Arms and the Women (Dalziel and Pascoe Series #18)

Arms and the Women (Dalziel and Pascoe Series #18)

by Reginald Hill

Paperback(Mass Market Paperback - Reissue)

$8.99 View All Available Formats & Editions


Someone attempts to abduct Ellie Pascoe, and her friend, Daphne Alderman, is assaulted by a man keeping watch on the Pascoe house. Dalziel, Pascoe and Wield feel certain there must be a link here with one of Pascoe's cases, either current or past. Only DC Shirley Novello wonders whether perhaps these events might have more to do with Ellie than her husband.

While the men concentrate on their individual theories, Ellie, her daughter Rosie, Daphne, and Novello (their official minder) head for the coast to the supposed safety of the Alderman's holiday home, Cleets Cottage. But their flight proves somewhat futile as Ellie's would-be abductor continues to send her letters of possibly threatening intent, composed in a strange Elizabethan English.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780440225942
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 10/28/2000
Series: Dalziel and Pascoe Series , #18
Edition description: Reissue
Pages: 512
Product dimensions: 6.90(w) x 4.26(h) x 1.12(d)

About the Author

Reginald Hill has been widely published both in England and in North America. He received Britain's most coveted mystery writing award, the Golden Dagger, for his Dalziel/Pascoe series. He lives in England.

Read an Excerpt

spelt from Sibyl's Leaves

Eleanor Soper . . .

Memory time.

Yours, not mine.

Strange. I have been dead many times, and learned the secrets of the grave, and have been a diver in deep seas, and keep their fallen day about me, but my own reality still troubles me. The little patch of blue I can see through the high round window is probably the sky, but it could just as well be a piece of blue backcloth or a painted flat.

On the other hand, with one touch of a key, I open up your past, my Eleanor . . .

I remember I remember the house where you were born . . . The little window where the sun came peeping in at morn . . .

My window's too high, and I in my wheelchair too low for the sun to peep in at me. Distantly I hear a clatter of hooves. They're changing guard at . . . I've heard them do it thousands of times. But they could be mere sound effects played on tape. You don't take anything on trust in this business. Not even your friends. Especially not them. I who know everything knew nothing till I knew that.

Back to Eleanor. School and medical records . . . bright, alert, slightly hyperactive . . . an only child, much loved though maybe your father would have preferred a boy . . .? This might explain your preference for soccer over netball . . . your fury when told you weren't eligible to play on the school soccer team. An awkward, angry teenager . . . an anger that was eventually chanelled into protests, sit-ins, flag-burning, civil disobedience . . . but did it stem in part from your reluctance to admit the undeniable evidence that you weren't a boy?

I remember, I remember the fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops were close against the sky . . .

The only undeniable reality lies in the machine.

But while reality hardly changes at all, the machine has changed a lot. It grows young as I grow old.

Shall I like my namesake grow old forever?

My namesake, I say. After so long usage, am I starting to believe as so many of the youngsters clearly believe that my name really is Sibyl? Strange the name my parents gave me also labeled me as a woman of magic, but an enchantress as well as a seer. Morgan. Morgan Meredith. Morgan le Fay as Gaw used to call me in the days of his enchantment.

But now my enchanting days are over. And it was Gaw who rechristened me when he saw that I had no magic to counter the sickness in my blood.

A wise man hides his mistakes in plain sight, then over long time slowly corrects them.

My dear old friend Gawain Clovis Sempernel is a wise man. No one would deny it. Not if they've any sense.

Aroynt thee, hag. Ripeness is all. And I have work to do.

When I first took on my sacred office, the machine loomed monumentally, like a Victorian family tomb. Thirty years on, it's smaller than an infant's casket, leaving plenty of room on the narrow tabletop for my flask and mug, and also my inhaler and pill dispenser, though generally I keep these hidden. Sounds silly when you're in a wheelchair, but I was brought up to believe you don't advertise your frailties.

That's a lesson a lot of folk never learn, which is why so many of them end up frozen in my electronic casket where there's always room for plenty more.

If I wanted I could ask it to tell me exactly how many people had passed through my hands, or, rather, my fingertips, for that's the closest I get to actually handling people. But I don't bother. This isn't about statistics, this is about individuals. Like Eleanor Soper.

For my casket is also an incubator.

Here they make their first appearance, often looking completely helpless and harmless. But, oh, how quickly they grow, and I oversee their progress with an almost parental pride as their details accumulate and their files fatten out.

Some live up to their promise. (By which I mean threat!)

Others, apparently, change direction completely. Such converts I always regard with grave suspicion, even if—especially if—they make it to the very top. They're either faking it, in which case we're ready for them. Or they're genuine, which means the contents of these files could be a serious embarrassment.

It's always nice to know you can embarrass your masters.

But the great majority merely fade away, became ghosts of their vibrant young selves.

You, Eleanor, begin to fade the day you trip into church as Ms. Soper, the academic radical, and stroll out as Mrs. Pascoe, the policeman's wife. For a while you resist the change . . . but then you start a family . . . move out of academe . . . one last fling in the underworld of miners' politics . . . and after that . . . perhaps you simply found that marching with a kid on your back wasn't so much fun . . . perhaps . . . or perhaps not. . . .

Let's take a look at your current protest status, Eleanor Pascoe.

Amnesty—member, nonactive; Anti-Fascist Action—lapsed; Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament—lapsed; Gay Rights—lapsed; Graduates Against God—lapsed; Greenpeace—member, nonactive; Labour Party—member, nonactive; Liberata Trust—member, active;  Quis Custodiet?—lapsed; Third World  United—lapsed; Women's Rights Action Group—lapsed; World Socialist Alliance—lapsed.

Once you squawked so loud in your incubator, Eleanor, now you rest so quiet.

Gaw Sempernel (let no dog bark) says there is nothing so suspicious as silence. Must have watched a lot of cowboy films in his youth. It's quiet out there, Gaw . . . too damn quiet! But don't underestimate Gaw. He is often right.

Certainly neither sound nor silence gets you out of my casket. Once inside, there you stay forever. And if your presence is ever needed, you can be conjured up in a trice, like the wraiths of the classical underworld, which as my classically educated Gawain likes to remind me were summoned to appear by the smell and the taste of fresh blood.

For machines may change, and fashions change, and human flesh, God help us, changes most inevitably of all.

But some people have at their hearts something which refuses to change, despite all life shows them by way of contra-evidence. Perhaps it is a genetic weakness. Certainly, once established, like the common cold, no one has yet found a way of eradicating it.

Which is why I, practicing what I preach, have demonstrated to the world (or that section of it which shares this lonely building in the heart of this populous city), that there is life after death by staying in gainful employment all these years, Sibyl the Sibyl, sitting here in my solitary cell, hung high in my lonely cage, laying the bodies out neatly in my electronic casket, and, when necessary, conjuring them back to life.

My poor benighted ghosts scenting blood once more.

Have you really changed, my Eleanor Soper? Or do you still nurse a secret hope that the fir trees' slender tops really do brush against the sky?

If so, then you may be in for a lesson in reality. It was a childish ignorance, but now 'tis little joy to know you're farther off from Heaven than when you were a boy.

Table of Contents

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See All Customer Reviews

Arms and the Women (Dalziel and Pascoe Series #18) 3.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 3 reviews.
Bjace on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Probably my least favorite Dalziel and Pascoe. Large sections of the book are the text of a novel being written by Ellie Pascoe, which I found annoying. When a kidnapping attempt is made on Peter Pascoe's wife, investigations into Pascoe's enemies turn up nothing; the key to the mystery is in Ellie's political involvements. The finale is over-the-top.
the.ken.petersen on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is not really a collection of short stories, it is rather a novelette, 'Pascoe's Ghost', and three short pieces.The aforementioned, at 112 pages looks to me like the guts of a novel that refused to proceed to its desired ending. In this pared down version, it however makes an excellent read.Coming on to the smaller offerings, we are treated to the first meeting of Dalziel and Pascoe and a 'ghost story' from Mr. Dalziel: both proving Mr. Hill to be one of those rare writers that can really do short stories as well as they can the novel. The last piece is more questionable. It was produced in 1990, to celebrate twenty years of our crime fighting duo and, as Mr hill admits in his introduction, is a flight of fantasy. The story is set in 2010 (now alarmingly close!) on a European moon base. Dalziel has retired and Pascoe is Chief of Security. The story is really that of the people involved and, as such, is up to the author's usual high standard: where I am less sure of its merit, is in the fact that it very much reminds us that these are not real people. Of course, we know that but, in the course of so many novels, they become, in some sense, friends and it is almost like being forced to see that a good friend is false.Dispite this small gripe, I enjoyed this book and must hope that my friends continue to keep Wetherton safe for many years to come.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I have read and greatly enjoyed each one of the talented Reginald Hill's [aka Patrick Ruell] books. Like my other favorite authors [Ruth Rendell, aka Barbara Vine, P. D. James, and S. T. Haymon] Mr. Hill's mystery novels are entertaining, exciting, and quite unpredictable---everything a book lover seeks, but does not always find. Do yourselves a favor, and locate all of Mr. Hill's books and read them in order---this is the best way to fully appreciate the lives of his characters as they unfold.