An Advancement of Learning

Chapter 15

Sunday morning dawned fine; had been dawning fine before most people in the college got to bed. The scent of the sea was in the air, evocative, invigorating; but it was obviously going to become over-warm later.

Pascoe thought he was probably the first person out of bed, but he gave all the credit for this to the makeshift arrangement of blankets and narrow mattress on which he had finally slept in the study. It was an unnecessary precaution, he was sure, but Dalziel had been adamant. Sheer jealousy, thought Pascoe gloomily.

He decided no harm could be done by having a quick shower and shave. He felt disagreeably grubby and dull witted.

When he returned, he saw that he was no longer alone in the world. Ellie was standing outside the main door of the old house and he felt a gush of pleasure that she had come so early to see him. Then he saw that she was pinning something to the door. A notice. He came up behind her without being observed and coughed gently. She jumped very satisfactorily.

“Oh,’ she said. ”s you.” “Good morning,’ he said reading the notice. It was typewritten and had obviously been run off from a stencil on a duplicating machine.

We the undersigned members of staff dissociate ourselves completely from the high-handed and provocative actions of the police force last night

’”

It was dated and signed by about ten people. Some of them were only names to Pascoe, but others he recognized. Halfdane; Marion Cargo; and Ellie herself.

“That’s a bit unnecessary, isn’t it?’ he said.

Ellie shrugged.

“Halfdane’s idea, I’ve no doubt. You must have got even less sleep than I did.”

“It had to be done quickly. We thought if the notices were there for the students to see first thing this morning, it might help to cool things down.”

Pascoe laughed without humour.

“Cool things down! You’ve got to be joking! People like Cockshut will be delighted when they see this. It’s carte blanche for anarchy.”

“Piddle diddle,’ said Ellie lightly. ‘ are an old reactionary now, aren’t you? You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young.”

He looked at her coldly.

“Don’t try to kid me, Ellie,’ he said. ”re no political animal.

You’d better watch yourself. It’s very easy for single women in places like this to mistake sentimental maternalism for radical idealism. But I don’t think you’re as far gone as that, though there’s always the danger. Then what is it you’re after? Pretty boy Halfdane’s approval?”

She slapped his face, almost dispassionately.

“You can go to jail for that,’ said Dalziel’s voice behind them. The fat man shouldered his way between them and read the notice.

“Bloody cloud-cuckoo-land,’ he said. ‘ all live in bloody cloud-cuckoo-land. Come on in, Sergeant. We’ve got a real job to do.”

Jesus wept! thought Pascoe as he went inside, not looking back at Ellie, what strange allies we find ourselves lined up with! Dalziel, Disney, Dunbar, Scotby, all the oldies, all the wrong reasons, but facing in the same direction.

“Bloody students,’ groaned Dalziel, once they got inside. ‘ social reform and young idealism on the surface, but give ‘ half a chance and they’re just young criminals.” “Protest is hardly criminal,’ said Pascoe mildly.

“Not protest, no. But I’ve just been talking to Landor. The stuff that’s missing from the admin, block! I warned ‘. Mostly small stuff, but a typewriter’s gone. And some bright spark broke open all three college posting boxes last night and tore up half the mail. Isn’t that criminal?

And the kind of thing they’ve scribbled around the place and left in typewriters for sixteen-year-old typists to find doesn’t bear repeating.”

He shook his head in what seemed like genuine bewilderment. Pascoe felt an impulse to cluck sympathetically but checked it. Dalziel’s gloom changed into a huge yawn.

“To hell with ‘,’ he yawned. ‘ doesn’t want us officially, so we’ll just stick to our brief. Now, the question is, do we still have a case to investigate or don’t we?”

“Pardon?”

“A good suspect for one, possibly two murders goes and gets himself killed. Very convenient, saves the state a lot of money, us a lot of bother. I want to be convinced he did at least one of ‘, preferably both. So convince me, Sergeant.”

He settled himself comfortably in his chair, picked up the phone, dialled, and said, ‘ Dalziel, love. Breakfast for two in the old study. Kippers are fine. ‘.”

“The only thing we’ve got that connects Fallowfield with Miss. Girling,” said Pascoe, ‘ the coincidence that he was interviewed on the nineteenth of December. Presumably he was offered the job on the spot, accepted, shook hands all round, collected his gear and headed for the station.”

“Or he might have had a car?”

“That makes it worse. If he did knock old Girling on the head while he was here, presumably he drove her car a hundred miles to the airport leaving his own here. How did he pick it up without being noticed?”

“Good point. Check with whoever keeps details of expenses paid. They might still have a record of whether he got his train fare or a car allowance.”

“In any case, why? As far as we know, he had no previous acquaintance with the woman. How do you work up a motive in a few hours, especially to kill a woman who’s just offered you a job? No, I think he’s a non-starter there, sir. It’s the mouldy-oldies who were here at the time who are our best bet.”

“You’re not helping much, lad,’ said Dalziel sadly. ”ll have to stick with it. The other one looks better though.”

“Yes, sir. But it still puzzles me why he would publicly accept her allegations that he had seduced her when he patently hadn’t.”

“But he obviously wasn’t going to agree he had fiddled her marks to get her out of the place.” “No,’ said Pascoe thoughtfully. ‘ might be a motive there. He didn’t give a damn about his reputation, but he wasn’t going to lose his career so easily.”

“Still, why did she send him that note? And why above all did he never deny they had been lovers?”

“And who wrecked his flat? And why?”

They were silent for a moment.

“That’s the trouble with you bloody intellectuals,’ said Dalziel finally. ‘ want answers, and all you give is a lot of bloody questions.”

“Henry Saltecombe took Anita’s note to Fallowfield,’ said Pascoe inconsequentially. ‘ he’s got a porkpie hat.”

That’ll really make them sit up in court,’ said Dalziel. ‘ in!”

It was breakfast, brought, to Pascoe’s surprise, by Elizabeth Andrews.

“Hello, love,’ said Dalziel. ‘, eh? The fairest fruit of the sea.”

Obviously encouraged by his tone and studiously avoiding Pascoe’s eyes, the girl planted the tray on the desk and said in a low voice, ‘, what happened the other night, the dancing I mean, will anyone have to know about it? Like the bursar — or my parents. I wouldn’t like… ” “I don’t see why, love,’ said Dalziel, slitting open a kipper. ‘ as long as you keep on bringing me food like this. What made you decide to be a witch, love?”

The girl’s hand went to her mouth, a completely natural example of a classic gesture.

“Oh, I didn’t want… I’m not a witch… not really, I don’t believe … “

“It was just exciting, was it? And of course, Mr. Roote’s very nice, isn’t he?”

She blushed deeply.

“Yes, yes. I think so. I just went because of him. I’d only been once before and then he… went with me. And I thought it’d be the same. I’d rather there’d been just the two of us. But it was dark, and it didn’t seem to matter. But this time, last Thursday, it wasn’t me. He explained. It was a special one, midsummer or something… “

Pascoe and Dalziel exchanged glances and Pascoe began consulting his pocket diary.

‘… and he had to have someone who… hadn’t before. You see. It was the ceremony, that was all, he’d rather have been with me.”

“My God!’ said Pascoe.

“So it was Anita, instead,’ said Dalziel quietly.

“Yes. It should have been. I didn’t want to stay, but I thought if I went… anyway, I was glad when someone came, before… anything really happened.”

“You all ran?”

“Oh yes. I grabbed my clothes and ran as fast as I could. It wasn’t until later I found I’d left my bra and I wasn’t going back for it then.”

She managed a bit of a smile which Dalziel returned.

“I don’t blame you. We’ll let you have it back. You didn’t happen to see who it was who disturbed you all?”

“No. I’m sorry. She was too far, just a shape — ‘

“She?”

“Oh yes. I could tell it was a woman, from the outline of the skirts, I mean. But I didn’t wait to look closer.”

“Well, thank you very much, my dear. If there’s anything else you remember, just have a chat with me, eh? And remember, mum’s the word.”

He placed a stumpy finger across his lips and winked ludicrously. With a look of great relief on her face the girl left the room, still ignoring Pascoe.

“So much for Henry,’ said Dalziel through a mouthful of kipper. ‘ he was wearing a kilt. Your breakfast’s getting cold.”

I’ll just have coffee and a bit of toast.”

“Please yourself. In that case — ‘ Dalziel transferred Pascoe’s kippers to his own plate.

“Midsummer’s eve,’ said Pascoe.

“Is that special?’ asked Dalziel.

“Yes, in a way,’ said Pascoe slowly. ”s not one of the great witches’ nights like Walpurgisnacht, April the thirtieth, or Hallowe’en. But it’s pretty important. The eve of St. John the Baptist as well.”

“Dancing girls and heads on platters,’ offered Dalziel starting on his third kipper. ‘, Sergeant, you’re not really taking this witchcraft bit seriously? It’s just an ingenious method of getting lots of gravy!

Adds a bit of spice too. Like playing sardines at a party. No one says, let’s all lie on the floor together and grope each other. No, you have an acceptable structure, a game. And you all end up lying on the floor groping each other. Remember? This boy Roote’s just a bit more ingenious.”

“Yes. Isn’t he? And the virgin?”

“Variety is the spice. Imagine him telling that nice kid from the kitchen that he’d prefer her but the ceremony required he got stuck into someone else! What a nerve!”

“But she was a virgin.”

Dalziel pushed his plate away and burped.

“So were they all. Once. It’s not an uncommon state even in this bloody randy age.”

“Yes, but still

“Drink your coffee, lad.” Pascoe supped the lukewarm liquid thoughtfully.

“How about this,’ he said. ‘ gets back from the dunes with the others, who were they? Oh yes, Cockshut and the girl Firth. Then he gets to thinking about what he’s missed that night, to wit, Anita. He broods on it a while, and finally sets out to get what he considers his due, ceremony or none.”

“A year’s a long time to wait,’ agreed Dalziel.

“But she’s not there. Perhaps he sees her making off. He follows her to Fallowfield’s cottage. Waits till she comes out and is making her way back — ‘

‘ — then jumps on her and kills her. Why?”

“If I knew that we’d have him in here with us,’ said Pascoe.

“All right. Talk’s over,’ said Dalziel leaping up energetically. They’re not going to let us stay here for ever, you know. Let’s do some work.”

The morning went by quickly. Checks on the files and papers locked up in the study revealed no signs of interference. (Why should they be interested in interfering anyway? Pascoe asked himself. Unless — ) But the bottle of Glen Grant in the filing cabinet had a couple of prints which matched those on the plastic cup Dalziel had taken from Cockshut.

The superintendent seemed uninterested now. ‘ wants Cockshut?’ he asked. ‘ would just make him feel important.’ An examination of the room in which Fallowfield had been found was even less productive. The key to the locked lab door was found in his pocket. The heroin had almost certainly been self-administered. Only the absence of a note bothered Dalziel.

“I’ve a feeling he was the kind of man who would like to have explained himself in the end,’ he said.

One of the college gardeners dimly recollected having seen Fallowfield enter the science block about lunch time. This fitted in quite well with the medical report. While the two policemen had been so eagerly enquiring after him, he had been sitting alone in a dingy little storeroom, dying. It was illogical, but somehow the thought made Pascoe feel guilty.

“Perhaps he did do the damage in his cottage himself,’ he suggested again. ‘ Prospero, burning his books.”

“What did we do him for?’ asked Dalziel, interested.

The memory of those books, recalled another chain of thought which his mind had set aside, incomplete, till they could get hold of Fallowfield.

Now Fallowfield was beyond any contact the police could hope for, whatever he himself may have believed. But the links of information might still be obtained elsewhere. He thought a while, then went in search of Sandra Firth.

She was not in her room. As it was shortly after twelve, he started to make his way towards the bar where it seemed likely she might be found.

But as he came out into the bright and by now very hot sunlight he saw her standing beneath the beech trees which grew in the patch of ground which lay within the broad sweeping U-bend of the drive. She was talking with considerable animation to someone — in fact, they both seemed to be talking at the same time — and Pascoe felt a tremor of excitement as he looked at the other person. It was Miss. Disney, obviously returning from morning service. A prayer-book (he guessed) was clutched in one black-gloved hand while the other held a large crocodile-skin handbag.

But the article of attire which had caught Pascoe’s eye was her hat. It was absurd. On another woman it might have been forgiven as frivolous.

But on Disney — I It was light blue and dark orange with an artificial red geranium pinned rakishly on one side. And in outline it had the shape of a man’s porkpie.

Pascoe approached.

“Now that evil man is gone,’ Disney was saying, ‘ had hoped that some of you, that you above all, Sandra, might have been at the service this morning. The vicar cannot understand; it’s not my fault I have told him; nonetheless in a small village, such things are noticed.

“Please, Miss. Disney,’ said Sandra desperately. ‘ just don’t want to talk about it. Not now.”

She turned away, but Miss. Disney grabbed her arm at the expense of her handbag.

“For your own good, Sandra… “

“Oh, for God’s sake!” “You’ve dropped your handbag, Miss. Disney,’ said Pascoe, picking it up.

He flicked the catch with his thumb as he did so and the bag fell open revealing a surprisingly feminine complexity of articles. But one was less common there than the rest. A thick stick of yellow chalk.

“The good teacher is never without,’ said Pascoe, removing it.

“How dare you!’ said Disney, beginning to swell. She looked tremendously fearsome, but taking his courage in both hands Pascoe leaned close to her and gently said three words. Her face froze, like a hen with the gapes. Sandra gasped in amazement at hearing such words uttered in such company.

But Disney had said nothing; there was no outburst, no protest, and Pascoe, much relieved, knew he had been right.

“On Mr. Fallowfield’s wall,’ he said. ”s what you wrote, wasn’t it?

After you tore up the books.”

She took a deep breath and steadied herself.

“Not in front of the child,’ she said. ‘ wouldn’t understand.” “Wait,’ said Pascoe to ‘ child’ who while she may not have understood was obviously agog for instruction.

He led Disney gently some yards away.

“Now,’ he said. ‘ truth.”

“I am not in the habit of lying,’ she said scornfully. ‘ I tell you may not redound to my credit, not all of it; but it shall be the truth, be certain of that.”

He almost admired her then.

Almost.

There was a ramshackle seat round the bole of one of the trees and they seated themselves, not without some trepidation on Pascoe’s part.

“It does not become a woman of my beliefs to hate a fellow being,’ she began, ‘ we are exhorted in the Bible to hate evil and the man Fallowfield was evil.”

She nodded emphatically as though defying contradiction.

“How was he evil, Miss. Disney?”

“In the worst possible way. He corrupted the young. Since he came here, I have noticed a steady decline of interest in the Christian societies I run, a growing scepticism and cynicism in seminar discussions I have with students.”

“But surely that’s symptomatic of the age?’ said Pascoe.

“If it is, it is people like Fallowfield who are responsible for it.

Girls who would have looked to me as a friend and counsellor have turned away; even among the staff, among my own colleagues, he has mocked me unreproved. And when he debauched that poor girl, Anita Sewell, and finally brought about her death… “

“We have positive evidence that he never debauched her,’ said Pascoe mildly, ‘ there’s no evidence that he had anything to do with her death. Is there?”

“She was there! She was there that night! I saw them! That was his doing. Isn’t that evidence?”

“You mean last Wednesday night out in the dunes? You saw them dancing without their clothes?”

Disney covered up her eyes and groaned. Pascoe was not in the least tempted to admire her now and pressed on relentlessly.

“What did you do when you saw them, Miss. Disney? Did you shout, cry out?

Or did you just stand and watch till you were seen?” “I feel faint,’ she said suddenly. ‘ want to go to my room.”

“Soon. Tell me what happened.”

“They all ran away. At least I did that. I stopped it before… I couldn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t get the sight out of my mind.”

“You went there deliberately? You knew what was going on?”

“Yes. I suspected. I had overheard some young men talking.”

“And yesterday, did you go to Mr. Fallowfield’s cottage deliberately?”

“Yes. It had all been too much. Miss. Girling, Anita, the dancing. All that man’s fault, all… so I went to confront him, to challenge him.

He wasn’t there, but the door opened when I pushed it. I went in. The place was in a mess, things all over the floor. At first I went next door to call for help, but there was no one in. Everybody was on the beach. I went back inside and started gathering things up. Then I saw what kind of books he had. Evil ideas. Evil ideas. Worse than the flesh. I began to tear them. I tore and tore and tore. And then I wrote on the walls, just what was up there already. The words, the drawings, applied to him, didn’t seem wrong, you understand? It was as if some force had come out of me already and begun the damage. Just like when I heard he was dead last night, I knew that I had helped somehow. And I am glad. It is a good thing, a good thing. There may be some hope for all our salvations now.”

Pascoe did not speak but instinctively stood up, disliking their proximity. She looked up at him coldly.

“I fear you too are one of the new generation, young man. If you wish me to make a written statement, I shall be in my room. I have done nothing I am not proud of.”

She strode energetically away between the trees, across the grass.

“What was all that about?’ asked Sandra, fully recovered from her emotional scene, and very interested.

“Mainly about Mr. Fallowfield. Look, Sandra, he’s dead now. He can’t be harmed, except by people like Miss. Disney who’ll be sniping at his memory for ever. What do you know about him? She, Disney, says he was an evil influence. Was he? Or any kind of influence?” She shook her head thoughtfully.

“I don’t know much. This is just my first year, you see. When I first came, I was all dewy-eyed, innocent. A habitual church-goer, you know, the social thing. That’s how I got in good with Disney to start with.

Then I started getting involved a bit with Franny and his lot.”

She glanced at Pascoe under lowered eyelids.

“This is confidential, is it? I wouldn’t like… “

“Absolutely,’ said Pascoe. A policeman’s fingers are always crossed, he thought.

“Well, they were — are — fun. Sometimes a bit weird. And sometimes

… well, we did the usual thing, you know. Drank a bit, smoked a bit of pot; there was one night when we got hold of some acid. It seemed fantastic to me. And I had this thing about Franny. Still have, I suppose.”

She spoke so lowly, Pascoe had to strain to hear her. But he did not interrupt.

“You asked about Mr. Fallowfield. Well, I got the impression that he had once been pretty close to the group in some way, I don’t know. A kind of Socratic figure, I suppose, showing the light. But he wasn’t any longer.

And all this business about him and Anita was somehow mixed up with this, I don’t know how. That was one of the sacred mysteries of the group, reserved for members of the inner sanctum only.”

She laughed as she said this, but with a slight trace of bitterness.

“You never made the inner sanctum?”

The? No. Newly-come, that was me. Good for the preliminary lay, but not yet ready for the full initiation. And Franny’ll be gone next year… hell, this place will be dead without him!”

She looked around desperately. What’s the man’s secret? asked Pascoe enviously. Disney should think herself lucky he didn’t fancy her!

He began sorting out some words of kind reassurance to offer Sandra, but she prevented them by glancing at her watch.

“Hell. Nearly lunch time. They’re dead traditional here. Roast and two veg. whatever the weather. Phew!”

She wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

“Remember. Confidential, eh? See you.” “See you,’ said Pascoe. That’s how I lose all my witnesses, he thought.

I start being kind and they just bugger off.

After a working lunch with Dalziel (Sandra had been right — roast beef, carrots and peas) during which he gave the superintendent an account of his talks with Disney and the girl, Pascoe finally managed to track down the senior administrative officer, a long, lugubrious individual called Spinx, whose office contained all the expense records for the college.

Grumbling constantly about the interruption to his day of rest and assuring Pascoe that there wasn’t a hope of such a record being kept for such a time, he unlocked a large store cupboard and began to dig around among a mound of dusty files and folders. Pascoe left him to it.

Fifteen minutes later there was a knock at the study door and Spinx, now very dusty, stood there looking very disappointed.

“Sorry,’ he said.

“That’s all right,’ began Pascoe.

“I was wrong. Here you are. Is that what you wanted?” “Yes. Why yes,’ said Pascoe taking the dog-eared, stained sheet of paper from his hand and looking at it. ‘ you very much.”

“Pleasure. That all? Right.”

Pascoe was reading the sheet before the man had closed the door behind him.

A car allowance had been paid based on the mileage between the college and Chester. He glanced at the copy of Fallowfield’s curriculum vitae which along with those of the rest of the staff he had obtained a couple of days before. Fallowfield had been the senior biology master at Coltsfoot College near Chester which Pascoe knew as one of the modern, reputedly progressive, public schools. The route to Chester would pass, or could be made to pass, conveniently close to south Manchester, to the airport. Somehow Alison Girling’s car had got there, had left the college that foggy night in December and made its way slowly, crawlingly, across the Pennines, while Miss. Girling herself almost certainly lay in a thin cocoon of earth in the hole in the college garden.

But if Fallowfield were at the wheel, then how did he get his own car to Chester? He couldn’t just have left it parked at the college. Even in the holidays there would be a sufficient number of staff, academic, administrative and maintenance, on the premises to notice it. Perhaps someone had. He hadn’t asked. But no; it would have been too wild a risk to take anyway.

And above all, why should Fallowfield have wanted to kill this woman he had just met for the first time? As far as they knew.

It’s all wrong, thought Pascoe gloomily, I’m like Dalziel. It would be pleasant for once to find everything nice and neat. Two murders, one killer, who commits suicide. Bingo! then we could get back to reality and start catching some thieves.

He took the expense sheet out to show Dalziel who had abandoned the shade of the study and taken a couple of chairs and a small folding table out on to the lawn where he sat with deliberate irony about four feet from the hole, now boarded over, in which Miss. Girling had been found.

“Let the buggers see we’re still here,’ he had said. ‘ reckon there’s some here as are dying to see the back of us.”

Now he looked at the expense sheet, shading his eyes from the sun.

That doesn’t help,’ he said as if it was Pascoe’s own personal fault.

“No, sir.”

“He stopped three nights?”

“I noticed that.”

“And he should only have stopped one.”

Whoever it was who had checked the expense sheet had with exquisite parsimony deducted fifteen shillings from the total payable. This was itemized at two nights’ stay in the college, at seven and six per night, which were not chargeable to expenses.

“Cheap,’ said Pascoe. ‘ that what we pay?”

Dalziel ignored him.

“It means he came, unnecessarily in the eyes of the office staff, on the Friday. I wonder why?”

“Is it important, without a motive?”

“You’ve changed your tune, lad.”

Pascoe shrugged.

“I’ve given him up for Girling. But I think he’s a strong runner for Anita.”

“And no connection between the two?”

“No, sir. Coincidence. Or perhaps the connection is merely that the discovery of the body under the statue put the idea of murder before everybody. You could get away with it well, nearly. The body had lain there all those years and might have lain there for ever if it hadn’t been for a turn of fate.”

Dalziel yawned mightily, sunlight glistening off his fillings.

“You’re probably right,’ he said. ‘ know, I’m sick of this place and most of the people in it. I don’t understand it, that’s my trouble. My generation, most of ‘, worked bloody hard, and accepted deprivation, and fought a bloody war, and put our trust in politicians, so our kids could have the right to come to places like this. And after a few days here, I wonder if it was bloody well worth it.”

He was silent. Pascoe felt obliged to say something.

“These places don’t just train people, you know. They help them to grow up in the right kind of mental environment.”

Dalziel looked at him more coldly than ever before.

“I bet you grew up more in your first six months with the force than in the twenty years before.”

Pascoe shrugged again. There were arguments, he knew; but he couldn’t be bothered, didn’t have the energy or inclination, to use them now.

“To get back to the case,’ he said, ‘ now?” The,’ said Dalziel, ”m going to sit here, and see who comes to talk to me. Then I’m going to drive into Headquarters just to liven things up there. As for you, well, there’re just two or three things that bother me still about Fallowfield. Why no note? Who had a go at his cottage before Disney? And why did he come all the way to college before killing himself? Let me know the answers before supper. And then I’ll tell you who killed everybody.”

He closed his eyes and began snoring so realistically that it was hard to tell whether he was really asleep or not.

Some hope, thought Pascoe. This is one that won’t be solved before Christmas. Girling’s perhaps never.

One of Dalziel’s questions kept running through his head. Why did Fallowfield come all the way to college to kill himself? I know the answer to that, he thought. But if he did, he wasn’t telling himself.

Stuff it, he thought and snatched half an hour to read the Sunday papers. There was nothing about the previous night’s events. Too late perhaps. The murders themselves got a bit of space though the dailies had picked most of the meat from the bones. Dalziel was mentioned. They made him sound quite good. I suppose he is quite good, thought Pascoe reluctantly.

Out of the window he saw the fat man stir and stretch himself. It was time, he decided, that he should do the same.

The rest of the afternoon he wasted, talking first to Disney, then to Sandra. Both denied absolutely removing any suicide note. Disney was back in her old form. A couple of hours’ meditation had rinsed any Vestigial traces of guilt from her lily-white soul. Pascoe could have gladly pushed her teeth down her throat, but he had to admit he was convinced by the time he left her. An after-effect of the Disney treatment was that he was twice as rough with Sandra as he might else have been, bringing her close to tears, but again coming away convinced she had been telling the truth.

He then spent more than an hour searching and researching the cottage and, after that, the laboratory. Both searches were doomed to failure, he knew before he started. But something in himself demanded that they should be done again.

When he returned to the study, it was fast approaching dinner time and Dalziel, red as a Victoria plum, had just come back from town. He noted Pascoe’s frame of mind and for once exercised some tact. From somewhere he had obtained a jugful of ice-cubes and a soda syphon. He splashed an ounce of Glen Grant into a glass, followed it with a handful of ice and a jet of soda, and handed it silently to his sergeant.

“No luck?’ he said.

“No.”

The neither. You’d think I had the plague. Every bugger at HQ thinks I’m having the time of my life.”

He emptied his glass and said diffidently, ”ll have looked in his clothes, of course.”

“I should think so.”

Pascoe too finished his drink, taking an ice-cube into his mouth and crushing it between his teeth.

“But I’ll go and see.”

“As you will. You could phone.”

“No. I’ll look for myself. It’s absurd. There’s something, I’ll swear.

Perhaps when I’ve cleared away all these impossible possibilities

… And I’ll check with the ambulance men just in case.”

“You think this note’s important.”

Pascoe stared at his superior.

“You said he seemed the kind of man who would want to explain himself.”

“Did I? Then it must be true.”

After Pascoe had left, the fat man hefted thoughtfully in his hand the set of master keys he had taken from Sandra Firth.

The,’ he murmured to himself, I’ll just have my dinner and do a bit of pedigree checking.”

Dinner was particularly good and he washed it down with the rest of his Glen Grant, which in its turn brought on the need to rest. It was almost nine o’clock when he finally let himself stealthily into the admin, block.

After all, he told himself, as he gently eased open a filing cabinet drawer in the registrar’s office, half the bloody students in the place have seen them, so why not me?

Them were the staffs’ confidential files. He skipped lightly through them, pausing here and there, till he came to Fallowfield’s. Now he lit a cigarette, sat back at his ease and began to read slowly and thoroughly.

His academic qualifications he had already seen on the curriculum vitae.

They were excellent, a very good first degree and a couple of high post-graduate qualifications. But it was in the comments made by those who taught and employed him that Dalziel was most interested. He read the letter from the headmaster of Coltsfoot College twice. It was couched in terms of high praise. Great stress was laid on Fallowfield’s ability to influence thought, his progressive thinking and his pre-eminent suitability to work with older students. Almost too much stress, thought Dalziel. He had many years’ experience of reading and hearing between the lines.

On an impulse he picked up the phone and when he got the operator, gave her the number of Coltsfoot College. You never knew your luck.

While she was trying to establish a connection, he helped himself to a few select student files and began to read them. He didn’t know his luck.

Pascoe knew his luck. It was rotten. The clothes had contained nothing helpful, the doctor who had examined Fallowfield could offer no useful contribution other than reiterating the cause and probable time of death; and the ambulance men, who were off-duty and had to be tracked to their homes, were no help either and in fact took umbrage at the suggestion that something other than the body might have been removed from the lab.

Pascoe realized he had not been as diplomatic as was his wont and after looking in at Headquarters where the heavy ironies of his mock-envious colleagues did not help, he went round to his flat for a change of clothing and a bite to eat. There was a stack of mail, mostly circulars, and he tossed them on the table beside the telephone. He made himself a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich and sat down in the ancient but extremely comfortable armchair which stood beneath the open window.

An hour later he woke with the cup of cold tea miraculously unspilt on the arm of the chair and the sandwich, one bite missing, still clutched in his right hand. He saw the time, groaned and pushed himself unsteadily out of the chair, knocking the teacup on to the floor.

Cursing now he mopped up the mess with an antimacassar and pulled the phone towards him. This time it was his mail which fell to the carpet.

He swore again, looking down at the colourful display.

Threepence off this; half-price subscription to that; win half a million for a farthing. (Could you legally wager a non-legal coin?) It wouldn’t be so bad if he ever got any of the sexy stuff people were always complaining about. Still, he supposed it all brought revenue to the Post Office.

It was time he reported in. Not that he had anything to report. He might as well send a letter.

It came to him as he lifted the phone. He had known the answer all along. The mail! Fallowfield had gone to the college to post his note.

Not for him the last letter confiscated by the police and read by the coroner. No, this was one note which was going to reach the addressee.

And with the thought came another, almost instantaneously. Someone else had been a lot cleverer than he was. A lot cleverer and a lot quicker.

Someone had broken into the college posting boxes last night. But whoever it was wasn’t just quick. Breaking into the boxes, looking for a letter in Fallowfield’s hand (he’d bet that all the letters opened had typed envelopes), this meant, could mean, probably meant, he knew that there was no letter in the cottage and no letter in the lab. How? The first was easy; the person who wrecked the house before Disney would have known, been fairly sure. But the lab? Sandra — it had to be Sandra.

She must have gone through the sequence of events with any number of people, students and staff, before going to bed. Damn!

So much for the letter then. If it had been in one of the boxes, then it was gone for ever. Anyone who was so keen to get it would surely have destroyed it instantly.

“But was it in one of the boxes?’ asked Pascoe aloud. Three had been opened. Fallowfield would certainly have used the one nearest the lab block which was the one outside the bar. Or if not wishing to be seen, and it must have been after opening hours when he arrived at college, he would use the one by the side of the Old House. But he would never have bothered to walk over to the Students’ Union. So why all three? A blind perhaps. Or perhaps desperation; it wasn’t in the first, or the second; could it be in the third? And if it wasn’t, then perhaps there was no need to wish it goodbye. Perhaps it still did lie somewhere, waiting to be picked up… waiting… “It might just be!’ said Pascoe and dialled the telephone so rapidly he made a mistake and had to do it again.

If he wanted Superintendent Dalziel, the college switchboard girl told him, he wasn’t in the study, he was in the registrar’s office (though what he was doing there, she didn’t know, the voice implied) and she would put him through there.

“Where the hell have you been?’ snarled Dalziel.

Pascoe didn’t waste time on apologies but tumbled out his theory as rapidly as he could.

“And,’ he concluded, ‘ reckon it might still be there somewhere. It’s so obvious, perhaps he missed it. The staff must have somewhere they collect mail, pigeonholes or something.”

“Yes, they do. In the Senior Common Room. I remember seeing them.”

“Well, perhaps that’s what Fallowfield did. Put it straight into someone’s pigeonhole. It could still be there.”

“Right. I’ll look. You get yourself back over here as quickly as possible. And here’s something to chew on while you’re coming.”

“Sir?”

“Franny Roote is an old boy of guess where? Coltsfoot College. And he was interviewed for entry to this college on the Friday before the Monday when Girling died.”

The phone went dead. It was nearly thirty miles to the college but Pascoe did it in just over twenty minutes. Even then he was nearly too late.