was still undetected, I think that the desire to make good what the law has failed to address is the one thing that might tempt me back to criminality. But there's no escaping the fact that, from that low point, I've been soaring upwards ever since.
I've had several strokes of luck, giving me hope that rather than just being as it were a midwife to Sam's great brainchild, I may really be able to claim a small part in its parentage. And I'm delighted to say that I have made many excellent new contacts among Linda's politicos.
So, dear Mr Pascoe, everything seems for the best in the best of possible worlds!
But I have to stop now and get my gear packed. The party's breaking up. Not even Dingley Dell can keep the real world at bay for ever. The politicos are getting back on their respective gravy trains. Jacques, accompanied by Dierick, is touching base at the monastery then heading back to the UK to resume his promotional tour.
As for me, it had been proposed before New Year that I should travel back with Linda and Mouse to Strasbourg and stay there a few days before going on to Frankfurt and Gottingen, both of which played a large role in Beddoes' European life. At the time the only thing which made me hesitate about instant agreement was Mouse. By herself she may have reverted to the quiet and shy little creature she really is, but Zazie and Hildi could be waiting back home, eager for a progress report, and ready to urge her back into the fray. I'm probably flattering myself, of course, but now that Linda has put herself in the frame too, I shudder at the picture of myself lying in my bed in the Lupin guestroom and both mother and daughter tiptoeing in to say Hello Sailor!
Why is my life so complicated? What wouldn't I give to be more like you, Mr Pascoe, so well organized, with my life under perfect control, but, alas, those genes were not tossed into my cradle by whatever Fairy Godmother attended my birth. My mother knew what she wanted and set out to get it, so I reckon I must have inherited my chaotic make-up from the father I never knew. From what my mother said about him, which wasn't much, he was wild at heart and not one whom fortune favoured. All I can hope is that I might get some of the luck he never did.
I am sitting writing this as I finish off the coffee at the breakfast table. Frere Jacques and I discovered one of many things we have in common is an internal alarm clock set for early rising, the result of our shared experience of the life cellular! Dierick is an even earlier riser. No sign of him this morning, and, to give him credit, no sign of his overnight presence on the sofa. When I met him yesterday, his manner to me was unchanged, distrustful neutrality! So I think I've read that situation right.
Penologists might like to note that in many ways the monastery has left Jacques a lot more disciplined than the Syke left me. His bag is already packed and standing in the entrance porch, and he has just set out to walk up to the castle and make his farewells. I meanwhile, not yet packed, linger here, pinned down by an irresistible urge to bring you up to date with the course of events since last I wrote and a superstitious feeling that by staying close to the phone I may persuade Dwight Duerden to ring. After all, it's still not midnight in California and I did say in my message that I'd be leaving here today. You must think me pathetic to be clutching at such straws – oh god there it goes!
Oh god! indeed. Thirty minutes have passed, one thousand eight hundred seconds, and in that time fortune, who doesn't care to be taken for granted, has raised me up and then shown me how easily she can cast me down!
It was indeed Professor Duerden. He said he'd spoken to various people as soon as he got back to St Poll and they were hugely enthused by what he told them. They are all desperately keen to meet me and find out exactly what it is I've got to offer. I had to keep reminding myself that he was ringing from Southern California where most people speak English, a lot speak Spanish, but everyone speaks hype. But when he finished by inviting me out there as a guest of the university, all expenses paid, I couldn't help catching some of his excitement. No, let me not be too English about this. I was bubbling fit to burst! I heard myself asking, idiotically, what the temperature was out there. To tell the truth, I was getting just a bit tired of invigorating frosts. A man can only be braced so far before he busts. Disappointingly he said it was about forty-eight degrees outside at the moment, then he laughed and went on, 'But it is nearly midnight! During the day, when the sun shines, we get in the high sixties, maybe even higher with a bit of luck.'
That will suit me nicely, I thought. Then something occurred to me which sent my spirits diving. I am, you may recall, a convicted felon. Didn't the US immigration authorities have strong feelings about that? Haltingly I put the objection to Dwight. He said, yes, he was aware of that, but dispensations could be made and he'd had a word with an old chum of his in Washington and another with a former pupil currently in their London Embassy, and it seemed that as long as I'd kept my nose clean since release and Dwight guaranteed to take responsibility for me while over there, I would be admitted as it were on sufferance. All I had to do was send off a formal visa application and then present myself at Grosvenor Square for interview when required. Was that OK?
My spirits were rocketing again! I said it was more than OK, it was great! And he said he thought so too and he'd expect to see me some time towards the end of January.
I must admit I put the phone down and punched the air like a celebrating footballer!
While we were talking I'd thought I'd heard the front door of the chalet open and shut, which I put down to Frere Jacques returning. I had to share my exuberance with someone and I rushed through into his bedroom, only to find it empty. I must have been mistaken, I thought, and needing exercise to work off the joyous rush of energy surging through my body, I went into my own room to pack.
There was a head on my pillow, two eyes looking at me rather nervously, a mouth essaying an inviting smile.
It was Mouse.
I stopped dead in my tracks, then took half a step backwards.
Perhaps fearful that I was going to turn and flee, she threw the duvet back to reveal she was stark naked. The way she did it, a quick spasmodic movement rather than a tantalizing unveiling, plus the tension visible in every muscle and the way she kept her legs pressed tightly together, showed me how nervous and uncertain she was.
I should, of course, have turned away and left the room. But, having overcome God knows what crises of mind and spirit to bring herself to this point, how would such a rejection have affected poor Mouse?
Sorry, that sounds like I'm trying to justify my actions. I freely admit that, without that phone call from Dwight, I would have been out of there so quick, she might have thought I'd been a mirage! But like I said, I was bubbling with a delight I wanted to share with everyone and without a first let alone a second thought (and certainly not that Third Thought which is my grave!) I was out of my clothes and into my bed.
Perhaps my sense of joy was infectious for she very quickly relaxed, though there must have been some pain in it for she was as inexperienced as she looked. But the strange cry she uttered as I entered her (which sounded to my admittedly not very attentive ears like wununredunAAAYtee!} seemed more triumphal than distressed.
From my own selfish point of view, I enjoyed it very much, certainly a great deal more than I might have anticipated. But post coitum timidum est, and as rapidly as the physical pleasure faded from my nerve ends, the possible consequences of my action came swarming into my disanaesthetized mind.
The first and most immediate was that Jacques might return at any moment, and in my haste to oblige Mouse, I now realized I hadn't even shut the door! I began to roll off the bed but we were still tangled up and she seemed inclined to hang on, resulting in a not unstimulating bout of wrestling which might have made me forget about the open door if out of the corner of my eye I hadn't glimpsed a figure standing like Death on the threshold.
It was Dierick. He smiled, the first time I'd seen him smile. It wasn't a pretty sight. Then slowly he closed the door.
Mouse hadn't seen him. Firmly I disengaged myself and got off the bed and, trying not to show an ungentlemanly haste, I pulled on my clothes. After a moment Mouse followed my example. Fully clothed, we stood on either side of the bed and looked each other straight in the eye.
I felt I had to say something, preferably something at the same time wise and affectionate and maybe a bit conciliatory, but all I could manage was, 'Danke schon.'
She said, 'Bitte schon.'
And we both laughed.
Then she left.
So what am I to do now, dear Chief Inspector? Once more I am in desperate need of your good advice. I
