was. Arms and the Man at Oldham. The date fitted perfectly. The only thing was when I checked the cast list, it wasn’t Freddie Pomona and Melanie Mackillop who were playing Sergius and Raina, it was two other people. My parents were playing Nicola, the head serving man, and Catherine, Raina’s middle-aged mother. How’s that for romantic, and do you take sugar?”
“A spoonful. Well, it’s not really so terrible, is it? Improving on the past isn’t exactly a capital crime.”
“I suppose not. Shaw would probably have liked it. The play’s all about exploding inflated notions of romance and sacrifice and honour.”
“Then why so cynical?”
She looked at him thoughtfully then said, “Another time, eh? Wetting my hair always loosens my tongue. Let’s see if those chocs you brought are any good.”
They went back into the sitting room. Rye opened the chocolate box, bit into one and nodded approvingly.
“Excellent,” she said. “So how did you know I was ill?”
“Well, I was at the library today…”
“Why?” she demanded. “Has something happened?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “Strict confidence, OK?”
“Guide’s honour,” she said.
He told her about the new Dialogue.
“Oh God,” she said. “I wondered when I heard about Johnson’s death
…”
“What made you wonder?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Just a feeling. And maybe because…”
“What?”
“This connection with the library. I don’t just mean the Dialogues turning up there, but these last three killings, there’s been a kind of link. OK, it’s tenuous, but it does create a sort of illogical sensitivity…”
Suddenly she looked very vulnerable.
“Come on,” he said with an attempt at avuncular jocularity. “Cheer up. No need for you to worry.”
“Really?” His reassurance worked insomuch as her evident vulnerability was instantly replaced by an air of nepotal admiration and trust. “Oh, do tell why I shouldn’t worry.”
“Well, because this guy, the Wordman, isn’t one of your normal sexual psychos going around topping young women. So far there’s only been one woman, Jax Ripley, and no sex. We don’t know yet precisely what drum this lunatic’s marching to, but there’s nothing to suggest that someone like you is more likely to be in the firing line than, say, someone like me. As for the library thing, my notion is that the short story competition gave him the kind of way of slipping his Dialogues into the public consciousness which appealed to his warped mind…”
“Sorry, run that by me again.”
“He’s got a puzzler’s mind, the kind that sees everything in terms of hidden answers, and deceptions, and references, and connections, and riddles, and word games. Hiding what’s turned out to be fact in a great pile of fiction is exactly the kind of thing that would appeal to him.”
“This degree they say you did, what was it in? Ornithology with psychiatry?” she said, half mocking, half complimentary.
“Geography,” he said, adding, “with Economics,” like a plea in mitigation. It didn’t work.
“My God. You mean I’m getting involved with a birdwatcher with a geography degree? At least I won’t have to worry about getting to sleep at nights.”
He examined this, decided there was more in it to be pleased with than to take offence at, and went on, “Being a detective’s like learning to use the reference library. It’s all a question of knowing where to look. We had these guys down from the Uni, a trick cyclist and a linguist. I took notes. What I’m saying is that while everyone should take care, there’s no group in particular we can advise as being at greater risk than any other. Saying everyone’s in danger may sound like cold comfort, but if you look at it statistically, if everyone’s in danger, the odds on you being the one are pretty long. So take care, but don’t take to the hills. Not without company, anyway. Talking of which, are you going to be fit for our expedition this weekend?”
“No problem,” she said, stretching back sinuously so that her T-shirt rode up from her jeans revealing a band of gently rounded belly which set all those alarms flashing and ringing along his arteries once more. “I’m feeling better by the minute. Who did you see at the library? Dick?”
“Yes,” he said. If she’d wanted to flick a bit of cold water at him, introducing Dee’s name at this juncture did the trick. “Talking of Dee, you ever hear of a doctor with that name?”
“Not unless you mean the Elizabethan astrologer and necromancer,” she said.
“Yeah, that’ll be the one,” he said. Clever old Pascoe, ho ho ho.
“This the latest theory, the Wordman’s a magician and Dick’s a descendant of the doctor?”
“Well, you’ve got to admit he’s a little bit weird,” he said, adding quickly to dilute his criticism, “Must be the time he spends with Penn. When I went up to the Reference, they were in the office, playing that funny board game. Paronomania.”
He looked at her closely to see if he’d got it right.
Rye laughed and said, “You do listen, then!”
“Depends who’s talking. You said the word actually means an obsessive interest in word games?”
“That’s right. It’s a mix of paronomasia, that’s wordplay or a pun, and mania, with maybe a touch of paranoia thrown in. What are you looking at me like that for?”
“You realize you’ve just repeated more or less what I was saying about the Wordman?” said Hat.
“Oh, come on,” she said with irritation. “What your tame experts said, you mean? Listen, these two have been playing this game ever since I joined the staff. It’s no big secret vice. I asked about it and Dick explained the name, no problem. He even gave me a copy of the rules and so on. I’ve got it somewhere.”
She started looking through a drawer.
“The two boards I’ve seen looked hand-painted, and they were different,” said Hat. “Is it a real game? Or just one they made up?”
“What on earth would the difference be?” she said, smiling at him. “I know it started at school when they were playing Scrabble-”
“At school?” he interrupted. “Dee went to Unthank too?”
“Yes. That a problem?”
“Of course not.” But it might be an answer. “So, Scrabble.”
“That’s right. It seems there was a dispute about some Latin word that one of them used, and it led to them playing a version in which you couldn’t use anything but Latin. Things developed from that, they wanted something more complicated, with a bigger board, more letters, different rules, and the players take turns in choosing the language.
…Oh, here it is-no, don’t read it now, you can keep it, time I was clearing out some of this clutter.”
Hat folded the sheets of paper she’d given him and put them in his wallet.
“No wonder I couldn’t understand any of the words I saw,” he said, reluctantly impressed. “How many languages do they speak, for God’s sake?”
“French, German-Penn’s fluent in that, of course-bit of Spanish, Italian, the usual stuff. But it doesn’t matter. They don’t have to know a language to play in it so long as there’s a dictionary in the library. That’s part of the fun, it seems. It’s like poker. One will produce a word which looks like it might be Slovakian, say, then defy the other to challenge him. Is it a bluff or has he swotted up a bit of Slovak the day before, and is now trying to provoke a challenge? Then out comes the dictionary and it’s lose a go and fifty points if it’s a false word, and the same if it’s an unsuccessful challenge.”
“What a pair of sad plonkers,” muttered Hat.
“Why do you say that?” she asked, looking at him curiously. “Two consenting adults, and they play in private, they’re not trying to impress anyone.”
“They seem to have impressed you. Ever try it yourself?”
“Wouldn’t have minded, but I’ve never been asked,” she said. “Story of my life, really. Lots of interesting games going on, but nobody asks me to play.”
Was this a hint? An invitation? Or just a tease?
