SERGIUS: Oh yes. That was quite amusing really. She had to mark you to get the sense of steel engraving across. But the police experts interpreted it as an attempt to inscribe RIP, in Cyrillic script. They were right about the script-a macabre little joke on my sister’s part-but in fact all she was writing was her initials, R.P., as an artist might inscribe a work of art. This was part of her desire for confirmation of my protection, for assurance of her invulnerability. Tell the world it was her; even as in your case, my lord, lead the police to the body. It didn’t matter what she did, she felt she couldn’t be caught, no matter what clues she left.
SAM: And that makes it all right, does it? So what clues did the cow leave after she did for me?
SERGIUS: Well, she left the book open at that poem about the loved, long lost boy. That was me, of course. And then there was the chocolate bar…
SAM: What chocolate bar, for God’s sake?
SERGIUS: The Yorkie bar. Yorkies have the letters of its name printed on them, one on each segment. She broke it up and rearranged it on the mantel shelf above the fire. If anyone had found your body before the chocolate melted, they’d have read her message.
SAM: Message? What message? Some reference to The Chocolate Soldier? Very subtle!
SERGIUS: Oh no. Much clearer than that. The letters read I RYE OK. Surely even Mid-Yorkshire’s Thickest would have got that? Perhaps not. I mean, none of them spotted that the illuminated P at the beginning of the first Dialogue represented a tree and there were apples among the pile of letters lying alongside the roots. Pomona, the goddess of fruit trees, remember? From the start she was telling you who she was. Later you even gave a little lecture to that young constable on why man in combinations like chairman need not be gender specific, and neither of you transferred it to wordman. But why should we be surprised? Even when the police more or less caught her in the act of slaying you, Mr. Dee, she still got away with it. Of course, love is blind, and when that poor young constable rushed in, what he saw was you assaulting his beloved. Happily for Rye, when he fell backwards in pulling you off her, he hit his head so hard, he was rendered almost senseless, a condition she maintained by breaking a bottle over his skull and blinding him with wine. It was easy then for her to make sure his hand found the knife which he proceeded to stick into you with such great enthusiasm. Not that it was necessary. You were going to die from Rye’s first blow to the stomach anyway.
DICK: But why? Why did she do it? We were going to make love. She felt the same way as I did, I’m sure.
SERGIUS: You’re right. She liked you; and she felt extremely randy; and being a modern young woman, saw no reason not to enjoy herself. But naturally on seeing the approach of the young man she really loved, she changed her mind. She’s not that modern! Then she saw you naked, and that was it. But I’m afraid it wasn’t your rampant loblance that so compelled her gaze, Mr. Dee, it was the rather large reddy-grey birthmark running across your belly. If ever a man was haswed, it was you. This was a sign from Serge, she thought. Time stopped for her. Which meant, of course, that very soon time had to stop for you also. Don’t take it personally. Do take it as a comfort, if you will, that your death affected her more than anyone else’s. And, of course, it had the bonus of giving the constabulary the best kind of ready-made culprit, a dead one who spared them the inconvenience and expense of a trial.
DICK: Oh God. You mean that’s what I’m going to be remembered for? Being a serial killer?
SERGIUS: Well, it was always your ambition to make your mark as a wordman, wasn’t it? And you did contribute to your own downfall. She wouldn’t have come to the cottage if you hadn’t asked her. And she wouldn’t have seen your birthmark if you hadn’t set out to seduce her. And the police wouldn’t have had you so firmly in the frame if you’d come forward to admit you’d been in bed with Miss Ripley the day she died. That was an amusing irony, really. Rye had actually covered up your presence there by removing your watch which you’d left under the pillow! She did it out of affection for you. But if the police had found it and therefore questioned you earlier about your relationship with Miss Ripley, who knows? Perhaps the whole course of events may have been changed. Well, that’s fate. Now, unless there are any more questions, let’s start getting you aboard. You first, Messrs. Bird and Follows, as you are potentially the most awkward…
PERCY: We will get separated on the other side, won’t we?
SERGIUS: Oh yes. Nothing Dante-esque about the place where you’re going. Now, Miss Ripley…excellent… Mr. Ainstable, perhaps you could give Mr. Pitman a hand…he’s a bit broken up…you’ll love it over there, Mr. Pitman. Very Greek. Mr. Steel…
STUFFER: What’s the nosh like, mate?
SERGIUS: Ambrosia. With chips. Dr. Johnson…
SAM: I don’t know about this…
SERGIUS: Just think of it as sailing to the rock in the ancient waves, Doctor. And there’s a young friend of yours waiting to see you. That’s right. He may have a couple of things to tell you which you’ll find surprising. There we go. Now, Mr. Dee…
DICK: Do I gather that we’ll get the chance to meet people we once knew…?
SERGIUS: Don’t worry. Young Johnny knows you’re coming. He’s very excited. Last but not least, you, my lord.
GEOFF: Oh gosh, not so much of that lord stuff, eh? Not the place to be putting on the style from the sound of it.
SERGIUS: You may be surprised how hierarchical we are. And of course when you’re connected…
GEOFF: So long as there’s a bit of good sport. Shall I push off then? Right. Here we go. Just one thing that bothers me, as they say in the tec novels. Has all this worked out for Rye? I mean, was it really you leading her on all the time? And if her motive was getting in touch with you, why can’t we hear her? Or did she have to get right through the whole twenty volumes of OED before she wrapped it up? In which case, sounds like she’s got a long way to go? And won’t the police get a bit suspicious when the Wordman killings carry on even with Dick here dead? Left hand down a bit, I think, old thing. Don’t want to hit that rock or whatever it is out there…can’t see a thing in this mist…oh yes, I can…it’s getting a bit clearer…it’s…it’s
…Oh my God…!
And so their voices fade in the mist, or rather in my head, which is maybe the same thing, with Geoff’s questions unanswered.
Silence. The same silence which began as I stepped back into time and looked down at dear Dick’s ripped and bloody corpse, and dearer Hat’s pale and bleeding face.
Oh, Serge, Serge, why have you deserted me? In all the other dialogues, I heard you, sometimes faint, sometimes loud and clear, always unmistakably you. In this one I have invented words, for you, for all of them, hoping like a nurse giving the kiss of life, that eventually my breath would give you strength once more to take your own.
But here I sit in what used to be Dick’s chair, with all those old wordmen staring down at me from the walls, and I know that I am alone. Except for my memories.
Such memories.
How can I live with them?
I am of course mad by any normal standard of judging sanity.
And will be mad in my own judgment if I conclude that this has all been delusion, all done for nothing.
The questions I put into Geoff’s mouth need to be answered.
Perhaps others will answer them for me. Even if the police are so blind that they let me get away with this, theirs are not the only eyes that I have to fear.
Through the open door into the library, I can see Charley Penn sitting at his table, looking towards me with a gaze by turns speculative and sceptical and accusing, and always angry.
Beside him is that strange young man, Franny Roote, who whenever he catches my eye gives me a small, almost complicitous smile.
Or is it guilt that makes me see these things?
Something else that I can see through my open door is real enough, nought realler.
The twenty volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary sitting proudly on its high shelf.
I set out on a path signposted by the forty words on those twenty volumes.
Haswed has brought me up to the end of Volume VI.
What of the other fourteen? Do I really need to labour over that long and tortuous path to discover the truth of it all? Must I press on into Volume VII?
