Bones & Silence

part one

God
: First when I wrought this world so wide, Wood and wind and waters wan,

Heaven and hell was not to hide,

With herbs and grass thus I began.

In endless bliss to be and bide

And to my likeness made I man,

Lord and sire on ilka side

Of all middle earth I made him then.

A woman also with him wrought I,

All in law to lead their life,

I bade them wax and multiply,

To fulfil this world, without strife.

Sithen have men wrought so woefully

And sin is now reigning so rife,

That me repents and rues forthy

That ever I made either man or wife.

The York Cycle of Mystery Plays:

 
'The Building of the Ark'

January 1st

Dear Mr Dalziel,

You don't know me. Why should you? Sometimes I think I don't know myself. I was walking through the market place just before Christmas when suddenly I stopped dead. People bumped into me but it didn't matter. You see, I was twelve again, walking across a field near Melrose Abbey, carefully balancing a jug of milk I'd just got from the farm, and ahead of me I could see our tent and our car and my father shaving himself in the wing mirror and my mother stooping over the camp stove, and I could smell bacon frying. It was such a good smell I started thinking about the lovely taste that went with it, and I suppose I started to walk a bit quicker. Next thing, I caught my toe in a tussock of grass, stumbled, and the milk went everywhere. I thought it was the end of the world but they just laughed and made a joke of it and gave me a huge plateful of bacon and eggs and tomatoes and mushrooms, and in the end it almost seemed they loved me more for spilling the milk than fetching it safely.

So there I was, standing like an idiot, blocking the pavement, while inside I was twelve again and feeling so loved and protected. And why?

Because I was passing the Market Caff and the extractor fan was blasting the smell of frying bacon into the cool morning air.

So how can I say I know myself when a simple smell can shift me so far in time and space?

But I know you. No, how arrogant that sounds after what I've just written. What I mean is I've had you pointed out to me. And I've listened to what people say about you. And a lot of it, in fact most of it, wasn't very complimentary, but this isn't an abusive letter so I won't offend you by repeating it. But even your worst detractors had to admit you were good at your job and you weren't afraid of finding out the truth. Oh, and you didn't suffer fools gladly.

Well, this is one fool you won't have to suffer much of. You see, the reason I'm writing to you is I'm going to kill myself.

I don't mean straightaway. Some time soon, though, certainly in the next twelve months. It's a sort of New Year Resolution. But in the meantime I want someone to talk to. Clearly anyone I know personally is out of the question. Also doctors, psychiatrists, all the professional helpers. You see, this isn't the famous cry for help. My mind's made up. It's just a question of fixing a date. But I've discovered in myself a strange compulsion to talk about it, to drop hints, to wink and nod. Now that's too dangerous a game to play with friends. What I think I need is a controlled outlet for all my ramblings. And you 've been elected.

I'm sorry. It's a big burden to lay on anyone. But one other thing which came out of what people say about you is that my letters will be just like any other case. You might find them irritating but you won't lose any sleep over them!

I hope I've got you right. The last thing I want to do is to cause pain to a stranger - especially knowing as I do that the last thing I will do is cause pain to my friends.

Happy New Year!

CHAPTER
ONE

'I still don't see why she shot herself,’ said Peter Pascoe obstinately.

'Because she was bored. Because she was trapped,' said Ellie Pascoe.

Pascoe used his stick to test the consistency of the chaise-longue over the side of which the dead woman's magnificently ruined head had dangled thirty minutes earlier. It was as hard as it looked, but his leg was aching and he sat down with a sigh of relief which he turned into a yawn as he felt his wife's sharp eyes upon him. He knew she distrusted his claims to be fit enough to go back to work tomorrow. He would have gone back today only Ellie had pointed out with some acerbity that February 15th was his birthday, and she wasn't about to give the police the chance to ruin this one as they had the last half-dozen.

So it had been another day of rest and a series of birthday treats - breakfast in bed, an early gourmet dinner, front row stalls at the Kemble Theatre's acclaimed production of
Hedda Gabler,
all rounded off with after-show drinks on the stage, provided by Eileen Chung, the Kemble's Director.

'But people
don't
do such things,’ Pascoe now asserted with Yorkshire orotundity.

Ellie looked ready to argue but he went on confidentially, 'I can smell a rotting fish when I see one, lass,' and belatedly she recognized his parody of his CID boss, Andy Dalziel.

She began to smile and Pascoe smiled back.

'You two look happy,' said Eileen Chung, approaching with a new bottle of wine. 'Which is odd, considering you paid good money to be harrowed.'

'Oh, we're harrowed all right, only Peter's worst instincts tell him Hedda was murdered.'

'And how right you are, Pete, honey,' said Chung, easing her seventy-five inches of golden beauty on to the chaise-longue beside him. 'That's exactly what I wanted to get across. Let me fill your glass.'

Peter glanced round the stage. The rest of the Kemble team seemed to be taking their leave. He began to ease himself up, saying, 'I think we should be on our way . . .' but Chung drew him down again and said, 'Why the rush?'

'No rush,' he said. 'I'm not back at the rushing stage yet.'

'You've got a very distinguished limp,' she said. 'And I just love the stick.'

'He's embarrassed by the stick,' said Ellie, sitting at his other side so that he felt pleasantly squeezed. 'I suspect he feels it detracts from his macho image.'

'Pete. Baby!' said Chung, putting her hand on his knee and looking deep into his eyes. 'What's a stick but a phallic symbol? You want a bigger one maybe? I'll look in our props cupboard. And think of all the wild, wild men who've been lame. There was Oedipus, now he was a real motherfucker. And Byron. God, even his own sister wasn't safe -'

'Unhappily Peter is both an orphan and an only child,' interrupted Ellie.

'Aw shit. Pete, I'm sorry. I didn't know. But there's plenty of others without the family hang-ups. The Devil, for instance. Now he was lame.'

And Peter Pascoe, up to this moment more than content to accept this heavy-handed ribbing as a fair price for the privilege of being sandwiched between Ellie whom he loved, and Chung whom he lusted after, knew that he was betrayed.

He began to rise but Chung was already on her feet, her face alight with a let's-do-the-show-in- the-barn glow.

'The Devil,' she throbbed. 'Now there's an idea. Pete, honey, give me a profile. Fan-tastic. And with the limp, per-fection! Ellie, you know him best. Could he do it? Or could he do it?'

'He's got many diabolic qualities,' admitted Ellie.

This had gone far enough. There were some advantages to having a stick. He brought it down savagely on Hedda Gabler's coffee table, which he could do with a clear conscience as it belonged to him. Chung collected props like old Queen Mary collected antiques - she admired them into gifts. But she wasn't going to make a gift out of him.

Ellie was much to blame, but not as much as himself. He'd forgotten the golden rule - any friend of Ellie's was guilty until proven innocent, and probably longer. He'd been as suspicious as Ellie had been enthusiastic when the newly appointed Director of the Civil Theatre had clarioned her commitment to socially significant drama. But her beauty and charisma had made a rapid conquest of him. Her paymasters, the Borough Council, were less easy targets. Their stuff was brass not flesh and there was much concern lest they had taken a lefty viper to their righteous bosoms. But when her
Private Lives
(transplanted to Skegness and Huddersfield) had been a box office success surpassed only by her
Gondoliers of the Grand Union Canal,
the city fathers, realizing their clouds of doubt had brass linings, had relaxed and drifted with the cash-flow.

But it was her latest project aimed at God as well as Mammon which should have set his storm warning flashing.

Chung had proposed a huge outdoor production of the Mediaeval Mysteries. It was to be an eclectic version, though with a jingoistic concentration on the York and Wakefield cycles, it would run for seven days in early summer, and all the Powers that Were looked upon the project and saw that it was good. The clergy approved because it would make religion 'relevant', the Chamber of Commerce because it would pack the town with tourists, the Community Leaders because it would revitalize cultural identity by employing vast numbers of locals as performers, and the City Council because the locals wouldn't expect to be paid. Some mutterings about idolatry and blasphemy came from a few inerrantist outposts, but these were drowned in the great surge of approval.

At first it was assumed that Chung would cast her resident company in the main speaking parts, perhaps importing a middling magnitude telly star to give some commercial clout to Jesus, but here she took everyone by surprise.

'No way,' she told Ellie. 'My gang are going to be planted deep in the crowd scenes. That's where you need the professional stiffening in this kind of caper. Stars I can create!' So the great hunt had started. Every amateur thespian in the area started sending press-cuttings to the Kemble. Aged Jack Points, stripling King Lears, Lady Macbeths of the Dales, infant prodigies, Freds 'n' Gingers, Olivier lookalikes, Gielgud soundalikes, Monroe
moue
alikes, Streep stripalikes, the good, the bad, and the unbelievable were ready to stride and strut, fume and fret, leap and lounge, mouth and mumble, emote and expire before Chung's most seeing eye.

But for the most of them, their rehearsals were in vain. Chung saw to it that all their cuttings were returned with thanks, for she knew how precious are the records of praise, but the accompanying message was, why don't you go and get lost in the crowd scenes? For Chung had not been wasting her short time in this city. She was gregarious, went everywhere, forgot nothing. Those who met her were charmed, shocked, intrigued, revolted, amused, amazed, entranced, entramelled, but never indifferent. And though many would have loved it, few realized they had already been on Chung's casting couch. By the time she broached the Mysteries project, her mental cast list was almost complete.

Her intimates had been invited to help in snaring the more unwilling victims. Pascoe had been vastly amused when Ellie let drop some hilarious hints of Chung's remorseless quest, never for one moment suspecting that he might be himself a target!

But now his defences were fully aroused. He swung his stick at the coffee table again.

'No!' he cried. 'I won't do it!'

The women looked at each other with barely concealed amusement.

'Do what, honey?' asked Chung with solicitous innocence.

It was time to be clear beyond even the muddying powers of these practised pond-stirrers.

He said slowly, 'I am not going to be the Devil in your Mysteries. Not now. Not ever. No way.'

He examined his statement carefully. It seemed pretty limpid.

Now the women were looking at each other in amazement.

'But, Peter, of course you're not! Where did you get that idea from?' said Chung with the wide-eyed surprise of one who suspects this is no longer Kansas.