Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

The Local History site revealed that 1576 had been a very good year in Mid-Yorkshire for boundary disputes, cattle theft, and blasphemy, for which the penalties ranged from a big fine for taking the Lord’s name in vain, to having a hole burnt through your tongue with a red-hot iron for suggesting that, according to the Scriptures, the vicar ought to be giving tithes of his goods and produce to impoverished parishioners rather than the other way round. The vicar in question was called Jugg and the man with the holey unholy tongue was called Lamperley. Hat looked for a clue in this, found none, but nonetheless made a note of the names.

He went through all the other chronologies, social, cultural, religious, and found nothing to his purpose.

Now he had no more excuse to stay in the library, but he found himself lingering, or even, self-envisaged with a policeman’s eye, loitering around the desk. But Rye, whom he could see through the partially opened office door, kept her eyes steadfastly on her work. There was a bell to press if you required assistance, and he was steeling himself to press it when a voice said in his ear, “Hello, Mr. Bowler.”

He turned to find himself looking at a pleasantly smiling Franny Roote with, a little way behind him and staring at the computer screen which he had not cleared, Charley Penn who looked completely wrecked.

“Hello, Mr. Roote,” said Hat very formally, resolving in light of Pascoe’s warnings about the young man’s cleverness to give nothing away.

“Into local history now as well as birds?” said Penn, joining them. “Or are you just after the first sighting of the Lesser Nippled Tit in the sixteenth century?”

“Ornithological history can be very interesting,” said Hat, trying to work out if the man was sick or merely hungover.

“Is that right? In the old days, but, when you lot spotted an interesting new specimen, didn’t you used to shoot it so as you could take a closer look? Bit extreme that, I’d say, killing something for the sake of a hobby.”

He spat hobby out like a loose filling, then reached between Roote and Hat to press long and hard on the bellpush, at the same time shouting, “Shop!”

Rye emerged, her expression as blank as Hat was trying to keep his.

“Hello, luv,” said Penn. “Where’s thy gaffer?”

“Mr. Dee is at a meeting. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

“A meeting? Of course, they’ll be debating the succession. Should we look for white smoke going up?”

“I think in the circumstances that’s a pretty crass and offensive remark, Mr. Penn,” said Rye, staring at the writer unblinkingly.

“You do? Well, as long as it’s pretty, eh? I just wanted to try out a new version of Der Scheidende on him. You’ll do, though. What do you think of translating it as ‘Man on his way out?’ Too free, maybe?”

As Penn thrust a sheet of paper at Rye, Hat turned away to remove himself from the temptation to interfere which he was certain would provoke only the man’s mockery and the woman’s resentment.

“I shouldn’t pay any heed to Charley, Mr. Bowler,” murmured Roote, following him. “He’s not too well today. Anyway, it’s all words with him. Words words words. They don’t mean anything. Or perhaps they just mean whatever he wants them to mean. So cheer up, eh?”

Furious at being offered comfort from this source, Hat said aggressively, “I notice you’re looking pretty cheerful yourself, Mr. Roote. Got something to be happy about, have we?”

“Oh God, does it show?” said Roote in alarm. “I’m sorry, I realize that after what happened last night, it must seem most inappropriate, especially here. But maybe it’s only your detective skills which have spotted it, and I look the same as ever to the layman’s eye.”

Is piss being taken? wondered Hat. And if it is, what the hell can I do about it?

He said, “So what’s making you happy, Mr. Roote?”

The young man hesitated as if debating how trustworthy his interlocutor was, then seemed to make up his mind and said in a low voice, “It’s quite remarkable considering the circumstances, you know, with me coming back here because of Sam, Dr. Johnson, then poor Sam dying like that, and suddenly I’ve lost my dearest friend, and also I’ve lost my tutor, the one man who could help me hold my studies together. I felt pretty low, you can understand that, I’m sure, Mr. Bowler. Then out of the blue I won the short story competition, and that was a much needed little perk. And out of that …well, it’s early days, but Charley, Mr. Penn, liked the story so much that he showed it to his publishers who liked it as well, and next time his editor comes up to see him, Charley’s going to introduce me with a view to maybe talking about some more stories, a whole bookful, for children, you understand. Isn’t that marvellous?”

“Great,” said Hat. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, but that’s not all. You know Sam Johnson was working on a book about Beddoes …the poet,” he explained in response to the blank look which must have passed over Hat’s eyes, “early nineteenth century, fascinating writer, the last Elizabethan, Strachey called him, he figures in my study, in fact I’d grown more and more fascinated by him which was one of the things that brought Sam and me so close together. Well, Sam didn’t leave a will, it seems, so his only close relative, his sister, that’s Linda Lupin, MEP, inherits everything, and she’s been so pissed off with academics flocking around like vultures, each claiming to be Sam’s best buddy and the one he’d have wanted receive his research material and finish the book, that she’s told them all to get stuffed! And she invited me to see her and after we’d talked a while, she said that Sam had written a lot about me in his letters, and from what he’d said, it seemed to her if I was willing that I was the person he’d have wanted to finish the book! Isn’t that marvellous?”

“Yeah, great,” said Hat, to whom the prospect of finishing someone else’s book was about as appealing as the prospect of finishing someone’s else’s soup. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bowler. I can see you understand. A lot of people might think it funny that I can be so happy so soon after losing such a dear friend, but it’s as if Sam’s death has turned my life around. Suddenly I can see before me a path leading to a future that’s got some shape and meaning. It’s almost as if it were meant to be, as if there’s someone out there, perhaps even Sam himself, who likes me and is looking after me. I went to the burial ground first thing this morning and offered thanks at Sam’s grave, and for a while it felt like I was down there with him, chatting away like we did in the old days.”

Hat looked into Roote’s eyes which shone with a born-again fervour and resisted the temptation to say, Why don’t we try to arrange that on a permanent basis then? and instead said, “Great. Excuse me now.”

He turned back to the counter and saw that Rye and Penn seemed to have finished, or at least she had finished with him.

The writer moved away from the counter and gave him an encouraging wink as they passed.

Rye was re-entering the office.

He spoke her name but she didn’t pause. He stood at the counter and watched her through the open door as she sat down at the desk once more.

There was a sheet of paper on the counter. He looked down and read what was written on it.

Man on his way out

Within my heart, within my head ,

Every worldly joy lies dead ,

And just as dead beyond repeal

Is hate of evil, nor do I feel

The pain of mine or others’ lives ,