Dialogues of the Dead

Indoors, however, though still as destructive, his depredations tended to be accidental. As he approached he kicked over a table bearing a display of wooden bowls, moved sharply to his left to avoid treading on them, jostled a girl bearing a trayful of wine glasses, ducked away from the resultant shower of chardonnay and caused a nasty friction burn down the arm of the Lady Mayor with his ancient hacking jacket which was cut from the most spikily horrent tweed known to man.

Finally he made it and smiled benevolently on the group. He had a rather attractive doggily-trusting sort of expression. In fact he gave the impression that with the slightest encouragement, he’d have placed his paws on your shoulders and licked your face.

Mary Agnew introduced him. When she mentioned the short story competition, he nodded knowingly and said, “Stories, eh? Picture’s worth a thousand words, isn’t that what they say? And a pair of Purdys are worth a thousand pictures, that’s what I say. But could be worse. Could have been a novel competition instead of stories. God, now that would have been really hard.”

“Wasn’t it Chekhov who said that people only write novels because they don’t have time to write short stories?” said Johnson.

“Think you may have got that the wrong way round, old boy,” said the Hon. helpfully.

“Geoffrey,” said Mary Agnew, “I was thinking, maybe you could use a bit of help judging these stories …”

“No need. Just talking to Dick about it. He says he’ll steer me right. Good man, Dick,” said the Hon., beaming confidence. “Anyway, man who can judge a good terrier shouldn’t have any problems with a few scribbles.”

Pascoe noted with mild interest this apparent familiarity with Dee who, from his own limited knowledge, didn’t appear the huntin’ shootin’ fishin’ type.

“Nevertheless,” said Agnew with the firmness of one who is certain of her absolute authority, “I’ve decided that you shouldn’t have to cope alone and I’ve just been asking Dr. Johnson here, and his colleagues, if they would form a judging committee. With you, of course.”

“No, count me out,” said the Hon. “Would have done it myself, noblesse oblige, honoured my commitment sort of thing, but this is different. Can’t abide committees. Good luck with it, old boy.” (This to Johnson.) “Make sure she pays you the going rate.”

Johnson looked surprised at the mention of money, but Penn’s eyes lit up and he said, “Just what is the going rate then?”

“No idea,” said the Hon. “Didn’t apply to me. I’m sort of staff, you see. Was, anyway.”

“Was?” echoed Agnew, looking at him as if she didn’t object to the idea.

“Yes. Going to tell you. Heard this morning. The old man’s dead. Boat accident. Sad, but haven’t seen him for twenty-five years, so …well there it goes. Anyway, means the bits and bobs he couldn’t get his hands on come to me, so I shan’t need to do the column any more. And now you’ve got yourself a committee, don’t need to do the judging any more, do I?”

Still the benevolent smile, but Pascoe had a sense he was enjoying this.

Ellie said, “So that means you’re Lord Pyke-Strengler now?”

“Of the Stang. Yes. But normally don’t use the title till the previous holder’s been buried.”

“Which is when?”

“Well, could be a bit of a problem there, actually,” said the Hon. reflectively. “Seems the sharks were a bit faster getting to him than the rescue boats, you see.”