'Which is?'
'When in doubt, it's your shout. Come on, lad, the Bull's been open for nigh on ten minutes!'
CHAPTER TWO
Eustace Horncastle was no connoisseur of revenge. Hot or cold, it was a dish his cloth forbade him, and he felt this no great deprivation, believing with that fervour reserved for the more militant tenets of his faith that the Lord would repay.
Unhappily, his knowledge of what the Lord would do was not matched by an equal degree of self-awareness. Vengeance, plainly served at whatever temperature, would have been pushed aside with genuine moral revulsion; but Mrs Horncastle could testify that, reconstituted, it had been a staple of his diet for many years.
The way it worked was this. At the conscious level, wrongs were forgiven, slights forgotten, provocations met with forbearance and pain with fortitude. But somehow, somewhere, some time, something would emerge, justifiable in terms of logic, Christian teaching, and the greatest good of the greatest number, which without bearing much resemblance to most known forms of vengeance, yet had its sweet and sour aftertaste.
'Oh you bastard,' said Eileen Chung.
She picked up the phone on her desk at the Kemble and dialled. A woman's voice answered.
'Dorothy, is that you? Hi. Chung here. Is your lovely husband in?'
'I'm afraid not. Can I help?'
'I don't think so. It's not important. I'll catch up with him later,' said Chung with Erinnic certainty. 'How're you doing?'
'I'm fine.'
'That's good. It's time you dropped by for a coffee. I know you're up to your halo with good works and all that, but we can always put you to work if you feel guilty. How about this afternoon?'
The two women had met several times since their encounter over the Pliny tomb. Their exchanges had been light and social but undershot on both sides by a strong current of memory.
'I might do that. Ought I to get Eustace to ring you back?'
It was a strange turn of phrase.
She knows what this is about, thought Chung. And she's hinting a doubt at my strategy.
'No need,' she said easily. 'I'd prefer to see him. Perhaps we can plot an ambush when you come round.'
She replaced the phone. Dorothy Horncastle had been right. She would get nowhere talking to the Canon on the phone. Even face to face her charms were uncertain now that he'd cried Lamia. But without St Bega's, her production felt flat and dull, as flat and dull as Charter Park. She should have taken more care of this. She stood up and walked restlessly around the room. The walls were papered with the Mysteries - storyboard, scripts, routes, costume and pageant designs - it was all there, in every sense. This was what had attracted her in the first place. The only other way to get such a comprehensive statement of life was to do all of Shakespeare from
'What's up with you, lass? You look like you bit an apple and swallowed a worm.'
It was Dalziel. Sometimes you knew backstage when he was in the foyer; others, he came up behind you like a scouting Indian.
'Worm's about it,' she said handing him the letter.
He read it and said, 'Makes a difference using Charter Park, does it?'
'Like playing at Barnsley instead of Wembley,' she said.
'I'm a rugby man meself,' he said, 'and clart's clart whatever the scenery. What's the plan, then?'
She shrugged hopelessly. Dalziel watched and thought that Chung shrugging should have a government health warning. No mere shoulder movement this but an undulation running down her long lithe body like a Mexican wave.
He grinned and said, 'Right. Let the dog see the rabbit.'
'What are you doing?' she asked as he dialled a number on her phone.
'Can't compete with you at shaking titties, luv,' he said. 'But I'm a dab hand at shaking other things, like fists, faith and front row forwards. Hello! Bishop in? He can't be busy, it's not Sunday. Tell him it's Andy Dalziel and there may be a problem about his ticket for the Welsh game next season. What? No, I don't want him to ring back, I want him now. If the monkey's around, the organ-grinder can't be far away.'
