Probably not. You're not like me, weak and worldly, though I like to think that in some ways we are very close. And will be closer, I hope and pray.
Anyway, like I said, I met with young people and in their company I felt young again. It is, I think, a canard that American students age for age know less than European students; but it's certainly true that they are much more eager to know more! They lapped up what I told them about Beddoes, and when (because it was easy to move from his obsession with death to my chosen way of dealing with it) I went on to tell them about Third Thought, they lapped that up too. They know nothing of the movement here, it seems, and Frere Jacques' book has not yet found a publisher in the States. I suspect that America in general and California in particular is so awash with home-grown mystic, metaphysical, quasi-religious trends and sects and disciplines that they don't feel much need to import them! But this one really appealed, perhaps because I was able to present it in truly American terms such as, How to live with death and be happy ever after! Soon we were having regular meetings which always began (my idea!) with a chorus of 'Happy We!' from Ads and Galatea. (The lyric is, of course, amatory, but this only underlines the relationship with death that Third Thought aims at. And if my suspicions about Jacques are right, how apt!) Then I'd read a passage from my copy of Jacques' book, and soon photocopied extracts were being passed around like samizdat literature in the Soviet Union. It made me realize that, do what we will with technology, there is no substitute for direct human contact. Soon the word spread around the campus, aided by the new in-greeting between initiates - Have a nice death! (One of mine too. Though I confess it owes not a little to Beddoes' jest of leaving champagne to drink his death in'.)
A spin-off of this was, by the time I was finally summoned to make my pitch to the Uni Press people, rumours of Third Thought had reached their ears too and they seemed as interested in Jacques' book as they were in mine (or rather Sam's, though the way Dwight had sold it, my part loomed disproportionately large, because, as Dwight put it when I made some mild protest, 'You're hot, breathing, and here!')
Anyway, they were very interested in both books, and by the time we'd finished talking, they'd made an offer on Beddoes and wanted to get in touch with Jacques. I got straight on the phone to Linda, who was delighted, and she got Jacques to ring me, and the upshot is I have been given full authority to act as I see best on both their behalves.
So there it is. Triumph. I came, saw, overcame. But I don't feel I can take any credit. Recently I seem to be on a roll. Question is, who's loading the dice? Initially I approached Third Thought in a pretty sceptical frame of mind. It was interesting, but no more interesting than a whole lot of weird metaphysical stuff I'd been into in my teens, with the disincentive it didn't throw in sex or drugs as part of the deal! Linda's involvement gave me a reason for sticking with it, but the more I've had to do with Frere Jacques, the more I've come to believe that there really might be something here for me.
I'm not certain where you stand on religion, Mr Pascoe. Somehow I can't see your good lady . . . but there I go, making assumptions. Bad habit. It really would be great to talk to you about this, and so many other matters, face to face some time. In the past our meetings have always had - how shall I put it? - a legal agenda. But over the past few weeks as I've been writing to you, I've had such a strong sense of us coming together that I have to believe, or at least very much hope, that you have felt this too.
So perhaps when I get back to Mid-Yorkshire we can meet and by the fire help waste a sullen day, or something? Please.
By the way, Dwight has told me to make full use of the mail services open to senior faculty members, so I'll send this off Express Delivery, otherwise I could get home first!
See you soon!
Yours ever, Franny
P.S. I really do like St Poll. Much more my kind of place than plashy old Cambridge! I've taken the chance whenever possible of drifting off by myself and strolling the streets - yes, it's that rarity in American towns, a place where you can actually walk for miles without exacting the interest of the local constabulary! So much to see. It's got big modern shopping malls, of course, but away from these, lots of small, very individual outlets survive, delis with delicious food, antique shops where you can still unearth a bargain, and bookshops ranging from the uni store where you can enjoy a coffee and a bagel as you read, to lovely atmospheric second-hand and antiquarian dealers.
By one of those coincidences which make life such fun, I was peering in the window of one of these when it dawned on me the name was familiar. I searched my memory and drifted back to that evening at God's when Dwight assured poor Dean Albacore that he knew a book dealer in St Poll who could put a price on anything, even something as priceless as a copy of Reginald of Durham's Vita S. Godrici. His name was Fachmann. Trick Fachmann. And that was the name I was looking at!
On a whim I went inside and introduced myself.
What a fascinating man he is. Transparently thin with piercing bright eyes, he comes across as so erudite, so scholarly, and at the same time so worldly wise. Only in America do I think you could find such a combination. I know the UK academia is full of would-be Machiavels -Albacore was such a one - but Mr Fachmann could at the same time have been a medieval ascetic and the modern consigliore to some great Mafia godfather.
I told him how come I'd heard his name, and I made enquiry, just to amuse myself, whether he could justify Dwight's boast and put a price on an original copy of Reg of Durham's Vita S. Godrici. Without hesitation he said, 'No problem.' I said, 'So what might it be?' He said, 'That depends whether I'm selling or buying.' I laughed, but he said, ‘I’m not joking. There's a market for everything. There's two kinds of possession. The common one is the conspicuous. When you've got it, baby, flaunt it! The other is private, when you both possess and are possessed by an object. You don't need the world to know as long as you know you've got it.'
I said, 'And you know the market?' to which he replied with a smile, 'Know of it. To use it would of course be illegal. It's like any other market, full of bustle and stallholders shouting their wares. That amuses you? Listen, any movement of antiquities of any kind anywhere and ears prick. It's like the stock exchange. Movement means availability. I know antique dealers round here who get a dozen enquiries every time the Getty down at Malibu makes a purchase. There's some big deal just gone down for some Brit collection. Once it's in the Getty, forget it. But to get here it's got to be on the move, so the market stirs.'
I presume he meant the Elsecar Horde, which us who live in Yorkshire know all about. He sounded serious too, so perhaps you'd better keep your eyes skinned, Mr Pascoe! (Teaching my grandmother - sorry!)
Anyway, Trick and I talked at length and I told him all about myself. When I mentioned Beddoes, he went to his shelves and came back with a copy of the 1850 Pickering edition of Death's Jest-Book. Very few were produced, even fewer survive. I took it from him and held it, which was fatal. I felt that burning lust for possession whatever the cost, which I'm sure a man of culture like yourself must understand. I did not dare ask the price, but my eyes must have spoken the question for he said as if we'd been bargaining, 'OK, here's my final offer. You keep hold of this and send me a signed first edition of your Beddoes book and of every other book you subsequently produce. Deal?'
What could I do but stammer my thanks? I am beginning to discover, as you have always known, that even in these most wicked and selfish times, there are still to be found huge reserves of unselfish goodness and loving kindness. Talk again soon.
Yours ever,
Franny
‘Sou see what he's saying?' said Pascoe urgently. 'Please, tell me you see it too.' 'I think it might speed things up if you !tell me first, Peter,' said Dr Pottle with some sign of irritation.
Pascoe had turned up without an appointment, brushing aside Pottle's secretary's objection that he was far too busy working on his opening address to the Psychandric Society's Symposium which was taking plac
e the following day.
'He'll see me’ declared Pascoe, making it sound like a threat. 'I just want two minutes. Ask him.'
And a short time afterwards he was ushered in to be assured by Pottle that, if he was still there after one hundred and twenty seconds, the secretary would call security.
'He's saying that when he set fire to Albacore's study to destroy the man's research papers, he also took the opportunity to help himself to the copy of the Libellus de Vita Sancti Godriti which he'd seen earlier that night.'
'Knowing, of course, that it would be assumed to have been reduced to ashes in the fire?'
That's right,' said Pascoe triumphantly. 'You've got it. You're beginning to see just what this bastard is capable of.'
‘Well, I can at least say I can see why you should be convinced of this.'
Pascoe studied this answer which fell a long way short of the hoped-for endorsement.
'Why's that?' he asked.
'Because, having convinced yourself he's guilty of arson and attempted murder, you're hardly going to strain at a little matter of theft.'
'A little matter? This thing was invaluable!'
'And that makes a difference?'
Pottle made a note on the pad before him. Upside down, it looked like a meaningless squiggle. Pascoe had once taken the opportunity offered when Pottle was called out of his office to have a quick glance at this pad and found that, right way up, his notes still looked like meaningless squiggles. Perhaps that's all they were, but it felt like the psychiatrist was noting every twist and turn of Pascoe's attitudes to Franny Roote.
'Anything more you have to tell me before you leave?' said Pottle, looking at his watch.
The bugger knows there is, thought Pascoe.
He thought of saying no, but that would have been silly. Pointless having a dishwasher and doing your own pots.
He said, 'Rosie got one of those trace-your-family-tree kits and Ellie got the notion it would be interesting to check out Roote
'Really? Bit of an odd idea for someone as rational as Ellie to get, isn't it?'
'You think my wife is rational?' Pascoe looked at Pottle with serious doubt.
'You don't?'
'1 think she has her reasons that reason wots not of,' said Pascoe carefully. 'Anyway, these are the results of her investigation.'
He passed over a file containing the information Ellie had given him, plus the results of his own follow-up.
Pottle read through it and whistled.
'Was that a Freudian or a Jungian whistle?' asked Pascoe.
'It was an unsophisticated expression of amazement that one irrational woman could so easily discover what a well-organized CID seems to have overlooked for many years.'
'We accepted the records. Only it seems that the information on which they were based was fed into the system by Roote himself. At an early age, it should be said.'
'Meaning he decided very early on that his memories of his father, good and bad, should be completely private. Whatever the truth of Mr Roote, he undoubtedly presents a fascinating object of study. I can see why Haseen got so interested in him. Ellie's findings seem to suggest that, far from being deceived, Haseen got him to open up more than he'd ever done before. It's the stuff in the letters about not remembering his father that's a lie.'
'Didn't I always say you can't trust the bastard?' said Pascoe. Then, sensing an irrationality here, he went quickly on: 'It certainly underlines his reasons for hating the police, who he thinks treated his father so badly. Which all goes to show how right I am in being suspicious when he smarms up to me.'
That might be a case of throwing out the baby with the bathwater’ said Pottle. 'His reasons for lying to you about his father may have changed from desire to keep your long nose out of his business to a confusion of your function and the dead man's. His memories of his father's standing as a policeman, able to deal with all threats that came to his family, are very powerful.
And it's clear he has a huge respect for you as a professional
'Come on! He's taking the piss, isn't he? He's such an arrogant sod he thinks he's brighter than all the rest of us put together.'
'I think you're wrong. Once he may have felt so, but getting caught and ending up in the Syke made him realize that he wasn't Supermind. Realizing how much Haseen had managed to get out of him must have come as a shock too. His respect for you made him think it likely that not only would you read Haseen's book, but that you would identify his disguised presence in it too. So he pre-empts this by drawing your attention to it en passant and boasting about the way he put one across on Ms Haseen by feeding her duff sensational memories of his father. Would you have read the book, incidentally?'
'No way’ said Pascoe. 'Even if I had come across it by chance, half a para of her turgid style would have made me close it fast. He's been too clever by half.'
'Only because he thinks you're too clever by three-quarters.'
'That's right. He thinks I'm clever enough to read between his lines and get the real messages, but powerless to do anything about them! All the pleasure of boasting, none of the penalties of confession. But he'll over-reach himself one day and I'll have him!'
'But so far you haven't come close?'
'No, but one day . . . there has to be something .. . maybe that dead student of Sam Johnson's in Sheffield ... he keeps glancing at that. .. I'm sure there's something there
'Perhaps. But, Peter, motive is not a constant, you must have observed that. The reason for starting something is often not the same as the reason for continuing to do it. It works in both directions. The penniless man who steals out of necessity may turn into the wealthy man who steals out of greed. Or the ambitious politician who does charity work because it looks good on her CV might end up as a passionate advocate of some particular charity despite the fact that it's having an adverse effect upon her career.'
'And the objective psychiatrist can end up getting religion,' said Pascoe. 'I reckon my two minutes are up. Sorry to leave before the end of the service, but I enjoyed the sermon.'
'A polite man's rudeness is like a summer storm; it refreshes the flowers and settles the dust,' murmured Pottle.
'Freud?'
'No, I just made it up. Peter, read this letter again, read them all again, and try to look for patterns other than the one printed on your eye.'
'If I were you, I'd stick to the day job,' advised Pascoe. 'Gotta dash.'
He left. A moment later his head reappeared round the door.
'Sorry’ he said.
'A rude man's apology is like winter sunshine
'Go screw yourself’ said Peter Pascoe.
Earlier that same Friday morning a large container lorry had rolled off the Dutch ferry at Hull dock. The driver handed over his papers to be checked, then swore in exasperation as the officials invited him to drive his vehicle into a remote examination bay where a full team of searchers stood waiting with their equipment and dogs.
'Poor sod’ said the driver of a refrigerated lorry which was next in line. 'Looks like that's his morning gone.'
'More than his morning if what we hear is true,' said the man examining his papers. 'OK, Joe?'
'OK’ said the officer who had been giving the lorry a going-over.
'Safe journey, mate.'
The refrigerated vehicle moved out of the dock complex with the ease of familiarity and was soon on the motorway heading into Mid-Yorkshire. The driver took out a mobile phone and rang a pre-set number.
'On my way’ he said. 'Worked a treat. No bother’
He spoke too soon. Half an hour later he noticed his oil-warning light blinking intermittently. He banged the instrument panel and it stopped. Then it shone bright red.
'Shit’ he said, pulling over on to the hard shoulder.
Then, 'Shit shit shit!' he added as he slid out of the cab and saw a motorway patrol car a few hundred yards behind him closing fast and flashing to pull in.
'Trouble?' said the police officer wh
o got out of the passenger door.
'Yeah. Oil pressure. Probably nothing.'
'Let's take a look, shall we?'
As they took their look, the police car's driver wandered round the back of the truck.
'Ah’ said the truck driver. Think I see what it is. Get that fixed in a couple of minutes. Thanks for your help.'
'You sure?' said the policeman.
'Yeah. No sweat. Twenty minutes tops’
'Great. We're due off in half an hour, so it'll be someone else's problem if it turns out more complicated than you think’ said the policeman, grinning.
'Harry. Got a minute?'
It was the other policeman.
His colleague went to join him.
'Listen. Thought I heard something.'
'Like what?'
'Like a sort of scratching’
D&P20 - Death's Jest-Book Page 39
