Death's Jest-Book Read online

  REGINALD HILL

  * * *

  DEATH’S JEST-BOOK

  A Dalziel and Pascoe novel

  Copyright

  Harper

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street,

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2002 by HarperCollins

  Copyright © Reginald Hill 2008

  Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

  Source ISBN: 9780007313204

  Ebook Edition © JULY 2015 ISBN: 9780007396351

  Version: 2015-06-22

  Dedication

  For Julia

  who never hassles

  thanks

  The woodcut illustrations which prefigure each of the novel’s thirteen sections are taken from Hans Holbein the Younger’s Dance of Death

  Epigraph

  For death is more ‘a jest’ than Life, you see Contempt grows quick from familiarity. I owe this wisdom to Anatomy.

  T. L. BEDDOES Lines to B.W. Proctor

  … fat men can’t write sonnets

  T. L. BEDDOES The Bride’s Tragedy l.ii.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1. The Physician

  2. The Robber

  3. The Knight

  4. The Newly-Wed

  5. The Cemetery

  6. The Ship

  7. The Temptation

  8. The Queen

  9. The Drunkards

  10. The Friar

  11. The Pedlar

  12. The Child

  13. Judgment Day

  Keep Reading

  About the Author

  Praise

  By Reginald Hill

  About the Publisher

  1

  The Physician

  Imagined Scenes

  from

  AMONG OTHER THINGS:

  The Quest for Thomas Lovell Beddoes

  by Sam Johnson MA, PhD (first draft)

  Clifton, Glos. June 1808

  ‘That’s it, man. Hold her head, hold her head. For God’s sake, you behind, get your shoulder into it. Come, girl. Come, girl.’

  The shouter of these instructions, a burly man of about fifty years with a close-cropped head and a face made to command, stands halfway up a broad sweeping staircase. A few stairs below him a rustic, his naturally ruddy complexion even more deeply incarnadined by exertion, is leaning backwards like the anchor in a tug-o’-war, pulling with all his strength on a rope whose lower end is tied round the neck of a large brown cow.

  Behind the beast a nervous-looking footman is making encouraging fluttering gestures with his hands. From the marble-floored hallway below a housekeeper and butler watch with massive disapproval, while over the balustrade of the landing lean a pair of housemaids, arms full of sheets, all discipline forgotten, their faces bright with delight at this rare entertainment, and especially at the discomfiture of the footman.

  Between them kneels a solemn-faced little boy, his hands gripping the gilded wrought iron rails, who observes the scene with keen but unsurprised gaze.

  ‘Push, man, push, it can’t bite you!’ roars the burly man.

  The footman, used to obey and perhaps aware of the watching maids, takes a step forward and leans with one hand on each of the cow’s haunches.

  As if stimulated by the pressure, the beast raises its tail and evacuates its bowels. Caught full in the chest by the noxious jet, the footman tumbles backwards, the maids squeal, the little boy smiles to see such fun, and the cow as if propelled by the exuberance of its own extravasation bounds up the remaining stairs at such a pace that both the rustic and the burly man are hard put to retreat safely to the landing.

  Below, the butler and the housekeeper check that the bemired footman is unhurt. Then the woman hastens up the stairs, her face dark with indignation, which the maids observing, they beat a hasty retreat.

  ‘Dr Beddoes!’ she cries. ‘This is beyond toleration!’

  ‘Come now, Mrs Jones,’ says the burly man. ‘Is not your mistress’s health worth a little labour with brush and pan? Lead her on, George.’

  The rustic begins to lead the now completely cowed cow along the landing towards a half-open bedroom door. The man follows, with the small boy a step behind.

  Mrs Jones, the housekeeper, finding no answer to the doctor’s reproof, changes her line of attack.

  ‘A sick room is certainly no place for a child,’ she proclaims. ‘What would his mother say?’

  ‘His mother, ma’am, being a woman of good sense and aware of her duty, would say that his father knows best,’ observes the doctor sardonically. ‘A child’s eye sees the simple facts of things. It is old wives’ fancies that give them the tincture of horror. My boy has already looked unmoved on sights which have sent many a strapping medical student tumbling into the runnel. ‘Twill stand him in good stead if he chooses to follow his father’s example. Come, Tom.’

  So saying, he takes the boy by the hand and, passing in front of the cow and its keeper, he pushes open the bedroom door.

  This is a large room in the modern airy style, but rendered dark by heavily draped windows and illumined only by a single taper whose glim picks out the features of a figure lying in a huge square bed. It is a woman, old, sunken cheeked, eyes closed, pale as candle wax, and showing no sign of life. By the bedside kneels a thin black-clothed man who looks up as the door opens and slowly rises.

  ‘You’re too late, Beddoes,’ he says. ‘She is gone to her maker.’

  ‘That’s your professional opinion, is it, Padre?’ says the doctor. ‘Well, let’s see.’

  He goes to the window and pulls aside the drapes, letting in the full beam of a summer sun. In its light he stands looking down at the old woman, with his hand resting lightly on her neck.

  Then he turns and calls, ‘George, don’t hang back, man. Lead her in.’

  The rustic advances with the cow.

  The parson cries, ‘Nay, Beddoes, this is unseemly. This is not well done! She is at peace, she is with the angels.’

  The doctor ignores him. Helped by the rustic and observed with wide unblinking eyes by his son, he manoeuvres the cow’s head over the still figure in the bed. Then he punches the beast lightly in the stomach so that it opens its jaws and exhales a great gust of grassy breath directly into the woman’s face. Once, twice, three times he does this, and on the third occasion the cow’s long wet tongue licks lightly over the pallid features.

  The woman opens h
er eyes.

  Perhaps she expects to see angels, or Jesus, or even the ineffable glory of the Godhead itself.

  Instead what her dim vision discovers is a gaping maw beneath broad flaring nostrils, all topped by a pair of sharp pointed horns.

  She shrieks and sits bolt upright.

  The cow retreats, the doctor puts a supporting arm round the woman’s shoulders.

  ‘Welcome back, my lady. Will you take a little nourishment?’

  Her gaze clearing and the agitation fading from her features, she nods feebly and the doctor eases her back on to her pillows.

  ‘Take Betsy out, George,’ says Beddoes. ‘Her work is done.’

  And to his son he says, ‘You see how it is, young Tom. The parson here preaches miracles. We lesser men have to practise them. Mrs Jones, a little nourishing broth for your mistress, if you please.’

  Clifton, Glos, December 1808

  Another bedroom, another bed, with another still figure stretched on it, arms crossed on breast, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. But this is no old woman paled into a simulacrum of death by illness and debility. She, by the mercy of God and the ministrations of her doctor, still lives, but now Thomas Beddoes Sr, aged only forty-eight and looking as strong and wilful as ever he did in life, has leapfrogged his ancient patient into the grave.

  Two women stand by the bed, one with her face so scored by grief she looks more fit to be laid on a bier than her husband, the other, some years older, with her arm round the wife’s waist, offering comfort.

  ‘Do not give yourself over so utterly to grief, Anne,’ she urges. ‘Remember the children. You must be their strength now, and they will be yours.’

  ‘The children … yes, the children,’ says Anne Beddoes distractedly. ‘They must be told … they must be shown and take their farewells …’

  ‘Not all of them,’ says the other gently. ‘Let Tom do for all. He is a thoughtful child for his age and will know how best to tell the others. Shall I fetch him now, Sister?’

  ‘Please, yes, if you think it best …’

  ‘But first his eyes … should we not close his eyes?’

  They look down at the strong staring face.

  ‘The parson tried but could not draw the lids down,’ says Anne. ‘He was in his prime, so full of energy … I do not think he was ready to leave the world he could see for one which is invisible …’

  ‘It is a great loss, to you, to us all, to the poor of Bristol, to the world of science. Compose yourself a little, Sister, and I will fetch young Tom.’

  She leaves the room, but does not have far to go.

  Little Thomas Lovell Beddoes is sitting on the top stair, reading a book.

  ‘Tom, my sweet, you must come with me,’ she says.

  The boy looks up and smiles. He likes his Aunt Maria. To the world she is Miss Edgeworth, the famous novelist, and when he told her that one day he too would like to write books, she didn’t mock him but said seriously, ‘And so you shall, Tom, else you would not be your father’s son.’

  Also she tells him stories. They are good stories, well structured, but lacking a little of the colour and excitement he already prefers in a narrative. But this is no matter as when he retells the tales to his brother and sisters, he is quite capable of adding enough of these elements to give them nightmares.

  He stands up and takes his aunt’s hand.

  ‘Is Father well again?’ he asks.

  ‘No, Tom, though he is in a place where all are well,’ she says. ‘He has left us, Tom, he has gone to Heaven. You must be a comfort to your dear mama.’

  The little boy frowns but does not speak as Aunt Maria leads him into the bedroom.

  ‘Oh, Tom, Tom,’ sobs his mother, embracing him so tightly he can hardly breathe. But all the time as she presses his head against her breast, his eyes are fixed upon the still figure on the bed.

  His aunt prises him loose from the sobbing woman and says, ‘Now say goodbye to your papa, Tom. Next time you see him will be in a better world than this.’

  The boy goes to the bedside. He stands a little while, looking down into those staring eyes with a gaze equally unblinking. Then he leans forward as if to plant a kiss on the dead man’s lips.

  But instead of a kiss, he blows. Once, twice, thrice, each time harder, aiming the jet of warm breath at the pale mouth and flared nostrils.

  ‘Tom!’ cries his aunt. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m bringing him back,’ says the boy without looking up.

  He blows again. Now the assurance which had marked his mien till this moment is beginning to fade. He is gripping his father’s right hand, and squeezing the fingers in search of a respondent pressure. And all the time he is puffing and blowing, his face red with effort, like an athlete straining for the tape at the end of a long race.

  His aunt moves swiftly forward.

  ‘Tom, stop that. You are upsetting your mama. Tom!’

  She seizes him, he resists, not blowing now but shouting, and she has to pull him away from the corpse by main force. His mother stands there, clenched fist to her mouth, shocked to silence by this unexpected turn.

  And as he is dragged out of the bedroom by his aunt, and across the landing, and down the stairs, his cries fade away like the calls of a screech owl across a darkling moor which still echo disturbingly in the mind long after they have died from the ear.

  ‘Fetch the cow … Fetch the cow … Fetch the cow …’

  2

  The Robber

  Letter 1. Received Sat Dec 15th. P.P

  St Godric’s College

  Cambrioge

  Fri Dec 14th

  The Quaestor’s Lodging

  Dear Mr Pascoe,

  Cambridge! St Godric’s College! The Quaestor’s Lodging!

  Ain’t I the swell then? Ain’t I a Home Office commercial for the rehabilitating powers of the British penal system?

  But who am I? you must be wondering. Or has that sensitive intuition for which you are justly famous told you already?

  Whatever, let me end speculation and save you the bother of looking to the end of what could be a long letter.

  I was born in a village called Hope, and it used to be my little joke that if I happened to die by drowning in Lake Disappointment in Australia, my cruciform headstone could read

  Here lies

  Francis Xavier Roote

  Born in

  HOPE

  Died in

  DISAPPOINTMENT

  Yes, it’s me, Mr Pascoe, and guessing what could be your natural reaction to getting mail from a man you banged up for what some might call the best years of his life, let me hasten to reassure you:

  THIS ISN’T A THREATENING LETTER!

  On the contrary, it’s a REASSURING letter.

  And not one I would have dreamt of writing if events over the past year hadn’t made it clear how much you need reassurance. Me too, especially since my life has taken such an unexpected turn for the better. Instead of grubbing away in my squalid little flat, here I am relaxing in the luxury of the Quaestor’s Lodging. And in case you think I must have broken in, I enclose the annual conference programme of the Romantic and Gothic Studies Association (RAGS for short!). There’s my name among the list of delegates. And if you look at nine o’clock on Saturday morning, there you will see it again. Suddenly I have a future; I have friends; out of Despair I have found my way back to Hope and it’s starting to look as if after all I may not be heading for the cold waters of Disappointment!

  Incidentally, I shared my macabre little jest with one of my new friends, Linda Lupin MEP, when she took me to meet another, Frère Jacques, the founder of the Third Thought Movement.

  What brought it to mind was we were standing in the grounds of the Abbaye du Saint Graal, the Cornelian monastery of which Jacques is such a distinguished member. The grounds opened with no barrier other than a meandering stream choked with cresses on to a World War One military cemetery whose rows of white crosses ran away fr
om us up a shallow rise, getting smaller and smaller till the most distant looked no larger than the half-inch ones Linda and I carried on silver chains round our necks.

  Linda laughed loudly. Appearances can deceive (who knows that better than you?) and finding Linda possessed of a great sense of humour has been a large step in our relationship. Jacques grinned too. Only Frère Dierick, who has attached himself to Jacques as a sort of amanuensis with pretensions to Boswellian status, pursed his lips in disapproval of such out-of-place levity. His slight and fleshless figure makes him look like Death in a cowl, but in fact he’s stuffed to the chops with Flemish phlegm. Jacques happily, despite being tall, blond and in the gorgeous ski-instructor mould, has much more of Gallic air and fire in him, plus he is unrepentantly Anglophile.

  Linda said, ‘Let’s see if we can’t dispose of you a bit further south in Australia, Fran. There’s a Lake Grace, I believe. Died in Grace, that’s what Third Thought’s all about, right, Brother?’

  This reduction of the movement to a jest really got up Dierick’s bony nose but before he could speak, Jacques smiled and said, ‘This I love so much about the English. You make a joke of everything. The more serious it is, the more you make the jokes. It is deliciously childish. No, that is not the word. Childlike. You are the most childlike of all the nations of Europe. That is your strength and can be your salvation. Your great poet Wordsworth knew that childhood is a state of grace. Shades of the prison house begin to close about the growing boy. It is the child alone who understands the holiness of the heart’s affections.’

  Getting your Romantics mixed there, Jacques, old frère, I thought, at the same time trying to work out if the bit about shades of the prison house was a crack. But I don’t think so. By all accounts Jacques’ own background is too colourful for him to be judgmental about others, and anyway he’s not that kind of guy.