Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

“It was one of his favourites. He liked the woodcuts. And he’d been using it earlier.”

“During your tutorial , you mean?”

Roote ignored the sceptical stress and said, “That’s right. But it was the first volume he was using, the one with the letters and Death’s Jest-Book . ‘Dream-Pedlary’ is in the Second Part. Whoever killed him must have put it there.”

“Indeed,” murmured Pascoe. “Any notion why?”

Roote closed his eyes and Pascoe saw his lips move silently. Despite his pallor and the dark hollows under his eyes, he looked for a moment like a child trying to recall its lesson. And Pascoe who had read and re-read the poem was able to follow the verses on those pale lips and observe the hesitation when they came to the fourth.

“No,” said Roote. “Can’t see any special reason, except that it’s about death.”

“It would seem to me on a cursory glance through the volume,” said Pascoe, “that you could do a dozen sortes and ten of them would be guaranteed to be about death.”

“As few as that?” said Roote with a savage grin. “I think I’ll go now, Mr. Pascoe. Clearly we’re getting nowhere. Mr. Dalziel is persuaded Sam killed himself. You, on the other hand, have a notion, or shall we call it a preference, that I killed him. Well, like Mr. and Mrs. Sprat, I hope you can come to an accord. Meanwhile …”

He began to rise.

Pascoe said, “You see, what I was wondering was whether in view of Dr. Johnson’s reasons for wanting to leave Sheffield, the reference in the poem to his loved long-lost boy might not have been significant. Any view on that, Mr. Roote?”

The black-clad pale-faced figure froze like a mime artist in mid-movement.

Then the door opened.

Dalziel said, “Peter, a word. Best close the interview if you’ve not done it already.”

Angrily, Pascoe switched off the tape and went outside.

“Lousy timing, sir,” he said. “I was just getting to him.”

“I doubt it. Either he knows a hell of a lot more than he’s letting on or he’s a very good guesser. Either way we need to call time-out and look at our tactics.”

“Why? What’s happened?” demanded Pascoe.

“You know we told the library staff to keep their eyes peeled? Well, they spotted another suspicious envelope this morning and sent it over. I’ve just been having a read.”

“And?” said Pascoe, knowing the answer.

“Someone up there’s had a big crap and pulled the plug on us,” said Dalziel gloomily. “It looks like your mate Johnson was the Wordman’s number five.”

the fifth dialogue

Oh, the bells bells bells .

Yes, I remember, like bagpipes, they make a fine noise-between consenting adults and a guid Scots mile away!

But close by, when you’ve got a hangover …

Who but a sadist would programme an alarm call on the one scheduled day of rest?

Sorry. Blasphemous. No sadist, but my light and salvation; which is why I don’t have to fear any sod .

But the sound does get on my nerves .

Noisy bells, be dumb. I hear you, I will come .

And come I did eventually to that stately old terrace, led not by forethought but the convolutions of that serpent path which after the Feydeau farce of the events at the Centre I know now I can follow in utter inviolability .

Yes, I know I shouldn’t need convincing but I was always a very good doubter .

He was just going into the building as I approached. As soon as I saw him I knew why I was there. But it wasn’t yet, not yet a while, for clocks still ticked, and bells still rang, and all the chronometrical corsetry of everyday existence still clasped me in its shaping grip. Also, he was not alone and though two might be as easy as one, the purity of my course must not be sullied by an insignificant death .

In any case, I was not ready. There were preparations necessary to make, for each step along my path is an advancement of learning, taking me from eager pupillage to equal partnership .

Two hours later I returned. Two hours because that was the time my pace along my path required for my preparations, and it was no surprise in time to find my timing perfect, for the visitor was just leaving, slipping out of the street door like the shadow he resembles, with the result that the door didn’t swing back with enough momentum to engage the lock and I was able to enter without having to ring any bell but that to his apartment .

He was surprised to see me though he hid it well and courteously invited me in and offered me a drink .

I said coffee to get him into the kitchen .

And as he turned and left me I felt my aura breathe through my flesh, as time began to slow like a goshawk soaring till it attains its motionless apogee .

Through the half-open door I see he is making filter coffee. In my book, casual and probably unwanted visitors merit no more than a spoonful of instant at best. I am flattered and touched by this courtesy .

And in return, I take just as much care with his drink, pouring a carefully judged measure from my little vial into the open whisky bottle standing by the open book and empty glass on his chairside table. No chance of interruption. I am examining his bookshelf when he comes in with the cafetière .

I see he has brought two mugs. If I were in time, I might have been disconcerted, fearful that by joining me in coffee, he will not take any more whisky till he is in another’s company who might observe his symptoms and make efforts to save him. But out of time, I sit and smile, secure in my certainty that what is written is written, and nothing can change its course .

He pours the coffee, then picks up the bottle, offers to add some to my mug. I hesitate then shake my head. I have work to do, I tell him, work that requires a clear head .

He smiles the smile of a man who does not believe that liquor affects his judgment and, to make his point, adds a good inch of Scotch to his coffee .

Poor doctor. He is right, of course. Drink no longer affects his judgment because it is his affected judgment that makes him drink. Does he yet know where his unhappiness has brought him? Does he realize how unhappy he is? I doubt it, else he might have already sought without my help the quietus I am about to give him .

He drinks his doubly laced coffee with every sign of pleasure. This is well arranged. Two strong tastes to conceal one weak, though strong in everything else .

We talk and drink. He is enjoying himself. He pours more coffee, more Scotch. We drink and talk …and talk …though soon the words that he imagines pearls come rolling misshaped to his lips and stick there, hard to dislodge, yet because all is still so clear in his mind, he thinks this mere inadvertence, too dry a mouth perhaps, easily cured by yet more drink .

He yawns, tries to apologize, looks slightly surprised to find he can’t, clutches his chest, begins to gasp. In time, I would have been surprised. I had looked to see him fall asleep, then I would have taken the cushion his head rests on and used it to send him to a still softer rest. But now I see that I am not called on to do any more, and I am not surprised. He stops gasping, closes his eyes and slumps back in his chair. Soon his breath is so light that it would hardly shake a rose-leaf down. Soon I cannot detect it at all. I place a hair over his lips then pass a few minutes washing my coffee mug and making sure no traces of my presence remain. Finished, I check that the hair has not moved. He has gone. Would that all our goings were so easy. Now I arrange him to be found as he would have wished, at his ease, with his book and his bottle, and steal away softly as if fearful of awaking him. Softly and sadly too .