Dialogues of the Dead

In the end everyone called him Baker, even the tutors. Did he write Baker at the head of his exam papers and take his degree in the name of Baker? Was he happily settled down now as Mr. Baker, the civil engineer or actuary, with a Mrs. Baker and a whole trayful of little Bakers?

Weird thing, names. Take Charley Penn. Christened Karl Penck. Karl the Kraut. How hurtful it must be to have your own name hurled at you in derision. Like his poetic hero, Heine. Named Harry. Mocked with donkey cries. Till he changed it and his religion, both. But you can’t change the scars inside.

Or Dee. Another one with problems. Orson Eric. Not names to be ignored by the little savages at their play. But at least they gave him the initials which ultimately provided an escape route. OED. Dick the Dictionary. But what baggage did he take with him along that escape route?

Escape route. Escape Roote. He wished he could. No change of name there, except the familiarization of Francis to Franny. But he still recalled that poem read out at Johnson’s funeral, “… there is some maddening secret hid in your words …’mongst stones and roots …” and how the reader’s eyes had sought him out, mockingly, as he put a subtle stress on the word roots.

Or had he just imagined that? And was his attempt to read something significant into these name changes merely a symptom of his own personal paronomania? After all, a conscious shift from an unwelcome given name was common enough. He didn’t need to look further than the young man at his side who seemed to have a touching belief that attendance at murder victims’ funerals was de rigueur for an ambitious detective. Normally it was probably a source of some irritation for anyone called Bowler to be addressed as Hat, but when your real name was Ethelbert, you embraced the sobriquet with much relief! And then there were the more private and intimate forms of name change, like Jax (another!) Ripley calling Headingley “Georgie Porgie.” None of which meant that either Bowler or the DI got on to the suspect list!

Though, come to think of it, the way George Headingley had kept his involvement with Ripley under wraps demonstrated what to a CID man should need no demonstration-that human beings were of all animals the most unreadable and unpredictable.

The vicar’s sonorous seventeenth-century periods finally rolled to an end. According to him, if ever a man deserved to sit on the right hand of God, it was Percy Follows.

Though, from the sound of it, he’d probably much prefer sitting on either hand of Ambrose Bird.

It was one of those thoughts you suddenly feel you’ve spoken out loud and he glanced guiltily around, but no one was looking indignant. Dick Dee was sitting on the other side of the aisle, his eyes fixed on the pulpit, his expression either rapt or traumatized. Beside him was his assistant, Rye Pomona. Whose presence was probably the true reason for young Bowler’s keenness to attend the funeral! He’d got a hint that things hadn’t been moving too well on that front since their ill-fated expedition to Stang Tarn. If asked, he could have spoken some wise words to the DC. Police work can fascinate some civilians, especially a case like this involving mysterious communications and puzzles and all kinds of twists and turns. He’d no doubt that Bowler had, consciously or subconsciously, used this God-given turn-on, sharing more information with the girl than a young cop should, especially one who worked for Fat Andy whose attitude to sharing info with civilians was, tell ’em only what they need to know, and the buggers don’t need to know much! But when you’re young and in love, even the mountainous Dalziel could shrink to a molehill.

There was, however, another obstacle much harder to overcome because unforeseen. That sense of being special which came from being privy to the inner life of an investigation was a very intimate thing. But it was a narrow line to tread, and if something happened to bring your confidante face to face with the brutal realities of the case, her fascination could rapidly turn to revulsion.

Rye Pomona had been dragged over that line twice in rapid succession, the first time most brutally when she had been present at the discovery of Pyke-Strengler’s corpse, followed very soon after by the murder of Percy Follows and Ambrose Bird, which, though her involvement was not so direct, must have strongly reinforced the effect of that day out in Stangdale.

So now, guessed Pascoe, poor Hat was finding that the confidences which had hitherto seemed the key to her heart were merely unwelcome reminders of his essential otherness from which she wanted to retreat.

If asked, he would have said something like, if she really likes you, Hat, she’ll get over it, and though she may not like what you have to do, she’ll respect you for doing it.