Death's Jest-Book

by Reginald Hill

  The main hope of the MYCF (the Mid-Yorkshire Criminal Fancy!) was that you’d soon take off, leaving space for someone more malleable, and I doubt if anyone would have put money on you still being in your present job these several years on.

  So why are you, I ask myself?

  Could it be that, like an elegant schooner sailing in the lee of a huge battle-scarred man o’ war, you have been both protected from the weather and at the same time had some of the wind taken out of your sails? In other words, is it the Good Ship Dalziel which in some way has hindered the fair and speedy voyage which all have mapped for you?

  This is not to aim any sniping criticism at the dear Superintendent. What use to snipe at Juggernaut? He is, you will not be surprised to learn, the Public Enemy Number One of the MYCF, their Hound of Heaven, the man they most love to hate.

  Oh, do not let yourself be hidden too long in his huge shadow, dear friend, condemned to do the flitting of the bat. Rather let yourself be the rapid falcon who perches on the fabled roc’s shoulders until those mighty pinions have carried him as high as they can – then at last launches himself into blue empyrean!

  But I fear I have let enthusiasm carry me into impertinence, and, worse, euphuism. My apologies. I shall not send this letter till I have pondered whether I have earned the right to speak to you with the frankness my heart so desires between us.

  Fri Dec 21st

  I don’t know whether I’ve earned that right, but if I haven’t I must purchase it on credit for once more I find myself in emotional turmoil and, like an addict turning to his drug of choice, I find my hand reaching out for my pen.

  Let me take you back to that first day at Fichtenburg.

  I wasn’t left alone for long to brood over Emerald’s non-arrival. Early in the afternoon I heard a knocking at my door and I found the girls had come down to skate on the lake, which I only now noticed someone had swept clear of snow during the morning. How rich a man must be to employ so many silent workers to keep him comfortable! Shyly, the girls asked whether I would mind if they used the chalet verandah for putting their skates on. Naturally I said of course not, feel free to use all its facilities. Then they said they’d brought a spare pair of skates and would I care to join them? I replied I didn’t skate. And they giggled like Yum-Yum, Pitti-Sing and Peep-Bo and said it was a doddle.

  It wasn’t! But it was good knockabout fun. They were all pretty expert and each took it in turn to act as my tutor and, more importantly, supporter while the other two whizzed around with vigorous grace. There is nothing like making a fool of yourself for breaking the ice (not quite literally) between young people, and nothing like being in statu pupillari for making you feel young! So by the time we all retired to the chalet for in their cases a cooling and in mine a warming drink, we were chatting away like any bunch of kids.

  It turns out that they are all teachers at the International School in Strasbourg. Zazie is (guess!) French, Hildi is Austrian, and Mouse is of course English, but they’re all fluent in each other’s languages and pretty hot, so far as I can make out, at many others. Zazie is by far the prettiest, full of vivacity and natural grace, definitely the girl to take to the ball. Hildi is stocky and muscular. I suspect she never misses her daily work-out in the gym, and from one or two things that were said I gather she is a top-notch cross-country skier. If I get lost in a blizzard, it’s Hildi I want to come looking for me! As for Mouse, well, she isn’t pretty, that’s for sure. In fact she’s plain plain, with many of her mother’s features but none of that dominatrix edge which can provoke a sexual shiver. And she’s almost as timid as her sobriquet. I’m sure she’s great with young kids and it’s probably my childish antics on the lake that made her relax with me.

  It seems she’s spending Christmas here with her mother’s party and her friends have just come for a few days of pre-festive frolics. It was a subject of some mirth that Linda’s approval of their visit had been qualified by a warning not to disturb the guest in the chalet, whom they’d pictured as some ancient scholar, impatient of company, interested only in his books and in need of absolute silence.

  Well, during the next couple of days there was practically no silence, lots of company and not much scholarship, though I did make use of their linguistic skills. I showed them the chapel and explained my interest in it. Hildi, who had a genuine rather than a casual interest in antiquities, said I should ask Frau Buff about it and volunteered to interpret, so off we all went to beard our chatelaine in her den. Buff’s knowledge of the family history was extensive if anecdotal, and she shared this with us as she took us on a tour of the castle, including the unused apartments which take up more than half of it.

  Johannes Stimmer (she told us), the founder of the family’s fortunes, was a mercenary soldier whose military talent gained him rapid promotion and who managed the difficult balancing act of both amassing considerable wealth, surviving the country’s many political changes, and preserving his reputation as a social radical during the last quarter of the eighteenth century. After Waterloo, he decided for reasons ranging from status to security that it was time the family had its own personal fortified seat and purchased Fichtenburg from its previous owners, who’d managed to back every wrong horse that had run across Switzerland in the past fifty years. (His descendants had clearly moved far enough away from old Joe’s radicalism to gain admittance into Linda’s circle of friends, I observed slyly, and to my delight, Mouse laughed.)

  Frau Buff also provided two explanations of the name Blutensee (bleeding lake). One is that at certain seasons the last rays of the setting sun catch it in such a way as to turn the waters red. The other is that during the long independence struggle against the Habsburgs in the fourteenth century, a marauding troop of Leopold’s cavalry surprised the castle during a wedding celebration, massacred everyone they could lay sword on, and threw their bodies in the lake. Naturally (like Beddoes, I’m sure) I prefer the latter!

  As we were walking through one of the unused rooms whose walls were lined with murky oil paintings, something must have registered in that corner-of-the-eye way and at the door I turned back to view the pictures again.

  There it was, a modestly sized pen-and-ink wash of three young men, posed in front of what looked like the ruined chapel, and wearing Elizabethan doublet and hose.

  Two things hit me. The first was the artist’s name, scrawled rather modestly and obscurely in the bottom left-hand corner. It read G. Keller.

  Now the only Keller I have heard of is Gottfried of that ilk, the Swiss writer. You probably know his autobiographical novel, Green Henry, whose hero, like Keller himself, trains as an artist but ultimately, recognizing his lack of real talent, turns to literature. Well, the picture certainly suggested that, if G did stand for Gottfried, he’d made the right decision! But more interesting to me was the recollection that Beddoes had been acquainted with Keller, who shared his radical views, and that, according to Gosse, it was in Keller’s company that Thomas had fled from Zurich to Aargau.

  The second thing was the figure on the left, slight, with an oval face and big brown eyes that looked out at us with a somewhat sardonic expression.

  There is only one known portrait of TLB, a painting done by one Nathan Branwhite when Tom was eighteen or nineteen. The original has vanished, but a photograph of it still survives which shows a somewhat introverted face staring out at the world through what we are assured were large, clear, decidedly brown eyes with an expression between natural reserve and weary scepticism. And, this, I swear, was the same face I was looking at!

  So, three young men passing the time doing theatricals (could they have been acting out one of Beddoes’ own plays? I fantasized) and caught forever, not as they would have been a century later by someone snapping them with his Kodak, but by the then equivalent, a quick sketch worked up later into the picture I saw before me.

  This was exciting. I made a note to ask Linda to get her friends to permit a proper examination of the picture, and then, feeling v
irtuously that I hadn’t after all allowed myself to be seduced totally from my task, I resumed the much more interesting business of having that time of my life which my new friends seemed determined I should enjoy!

  Just how far that determination went, I was soon to discover. It was the third day of our acquaintance when it happened.

  The girls had left the chalet after their après-skating drinks. I’d just got into my shower when I heard someone call from the main room. I wrapped a towel round me and went out to find Zazie there. She said she’d left her gloves, which we found without much difficulty. Then she looked at me, sighed enviously and said she’d love a really hot shower too but the boiler in the castle was playing up and the water was running lukewarm. Uncertain how to take this, I said she was very welcome to use mine after I’d finished, which wouldn’t be long. I then returned to the shower, and all uncertainties vanished a moment later when the glass panel slid open behind me and Zazie stepped in.

  No details, except to say that I rapidly revised my initial judgment, in her case at least, that here was someone not very experienced in life.

  No harm done, I thought afterwards, and a great deal of pleasure taken. Zazie, like Hildi, would be heading off in a day or two to spend Christmas with her own family. I’d probably never see her again and all I’d be left with (and her too, I hoped) was a happy memory of a lively jig arranged for two players! And if she’d enjoyed it enough to desire a reprise, then I was very happy to make my instrument available again.

  That was yesterday. Today I was pleased to see that Zazie showed none of that post-coital possessiveness which might have sounded a jarring note in our now very well-tuned quartet. But, I wondered as I got ready for my shower this afternoon, did this mean it was after all a one-off performance?

  Then I heard a noise in the next room and joyfully headed through to greet her.

  Only it wasn’t Zazie but Hildi.

  As I hadn’t bothered with a towel this time, the way my thoughts were tending was obvious. Unabashed, Hildi said something in German which I could translate roughly as, ‘Seems a pity to waste it,’ and next thing …

  Well again, no detail, but those hours in the gym certainly hadn’t been wasted.

  I still hadn’t quite caught on to what was happening here, but a suspicion was tickling the inside of my brain as I lay on the rugged floor like a defeated wrestler and watched Hildi dress, blow me a kiss, and leave.

  After a moment I rose and stretched and was about to return to the shower room when I thought I heard a voice calling outside.

  I went to the window and looked.

  Out on the frozen lake were Zazie and Mouse. They must have put their skates on again after leaving the chalet to take a last spin round before the daylight went. Hildi was standing on the edge calling to attract their attention. And when they turned and saw her, she clenched both fists and punched them in the air with thumbs upturned.

  And then I knew. These charming ‘inexperienced’ girls had decided to liven up their stay and mine at Fichtenburg by each having me in turn!

  And how did I feel about that? Flattered? Outraged? Amused?

  None of these. What I felt was afraid.

  Two down, one to go, and that one was Mouse.

  Mouse who wasn’t going to vanish in a couple of days but would be around all through the holiday. Mouse who in my judgment had little talent to deceive. Mouse who was, according to Jacques, the apple of her mother’s eye.

  My conclusion, which may sound a tad ungallant, was that if we’d been talking about Emerald, who knows? But when it came to Mouse, nothing she seemed likely to have to offer was worth risking even the merest shadow of Linda’s disapproval for!

  Yet rejection seemed potentially just as dangerous. How would she react if she turned up tomorrow to bring this jolly girls’ game to its triumphant conclusion and then had to go out to her friends with her thumbs turned down? Would she be able to laugh it off? Or would she be distressed? Angry? Humiliated? Vengeful?

  I don’t know. Whatever I do, I can see trouble. You can see why I wish I had you here by my side so I could lay out the situation before you and beg for your wise advice. But I can’t, so I’ve decided to do what any sensible man would do in such circumstances.

  I’m going to run.

  Not far and not for long. It’s Saturday tomorrow. On Sunday Hildi and Zazie are heading off to join their families for the festive season. And on Monday, Christmas Eve, Linda and her cronies will arrive at Fichtenburg. So tomorrow’s the real danger point. I suppose I could find an excuse for keeping out of the way, but I’ve learned from experience that no risk is negligible. Elimination is the better part of avoidance!

  So I’ve packed a bag, written a note to Frau Buff asking her to make my apologies, and tomorrow first thing I’m going to start doing what I came to Switzerland to do in the first place. I’m off to Zurich to pursue my researches into Thomas Lovell Beddoes, and I shan’t come back to Fichtenburg till Monday, when hopefully her mother’s presence and her friends’ absence will combine to keep Mouse in her right senses.

  Ihrer guter Freund

  Franny

  In the no-man’s land between Christmas and New Year, a deathly stillness falls across the ravaged landscape with devastated survivors picking their way carefully round the shops exchanging rubbish they have been bought for rubbish more to their taste, while in empty offices telephones shrill their urgent summonses in vain. It’s as if the great heart of the city has paused to breathe, and even crime itself has taken a rest.

  It is a lull which policemen take advantage of in many different ways. Andy Dalziel used it for a bit of deep thought, which might have surprised the casual spectator, for in his work as in his play on the rugby fields of his younger days what caught the eye was the sheer brutality of his approach.

  But there was more to him than just destruction. Not for him the expense of energy in vain pursuit of the fleet young gazelles behind the scrum. Instead he sent his mind after them, plotting the likely progress of a move on the basis of what he knew of his opponents, what he saw of the conditions. He wasn’t always right, but at the end of a game many an opposing winger wondered how it was that after jinking his way round the full back, instead of open countryside ahead, he had found himself, like Childe Roland, suddenly confronted by the Dark Tower.

  For Dalziel this calm between the two great orgies was time to sit and read the game.

  There was a smell of danger in his nostrils and he didn’t yet know precisely where it was coming from except that it had something to do with the Wordman case.

  The case was officially resolved and he had the plaudits to prove it. What was more, it had been resolved in the best possible way. Not only had the perpetrator been caught in the act, he’d been killed in the act, thus at the same time providing incontrovertible evidence of his guilt and depriving all those arty-farty-Number-10-party, greenery-yallery-play-to-the-gallery lawyers of any opportunity to controvert it.

  Of course only the Law could decide a man’s guilt, but you can’t libel the dead, and the papers hadn’t held back from doing what the courts couldn’t by crying Gotcha! and proclaiming Dick Dee Guilty as not charged!

  A good story. But how much better a story it became, now that everyone except those most personally involved had forgotten the triumphing tabloid headlines, if one of the same papers could dig up evidence to suggest a doubt.

  He thought of Penn’s crack about the truth dropping through his letter box some morning. Watch this space! he’d said.

  And hadn’t Pascoe’s chum, Roote, said that Penn was mouthing off about getting help?

  That dangerous smell had a strong reek of investigative journalism about it.

  This was bad news. Nowadays investigative journalism wasn’t just some nosey reporter wanting to make a name, it was big business. If a paper felt there was something to get its teeth into, there would be no shortage of money, expertise or advanced surveillance equipment. And they didn’t p
lay by the rules.

  He’d thought Dee’s death had blown no-side on the Wordman game, but now it looked like somewhere out there the ball might be back in play.

  A lesser man might have expended emotion agonizing over the possibility that the police had got it wrong, and wasted his time going over the whole investigation with a fine-tooth comb in search of flaws. Not Andy Dalziel. OK, he’d put someone on it, but meanwhile his place was not at post mortems. Out there on the field was where things got settled. Be first at the breakdown and make sure that after all the shoving and wrestling and kicking and punching are over, you’re the man who comes up with possession.

  And the best way of doing that was to be the man who hit the bastard with the ball in the first place. So, who to hit?

  Not Charley Penn. He’d hit him already and it was clear Charley was indestructible in his conviction that Dee was innocent. Didn’t matter. Charley was a nuisance, but writers weren’t newsworthy, not unless they were very old, very rich, or very obscene. No, the guy who needed chopping off at the knees was the sodding journalist.

  He’d be out there somewhere. And he wouldn’t be coming at you like good old Sammy Ruddlesdin of the Gazette, fag on lip, notebook in hand, asking where you’d buried the bodies. Nowadays the sting was the thing; they donned disguises, got you relaxed, listened sympathetically as you talked, and all the time the little recorder they’d got taped to their dick was whirring away. Or to their tit. Let’s not be sexist about this.

  Targets? They’d want a cop. Bowler was an obvious choice. Key witness to Dee’s murderous attack on Rye Pomona, plus he was young and impressionable. Definitely the tit-tape there. Rye herself. Get her to admit what Dalziel had gleaned from her tearful ramblings while Bowler lay at death’s door – that she had been stripped off, all systems go for a bit of bump and grind with Dirty Dick before the cavalry came on the scene. By the time she was fit to make a written statement, he had nudged her into several small shifts of emphasis so that her readiness to perform had been reduced to a pleasant relaxation induced by wine and warmth from an open fire. Her voluntary nudity was nowhere mentioned. In the confrontational atmosphere of a criminal court, there was no way she could have got away with such fudgings, but the gentle questionings of a sympathetic coroner had sketched a picture of a modern young woman believing her boss was making a play for her and trying to turn him down, when suddenly to her horror it became clear that it was a knife Dee wanted to stick into her, not his knob.