Pascoe. 'Banged up in the Syke the same time as Roote. Had an accident in the shower. Cracked his head. Traces of ammonia-based cleansing fluid found in eyes but never explained. Complications during treatment. Died.'

'And good riddance’ said Dalziel. 'I remember the Brights. Hospitalized two of ours when they got arrested, one of 'em had to take early retirement. Dendo still inside?'

'No. Finished in Durham, but he got out last month.'

'Problem solved then. Send him Roote's address. He sorts out your lad, we bang Dendo up again for the duration. Two for the price of one’

Over the years Pascoe had come to a pretty good understanding of when the Fat Man was joking, but there were still some grey areas where he felt it better not to enquire.

He said, 'My point is, we know a man died, and now we have Roote's confession.'

'Bollocks’ said Dalziel. 'His admission might as well have been written by Hans Andersen. And, like he says himself, where are you going to get witnesses? Any road, if he did do it, he deserves a medal. Owt else?'

'I checked that Polchard was there the same time as Roote, and the Syke's Chief Officer remembers they played chess together’ said Pascoe sulkily.

'You going to do Roote for cheating then? I remember Mate Polchard. Right tricky sod. He out yet?'

Wield whose job it was to know everything said, 'Yes, sir. Came out in the summer. Went off to his place in Wales to recuperate.'

Polchard was out of the normal run of thugs in more than just his penchant for chess. Not for him the comforts of a Spanish villa with a plethora of Costa fleshpots on his doorstep. His preferred hideaway was a remote Welsh farmhouse in Snowdonia. But when it came to protecting his interests, he ran true to type. Shortly after he bought the farm, a barn belonging to it was burnt down and a message sprayed on a wall in Welsh with under it a helpful translation. Go home Englishman or next lime it's the house. A few days later the local leader of the main Welsh activist group awoke in the early hours to find three men in his room. They were unarmed and unmasked, which he found more worrying than reassuring. They spoke to him politely, showing him a list of the addresses of perhaps a dozen members of his group, his own at the head, and assured him that in the event of any further interference with Mr Polchard's property, every one of these houses would be reduced to rubble within a fortnight. Then they left. Fifteen minutes later his garden shed blew up and burned with such ferocity it was a pile of cinders long before the fire brigade got near. No complaint was made, but Police Intelligence soon picked up the story, which Dalziel retailed now, at length, to signal his interest in Roote was over.

But Pascoe listened with barely concealed impatience to the oft-told tale and used it as a cue to wrest the subject back.

'Polchard's not the only one who's good at fires,' he said. This fire Roote writes about at St Godric's, I've got several newspaper reports here arid I've been on to the Cambridge Fire Service Investigation Department and they're getting back to me

'Hold on, lad. Stop right there,' said Dalziel. 'I've not had this letter X-rayed and-tested for poisoned ink like you, but I have read it, and I don't recall owt in it coming in hosepipe distance of an admission of arson! Did I miss summat? Wieldy, how about you?'

The sergeant shook his head.

'No, definitely no admission, not as such

There you go again. Not as such! As what then if not such?'

Pascoe had had enough.

He interrupted angrily, 'For Christ's sake, what's up with you two? It's as plain as the nose on your face, he's mocking us, that's the whole point of the letter.

Even without the letter, I'd have known something was wrong. Look at the facts. Franny Roote is a nobody, an ex-con, working as a gardener. Then his tutor, Sam Johnson, gets killed and Roote manages to sweet-talk Johnson's sister into dropping his almost completed book on Beddoes into Roote's lap. Suddenly from being an academic nobody, he's set for the big league. One obstacle – there's competition in the shape of this guy Albacore, who looks set to get his oeuvre in the shops several months earlier. Roote and Albacore meet. Albacore thinks he's cut a deal. Take Roote on board, squeeze the juice of Johnson's researches out of him, and then, of course, he'd be able to drop Roote like the nasty little turd he is. Only he doesn't know yet that this turd's got teeth.'

Dalziel who'd been listening with his great maw open in maximum gobstopped mode burst out, 'A turd with teeth! I told thee, this is what comes of reading modern poetry!'

Pascoe who was a trifle vain about his style looked embarrassed but pressed on, 'But what happens? There's a fire and Albacore ends up dead and his work goes up in smoke. Coincidence? I don't think so. Like I say, I'd have been suspicious if I'd read about it in the paper. But that's not enough for the scrote! He has to write to me and gloat about it!'

'Gloat? I got no gloat. How about you, Wieldy? You step in any gloat? And if you say not as such, I'll pull your tongue out and ram it up your neb!'

Wield touched his lips with his tongue as if rehearsing the manoeuvre and said, 'Not… that I could say definitely was gloating. But like I say, if Pete's got a feeling… and I agree that Roote's a tricky bastard

'Not so tricky we didn't bang him up,' said Dalziel complacently.

'He's had the benefit of a prison education since then’ said Wield.

He was speaking figuratively but the Fat Man pretended to take him literally.

'Fair do's but’ he said. 'He didn't come out a sociologist like most of the buggers as get educated inside. I really hate it when I hear one of them bastards on the chat shows’

The DCI closed his eyes and Wield said quickly, 'Mebbe we should wait and see what the Cambridge fire people say’

The phone rang so aptly that he wasn't in the least surprised when Pascoe, who'd snatched it up, mouthed Cambridge at them.

Eyes less keen than Dalziel's and Wield's could have worked out it wasn't good news.

Pascoe said, Thanks a lot. If anything else comes up… yes, thank you. Goodbye’

He put the receiver down.

'So?' said Dalziel.

'Nothing suspicious’ said Pascoe. 'As far as they can make out, the fire started in a leather armchair, probably caused by a lighted cigar butt which had slipped down behind the cushion. Only sign of any accelerant was an exploded brandy decanter’

'Aye, well, bunch of drunken dons smoking big cigars in a building that's probably failed every fire regulation laid down over five hundred years, that's asking for trouble’ said Dalziel. 'Well, I'm glad we've got that out of the way’

'For God's sake’ said Pascoe, 'you don't think that someone like Roote was going to get to work with a can of paraffin, do you? No, he was there, he tells us he was there, puffing away on a cigar with the best of them. That's what probably gave him the idea’

'Oh aye? You got second sight now, Peter?' said the Fat Man. 'Pity they don't take account of that in the Criminal Evidence Act. I think that's enough about Roote for one day. I don't mind my officers having a hobby so long as they do it in their own time’

Angrily Pascoe retorted, 'And how do you feel about your officers ignoring prima-facie evidence of crime? Sir?'

'Prima facie? That 'ud be an Italian waiter with his throat cut and Roote standing over him with a knife in his hand? Wieldy, them statistics I'm doing for the Chief, how'm I getting along with them?'

'You've finished them, sir’

'Have I? Jesus, I must've sat up half the night. It's no fun being a superintendent. You'd best come along to my office in five minutes and tell me what I think of them afore I pass them on to Desperate Dan. How's young Ivor settling back in, by the way?'

Ivor was Dalziel's sobriquet for DC Shirley Novello, who had taken a bullet in the shoulder during the summer and only recently returned to work full time.

'Looking fine, sir’ said Wield. 'Very sharp and eager to make up for lost time’

'Grand. Now we just need Bowler back and we'll only be slightly under fucking strength instead of seriously under fucking strength. When's he due to start?'

‘This week, Wednesday I think, sir’

'Not till Wednesday?' said Dalziel incredulously. 'You'd think the bugger had had major surgery. Here, pass us that phone and I'll give him a wake-up call’

Up till now Dalziel had made little effort to hurry Bowler from his sickbed, knowing how easy it was for a convalescent hero to be turned into a gung-ho cop who'd killed a suspect through use of excessive force.

But now the Board of Enquiry had finally cleared Bowler of all culpability, the case was altered.

'Shouldn't bother’ said Pascoe. 'I gather Ms Pomona's taken him away for a weekend of rest and recuperation. They won't be back till later today.'

'What? Off with his light o' love, is he? If a man's fit enough to shag, he's fit enough to work, says so in the Bible. Wait till I see him. Wieldy, them figures, five minutes right? By the way, Pete. Chief's taking me out to lunch. His treat for all my hard work. With luck I won't be back till tea-time, so if anyone wants me, you'll have to do.'

'Yes, sir. Except I'll be in court myself this afternoon’ said Pascoe.

'Oh aye, the Linford committal. Nowt to worry about there, we've got the scrote sewn up tighter than a nun's knickers, right?'

'Right’ said Pascoe. 'Though Belchamber will be looking to do a bit of snipping

'Sod the Belcher’ growled Dalziel. 'Nowt he can do long as your witness, the Carnwath lad, stays strong. No second thoughts after that scare on Saturday?'

'Oz is rock solid’ said Pascoe. 'And they can't get at him directly. Not married, no current girl, parents dead. Only close family is a sister in the States. She is coming over for Christmas, but not till Wednesday, by which time it'll be sorted, God willing.'

'Then what are you moaning about? Wieldy, five minutes.'

The Fat Man left.

Pascoe watched the great haunches swing out of sight and said, 'You've made yourself indispensable to Rustybum, Wieldy. Could be a fatal mistake.'

'No, way I look at it is, if the station goes up in flames and Andy can only get one person out, it'll be me over his shoulder and down the drainpipe. Talking of flames

He looked significantly at the letters lying on the desk in front of Pascoe.

'You think I'm overreacting too?'

'I think something about Franny Roote's got to you in a big way. And I think that he knows it and he's enjoying jerking you around’

'So you agree that he's setting out to provoke me with these confessions… all right, half-confessions?' said Pascoe hopefully.

'Mebbe. But that's all they are, provocations. One thing I'm certain of about our Franny is, he's not going to put himself at risk.'

'So your advice is…?'

'Forget it, Pete. He'll soon get tired and concentrate on manipulating his new friends’

'You're probably right’ said Pascoe gloomily.

Wield observed his friend closely, then said, There's something else, isn't there?'

'No. Well, yes. It's silly but… look, Wieldy, if I tell you this, not a word to Andy, eh?'

'Guide's honour’ said Wield girlishly.

Pascoe smiled. Even though he was now living openly with his partner, Edwin Digweed, at work Wield rarely let slip the mask with which he'd concealed his gayness for so many years. This brief flash of campness was a reassurance stronger than a dozen notarized oaths sworn on Bibles and mothers' graves.

He said, 'In the letter, you remember the bit where Roote stands up to give Sam Johnson's paper? He looks at the clock and it's nine o'clock on Saturday morning, and then he looks down and he sees… here it is… it was you, Mr Pascoe. There you were, looking straight at me.' -

He raised his eyes from the paper and looked at Wield with such appeal that the sergeant touched his arm and said urgently, 'Pete, it's just a try-on. It's that German doppelganger stuff he's picked up from Charley Penn. It's for frightening kids with

'Yes, I know that, Wieldy. Thing is, last Saturday I took Rosie to her music lesson in St Margaret Street, and I parked outside the church to wait for her. And I saw him.'

'The teacher?'

'No, dickhead! Roote. In the churchyard, standing there looking straight at me. St Margaret's clock began striking nine. I saw him for two chimes of the bell. Then I started getting out of the car and, by the time I'd got out, he'd vanished. But I saw him, Wieldy. At nine o'clock like he says. I saw Franny Roote!'

It came out more dramatically than intended. Not thought I saw or imagined I saw, the plain assertion I saw! He waited impatient for Wield's reaction.

The phone rang.

Wield picked it up, said, 'Yes?' listened, said, 'OK. Turk's. But not for an hour,' and replaced the receiver. He stood in thought for a long moment till Pascoe said, 'Well?'

'What? Oh, just someone, owt or nowt.'

Normally such imprecision would have aroused Pascoe's curiosity but now it merely aggravated his impatience.

'I mean about Roote,' he said.

'Roote? Oh yes. You thought you saw him but he's in Cambridge. Had your eyes tested lately, Pete? Look, I'd best get along to make sure Andy understands what he's going to be telling Dan. Good luck with Belchamber. See you later.'

'Thanks a bunch,' said Pascoe to the empty air. 'It's bad enough seeing things but it gets worse if you turn invisible at. the same time.'

And was relieved to find he could still laugh.