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road, it could be a long wait if she’s as fit as she looks.”
    â€œOh yes. Dear Lady Denham is nothing if not healthy. And wealthy, of course,” he murmured.
    â€œAnd wise?” I said.
    â€œIn making and keeping hold of money, very wise indeed,” he said.
    â€œWhy am I not surprised?” I said. “And I bet you know how much she’s kept hold of, to the last decimal place.”
    He grinned and said, “You are forgetting, I suspect, that thanks to dear Peter Pascoe’s aid and acumen, I am now a man of moderately independent means, even without the income I generate by my writing. If such a one as I could have any interest in the fair Clara, it would only be centered on her pilgrim soul.”
    When an ex-con starts talking about pilgrim souls, I know he’s talking crap, but I knew Roote weren’t lying about the money. Pete had felt so grateful and guilty, he’d moved heaven and earth to make sure Roote got top compensation from Criminal Injuries, plus the leisure complex where he got shot had had a personal injury clause in their insurance which a smart brief persuaded a judge covered Roote’s case. Best of all, Roote had just got back from the States on the day he got shot and when Pete were sorting out his stuff, he realized his travel insurance didn’t expire till midnight. The buggers wriggled and wiggled like they always do, but in the end the same brief who’d done the leisure complex got them to cough up for total disability. When eventually it turned out Roote was going to be able to manage a wheelchair, this got considerably pared down, but it still amounted to a hefty chunk of money.
    I said, “Independent means ain’t the same as independence.”
    I were just talking about money but soon as I said it, I saw it could be taken as a crack about his legs. Me and buffalo woman had a lot in common. But I knew better than to say sorry and get the piss taken out of me, so I went on quick, “So what’s this writing that’s making your fortune? You’re not Lord Archer in disguise, are you?”
    â€œHappily not,” he said. “Nor did I mention a fortune. It’s academic stuff mainly, so it pays peanuts when it pays at all. I managed to finish my PhD thesis during my convalescence. Yes, strictly speaking it’s Dr. Roote now, but no need to be embarrassed—I don’t use the title. Strangers find it confusing and keep telling me about their back pain. Now I am completing Sam Johnson’s critical biography of Thomas Lovell Beddoes. You recall dear Sam, my old supervisor, who was so foully murdered before he could finish his masterwork?”
    â€œAye, I remember the case,” I said. “So you’re getting paid in advance for writing this Bed-loving fellow’s life?”
    â€œI fear not,” he said. “Though my publishers in California, the Santa Apollonia University Press, have made a substantial research grant available to me. There are, however, profitable spin-offs in the form of articles and interviews and seminars. In addition, I have a small retainer fee for my work as a consultant for Third Thought.”
    Why was he so keen to impress me with his ability to earn an honest living, if you can call all this airy-fairy arty-farty stuff honest?
    â€œThird Thought?” I said. “You mean that dotty cult thing the lentil and sandals brigade are into?”
    â€œHow well you grasp the essence of things, Mr. Dalziel! What more is necessary to say? Though the movement’s founder, Frère Jacques, has written a couple of hefty tomes to bring out the fine detail.”
    Always a sarky bugger!
    He rattled on about how this Jakes fellow had nearly died and realized he weren’t ready for it, so he’d started his movement to help folk get used to the idea afore it were staring them in the face, so to speak.
    â€œA Hospice of the Mind, he calls it,” said Roote.