Dialogues of the Dead

21^ and Hat Bowler, who'd looked very relieved to be rid of his Roote-sitting duty, reappeared. 'Sir,' he said to Dalziel with some urgency. 'Can I have a word?' 'Aye. Make a change to talk to a grown-up,' said Dalziel. He rose and went out. Pascoe recorded this on the tape but didn't switch it off. Roote shook his head and said ruefully, 'Knows how to get them in, doesn't he? You've got to give it to Mr Dalziel. He's a lot brighter than he looks. Which perhaps explains why he chooses to look like he does.' 'What's wrong with the way he looks?' asked Pascoe. 'You're not being sizeist, I hope?' 'I don't think so, but every size has its limitations, doesn't it?' 'Such as?' Roote thought for a moment then gave a conspiratorial grin. 'Well, fat men can't write sonnets,' he said. He's taking control, thought Pascoe. He wants me to ask why not. Or something. Change direction. He said, 'Tell me about "Dream-Pedlary".' The change seemed to work. For a second Roote looked nonplussed.

'It's a poem,' said Pascoe. 'By Beddoes.' 'Gee, thanks,' said Roote. 'What's it got to do with anything?' 'Dr Johnson - Sam - was reading it. At least, that's where the book on his lap was open.' Roote closed his eyes as if in an effort of recollection. 'Complete Works, edited by Gosse, 1928 Fanfrolico Press edition,' he said. 'That's right,' said Pascoe looking at his, as always, comprehensive notes. 'Decorated with Holbein's Dance of Death. How did you know it was this edition, Mr Roote? There were several collections of Beddoes' poems on Sam's shelves.' 'It was his one of his favourites. He liked the woodcuts. And he'd been using it earlier.' 'During your tutorial, you mean?' Roote ignored the sceptical stress and said, 'That's right. But it was the first volume he was using, the one with the letters and Death's Jest-Book. "Dream-Pedlary" is in the Second Part. Whoever killed him must have put it there.' 'Indeed,' murmured Pascoe. 'Any notion why?' Roote closed his eyes and Pascoe saw his lips move silently. Despite his pallor and the dark hollows under his eyes, he looked for a moment like a child trying to recall its lesson. And Pascoe who had read and re-read the poem was able to follow the verses on those pale lips and observe the hesitation when they came to the fourth.

If there are ghosts to raise, What shall I call, Out of helPs 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.'

215 Chapter Twenty-four,

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 'we 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, 1 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 1 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 1 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