An Advancement of Learning

Chapter 16

The headmaster of Coltsfoot College had been most helpful once he had made clear his displeasure at being removed from a bid of seven diamonds at the bridge table.

He had been very cautious at first until Dalziel had told him of Fallowfield’s death.

The poor man! Why did he — ? I never thought — he seemed stable enough, very much so, but in that kind of person ‘

“What kind of person?’ Dalziel had asked.

“He was a giver, involved, you know. Dedicated to teaching and to learning. And not just his subject.” “No,’ said Dalziel drily. ‘ seems to have had very wide interests. We found books on witchcraft, magic — ‘

“Oh yes. Of course, he didn’t believe, you understand. But he saw all these things as explorations of the human spirit, its heights, its depths, its potentials. Anything which extended the boundaries of our self-knowledge caught his interest.”

“Like taking drugs?”

“I have often heard him put a case for the licit use of certain drugs,” said the headmaster cautiously. ‘ as for taking them himself, I have no reason to suspect — ‘

“No,’ said Dalziel. ‘ did he leave you?”

“For a new post. Career advancement. You know.”

“No, I don’t. Was that all? Nothing more?”

There was a moment’s pause as though the man at the other end of the line was balancing conflicting ideas in his mind.

“This is a serious matter,’ reminded Dalziel in his best conscientious official voice.

“Of course. There was no real reason for Fallowfield to leave us. No quarrel or anything like that. We’re a progressive school and the freedom we try to give the boys extends as far as the staff-room. Which is not always the case in modern education. But the situation did have its tensions. It’s like in politics, or even in your line of country, Superintendent, I dare say; what really irritates the radical is not the reactionary; no, it’s the man who is still more radical and insists on treating the first radical as a conservative stickin-the-mud.”

“And that’s how Fallowfield reacted on your staff.”

To some extent. I’ve oversimplified, of course. A school like mine requires a unified team to run it, with no sacrifice of individuality, of course. But Fallowfield was a loner. And… “

“Yes?”

“I felt that many of our boys, even the eldest, were still too young, too naive if you like, properly to assimilate all the ideas that Fallowfield loved to play with. He was a stimulating man, a man gifted in dealing with the young., But I did begin to feel that the young had to be specially gifted to deal with him. I felt that the older young, if you take my meaning, students rather than pupils, would provide him with something more — er — suitable to get his teeth into.”

“I see,’ said Dalziel, noting the turn of phrase. ‘ he homosexual?”

The progressive headmaster answered very quickly so that there would be no pause to be mistaken for shocked silence. At least, so Dalziel read the situation.

“No more so than the rest of us in the profession. We’re all a bit queer I suppose,’ he said with an arch chuckle as though to prove the point. ‘ suppose all policemen in the same way are just a bit criminal.

But whether he was a practising homosexual, I really couldn’t say.”

“He didn’t practise with any of the boys then?’ said Dalziel, still hoping to pierce the man’s liberal carapace.

“No! Of course not.’ Very emphatic.

“I see. What can you tell me about a boy called Roote?”

“Francis Roote? Of course! He’s up there as well. A charming boy, but a real individual, an all-rounder. I think we achieved our aim of educating the whole man there.”

The headmaster went on enthusiastically. Dalziel was interested to note how the old phrases like ‘-rounder’ managed to survive in the ranks of the new vocabulary. But at the same time he extracted all that was relevant and useful from the man’s song of praise.

Roote, it seemed, had risen to the dizzy heights of school-captain (this was Dalziel’s translation of Co-First man in the School Council) and had been universally loved. Except, Dalziel got a hint, by his fairly wealthy parents who kept him plentifully supplied with funds, but did not care overmuch if he spent most of the holidays elsewhere. The Head saw this as a conscious effort to let him develop his social potential.

There seemed to have been no shortage of ”. His decision to apply for admission to the Holm Coultram College had come as a slight surprise. It was of course then an all-female college for training teachers and it was for a place among the pioneer group of men to start the following autumn that Roote had applied. This, the headmaster suggested, was probably one of the place’s attractions for Francis.

Breaking new ground.

Oh yes, thought Dalziel coarsely, virgin territory.

Had Fallowfield’s application for a post there influenced him in any way? He couldn’t really say. Perhaps. He was a great admirer of Fallowfield’s, certainly, and this was one of the cases where Fallowfield’s influence had produced nothing but good. As for their travelling to Yorkshire together, he had no idea. The school term ended early in December and the interviews were well on in the vacation, weren’t they? Surely Roote himself could tell?

Curiously enough, the man concluded, the mere prospect of the new job seemed to work a change in Fallowfield. During his final two terms at Coltsfoot he had been unusually subdued, much less contentious than before, so much so that there had been some concern about his health.

Roote? Oh no, Francis had been just the same as ever. A nice boy, an interesting boy. Give him all our good wishes, won’t you?

Indeed I’ll do that, thought Dalziel after the headmaster had gone back to his bridge. But first he looked again at Roote’s file which had given him the hint of a connection in the first place. He was curious to learn why the man was still here at the end of nearly four years. It appeared that as the courses available at the college proliferated under the energetic leadership of Landor, Roote had decided that he would rather not commit himself to being a teacher and had changed horses in mid-stream, necessitating an extra year’s study.

He’s twenty-three! thought Dalziel. Christ, when I was twenty-three I had… but he didn’t have time to think of all the magnificent things he had done by this tender age as the phone had rung at that precise moment and he had concentrated his mind on shouting at Pascoe. a Clever bugger, he thought after he put the receiver down. But not so clever; why couldn’t he have thought that lot out this morning? For that matter, why couldn’t I? It’s obvious enough, if there’s anything in it. Still, it leaves a chance that no one else thought of it either. But they might have done, in which case it’ll have gone. Or whoever it was addressed to might have picked it up and be saying nowt. Or Fallowfield might have sent it via the post office in which case it’ll turn up tomorrow.

Or perhaps the stupid bastard didn’t write one at all. Unlikely, he thought scornfully. Bloody words were all these fairy intellectuals were good for. Pascoe, thank God, had learned the art of silence, sometimes the hard way. And there was nothing puffy about Pascoe, lots of lead in his pencil. Randy young bastard, thought Dalziel, surprised to find himself feeling almost affectionate. A good-looking woman, that Ellie Soper. Something there to grapple with. Not many of those in a pound.

His train of thought had carried him almost unconsciously out of the admin, block into the fresh air of another glorious evening. He glanced at his watch. Twenty past nine. The shadows were very long now. There were still no clouds in the sky but the sun had almost disappeared. The air-staining grime of the industrial North lay all to the west here and the whole horizon was breaking out in a multi-coloured rash.

Nice, thought Dalziel automatically. He had been brought up to think that sunsets, along with the Royal Family and the Liberal Party, were nice. It was difficult to lose all your conditioning.

Now for the senior common room, probably a wild goose chase. But a necessary diversion first, it being Sunday and the police being what they were about licensing hours.

The bar was packed. It was the first time he had been in here, he realized with surprise. (I’ve been working too hard, he told himself.) They did themselves well too. None of your spit and sawdust; plush, well-padded comfort. But some of these bloody students — talk about out of place! They looked more suitable for a Sally Army doss-house than these comfortable, middle-class lounge bar surroundings. And some of the staff he could see dotted around didn’t look that much different. At least the students stared honestly.

“A bottle of scotch, malt if you’ve got it,’ he said to the barman.

“I’m sorry, sir,’ said the man, ‘ have you been signed in?”

“What? Oh, no.’ Of course, it was a club.

Then you can’t buy drink, can you?’ said Cockshut’s voice just behind him.

“That’s right, Mr. Cockshut,’ said Dalziel calmly. ”m glad to see you’ve got some grasp of the law.”

The student secretary was obviously well on the way to being drunk. This could be unpleasant. But Dalziel had never bothered to avoid unpleasantness.

“That’s all right, Bert,’ said another familiar voice. It was Roote talking to the barman. ”ve signed the superintendent in.”

Bert’s eyes widened at the title. He wouldn’t have had the nerve to refuse me if he’d known, thought Dalziel. Cockshut would have been on to that.

“What would you like, Super?’ said Franny with a smile. Tint?”

“No thanks. I just wanted a bottle of scotch to take out. Can you manage that?”

Franny spoke quietly to the barman who bent down and surfaced with a bottle of Glen Grant.

“That’s your brand, isn’t it?’ asked Franny politely.

“That’s right.”

“Nice drop of stuff that,’ leered Cockshut.

To those who are mature enough to appreciate it. That right?’ he said counting out some money on to the bar. ‘ you, Mr. Roote. Good night.”

He turned to go and almost bumped into Marion Cargo who smiled. Behind her was Landor who looked worried.

“I’m glad I’ve found you, Superintendent. Our switchboard operator — she’s one of our secretaries really, they take turns at weekends — told me you were in the registrar’s office. I wondered what… ” “Just prowling,’ said Dalziel blithely. The door was open. Bad security that after last night.”

“Oh dear,’ said Landor. ‘ see. Well, could we talk for a moment?”

“Fifteen minutes suit you? In the study. I just have something to do. I want to pop into the SCR. Is that all right?”

He kept his voice down, conscious of the crush of people around them.

“Yes. Of course. But you won’t be able to get in. No one uses it on a Sunday, well very rarely, and after last night, I’ve had it locked all day. It was rather badly damaged once before in a rag of some kind. So the locks were changed and I took the precaution of limiting the number of keys. Here you are.”

He undid a key from his key-ring and handed it over.

“Shall I come up with you perhaps,’ he suggested diffidently.

“Oh no. Not necessary. I’ll lock up. Fifteen minutes then in the study?”

He glanced at his watch. It was nearly half past nine.

The block in which the SCR was situated was quite deserted. It was the block in which the main lecture rooms were to be found. Presumably the common room had been placed there for maximum convenience during the working day.

The outer door was locked, but once again the bunch of keys he had taken from Sandra came in useful. But it was fortunate he had met Landor as the lock on the common room door was quite different from any of the others.

Protect your comfort. It’s the only thing the bloody state won’t replace immediately, thought Dalziel. But at least it probably meant it would have been difficult for anyone to get in here during the day.

Anyway it was three floors up and there was no lift. No wonder people kept away on Sunday, he thought puffily.

The room faced east and it was quite dark inside. He put his bottle of whisky down on a table by the door and looked for a light switch. There was a block of half a dozen in the wall. He flicked one down at random and a light went on in the far corner. That would do. It was silly to draw attention to his presence here. He felt strangely uneasy.

There seemed to be a good deal of mail in the pigeonholes. Of course it was a large staff, over eighty, and many of them would not have been near the place since Friday. He had no idea who Fallowfield would have been most likely to write to. In any case, it was best to be systematic.

He started at A and began to work his way along. In his pocket was a page from Fallowfield’s letter of application to the college which he had removed from his file. All handwritten envelopes he checked against this. Typewritten ones he examined more closely, occasionally cutting open a small flap with a razor-edge penknife to check on the contents.

From time to time, he halted all movement and listened carefully. This was an invasion of privacy after all and he had no desire to be caught at it. There would have been other ways, but not without delay and letting everybody know what he was at. In any case, he decided, replacing the R letters back in their hole, it was probably going to be a waste of time.

The top letter in the S pigeonhole changed his mind. The handwriting was unmistakable. He compared it carefully with Fallowfield’s letter, checking and rechecking. There was no doubt. This was it.

It was addressed to Henry Saltecombe.

Dalziel stood for a moment, uncertain now what to do.

The proper course was to contact Saltecombe and ask him to open the letter in his presence. It was his letter after all. It was only theory that it had any importance whatsoever to the police.

On the other hand it might be of vital importance.

Still uncertain, Dalziel bent forward to replace the other letters. And the blow aimed at his skull crashed with great violence on to the bunched muscles of his powerful shoulders just below his neck. He pitched forward, his mind registering with horror the feel of a thin but rapid flow of dampness running over his head, around his ear, finally dripping to the carpet from his brow.

Pascoe slowed to fifty to turn into the college gates. Why he had driven so fast he did not know. But once out of the town streets he had put his foot on the accelerator and kept it there. Now as he slackened speed still more to navigate the sweeping bend in the college driveway, he felt his whole body relax comfortably, in an almost postcoital Languor.

New kicks for jaded appetites, he thought. Only his appetite wasn’t at all jaded. He wondered whether Ellie would still be available after this morning’s row. He doubted it. Which was a pity. Still there must be any amount of enthusiastic crumpet available in a place like this for the true believer.

But Dalziel first, not the most aphrodisiac of thoughts.

The study was empty. He went outside again and glanced up towards the SCR block. A dim light glowed in one of the upstairs windows. Perhaps the fat man was still up there. Perhaps he had found something.

He went through the main entrance, pushing the heavy door to behind him.

It crashed shut as he began to climb the stairs. The noise reverberated up the stair-well for a moment. He stood and looked up the uninviting flights of stairs.

“Are you up there, sir?’ he called.

The answer came as though cued on a television thriller.

A woman’s scream.

Pascoe set off up the stairs three at a time. Each landing had a corridor leading off it, a grey tube leading to an identical landing at the other end and another flight of stairs. On the second landing, Pascoe caught a brief glimpse of movement at the other end of the corridor. He paused for a moment. Distantly he heard footsteps, pattering desperately down the stairs. He was undecided whether to pursue or go on up.

“Oh help, please help!’ It was the woman’s voice again. That decided him. Up to the next floor, down the corridor a little way, through the open door which let a feeble rectangle of light fall out of it.

The first thing that struck him was the smell. It was like the aftermath of a distillers’ orgy. The place reeked of whisky.

Squatting on the floor looking desperately up at him was Marion Cargo.

And in her lap she cradled Dalziel’s head.

“Thank God!’ said Marion. ‘ me please. We must get a doctor.”

Pascoe knelt beside her and took Dalziel’s weight. He seemed to be the main source of the whisky fumes, his shoulders were soaked and the floor was strewn with broken glass.

“Sir!’ he said anxiously. ‘!”

Dalziel opened his eyes and groaned. The groan turned into a sniff. He put a hand up to his face, looked at it, then licked his fingers.

“Oh my God,’ he said weakly. ‘ thought it was blood.”

He tried to stagger to his feet and Pascoe pushed him without much resistance into a chair. He leaned back, then yelped with pain and bent forward again.

“The bastard!’ he said. ‘, the bastard. He’s broken my whisky.”

“Does it hurt much?’ asked Pascoe anxiously.

“Aye, man. Mentally and physically. The letter, has he got the letter?”

“Where? You found it then?”

“On top of the pigeonholes there.”

The letter was gone.

Pascoe turned to Marion.

“What happened?’ he snapped.

“I don’t know. I came across to get a briefcase I’d left in here on Friday. The place was locked before because of the trouble last night I think. But I heard Mr. Dalziel say he was coming up.”

“You heard”? When? Where?”

“Why, in the bar a few moments ago.”

“Anybody else there?”

“Nearly everybody,’ she said, puzzled. ‘, I finished my drink, came out, saw the light so thought I’d just pop up.”

“Did you see anybody else come in?”

“No. But when I got to the landing of this floor, I heard a crash from inside the common room and as I reached the door, someone came running out and knocked me down.”

She rubbed her left buttock expressively.

“And then?”

“I screamed. Then I came in here and found the superintendent. Next thing I heard you running up the stairs so I shouted for help. Don’t you think we should get a doctor?”

“Yes. We will. Look, did you see who it was?”

“No. I’m afraid not. It all happened so quickly and I was dazed for a minute. Mind you,’ she added slowly, ‘ was something familiar about him. I’m sure it was someone I know.”

“Roote,’ said Dalziel, groaning as he tried to straighten up.

“What? Are you sure?’ said Pascoe.

“It has to be. Anyway I saw his shoes, those fancy tennis shoes he wears. Between my bloody legs I saw them.”

“Are you sure?’ repeated Pascoe. Marion looked amazed.

“For Christ’s sake, go and get him!”

“Yes, but you… “

“We need that letter. We’ve bugger all else. Go and get him!’ snarled Dalziel. His face was recovering a bit of colour, though it still looked grey. ”ll be able to smell him. Glen Grant. My God!”

“Miss. Cargo, get on the telephone will you?’ began Pascoe.

“Go!’ screamed the fat man.

Pascoe went. Dalziel was right, of course. Speed was of the essence. The letter itself would only take a minute to dispose of. He had little hope there. But at least if they got Roote straightaway they’d be able to check for certain if he was the attacker. He could hardly have avoided whisky stains and minute fragments of glass getting on to his clothes.

But the man was no fool. He would realize this too. His mind worked fast and it was matched with ice-cold nerves. He must have overheard Dalziel talking in the bar, had the same flash of realization that he, Pascoe, had had an hour earlier and instantly set out to thwart the fat man. He probably stood at the SCR door, absolutely still, watching the search, content to fade away quietly if nothing turned up, but moving instantly Dalziel’s demeanour revealed he had found something. Into the room, picking up the bottle of scotch on the way, bring it down club-like on to the detective’s back, then away with the letter. Perhaps he had meant to do more. The bottle had shattered on the superintendent’s shoulders. If it had caught him on the head… Perhaps Marion Cargo’s arrival had stopped another killing.

With this thought in mind, he went into Franny’s room in the best film-detective fashion, fast and low, crouched ready to ward off attack.

The place was empty, but bore the signs of a recent and hurried visit.

The wardrobe door was ajar, a couple of drawers in the chest were pulled out. Pascoe looked around longingly. It might be well worthwhile searching the place.

But not now. If he read the signs aright, Roote had been as quick as he suspected, and realizing that his clothes were a possible giveaway, had got back quickly for a change, but was too clever to do it here. Where then? Someone else’s room? Possibly.

Pascoe ran lightly down the corridor, pushing open doors. Most of the rooms were empty. In one an unfamiliar youth was leaning out of his open window smoking a pipe which was far too old for his placid, child-like face. He looked round in surprise.

“Roote?’ said Pascoe, retreating as he spoke.

“Franny? I’ve just seen him heading out towards the beach. He must be going for a swim. I think he had his things.”

He gestured largely with his pipe out of the window. Pascoe went into the room and peered out towards the invisible sea.

“When?”

“About a minute. Less.”

Pausing only to check on a possible bluff by opening the youth’s wardrobe, much to his surprise, Pascoe hurried from the building and set off at a gentle trot towards the dunes. His hopes were fading as fast as the light. Roote would know this stretch of coastline like the back of his hand. It had been a good move not to stop in the building. Clothing was always difficult to get rid of indoors. Whereas… Whereas if I were Roote thought Pascoe, I’d get down to the beach, strip off, make sacks out of my trousers and shirt, fill them with stones, swim out as far as I could and let them go. Then gently back, having given myself a thorough washing in the process, and up the beach to where I have left my new gear. The letter could go too if it hadn’t been disposed of already. What the hell had Fallowfield said that was so damning? Was it about Girling? It still seemed unlikely. Anita? Or even both?

He doubted if they would ever know now. But if he played his hunch for once and made straight for the beach instead of scouting around the dunes, they might still get enough to make things very difficult for Roote.

He increased his pace to a run, stopping only when he breasted the last line of sand hills and stood overlooking the sea.

It was like a scientist putting his hypothesis to the practical test and finding it worked out perfectly in every particular.

Below him, about thirty yards to the right Franny was kneeling, dressed only in his trousers, thrusting stones into a bag made from his light cotton shirt. The rest of the beach was completely empty, the tide was out and the sea was a mere line of brightness in the hazy distance.

“It’s a long walk for a swim,’ said Pascoe conversationally. He had moved unobserved along the ridge of the dune till he stood right over the youth.

Franny looked round. His voice when he spoke was the same as ever, but there was a tightness round his face which should have been a warning.

“Hello, lovey,’ he said. ‘ a dip, do you?” “No thanks,’ said Pascoe, leaping lightly down. At least he meant to leap lightly, but his feet slithered in the soft loose sand and he was thrown off balance. Franny came to his feet and in one smooth movement brought up the shirt with its burden of stones full into Pascoe’s chest. The sergeant went down, clutching the shirt, rolled over to the left as fast as he could and rose into the crouch to withstand the next onslaught, feeling as though his ribs were crushed in.

Franny had not moved, but stood facing him, only his eyes moving in his impassive face.

He’s thinking, thought Pascoe gasping for breath. He’s working it out.

Three things — to run, to surrender, or to fight. There’s nowhere to run, he knows that. Surrender and bluff it out? What after all have we got on him? An attack on a police-officer. Serious, but without the letter… what the hell was in that letter? But it was gone now.

Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

Was it?

That’s why he can’t just give up and talk his way out of it! He’s still got the letter. All right. Why not run now, give yourself enough start to dump it? With me in this condition, it shouldn’t be difficult.

Unless, of course, he no longer has it. In which case… Pascoe looked down at the bundle in his arms and slowly began to smile.

I have it!

It’s in here, ready for sinking in the sea.

He looked up again, opened his mouth, and received a handful of fine silver sand full in his face. The bundle was torn from his grasp. He flung himself forward, still blinded by the sand, and grappled with Roote’s knees. One of them came up violently, crashing into his mouth and he went over backwards. Blinking desperately, he got a little bit of vision back, enough to roll out of the way of the clubbing punch aimed at his head. Enough also to see the young man’s face and realize that he was no longer fighting just for the letter, he was fighting for his life.

He pushed himself up off his backside and tried to scrabble backwards up the sand dune, hoping to get the advantage of height. But the softness of the sand thwarted him and he slid back into the relentless volley of punches that was being hurled at him. Many of them he was able to ward off with his hands and forearms, but he had little strength to retaliate. In the cinema, western heroes, and even policemen occasionally, could give and receive enormous blows for any amount of time. But for mere unscripted mortals like himself, things were different.

The onslaught suddenly slackened, but not out of charity or even fatigue, he realized. Roote was merely casting around for a more satisfactory (meaning, lethal) weapon than his bare fists. He stooped and came up with a large ovoid stone in his hand.

The time had come, Pascoe decided, to admit the boot was on the other foot and run.

His initial burst of energy at the decision almost carried him up the sand dune this time but his foot was seized and he was dragged down into the hollow again.

He took the first blow from the stone on his elbow. It hurt like hell, but it was better than his face. And this time he managed to get in a damaging counter-blow with his knee to Roote’s groin. Momentarily the man staggered back, but Pascoe had no romantic illusions about snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. He wanted reinforcements and quick.

This time he didn’t waste his energy by trying to climb but set off along the beach, parallel with the dunes; a clumsy sideways kind of run, he thought, but in the circumstances who could expect style?

Amazingly when he glanced back after about thirty yards, he wasn’t being pursued. He didn’t question why, but just felt thankful. It was time to move inland and seek help. His fuddled mind was trying to work out where the nearest point of human contact was. The golf club perhaps? Or that row of cottages in which poor Fallowfield had lived. Poor Fallowfield indeed! God knows what the bastard was responsible for, including this!

The dunes looked less precipitous here. He turned inland and began once more to climb up.

As he pulled himself over the top, clutching at the long, tough sea-grass, he realized why Roote had not pursued him down the beach.

He was here instead, standing over him expectantly, stone still held high in his hand. As it came down, Pascoe pushed himself backwards in a last desperate attempt to escape. As he fell, he saw Roote looming over him, dark against the sky, then the youth’s body came crashing on top of him, knocking all his breath out.

It took him some seconds to realize that the body was moving even less energetically than his own, that he could push it off him quite easily.

He did so. Another figure now stood menacingly against the skyline.

Perhaps not so menacingly after all. The walking-stick with which he had clubbed Franny was still held aloft, it was true. But the bright blue eyes, the old, weather-wrinkled face, the happy smile, the old binoculars dangling free from the scrawny neck, none of these seemed to contain much menace.

“Ee, lad,’ said Harold Lapping with a contented laugh, ‘ do see some funny goings-on just walking round these dunes of an evening.”

It was a few moments before Pascoe could gasp his thanks. Lapping slid down beside him and helped him to stand up. Franny was still lying in the sand, but his eyes were open.

“Watch him,’ gasped Pascoe. ‘ he moves an inch, hit him with your stick.”

The old man grinned.

Pascoe walked unsteadily down the beach to where he had first encountered Roote. He picked up the shirt bundle and carried it back.

Anything that might be evidence it was as well to find in front of a witness. Silently he tipped out the stones so that they fell a couple of feet from Roote’s staring eyes. Among them was a crumpled envelope.

He picked it up and smoothed it out, realizing he had no idea who it might be addressed to.

“Saltecombe,’ he said. He noticed with surprise that the envelope was still sealed.

“You haven’t read it? Short of time?’ he asked, then added, ‘. You weren’t even going to read it, were you? It was ready for disposal. Why not?”

Roote sat up slowly, his eyes on Lapping’s stick. He rubbed the back of his head.

“I don’t like sticking my nose into other people’s mail,’ he said.

That’s constabulary business.” “Oh no,’ said Pascoe staring hard at the youth. ‘ were frightened, weren’t you? It worried you what a dying man might say about you. Not just because it might incriminate you, in the sight of the law, but because it might condemn you to yourself.” “Oh, piss off,’ said Franny.

Pascoe looked at the letter, faced with Dalziel’s dilemma when he had found it. Should he open it now or not?

“Open it for me,’ said Franny as though reading his thoughts. ”ve got nothing to worry about.”

He managed to sound quite confident. Pascoe shoved his bruised and bleeding face close to the youth’s and pointed to it.

“What do you think did this? Moths?’ he asked. He reached down and undid Roote’s belt and the top two buttons of his flies.

“Put your hands in your pockets,’ he said. ‘ ‘ up. Come on.”

They made an odd trio as they picked their way over the dunes and through the woodland back to the college. The letter was safely in Pascoe’s pocket. It would keep till they got back to Dalziel. That small part of Pascoe’s mind which wasn’t concerned with watching Roote or exploring the pain round his ribs and face kept on sniffing around the case. He ought to have felt happy. Franny’s actions demonstrated his guilt, the letter in his pocket would probably give some detailed indication of exactly what had happened. But what in fact was the man guilty of? Ever since he’d talked to Dalziel on the phone he’d been trying to construct models of motive and opportunity which would fit Fallowfield and Roote and the known facts together. So far nothing. It had all happened too quickly. A few hours ago he hadn’t been able to foresee an end to this business in six months. Now they had… Well, what did they have?

They found Dalziel in the college sickbay having his back treated by a little Irish matron with Marion acting as dogsbody. Landor was there too, still looking anxious, and Halfdane who did not look over-worried at the sight of Dalziel’s discomfiture. Even Miss. Disney had somehow realized that something was going on, and only her sense of the impropriety of being in the same room as a half naked superintendent kept her hovering in the doorway.

The arrival of Pascoe and Roote caused quite a stir. Roote looked round the room with a lop-sided grin and shrugged his shoulders as though in resignation. The matron came across to Pascoe and looked at his bloody face. He caught a glimpse of himself in a wall-mirror and realized how horrific he looked.

Dalziel swung down from the couch on which he was lying for treatment.

The top of his back was very nastily bruised and he held his head thrust forward in a rather becomingly aggressive pose. He began pulling on his shirt, despite the matron’s protests.

“I’ll see the quack when he condescends to come,’ he said. ‘ too, Sergeant. Meanwhile we need a bit of privacy to talk with Mr. Roote here.”

“There seem to be quite a lot of students outside,’ said Landor diffidently. Miss. Scotby who had just arrived nodded in confirmation of this.

“The boy, Cockshut, is there,’ she said in her precise tones, as though that explained everything. ‘ I go and disperse them, Simeon?”

She probably would too, thought Pascoe. And it’s ” now, is it? If she’s out to supplant Mrs. Landor, please God let her do it by legitimate means.

That’s unnecessary,’ said Dalziel. ‘ office will do, if we may, Matron.”

She nodded and led the way into a small room opening off the sickbay.

Roote sat down uninvited and smiled up at them. He seemed quite recovered from his knock and mentally unperturbed.

“If you beat me, I shall scream,’ he said with a grin.

“I think I can promise you that,’ said Dalziel softly. Pascoe, who was sponging blood off his face at the small wash-basin in the corner, suddenly felt happy to be himself despite his aches and pains.

Roote had stopped smiling and was fingering the lump on the back of his head where Lapping had hit him. Pascoe caught Dalziel’s eye and nodded at the youth’s head, making a chopping motion. Dalziel’s eyes gave a flicker of understanding. Solicitors made a lot of fuss about their clients being questioned while suffering from untreated injuries, and the courts didn’t like it much either.

Now Pascoe brought the letter from his pocket and held it up for Dalziel to see. The fat man’s eyes rounded and he began to look pleased. He obviously had not expected to see it again. Pascoe hoped it was going to be worth all the trouble.

Dalziel picked up the telephone on the desk and after a moment spoke to the operator.

“Get me Mr. Saltecombe at his home please. Ask him if he would come to see me as soon as possible. Yes, I’m in the matron’s office.”

It was almost possible to sense the switchboard girl’s disapproval of Dalziel’s free movement round the college.

He replaced the receiver and looked solicitously at Franny.

“Now, Mr. Roote, we’ve got a doctor coming to have a look at that bump on your head. Is there anything you’d like to say before he turns up?”

Pascoe expected some flip obscenity, but strangely the youth seemed to be considering the suggestion carefully.

“I could have got rid of the letter,’ he said inconsequentially. ‘ didn’t think you’d be so quick.”

“We’re lightning when roused,’ said Dalziel.

“I wish I’d read it now. Then I’d know what — not that it matters. I’m rather tired of it all. It’s about time I went off on a new tack. And Sam’s probably said it all.’ He laughed. ‘ was a great one for words, Sam. Ideas. But not so hot on action.”

“Perhaps you should try words for a change.”

“You may be right, lovey. Anyway, what the hell. We’ll see. There’s an old police proverb, isn’t there? He who talks last serves longest? I’ll tell you what, Superintendent. You’d better get used to me as a picture of misguided innocence. I’ll bring character witnesses.” He’s nervous, thought Pascoe. Somewhere deep down inside him there’s a little bit of fear fluttering. He doesn’t like to sit and wait. He likes to be doing, doing, doing. He likes to feel the initiative to action lies with him.

Dalziel obviously caught this feeling too. He looked uninterested, glanced at his watch.

“Well, we’ll just get the doctor to look at you. Then we can talk later at the station.”

He opened the door and stepped into the sickroom.

“Any sign of that doctor?” From the window the matron said, ‘ think that his car is coming down the drive now. Come along, everybody. I can’t have you all hanging around here. What will the doctor think?”

They began to move reluctantly, Halfdane sticking close to Marion Cargo, Landor patting Miss. Scotby’s elbow reassuringly, Disney walking backwards as though from a royal presence.

“Superintendent.”

The voice stopped them all. It was Franny standing at the office door.

Behind him Pascoe hovered, ready to pounce.

“Murderer!’ hissed Disney magnificently.

“Mr. Dalziel. When Mr. Saltecombe comes, may I be there when he opens his letter? I’d like to see it.”

Something about his intonation bothered Pascoe.

“I bet you would,’ said Dalziel. ”t worry. You’ll find out what’s in it soon enough.”

Disney snorted and left. Marion, looking ill after the strain of the evening, went out with Halfdane’s arm supporting her waist, followed by Scotby and Landor.

Pascoe watched them all go, vaguely disturbed. Roote had sat down again and was whistling softly to himself. Pascoe looked at him with great dislike.

When the doctor arrived he was accompanied by Constable Shattuck. Pascoe turned over his supervisory duties to him and went and joined Dalziel at the sickbay window, looking down at a sizeable group of students hanging round the entrance to the block.

“Landor’s talking to them. Not very successfully,’ grunted Dalziel.

A car coming up the drive had to bleep its horn to clear a path through the students. It was a silver-grey Capri.

“Halfdane,’ said Dalziel. Pascoe wondered how he knew. ‘ bloody cars.”

They watched it out of sight through the main gates.

“Get the doc. to have a look at you,’ said Dalziel and obediently the sergeant went through into the other room. Behind him he heard Dalziel picking up the telephone.

Roote had been pronounced perfectly fit, Pascoe’s rib had been strapped, though the doctor didn’t think there was a break, and Dalziel was just putting his shirt back on for the second time when Henry Saltecombe turned up.

“I couldn’t believe it when they told me this morning. Sam! I’ve been just walking up and down the beach all day.”

He seemed genuinely upset.

There’s a letter for you here, Mr. Saltecombe,’ said Dalziel sympathetically. ‘ have reason to believe Mr. Fallowfield wrote it. I would like you to open it in my presence, read it, and then permit me to read it. It may be relevant to my enquiries and the coroner too will want sight of it.”

Henry seemed to turn even paler.

“From Sam?”

“Yes. Sergeant, just hold that door firmly closed, will you?”

Pascoe took a tight hold of the handle of the office door behind which Constable Shattuck was watching over Roote.

Henry unsealed the envelope awkwardly, tearing it diagonally across the face. There were three handwritten sheets inside. He read them silently, once, twice.

“Here,’ he said handing them to Dalziel and turning away. Dalziel read slowly and methodically, then passed them over to Pascoe.

“Mr. Saltecombe,’ he said. ‘ word in your ear.”

They muttered in a corner as Pascoe read the letter.

“Well, that’s that,’ he said to Dalziel who shook his head warningly.

“Fetch Roote through,’ said the fat man.

Pascoe tapped on the door and Shattuck opened it.

“Bring him out,’ he said to the constable.

Franny stood framed in the doorway.

Henry took a step forward from his corner.

“You bastard,’ he said. ‘ slimy bastard! I hope they jail you for ever.”

Franny did not seem taken aback.

“So you’ve read it,’ he said, looking at Dalziel who held the letter in his hand.

“Francis Roote,’ he said. ‘ will be taken to the Central Police Station where you will be charged with the murders of Alison Girling and Anita Sewell. You are not required to say anything now, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence. At the station you will be given an opportunity to contact your legal adviser.” The murders?’ said Franny disbelievingly. ‘ you can’t do that. Not… look, he must say… what does he say?”

He stepped forward to make a grab at the letter. Shattuck’s arms enfolded him from behind in a comfortable embrace.

“He just mentions you, Franny,’ said Dalziel softly. ”s a lot about you.”

The? Just me? The fool! The bastard! What did he… why… ” “Why not, Franny?’ asked Dalziel. ‘ not?” “Is it a bluff?’ he asked. ‘ it? What’s it matter anyway? Now. Just sit down and listen to this.”

He began talking rapidly. After a couple of minutes Pascoe jumped up, looked at Dalziel and motioned to the telephone. Dalziel standing by the window shook his head and pointed out.

Down the drive moving very sedately came a silver grey Capri. Behind it was a police-car.

Franny was still talking when the door burst open and Halfdane rushed in.

“What the hell’s all this?’ he snarled. ”re in trouble, real trouble, Superintendent. You’ve never known trouble like it… “

Dalziel ignored him completely. Holding Fallowfield’s letter before him like a cross held out to a vampire he went towards the pale slight figure standing between two policemen in the doorway.

“Marion Cargo,’ he said. ‘ am arresting you on suspicion of complicity in the murders of… “

He didn’t finish. She fainted beautifully into the arms of the policemen.

Only the ironic applause from Roote disturbed the beauty of the performance.