Dialogues of the Dead

He sat himself down at the computer, recalling with amusement pretending to be baffled by it as an excuse to make contact with Rye just a few short weeks ago. As a ploy, it hadn’t worked, except to put him handy when they needed a cop. In fact, come to think of it, if anything had brought them together, it was the Wordman. An uncomfortable basis for a relationship? Why so? No reason not to be grateful if good came out of evil.

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?”