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 mention 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