Perhaps the sight of her was the last straw that broke what remained of my nerve.
Rising from my chair was the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. I must have looked like a drunk as I walked the few steps to the lectern. Fortunately it was a solid old-fashioned piece of furniture, otherwise it would have shaken with me as I hung on to it with both hands to control my trembling. As for my audience, it was as if they were all sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool and I was trying to see them through a surface broken by ripples and sparkling with sun-starts. The effort made me quite nauseous and I raised my eyes to the back of the lecture theatre and stared at the big clock hanging on the wall there. Slowly its hands swam into focus. Nine o’clock precisely. The distant sound of bells drifted into the room. I lowered my eyes. The swimming-pool effect was still evident, except in the case of one figure sitting in the middle of the back row. Him I could see pretty clearly with no more distortion than might have come if I’d been looking through glass. And yet I knew that this must be completely delusional.
For it was you, Mr Pascoe. There you were, looking straight at me. For a few seconds our gazes locked. Then you smiled encouragingly and nodded. And in that moment everyone else came into perfect focus, I stopped trembling, and you vanished.
Wasn’t that weird? This letter I’m writing must have created such a strong subconscious image of you that my mind, desperately seeking stability, externalized it in my time of need.
Whatever the truth of it, all nerves vanished and I was able to put on a decent show.
I even managed to say a few words about Sam, nothing too heavy. Then I read his paper on Death’s Jest-Book. Do you know the play? Beddoes conceived it at Oxford when he was still only twenty-one. ‘I am thinking of a very Gothic-styled tragedy for which I have a jewel of a name – DEATH’S JESTBOOK – of course no one will ever read it.’ He was almost right, but as he worked on it for the rest of his short life, it has to be pretty central to any attempt to analyse his genius.
Briefly, it’s about two brothers, Isbrand and Wolfram, whose birthright has been stolen, sister wronged, and father slain by Duke Melveric of Munsterberg. Passionate for revenge, they take up residence at the ducal court, Isbrand in the role of Fool, Wolfram as a knight. But Wolfram finds himself so attracted to the Duke that, much to Isbrand’s horror and disgust, they become best buddies.
Sam’s theory is that the whole eccentric course of Beddoes’ odd life was dictated by his sense of being left adrift when his own dearly beloved father died at a tragically early age. One aspect of the poet’s search for ways to fill the gap left by this very powerful personality is symbolized, according to Sam, by Wolfram finding solace not in killing his father’s killer but rather in turning him into a substitute father. Unfortunately, for the integrity of the play that is, this search had many other often conflicting aspects, all of which dominate from time to time, leading to considerable confusion of plot and tone. As for Death, he is by turns a jester and a jest, a bitter enemy and a seductive friend. Keats, you will recall, claimed sometimes to be half in love with easeful death. No such pussy-footing about for our Tom. His was a totally committed all-consuming passion!
Back to my conference debut. I finished the paper without too much stuttering, managed to add a few comments of my own, and finally took questions. Albacore was in there first, his question perfectly weighted to give me every chance to shine. Thereafter he managed the session like an expert ringmaster, guiding, encouraging, gentling, and always keeping me at the centre of things. Afterwards I was congratulated by everyone whose congratulation I would have prayed for. But not Albacore. He didn’t come near me, though I caught his eye occasionally through the crowd and received a friendly smile.
I knew what he was doing, he was showing me what he could do.
And I discovered by listening and asking questions some interesting things about the set-up here. At God’s the Master is top dog, the present one being a somewhat remote and ineffectual figure, leaving the real power in the hands of his 2i/c, the Dean. (The Quaestor, incidentally, is what they call their bursar.) Albacore in fact is presently deputizing for the Master, who’s on a three-month sabbatical at the University of Sydney. (Sydney, for godsake! During an English winter! These guys know how to arrange things!) On his return he will be entering the last year of his office. Albacore naturally enough is in the van of contenders for his job, but, this being Cambridge, the succession is by no means cut and dried. A big successful book, appearing just as the hustings reached their height, would be a very useful reminder to the electorate (which is to say, God’s dons – sounds like the Vatican branch of the Mafia, doesn’t it?) that Albacore could still cut the mustard academically, and its hoped-for popular success would give him a chance to demonstrate that he had Open Sesames to the inner chambers of that media world where so many of your modern dons long to strut their stuff.
Oh, the more I got the rich sweet smell of it, the more I thought, this is the life for me! Reading and writing, wheeling and dealing, life in the cloisters and life in the fast lane running in parallel, with winters in the sun for those who made the grade.
But I wasn’t going to rush into a decision as important as this. I slipped away back here to the Lodging to think it all through and there seemed no better way of doing this than pouring out all my thoughts and hopes to you. Like that vision I had of you this morning, it’s almost like having you here in the room with me. I can sense your approval at the now final decision I have reached.
This quiet, cloistered but not inactive nor unexciting life in these most ancient and fructuous groves of academe is what I want. And if giving up Sam’s research is the only way for me to get it, I’m sure that’s what he’d have wanted me to do.
So the die is cast. I’ll stroll out now and post this letter, then perhaps catch one of the afternoon sessions. If I bump into Albacore, I won’t give him any hint of the way I’m thinking. Let him sweat till tonight at least!
Thanks for your help.
Yours in gratitude,
Franny Roote
On Monday morning, the mail had arrived just as Pascoe was about to leave.
He took it into the kitchen and carefully divided it into three piles – his own, Ellie’s and mutual (mainly Christmas cards).
In his pile there were two envelopes bearing the St Godric’s coat of arms.
Ellie was on the school run, which gave him a free choice of reaction and action.
He tore open the first letter. Not that he knew it was the first as it had exactly the same postmark on it as the second. But a quick glance down the opening page confirmed this one started where the previous letter had left off.
When he came to the bit about Roote’s vision of himself at the back of the lecture theatre, he stopped reading for a minute while he debated whether it should make him feel more or less worried about himself. Less, he decided. Or maybe more. He read on. He had no ocular delusion of the man’s presence as he read but he could feel Roote’s influence reaching out of the words and trying to tie him into his life. To what end? It wasn’t clear. But to no good end, of that he was absolutely certain.
Perhaps the second letter would make things clearer.
He felt curiously reluctant to open it, but sat for some while with it in his hand, growing (his suddenly Gothic imagination told him) heavier by the minute.
A noise brought him out of his reverie. It was the front door opening. Ellie’s voice called, ‘Peter? You still here?’
Now he could get what he’d been wishing for not very long ago, Ellie’s sane and sensible reaction.
Instead he found himself stuffing both letters, the read and the unread, into his pocket.
‘Here you are,’ she said, coming into the kitchen. ‘I thought you’d have been gone by now. It’s the Linford case today, isn’t it? I hope they lock the bastard up and throw away the key.’
Ellie’s usually tender heart stopped bleeding and became engorged with indignation at menti
on of Liam Linford.
‘Don’t fret,’ he said to Ellie now. ‘We’ve got the little shitbag tied up. Rosie OK?’
‘You bet. It’s all Nativity Play rehearsals. She’s taken young Zipper’s card, allegedly to prove to Miss Martingale that angels really did play the clarinet. But I reckon she wants to boast about her sexual conquests to her mates.’
‘Oh God. The Nativity Play. When is it? Friday? I suppose we have to go?’
‘You bet your sweet life,’ she said. ‘What’s happened to the great traditionalist who nearly blew a gasket when there was that petition to ban it on the grounds it was ethnically divisive? What was it you said? “Give in on this and it’s roast turkey and poppadoms next.” Now you don’t want to go! You’re a very confused person, DCI Pascoe.’
‘Of course I want to go. I’ve even asked Uncle Andy to guarantee I’ve got God’s own imprimatur. I’m just worried a non-speaking angel’s part isn’t going to satisfy Rosie.’
‘At least Miss Martingale has persuaded her that having Tig in the manger would not be such a good idea, and I don’t doubt she’ll talk her out of the clarinet solo too.’
‘Maybe. But she told me last night that it seems odd to her that when the innkeeper told Mary there was no room, the angels didn’t come down and give him a good kicking.’
‘It’s a fair point,’ said Ellie. ‘Having all that power and not using it never made much sense to me either.’
He kissed her and went out. She was right, as usual, he thought. He was a very confused person, not at all like the cool, rational, thoughtful mature being Franny Roote pretended to believe in.
The unread letter bulked large in his pocket. Maybe it should stay unread. Whatever game Roote was playing clearly required two players.
On the other hand, why should he fear a contest? What was it Ellie had just said? ‘Having all that power and not using it never made much sense to me.’
He turned out of the morning traffic stream into a quiet side street and parked.
It was a long, long letter. Two-thirds of the way through it he reached for his morning paper which he hadn’t had time to read yet, and found what he was looking for on an inside page.
‘Oh, you bastard,’ he said out loud, finished the letter, started the car, did a U-turn and reinserted himself aggressively into the traffic flow.
Letter 3. Received Mon Dec 17th. P.P
St Godric’s College
Cambridge
Sun Dec 16th (very early!)
My dear Mr Pascoe,
Again so soon! But measured by swings of emotion, how very much time has passed!
Still buoyed up by my sense of having made a wise decision, and been approved in it by you, I went down to dinner tonight, posting my last letter en route, and found Albacore waiting to offer me a choice of dry or very dry sherry. I displayed my independence by refusing both and demanding gin. Then, because I wanted to relax and enjoy myself, I relented and told him that, subject to detail and safeguards, he had a deal.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘My dear Franny, I couldn’t be more pleased. Amaryllis, my love, come and renew old acquaintance.’
She hadn’t hung around after my paper, but here she was in a sheer silk gown cut low enough to make a man forget the spur of fame. She greeted me like an old friend, kissing me on the lips and chatting away about other inmates of the Syke as though we were talking of old acquaintance from the tennis club.
It really was an excellent night. Everything about it – the setting, the food, the wine, the atmosphere, the conversation – confirmed the wisdom of my decision. I was seated between Amaryllis and Dwight Duerden, there being too few female delegates to allow the usual gender hopping (academia is equal opportunity land, but not that equal!) and the pressure, too frequent to be coincidental, from Amaryllis’s thigh, made me wonder if this happy night might not be brought in every sense to a fitting climax.
Perhaps fortunately, the opportunity didn’t arise. After the dinner Albacore invited some few of us (the most distinguished plus myself) back to the Dean’s Lodging, all men save for Amaryllis, and she soon retired as the cigars came out and the atmosphere thickened with aromatic fumes. It was deliciously old fashioned, and I loved it.
Albacore was by now treating me like a younger brother, and when Dwight requested a tour of the Lodging, he put his arm round my shoulder and the two of us led the way.
The D’s Lodging was a sort of early eighteenth-century annexe to the original college building and must have stuck out like a new nose on an old star’s face for a time. But Cambridge of all places has the magic gift of taking unto itself all things new and wearing their newness off them with loving care till in the end they too are part of the timeless whole. It was a fine old building with that feel I so much love of a lived-in church, infinitely more splendid than the Q’s suite of rooms (what must the Master’s Habitation, a small mansion situated on a grassy knoll in the college grounds overlooking the river, be like?) and full of what should have been a stylistic hodge-podge of furniture, statuary and paintings had they not also succumbed to the unifying aura of that magical world.
I lusted for it all, and I think Justin sensed my yearning, and felt how much closer it bound me to his desires, and grappled me to him ever more tightly as the tour proceeded.
The study was for me the sanctus sanctorum, lit with a dim religious light, its book-lined walls emanating that glorious odour of old leather and paper which I think of as the incense of scholarship. At its centre stood a fine old desk, ornately carved and with a tooled leather top large enough for a pair of pygmies to play tennis on.
Dwight, miffed perhaps to find himself behind me in the Dean’s pecking order, said, ‘How the hell do you work in this gloom? And where do you hide your computer?’
‘My what?’ cried Alabacore indignantly. ‘Compute me no computers! When my publisher suggested that in the interest of speed it would be useful if he could have my Beddoes book on disk, I replied, “Certainly, if you can provide me with a large enough disc of Carrara marble and a monumental mason capable of transcribing my words!” Press keys and produce letters on a screen and what have you got? Nothing! An electronic tremor which an interruption of the electrical supply can destroy. Show me one great work which has been produced by word-processing. When I write with my pen, I am writing on my heart and what is inscribed there will take the rubber of God to erase.’
I sensed that Dwight, who probably had a computerized khazi, was drunk enough to tell his host he was talking crap, so, not wanting this atmosphere I was so much enjoying to be soured by dissent, I essayed a light-hearted diversion.
‘God uses rubbers, does he?’ I said. ‘Must have burst when he was into Mary.’
Such blasphemous vulgarity is evidently much enjoyed at High Tables. Like kids saying bum, says Charley Penn, they’re excited by their own outrageousness. Certainly it worked here, everyone responding with their own kind of amusement, the well-born Brits with that head-nodding chortle which passes for laughter in their class, the plebs with loud guffaws, and Dwight and a couple of fellow Americans with a kind of whooping bray.
After that Dwight asked in a conciliatory tone how then did Justin work, and Albacore, apologizing now for being a silly old Luddite, showed him his complex but clearly highly efficient card-index system and opened drawers to reveal reams of foolscap (no vulgar A4 for our Justinian!) closely covered with his elegant scrawl.
‘And this is your new book?’ said Dwight. ‘The only copy? Jesus, how do you sleep sound at night?’
‘A lot easier than you do, I suspect,’ responded Albacore. ‘My handwritten pages hold no attraction for a burglar. A computer on the other hand is something worth stealing, as are disks. Also no one can hack into manuscript and see what I’m up to, or copy chunks in a couple of seconds to pre-empt my ideas. Your electronic words, dear Dwight, are by comparison the common currency of the air. Someone coughs a continent away and you can catch a killing virus.’
; I headed off what might have been a provoking defence of the computer by asking Albacore to what extent he felt his book might bring Beddoes in out of the cold at the perimeter of British romantic literature and into its warm centre.
‘I don’t even try,’ he retorted. ‘It’s my thesis that to understand him we must treat him not as a minor English but as a significant European writer. He was – most appositely at this present period in our history – a very good European. Byron’s the only other who comes close to him. They both loved Europe, not merely because they found it warmer and cheaper than back home, but for its history and culture and peoples.’
He expanded on this for a little while, almost addressing me directly. It was as if now that he’d won our little contest he wanted to put the memory of the arm-twisting and near-bribery behind us and demonstrate that he was a serious Beddoes scholar.
The others listened happily too, sitting on the deep leather armchairs and sofa which the spacious room afforded, drinking from their brandy balloons and puffing on their genuine Havanas till the aromatic smoke almost hid the decorated ceiling. I sometimes think that it will not be the least of the twentieth century’s philistinisms that it has destroyed the art of enjoying tobacco. Like the poet said, a fuck is only a fuck, but a good cigar is a smoke.
Long before he bored his audience (the great talkers are also masters of timing) Albacore stopped talking about Beddoes and invited us all to admire the copy of the Vita S. Godrici which he mentioned to me earlier and which he’d brought from the secure room of the college library for our delectation. Merely to handle something of such beauty and antiquity was enough for most of us, but Dwight with that lack of embarrassment about money which is the mark of a civilized American, cut to the chase and said, ‘How much would it fetch on the open market?’
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