Dialogues of the Dead

If there are ghosts to raise,
What shall I call,
Out of hell’s murky haze,
Heaven’s blue pall?
Raise my loved long-lost boy
To lead me to his joy.
There are no ghosts to raise;
Out of death lead no ways;
Vain is the call.

“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.”

24

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.