An Advancement of Learning

Chapter 11

“What the hell happened to you last night?’ asked Dalziel. ‘ went round to your room three times.” “I’m sorry, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘ got held up.”

Dalziel looked at him critically.

“Held up, eh? It must be age. Anyway, you should be old enough to look at this.”

Pascoe had found his chief wandering around, apparently merely enjoying the morning sunshine, in an area just beyond the large beech hedge which marked the farthermost bourne of the staff-garden. A couple of old garden-sheds stood against the hedge and, as he spoke, Dalziel dramatically flung open the door of the larger.

The sun poured in and ricocheted off the broad flanks of the woman who lay there on a bed of sacking. Upright she might have been dramatic; on her back she was almost obscene. Pascoe had last seen her on the back of a builder’s truck.

“So this is where they put it,’ he said, patting the statue’s upraised left knee. ‘ much for Miss. Girling’s immortal memory.”

He looked enquiringly at Dalziel.

“You told me to have a look, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘ I tracked her down.

That was a good point you made. Not before time, I might add. Why should a woman like Girling have a memorial like this? And furthermore, how did they manage to get it up so quickly — February someone said. It usually takes ages to organize anything like that — deciding on a design, getting someone to do it, the artistic work — it all adds up.

There’s many a Great War memorial just got finished in time for 1939.” “Yes, sir,’ said Pascoe, sensing a reminiscence coming on. ‘ do you think they managed it?”

Dalziel scratched his navel then, as though in comparison, did the same to the statue.

Tell me, lad,’ he said, ”ve got an eye for the girls. That lass, Cargo, how old would you say she was?” “Cargo?’ said Pascoe. ‘ is she?”

Dalziel looked at him in disgust.

The best thing on the staff,’ he said. ‘ Miss. Soper must have strong powers of attraction. Let’s see. I would say, at a guess, without actually handling the merchandise, that she can’t be any more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight at the outside. Probably twenty-seven. Does that suggest anything to you?” “Wait a minute!’ said Pascoe. ‘ wasn’t on the list of staff employed when Girling was boss!”

“So!”

“So… I don’t know. Perhaps she was just commissioned to do the job and got a full-time post later?”

“Commissioned for a job like this at twenty-one?”

Twenty-one? Yes, twenty-one. Of course!’ said Pascoe. ‘ must have been a student.”

“Well done! Yes, one of Al’s famous gals. And here, if I’m not mistaken, she comes.”

Pascoe looked along the beech hedge. At the far end a uniformed constable appeared with Marion Cargo. He pointed towards the two detectives, put a finger to his helmet and went on his way.

“Very gallant,’ observed Dalziel. ‘. Cargo, how nice of you to come!”

He had to raise his voice as she was still some twenty yards away.

Pascoe watched her approach with interest.

Nice, he thought. Not built on traditional art-mistress lines, all bum and bosom, but none the worse for that. She could go to the vicar’s tea-party dressed like that and still put a bit of strength in the sexton’s arm. Oh, yes.

His thoughts turned rather guiltily to Ellie. What the hell. There were no ties there. Last night’s encounter had been the chance-in-a-million crossing of orbits which now would spin them light-years apart.

He liked the image. Perhaps Ellie could use it in her book. He had tried the first chapter over breakfast. It hadn’t held him but he felt he ought to persevere.

“Why do you want to see me, Superintendent?’ asked Marion. Then she saw the statue through the open door.

“Oh,’ she said in neutral tones.

“It’s a pity,’ said Dalziel, ‘ it should be lying here out of sight.

Like all that stuff in the basement of the National Gallery.”

That’s it, thought Pascoe. He’ll mention

“The Stag at Bay’ then he’s shot his bolt.

“Not really,’ said Marion. ”s not very good.”

“You mustn’t say that. I’m no judge, but I know what I like, and this looks fine to me.”

Dalziel nodded sagely as though he had just bestowed a Nobel Prize.

“But,’ he went on, ‘ you place so little value on it, why were you so upset when it came down? Everyone remarked on it.”

“Everyone,’ had been Landor.

Marion flushed.

“Not because of the statue itself,’ she said. ‘ know it’s absurd but, well, it had a sentimental value. That’s all.”

“Really? You mean, because of Miss. Girling?”

“Yes. It was her idea, you see… “

“Her idea!’ broke in Pascoe. Dalziel looked at him reprovingly.

‘… and she gave me so much encouragement. She was really super. The others didn’t want it, you know, they didn’t think it was the thing. I thought they’d have banned it after it all happened, but instead they decided to use it as… “

She stopped and turned away.

“There, there,’ said Dalziel, patting her shoulder avuncularly. But his eyes were glancing smugly at Pascoe.

“I’m sorry,’ she said finally, moving from under the next of Dalziel’s blows.

“Not at all. Quite understand,’ he said. ‘, Miss. Cargo, you started work on the statue in… “

‘… September. It should have gone up before Christmas, but the weather was so awful that they didn’t get the hole dug for the base till the last week of term.”

“You’d be a final year student at the time?”

That’s right.”

“And after Miss. Girling’s reported death, it was decided to use your statue as a memorial to her?” “Yes. Like I said, not everyone agreed. Miss. Scotby was very much against it.”

“And Miss. Disney?”

“No, actually. It was her and Henry Saltecombe who talked the others into it. It was a bit absurd, I mean, the thing was meant to symbolize youthful drive and energy.” “And the base,’ continued Dalziel, ‘ did they put the concrete base into the hole?”

“I’m not sure,’ said Marion. ‘ it important?” “Yes,’ said Dalziel.

She thought hard.

“I can’t say, I’m afraid. There was a hole there when we left for the hols, and the base was in when we got back. That’s all I can say.”

“Sergeant Pascoe, perhaps you could… “

Pascoe did not wait for him to finish, but nodded and began to step out rapidly towards the college.

“And when did you come back to the college?”

“Oh, just a year ago. I’d done a bit of teaching, got some extra qualifications on part-time courses, then this job came. up. It seemed like fate somehow. I’d said I’d never come back after the last year. But that all seemed such a long time before. Now it’s all started again.”

She slammed shut the door of the shed, frightening a blackbird which had been perched on the roof, observing them.

“Sorry,’ she called contritely after it, but it didn’t look round.

“Thank you very much, my dear,’ said Dalziel. ‘ me walk you back to college.”

He turned to the low archway cut in the hedge which led through into the garden.

“No thanks,’ said Marion looking through the gap. ‘ think I’ll stroll around here for a while.” These artists have bloody sensitive souls, thought Dalziel as he watched her go. She even came the long way round.

He found Pascoe in Landor’s study in the act of replacing the telephone receiver.

“Easy!’ said the sergeant. ‘ nice for once. It was the builders who are doing the work here now. I gave their office a tinkle and got right in touch with the man who supervised the job. He remembered it well.” He paused dramatically. Dalziel belched.

The base was lowered into place on Tuesday the twentieth of December.” “There’s a thing,’ said Dalziel.

“She never left.”

“Or didn’t go far if she did.”

“Scotby saw her driving off at 6 p. m.”

“Saw someone driving off at 6 p. m.” “Or says she saw someone driving off.’ ‘ do we know about her movements that day?’ ”ve got an outline.”

“We need more than a bloody outline. Sergeant, let’s get to work and fill it in!”

Filling it in proved more difficult than it sounded, but not more difficult than Pascoe had come to expect. If getting hold of staff on a working day was difficult, getting hold of them on a Saturday morning proved almost impossible.

Landor was nowhere to be found. His wife, a pale skeletal woman, denied all knowledge of his whereabouts. She was only certain he would be back for lunch.

“We have guests,’ she added defensively as though Pascoe were holding her certainty against her.

It’s all I’d hold, thought Pascoe.

Scotby, the main source of what little information he already had about the course of events on the nineteenth of December, had likewise disappeared.

He banged on the door of her room, then Disney’s, and finally Ellie’s.

“Hi,’ she said. She was still in her dressing-gown. ‘?” “I’d better not,’ he said. She seemed to be expecting to be kissed so he obliged. The dressing-gown fell open.

“I’m looking for Scotby. Or Disney,’ he said hurriedly, averting his eyes.

“It takes all sorts to make a world,’ she answered, fastening her belt.

“Any ideas?”

“Well, Scotby’ll be down on the beach with a great lump of animality between her legs.”

“What?”

“Riding. She rides. Horses. It keeps her fit,’ said Ellie lighting a cigarette and coughing violently. ‘ it sweats out her refined little lust for Simeon.”

“Landor? You’re joking!”

“Please yourself. I’ve watched her. She’d love to get her saddle over him,’ said Ellie coarsely. ‘ she makes do with Black Beauty every Saturday and Sunday morning. There’s a riding-school beyond the golf club.”

“And Disney?”

“Hair. Every Saturday. You didn’t think it could look as unkempt as that by nature? No, it’s a wash and set and a bit of capital titillation from the fingers of some epicene young man.”

Thanks a lot,’ said Pascoe gloomily.

“You’re welcome. In fact,’ she added, dropping her voice to a husky whisper, ”re very welcome.”

She laughed after him as he retreated back to Dalziel.

“It’s no good,’ he said. ”re all out of reach, those who might be some good to us.” “That’s all right,’ said Dalziel. They’ll all be back. I just rang the chairman of the governors.”

“Oh?”

“You did say there was a governors’ meeting that day, didn’t you? It might be interesting to find out what it was about, when it ended, that sort of thing.”

“And was it?”

“I said it might be. He was out.”

“Having his hair done or riding?” “Is it a dirty private joke?’ asked Dalziel. ‘, he’s on his way here for lunch with Landor. There’s a cricket match this afternoon, college versus the locals. Landor’s bent on keeping up the appearance of normality. So we’ll see him then. And the others likely. Meanwhile… “

“Yes, sir?”

“You can catch up on your reading. This is what I got out of Roote last night. While you were busy.”

According to Franny’s statement, a small group of students, Anita Sewell among them, had gone down to the beach for a midnight bathing party. No, there hadn’t been anything odd or sinister going on. Witches’ dances? That was absurd. Mr. Lapping must have mistaken some very ordinary ” dancing — he was an old gentleman, wasn’t he? Music? Yes, they had had a transistor. There was always pop music on the radio, no matter what time. As for nudity, well some of them wore very skimpy costumes. At night, from a distance… Why did the party break up? Somebody disturbed them. It was silly really, they weren’t breaking the law, just a couple of silly college regulations perhaps, if that. But it was dark, and late, and someone panicked and ran. Then they all grabbed their clothes and made off. It was a bit of fun. Exciting. That was all. They mostly stuck in groups, no one wanted to be alone. He’d been with Stuart Cockshut, Sandra Firth and a couple of others. All the time? Yes, all the time and all the way back to college. They’d had coffee in Sandra’s room. Sat and talked for half an hour. No, he couldn’t remember noticing what Anita did when they scattered. Perhaps one of the others… certainly he would make out a list of their names.

“Anything there, sir?”

“I should be very much surprised. I’ve got a couple of the lads sorting round them; there’s always a chance. I went back to see the girl Firth, and Chairman Cockshut last night. They confirmed Roote’s story.”

“Is it true then?”

Dalziel snorted contemptuously.

“You’re joking! No, our Mr. Lapping had it right, I reckon. Harmless dancing indeed! There was obviously some kind of pretty abandoned sexual rollicking going on. I don’t know what we’re coming to. But the important bit, about the party breaking up, and Roote and the others coming back here, now that’s true, I’d say. The girl was too obviously relieved when she got on to that bit of the story. She might as well have stuck up a notice saying, “Here endeth the lies and beginneth the truth!” So we’re nowhere.” “What do you reckon happened?’ asked Pascoe. ‘ runs off into the night without a stitch on, comes back for her clothes a short while later when things are quiet, meets Mr. X, perhaps the one who interrupted them in the first place, and is quietly done to death?” That’s a good question,’ said Dalziel. ‘ you’ll try leaving a bit to answer in future. Anyway, you didn’t tell me in your question what happened to her clothes.”

“X took them.”

“Why?”

“Kinky?”

Dalziel shook his head.

“This doesn’t smell like a kinky one to me. Look, get Roote, Cockshut, any of them that were in on this bathing party. No, not the lot, any one of them. I’ll pick up Mr. Lapping and we’ll all go and see exactly where it was they were dancing. I want to see how far it was from where the girl was found.”

“Right, sir,’ said Pascoe.

Outside he met one of the constables Dalziel had set to checking up on the names on Franny Roote’s list.

“Anything?” “Not a glimmer, Sarge,’ said the young man lugubriously.

“All right. Look, take a quick walk up to the golf club and tell Mr. Kent the super’s on his way. Make it snappy.”

From behind the half-open door, Dalziel watched the scene with interest.

He too had noted Detective-Inspector Kent’s unnecessarily sporty looking outfit that morning. But now he nodded in approval.

He liked loyalty in junior officers. He was sure Sergeant Pascoe would have done as much for him.

Almost sure.

Miss. Disney and Miss. Scotby were very differently situated, and neither would have changed with the other for love or wealth.

Miss. Disney sat under a hairdrier like a science-fiction monster with a badly fitting space-helmet. For a while the dextrous hands and tongue of Neville, her favourite hair artist, had soothed her mind, but now with only herself and an absurdly frivolous magazine for company, her thoughts were beginning to chase each others’ tails again. She tried to concentrate on the only readable part of the glossy magazine on her lap — the Reverend Ronald Rogers’s weekly message to the housewife — but even this was distasteful, quoting St. Paul in support of his advice to mothers on dealing with the sexual problems of the adolescent.

It would have been even more distasteful, however, to be where Miss. Scotby was. Her face animated in a way which few students would have recognized, she rose and sank rhythmically with the body of her horse as it cantered through the shallows of the outgoing tide. As it approached the groyne which was the usual limit of their outward ride, it slowed down of its own accord, but Miss. Scotby urged it on. Surprised, it scrambled over the groyne, sinking fetlock-deep in the drift of soft sand piled against the farther side, and Miss. Scotby was almost unseated. She recovered expertly, however, and brought her mount to a halt, facing out to sea.

In a moment she would ride back and experience once again the fierce exhilaration of the gallop. But now she sat in thought, a grey-haired little woman with a face long practised at keeping the counsel of the mind that worked so busily behind it.

To be confined in a hairdressing salon on a morning like this would have been a blasphemy beyond anything ever touched upon by Reverend Ronald Rogers.

But so very differently situated though Miss. Scotby and Miss. Disney were, they did for a brief time have a thought in common. It was a deep-down thought, almost unacknowledged, certainly never to be brought out into the light of day.

They each wished someone dead. But for only one of them was the wish to come true that particular day.

Pascoe was having lunch at the golf club with Detective-Inspector Kent, who in the space of a couple of days had established himself as persona very much grata in the clubhouse. His readiness to admire shots, exchange anecdotes, and sympathize over the malevolence of fate, had won golden opinions from the members.

Pascoe’s message had in fact been unnecessary. Kent had been going about his legitimate business when it arrived, but he appreciated the thought.

Sandra Firth had been the only student concerned that Pascoe had been able to pick up quickly. She and Harold Lapping had very soon agreed on the location of the midnight dance. No reference had been made by either to the difference between their two versions, but Pascoe noted with interest that Sandra’s nonchalant air was beginning to wear a bit thin under the amused glances from Harold’s bright eyes.

The hollow in the dunes where Pearl had found Anita was nearly a quarter of a mile away, almost at the bottommost end of the golf course.

“Some way from where she left her clothes,’ commented Dalziel.

“Perhaps the killer picked them up and then went after her, knowing she wouldn’t go too far,’ suggested Pascoe.

“Why not just wait near the clothes?’ replied Dalziel.

“Or she might have taken them with her when she ran and have stopped here to get dressed and then he came upon her.” “Perhaps,’ said Dalziel. ”m off after some lunch, then I think I’ll watch the cricket. Thanks for your help.”

He flung the last remark over his shoulder as he strode off hack towards the college. Lapping grinned broadly after him, Sandra looked thunderstruck at his apparent callousness.

Pascoe had been about to follow when Kent had issued his invitation.

It was a pleasant lunch. Kent had chatted amiably about a variety of subjects, with golf not unbearably predominant. Pascoe who had hitherto regarded the man as a slightly risible example of what not to be in the police-force, found himself enjoying his company. When talk got round to the case (or cases) in hand, he listened appreciatively to Kent’s assessment. He didn’t say anything new, but he missed nothing out either.

“It’s motive we’re after, not murderers. Not yet. Motive. It’s a truism, Sergeant, but it’s true. Find out why and you’ll like as not find out who.” “Agreed,’ said Pascoe, starting on his second pint. ‘.”

“Your astonishingly good health,’ remarked Kent, before carrying on his theorizing. ‘ to find out why, it helps to eliminate why not. Take the girl, for instance. Obvious thing is sex. But he never bothered.

Never touched her. Now why not?”

“Perhaps it was a woman,’ suggested Pascoe.

“She’d need to be a hefty one,’ said Kent. ‘. Something else, I think.

Now who’d have a motive for killing her, if it wasn’t just a nut?”

“Fallowfield?’ said Pascoe.

“Who?”

“Fallowfield. Lectures at the college. Don’t you know?”

His new-found respect for Kent began to evaporate. Somehow the man had contrived never to have heard of the relationship between Fallowfield and Anita. It would be Dalziel’s fault partly. He didn’t believe in Spoon-feeding his men.

Certainly not Kent.

Pascoe filled him in quickly, efficiently. Kent supped his beer and chewed on his cheese and biscuits with a distantly worried look in his eyes. Finally he swallowed and shook his head.

“No,’ he said. ‘. Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“His mistress?”

“He admits it.”

Kent began to look really concerned.

She must have brought out the father feeling in him, thought Pascoe.

They can all look so innocent when they’re lying there, dead.

“No,’ said Kent again. ‘ was a virgin.”

“Don’t be daft.” “It said so in the medical report. A virgin.” “No,’ said Pascoe in a kindly voice. ‘ hadn’t been sexually assaulted. That’s what it said. Not quite the same thing.” “A virgin. It said she hadn’t been assaulted that night. And it said she was still a virgin. I should know. I read the bloody thing to the super.”

Pascoe froze, his glass in midair.

“You read it to him?’ he asked. ”t he look at it himself?”

“I don’t know. Not when I was there. You know he hates to be bothered reading things himself. Always gets someone else to do it if he can,” said Kent defensively.

“A virgin? You’re sure?’ said Pascoe, adding ” as he saw Kent react to his tone.

“Yes! But listen, Sergeant… “

Pascoe carefully put his beer on the table and stood up.

Thanks for the lunch, sir. I’d better be getting back now.”

Swiftly he moved out of the room before Kent could reply. It might have been a kindness to let him do his own reporting to Dalziel. But one kindness a day was enough for the likes of Kent.

Someone shouted at him as he marched across a beautifully-kept green, and he broke into a trot.

Dalziel wouldn’t be pleased. Kent would have some explaining to do.

But that would be nothing to the explaining that Dalziel would surely expect from Mr. Sam Fallowfield.

“The reason the English love cricket,’ said George Dunbar in his loud, guttural voice, ‘ that it structures their bloody indolence.” “Or masks their machinations,’ added Henry Saltecombe.

“Oh aye. You all like to think you’re so bloody clever,’ sneered Dunbar.

Looking round, Pascoe had to agree with Dunbar’s theory, much as he disliked the man. The thinly delineated oval of spectators, ‘ in brightly striped deck chairs, others recumbent in the grass, was positively Keatsian in its projection of indolence. But, he thought, as in all great works of art, realism alone did not do the work; realism only existed at a single level. What was needed for art was the living symbol at the centre, and the almost motionless white-clothed figures inside the oval were precisely that symbol. Yes, it was more than just a demonstration of indolence, it was an act of worship.

But Pascoe also saw with a policeman’s jaundiced eye; and that part of his mind was very ready to accept the hypothesis that machinations were being masked.

Roote, for instance, and that little gaggle of students almost hidden in the tall grass at the end of the oval farthest away from the pavilion.

Reginald Hill

D amp;P02 — An Advancement of Learning

They looked as if they were merely enjoying the innocent pleasures of sun on flesh. A bit perhaps of the less innocent pleasures of flesh on flesh. But nothing more. Yet he wished he could listen in on their talk.

Or Miss. Disney. Her deckchair as upright as it would go, her long skirt pulled challengingly low over her short, chubby legs. Her face showed nothing except the usual indignation at life’s insults it always seemed to bear. She spoke to a passing girl, Sandra what’s-‘er-name, who paused, obviously reluctant even at a distance, shook her head twice, answered briefly, and moved on towards the Roote group. The Disney basilisk gaze shot after her, but, happily, she did not look round. What had been said? What was she now thinking? And why, even as Pascoe watched, did she stand up and stride purposefully away?

Or Halfdane, still to be talked with, but now reclining elegantly between two deckchairs in which Ellie and Marion Cargo were competing in a whose-leggoes-farthest competition. Ellie, he felt, was just inching ahead, but looked to have little in reserve. Perhaps he should stroll over and talk to them, but if Ellie still had ambitions in the Halfdane area, he was unwilling to butt in. Or worse still, despite the previous night, appear as a competitor. Though why it should be worse still, as memories of the previous night flooded back, he could not really imagine. In any case, the point was, what was really going on inside those three minds?

Or Jane Scotby, listening with the obvious dislike sometimes called deep interest to Mrs. Landor’s sparrowy voice twittering from under the eaves of a broad-brimmed hat, which was supplemented by a fringed parasol of golf umbrella dimensions. The principal himself sat slightly apart, though still in his wife’s penumbra, and viewed the two women thoughtfully. Perhaps, thought Pascoe, he and Scotby are busily deceiving poor Mrs. Landor and even now are throbbing with frustrated lust after a brief passionate embrace behind the pavilion.

The thought made him smile but his policeman’s eye continued on its beat and the next tableau it paused at swung him wholeheartedly towards Henry Saltecombe’s view of the situation.

Two elderly gentlemen, one corpulent, bald, jolly, the other spare, white-haired, straw-boatered, their heads, wreathed in cigar smoke, nodding like mountain peaks through the mist as some piece of action in the central ritual caught their attention, their hands clapping, once, twice, even three times in moments of wild excitement; old friends relaxing together watching the youngsters carrying on in ancient, revered tradition.

One was Captain Ernest Jessup, chairman of the governors. The other was Superintendent Andrew Dalziel.

Of one thing Pascoe was convinced — however involved in a ritual of indolence the others might really be, here at least there were mental machinations aplenty.

Not a bad sort of chap, Jessup was thinking. Self-made of course, with the stitching poorly concealed, but there was nothing wrong with that.

He himself belonged to a service with a long tradition of advancement through merit. And at least the fellow could relax. He had feared total interruption of his afternoon’s cricket when Landor had introduced the man. Not that he wouldn’t have been willing to talk with Dalziel all day and all the next day too if it promised to help get to the bottom of this business.

But all was going well, it seemed. The assistant chief’s confidence in the man seemed justified (though he had been less than warm about his personal merits) and their conversation so far had been restricted to the field changes between overs. It looked like being a good game.

What a bloody way to spend an afternoon! groaned Dalziel to himself.

Rugby he could enthuse over, soccer could move him deeply, but these flannelled fools moved to a music too refined for his coarse ears. And the deckchair! A direct descendant of the rack out of the Iron Maiden!

He had not yet recovered from Pascoe’s news about the dead girl. That had come dangerously close to being a blunder. He didn’t normally make blunders. He prided himself on being able to extract from all the usual scientific twaddle in these reports the few important facts. These generally confirmed his own observations and deductions. Or often there were none at all.

Pascoe would have noticed and subtly drawn his attention to it. But stuff Pascoe! He didn’t want a kind of constabulary Jeeves hanging around all the time. Yet if poor Pascoe were to be stuffed, then what of Kent? Lash him naked in a deckchair with his back to the eighteenth green at St. Andrews during the Open? It would bear further thought.

As for the information itself, that the accusation made against Fallowfield by Anita Sewell could not possibly have been true, the implications were far from clear. Fallowfield’s reason for admitting the truth of the accusations, or at least that part of them which said he had been knocking the girl off for a couple of years, would bear investigation. But he had no intention of rushing in like the bear he was popularly reputed to be. With a bit of luck he’d run into Fallowfield during the course of the afternoon, though there was no sign of him yet.

But this old goon on his right had to be kept happy for a while. He had been quite unable to remember a single thing about the meeting at which Miss. Girling had made her last public appearance. He probably had difficulty remembering the way home, thought Dalziel savagely and quite unjustly. But he had agreed to telephone the clerk to the governors who had promised to dig through the records and send any pertinent information to the college that afternoon.

Meanwhile an hour and a half, two wickets, and thirty eight runs had trickled away with agonizing slowness. But despite his discomfort and his boredom, Dalziel had felt curiously enervated and quite unable to rise from his chair to do something useful. In any case everyone was here, everyone that mattered. Nearly everyone. Big ‹ wheels were moving elsewhere, and all those who had left the college since Girling’s death were being traced and interviewed. But Dalziel was somehow certain the solution was here somewhere.

“Well hit, sir!’ boomed Jessup. ‘ think that’s our man, Superintendent.” “Oh, yes, indeed. Very promising,’ said Dalziel.

“By the pavilion. The man with the minutes,’ said Jessup patiently.

“Let’s go and see.”

The shade of the pavilion was a relief. Dalziel realized his shirt was wringing with sweat; Jessup on the other hand in his absurd hat looked quite cool as he glanced through the papers he had been given.

“No, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘ doesn’t bring anything back at all, except very vaguely. Certainly nothing which might help you, Superintendent.

Though I see now why it was so late in the term. It was an appointments meeting and obviously we hadn’t been able to convene the full interviewing panel earlier in the term. Miss. Girling would be eager to get things like this done as soon as possible, before the good candidates got offers elsewhere, you understand.” “Interviewing?’ said Dalziel sharply. ‘ what?”

“A post, of course. It was a short list, only three. For a lectureship in the Biology Department.” “Let me see,’ said Dalziel, unceremoniously removing the papers from Jessup’s hand.

Quickly he flicked through them till he found what he wanted. A list of three names. One stood out as though embossed on the paper.

Samuel Fallowfield.

“Excuse me,’ he said, moving quickly out of the pavilion leaving Jessup tugging his moustache in exasperation.

Dalziel’s cry of ‘!’ as he strode round the outer oval of spectators almost certainly caused the fall of the third wicket. But by the time the angry batsman had returned to the pavilion, Dalziel had disappeared in the direction of the sea and only Pascoe’s head was visible as he went in hot pursuit.