Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

“I’m flattered. You remember Ambrose Bird?”

“Who could forget the Last of the Actor-Managers?” said Rye fluttering her eyelashes in a manner which Hat, not without relief, identified as ironical.

“Yes, of course, we met in Dick’s office. Alas, with the dreadful news of Miss Ripley’s death weighing on us, the normal courtesies went out of the window, but distracted though I was, I recall making a mental note to improve our acquaintance,” said Bird, matching her mock admiration with his own histrionic gallantry. “Let’s start afresh. Dick, a formal introduction, if you please.”

“This is Rye Pomona, who works with me in Reference,” said Dee.

With not for , acknowledged Bowler grudgingly.

“Pomona …you’re not related by any chance to Freddie Pomona?”

“He was my father.”

“Good lord. He must have had you late, I think. Dear old Freddie. He was Titinius when I carried my first spear in Caesar . I recall how well he died, too well indeed for the director who had to get him to tone it down a bit. Can’t have the support out-Brutusing Brutus.”

“He was a ham, you mean?” said Rye.

Bird laughed and said, “I mean he belonged to an older school of acting than that which now prevails. In any case, a well-cured jambon is the tastiest of meats. Who knows better than I? But dear Freddie is sadly missed. And your mother too …Melanie, wasn’t it? Of course it was. I recall dear Sir Ralph at a cast lunch given by some unusually generous management saying, ‘I think I shall start with a slice of Melanie accompanied by the merest morsel of Pomona Ham.’ Such a wag, dear Ralph.”

Dick Dee, who had been regarding Rye with some concern, said sharply, “I think, to persuade us of that, you might have found a better example of his wit.”

“I’m sorry,” said Bird, acting being taken aback. “Perhaps it wasn’t dear Ralph. Sir John, perhaps? G, of course, not M. Not his style at all.”

“I was commenting on the matter rather than the manner,” said Dee, glancing significantly at Rye.

“What? Oh, I see. My dear, I’m so sorry. No offence intended. I recall dear Freddie laughed like a drain.”

“No offence taken,” said Rye, smiling.

“There, you see, Dick. You’re far too sensitive. Now is no one going to introduce me to this fine-looking young man whose face also looks strangely familiar?”

“That’s because he is Detective Constable Bowler, who was so ably assisting DCI Pascoe on that same day you met Rye,” said Dee.

“Well, well. DiCaprio eat your heart out,” said the actor-manager, taking Bowler’s hand and squeezing it hard.

“Nice to meet you,” said Hat, pulling his hand away.

“I hope we may improve our acquaintance also,” murmured Bird. Then, like a grand duchess signalling an audience was over, he turned abruptly to the painting and said, “So, Dick, this is one of your masterpieces, is it? Hmmm.”

The hmmm was the first thing that Hat had liked about the man. It spoke a whole hiveful of reservations.

The two men stepped closer to the painting and Hat took Rye by the arm and steered her away, saying, “Why don’t we take a look at that engraver woman?”

“Because it sounds like metalwork?” said Rye. “I bet at school you were hot on metalwork.”

“You bet. Straight A’s. Talking of which, that asshole Ambrose is a bit over the top, isn’t he?”

“Bird? He’s harmless. Just an act.”

“Acting being a great actor, you mean?”

“It happens all the time. Of course, if you can’t hack it on the stage, you soon get found out. But Bird’s acting being an old-fashioned actor-manager which is a much meatier role. To give him his due, he does a pretty good job. Have you seen any of his productions?”

“Not yet,” said Bowler, wondering if he was going to have to brush up his Shakespeare as well as his art to get near this girl. He was full of curiosity over the revelation that she came from a theatrical family, but a close study of the psychology of interrogation had taught him the supreme importance of rhythm and timing in getting a result. So another place, another time …

“Is he acting being gay as well?” he said.

“Think he fancies you? Now that’s really vain,” she said.

“The way he shook my hand, either he fancies me or he’s a member of some Lodge I don’t know about.”

“So it’s true. You do have to be a homophobic mason to get on in the Filth,” she said.

But she said it with an affectionate smile and he smiled back as he replied, “I thought everyone knew that. Now why don’t we go and look at some etchings?”

All good things come to an end. Provincial previews take a little longer but even they have their natural term. The guests had their various reasons for coming-some to see, some to be seen; some out of obligation, some out of love; some out of interest, some out of boredom-but they needed only one of two reasons for going-they had either got what they came for, or it wasn’t there for the getting.

Getting the weapon was so easy I hardly noticed that I’d taken it and certainly no one else did. Then I bided my time, in every sense of the phrase. Eventually people began to drift away, and when I saw my particular piece of flotsam join the drift, I followed close behind, but not so close as to draw attention. My aura was strong now, so strong I felt myself borne along on its brightness like a piece of debris on the wind which follows a nuclear blast. Breathe on me breath of God, I sang inside, for this surely must be what His breath feels like. I was aglow with its gloriole, but still time flowed strongly around me. Then I saw him turn away from the main drift and at the same moment I felt time begin to ebb .

“Well, it’s time we were off,” said Andy Dalziel. “Ars longa ”-he gave the ess its full sibilance-“and if I stay here much longer, me belly’ll think me throat’s cut.”

Cap Marvell let her gaze linger on the quercine throat in question and said, “You must have a very imaginative belly.”

But the Lord Mayor who felt he had stayed far beyond the requirements of duty was on Dalziel’s side.

“You’re right, Andy,” he said. “If we show the way, then all these other good folk can be off to their lunches, eh?”

His touching belief that, as with royalty, nobody ate till he ate or left before he left, was contradicted by the steady flow of exiting guests as one o’clock approached. But his eagerness to join them was not shared by his wife, who had recovered from her brush with the Hon.’s jacket and was now displaying the oenological expertise recently acquired on a Sunday Times Wine Society weekend. Having expressed the opinion that over-oaked chardonnay had had its day, she had been brought a newly opened bottle of red by Percy Follows.

“Don’t tell me what it is,” she cried, sniffing deeply at the glass cradled in her hands. “Ah, this is good, this is interesting. I’m getting exotic fruit, I’m getting mangrove swamps, I’m getting coriander, I’m getting cumin, I’m getting jaggery.”

“Shouldn’t let it bother you, luv,” said Dalziel. “After fifteen pints of best, I sometimes get a bit jaggery meself. Now are we going, or what?”

“It’s a Shiraz Merlot blend, I’d say. Western Australia? About ’97?” said Margot.

All eyes turned on Follows who, keeping his hand clamped firmly over the bottle’s label, said, “Spot on, my dear. What a nose you have there.”

It was indeed a nose to be proud of. If you were a macaw, thought Cap.

She saw a similar thought form on Dalziel’s lips, got him in a restraint-lock disguised as an affectionate linking of arms, and said, “You’re right, dear. Time to be on our way.”