Death's Jest-Book

by Reginald Hill

  Unfriendly friendly universe

  I pack your stars into my purse

  and bid you, bid you so farewell.

  That I can leave you, quite go out,

  Go out, go out beyond all doubt,

  My father says, is the miracle.’

  He sat down. The applause, led by the three no longer bored girls, was enthusiastic. Pottle stood up to say that Frère Jacques would now take questions and afterwards would be happy to sign copies of his new book.

  The questions were as usual led by the tyro academics eager to count coup. One quoted with heavy irony from a later stanza of Muir’s poem which referred to ‘the far side of despair’ and ‘nothing-filled eterǹity’ and wondered what the good Brother’s religious superiors thought of this alternative to the Christian heaven he seemed to be promising his proselytes. One of Pascoe’s neighbours said very audibly, ‘Dickhead!’ but Jacques needed no external shield, parrying the blow easily with the assurance that the questioner, whether atheist or Christian or anything else, need not fear his beliefs were being challenged as Third Thought was non-secular, non-proselytory, and concerned only with the living.

  The girl who’d said, ‘Dickhead’, then asked very seriously what part sex with its ‘little death’ played in Third Thought philosophy, to which Jacques replied equally seriously that if she cared to read chapter seven of his book, he was sure she’d find her question answered. As he finished speaking, he smiled, not at the questioner but at someone seated at the other end of Pascoe’s row. He leaned forward to look and saw a stunningly beautiful blonde-haired young woman smiling back at the monk.

  Afterwards Pascoe bought a copy of the book and was wondering whether to join the signing queue (which included all three of his young neighbours) when Pottle tapped his shoulder and said, ‘Peter, how nice to see that the policeman’s pursuit of enlightenment doesn’t stop in the forensic laboratory. Let me introduce you to Amaryllis Haseen.’

  As he shook hands with the woman, Pascoe thought that Roote’s description had been a bit over the top but not much. She was definitely sexy in a slightly overblown and garish kind of way. He could see how she might provoke many stirrings and rustlings and scratchings in the wainscot of St Godric’s SCR.

  He said, ‘I was very sorry to hear of the death of your husband, Ms Haseen. Sir Justinian will be a great loss to scholarship.’

  Englishmen are notoriously bad at offering condolences and Pascoe thought he’d done it rather well, but the woman regarded him with unconcealed scepticism and said, ‘You knew my husband, Mr Pascoe?’

  ‘Well, no …’

  ‘But you know his books? Which one impressed you most?’

  Pascoe glanced appealingly at Pottle who, smiling faintly, said, ‘In fact, Amaryllis, you and the Chief Inspector do have a common acquaintance, I believe. A Mr Franny Roote.’

  Grateful for both the change of subject and the opening, Pascoe said, ‘I read with great interest what you said about him in Dark Cells, which I was really impressed with, by the way. Fine work. If you’ve got a moment to talk about him, I’d really appreciate it.’

  His attempt at diversion by flattery failed miserably.

  She said coldly, ‘I cannot talk about my clients, Mr Pascoe, none of whom was identified in the book anyway.’

  He said, ‘No, but Franny identified himself to me in a letter. Prisoner XR, if I remember right. So perhaps the rules of confidentiality no longer apply. He was certainly very open about his sessions with you and the debt he feels he owes you for supporting his transfer from the Syke to Butler’s Low.’

  ‘If you’ve got a whip,’ said the Gospel according to St Dalziel, ‘just a little crack will usually do the trick – so long as they’re convinced you’re willing to draw blood.’

  Pascoe fixed her with what he hoped was a stare full of Dalzielesque conviction.

  Get ’em in a corner then show ’em a get-out, was another of the Master’s tips.

  ‘But you met him again recently at St Godric’s, I believe, long after he’d ceased to be a client, so no ethical problems talking about that, are there? I know it must be a very painful memory to you, that conference. But at the same time it must have been a source of great pleasure seeing someone you’d helped as a prisoner receiving the applause of a distinguished academic audience for his paper. Weren’t you impressed?’

  ‘By the paper, no. Like most literary analyses, so called, it was big on waffle, low on psychological rigour. Hardly worth rushing lunch for. But of course it wasn’t Roote’s work, was it? I was rather more interested in his relationship with the late Dr Johnson.’

  ‘You must have known Sam when Sir Justinian worked at Sheffield?’

  ‘Oh yes. We met.’

  He said, ‘I knew him too. Very bright, very attractive guy, I thought.’

  ‘You found him attractive?’ She gave him an assessing glance.

  ‘Yes, I did. I gather there was some kind of falling out with your husband.’

  She shrugged and said, ‘On Johnson’s part, perhaps. A certain type of character always comes to resent those who have helped them as much as Jay helped Johnson with his Beddoes book. For some people it is easier to quarrel with the helper than to acknowledge the help. I did not know him well, but he always struck me as a very volatile, perhaps even unstable character. I was not surprised when I heard of the circumstances of his departure from Sheffield.’

  ‘The death of that student, Jake Frobisher, you mean?’

  ‘You know of that? Of course, you would. Again the closeness followed by the rejection, the same pattern as with Jay, except of course the closeness in this case was sexual rather than academic collaboration. I think Johnson’s death may have been a lucky break for Roote, in more ways than one.’

  ‘I’m not sure he sees it like that. And certainly he doesn’t see the rift between your husband and Johnson in quite the same light,’ said Pascoe, finding in himself the beginnings of a serious antipathy to this woman.

  He guessed she wasn’t exactly crazy about him either, and now she proved it.

  She said, ‘Your name is Pascoe, you say? That name rings familiar. Wasn’t one of the policemen who helped put Roote away called Pascoe?’

  ‘That was me,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘And he’s writing to you, you say?’ She smiled with evident satisfaction. ‘That must be a source of concern to you, Mr Pascoe.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because whenever he spoke of his trial, though he claimed to have sublimated any thought of revenge into other areas, particularly his academic research, I still detected an undercurrent of resentment and a feeling of having been ill done by. Of course, this was years ago, and time does, in some few cases, bring about changes …’

  ‘Indeed,’ interposed Pottle. ‘And Mr Roote, some of whose letters I have seen, wrote specifically to the Chief Inspector to assure him he had no thought of revenge.’

  Amaryllis smiled again, like a Borgia hostess seeing her guest holding out his wine-glass for a fill-up.

  ‘Well, that’s all right then. If someone as devious, as complex and as clever as Franny Roote tells you that he doesn’t want to harm you, what have you to worry about? If you’ll excuse me, I’m heading back to Cambridge today and I need to get packed.’

  She moved away.

  Pascoe said to Pottle, ‘That sounded to me very like a vote for my interpretation of Roote’s motives. She doesn’t go out of her way to be charming, does she?’

  Pottle smiled and said, ‘Peter, you were aggressive, indeed threatening, and hinted all kinds of criticism of her recently dead husband. What makes you think that psychiatrists are above feelings of resentment and thoughts of revenge? I see you have the good Brother’s book. Would you like to get it signed? I think he might welcome being rescued.’

  The book-signing queue had diminished to the three female students, who were crowding round Jacques apparently hanging on to his every word and looking ready to hang on to anything else of his the
y could get hold of. Standing a little to one side, watching with a quizzical smile, was the beautiful blonde.

  The predatory trio looked up resentfully as Pottle and Pascoe approached.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but you have an appointment to keep, Brother. Ladies, I’m sure you’ll find a chance to continue your conversation later in the day.’

  Jacques said goodbye to the girls, who retreated, comparing inscriptions.

  ‘This appointment … ?’ he said to Pottle.

  ‘With Mr Pascoe here,’ said Pottle. ‘Chief Inspector Pascoe who, among other things, would like you to sign his book. Let’s find somewhere a little more private.’

  As he led them away, Jacques shot an apologetic glance at the blonde. Pottle showed them into a small empty office, closing the door behind them.

  ‘Pascoe?’ said Jacques musingly. ‘Tell me, you’re not Franny Roote’s Inspector Pascoe by any chance?’

  ‘Depends in what sense you use the possessive,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘In the sense of being the policeman who forced him to confront his anti-social behaviour, understand his motives for it, pay the necessary legal penalty for it, and ultimately become the better, more mature person he is now.’

  ‘That seems to me to be stretching the sense quite a bit,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Yes, he told me you had some problems with coming to terms with your role in his life,’ said Jacques.

  ‘I had problems!’ Pascoe shook his head vigorously. ‘Believe me, Brother, the only problem I’ve got is dealing with Roote’s problems!’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Basically that he’s a sociopathic fantasist whose unpredictable behaviour makes me very uneasy about my own welfare and that of my family.’

  As he spoke, Pascoe was asking himself, What happened to my plan of having a quiet chat with this guy about his crazy chum during the course of which I’d glean many interesting ears of information without him suspecting the true nature of my interest?

  ‘These seem large judgments to make on the basis of a few presumably non-threatening letters.’

  ‘What makes you presume that?’ demanded Pascoe. ‘And how do you know he’s been writing to me anyway?’

  ‘Because he told me so. And as I imagine that written threats to a policeman from a former convict would rapidly result in apprehension and charges, I presume no such threats were made. In any case, Mr Pascoe, I hope it will reassure you to learn that whenever he mentioned your name he did so in terms of great respect and admiration, bordering, I felt, on affection.’

  ‘So you talked about me.’

  ‘He talked, I listened. The impression I received was of someone exploring his feelings towards someone else and being rather surprised at what he was discovering. I am not a psychologist – Dr Pottle might well be worth consulting on this matter – but my instinct suggests that Franny matured intellectually at an early age, but emotionally and morally is still in late adolescence.’

  He regarded Pascoe for a moment as if to assess how he was responding to this analysis, then went on, ‘You are perhaps tempted to retaliate by quoting from his letters some deprecating comment he has made about me. But I would suspect that his initial attitude, that I was some kind of – what is your expression? – some kind of religious plonker worth being polite to for the sake of keeping in with his patroness, Mrs Lupin, has moderated somewhat. You see, one thing my line of business has made me expert in is spotting the difference between lip-service and genuine commitment. Franny, I believe, has made a genuine movement.’

  ‘Franny’s expertise lies in making people feel what he wants them to feel,’ said Pascoe coldly.

  ‘Perhaps. Shall I sign your book, or was that merely your ticket of entry, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘No, please sign it,’ said Pascoe, feeling he’d been ungracious enough for one day.

  The monk took the book, opened it at the title page, scribbled a few words and handed it back.

  Pascoe looked at what he’d written. It was his signature followed by Thessalonians 5, 21.

  He said, ‘OK, you got me. Save me having to look it up.’

  ‘“Prove all things: hold fast that which is good.”’

  ‘That’s nice, but for a cop it works out slightly different,’ said Pascoe. ‘Prove all things: then hold very fast that which is bad. Thank you, Brother.’

  He opened the door. Outside he saw the blonde beauty waiting. Suddenly he knew who she was.

  ‘You’ve made up your mind about Miss Lupin then?’ he said.

  Jacques didn’t look surprised.

  ‘Yes, I have made up my mind.’

  ‘Congratulations. I hope all goes well for you both.’

  ‘Thank you. Franny is right, you are a sharp man, Mr Pascoe. We would prefer for the moment to keep our news to ourselves. Until people close to us have been told. My Brothers, Emerald’s mother.’

  ‘Will this affect your Third Thought work?’ asked Pascoe.

  ‘Why should it? I have never ignored the existence of the two other thoughts.’

  ‘Well, good luck. And take care.’

  ‘You too, Mr Pascoe. And God bless you.’

  Outside he nodded pleasantly at Emerald and went to find Pottle.

  ‘So what did you get?’ asked the psychiatrist.

  ‘I got blessed. In both our languages,’ said Pascoe.

  The house in which Jake Frobisher had died was a large semi-detached building in monumental granite which age and atmosphere had darkened to mausoleum grey. Situated on the edge of the Fulford suburb of the city, its small front and side gardens were sadly neglected by comparison with others in the road, and the paintwork on the doors and windows was cracked and flaking too.

  Pascoe, ever ready to put two and two together, read its history as rich tradesman’s dwelling slowly declining towards multiple occupation till it became either by purchase or long lease wholly a student residence, which was probably something of an irritant to the inmates of these neighbouring properties which looked to have reverted to one family occupation as the area swung back up to something like its original status during the closing decades of the last century.

  There was a line of bell-pushes on one of the door columns. They didn’t give much promise of working. Pascoe peered down a weathered list of names and made out the name Frobisher against number 5. He guessed this was unchanged since last summer when the unfortunate youth had died. He pressed the button, heard nothing, and was about to try other buttons when the front door opened and a young man pushed a bicycle out. Pascoe held the door to assist and got a cheerful, ‘Thanks, mate’ in exchange.

  He went inside.

  The smell brought back his student days, not so long ago in terms of years but, oh, an ache of lifetimes away in terms of memory. There was curry in it and other spices, a hint of vegetable decay, a touch of drains, a soupçon of sweat, a curl of joss-sticks and a wraith of dope. Trapped in the refrigeration unit of the unheated hall and stairwell, it didn’t assault the nostrils and tear at the throat, but he was glad it wasn’t midsummer.

  He went up the stairs and found a door marked 5 on the first landing.

  It was slightly ajar.

  He tapped at it and when there was no reply, he pushed it open and called, ‘Hello?’

  No reply. In fact, unless there was someone concealed in the big Victorian wardrobe or, even less likely, under the unmade futon, there was no possible source of answer.

  He stood in the doorway and tried to … what? He’d no idea what he was looking for here, couldn’t begin even to imagine what he might hope to find. OK, a few months ago a boy had died in this room, but in a house this old, it must be almost impossible to find a room in which at some point someone hadn’t died.

  So what was he expecting? Some message from the grave? Lines from the poem in the Beddoes collection open by Sam Johnson’s side when he found the lecturer’s body came to Pascoe’s mind:

  There are no ghosts to raise;

  Out o
f death lead no ways.

  So, just a room. He stepped inside as if to affirm his dismissal of the possibility of any malign or supernatural influence. His foot caught on something. He stooped to unhook whatever it was and came up with a flowered bra whose blues and reds had blended in with the patterned carpet which covered most of the floor. He saw now there were other female garments strewn on the crumpled duvet that covered the futon.

  Time to retreat and knock on a couple of doors, see if he could find someone who remembered Frobisher and was willing to chat.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ said a voice behind him.

  He turned to see a young woman in the doorway. She was wearing a Japanese robe and drying her long blonde hair with a towel. She looked as unpleased as she sounded.

  She also looked as if the slightest wrong move would have her yelling for help.

  Pascoe smiled and made a reassuring gesture, which turned out to be a bad idea as it only drew attention to the bra he was holding.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize that …’

  That the room was occupied? That it was occupied by a female?

  He changed direction, heading for firmer ground.

  ‘I’m a policeman,’ he said, reaching for his warrant card, which gave him an excuse to casually drop the bra.

  He opened the card and held it up without moving towards her.

  She peered at it then said, ‘OK, so you’re a cop as well as a pervert. I believe your type gets really well treated in jail.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come in here. And I stuck my foot in your bra …’

  ‘Well, that’s novel,’ she said. ‘That will sound interesting in court.’

  This was not going well. It was time to be blunt.

  He said, ‘I don’t know if you know, but last summer there was a death in this house. A student called Frobisher …’