by Roy Lewis
‘What sort of man is he?’
Fanshaw paused and eyed the inspector curiously. The long white face was still but there was a calculating look in the brown eyes.
‘Mr West came to Burton about six or eight months ago. He’s a quiet, introverted sort of feller. Efficient, academically well-qualified, taught in Australia at a university for a number of years, then came over here and drifted into the technical colleges. I’ve not really understood that, because I feel sure he could have got into a university, but there you are: perhaps it was an emotional thing, I don’t know. He’s a good Faculty head, reasonable, organizes well.’
‘Married?’
‘I don’t think so. He was married I think, but isn’t now. He lives alone, I understand; doesn’t mix particularly with the staff in a social situation. I like him.’
‘Does he like you?’
Fanshaw raised his black eyebrows.
‘I can’t really say. Most educationists are polite to HMI but who is pleased to be inspected? The inspectorial function inevitably colours one’s image, I fear, and it is too easy to take professional respect and equate it with personal regard. No, I think Mr West probably trusts me, professionally; whether he likes me as a person, I can’t say.’
Old Charley Nixon, now, he was a different fish. He could take Robert Fanshaw for what he was, a friendly quaffer of ale in small quantities, a musician of sorts, a good listener to country tales, an inveterate sentimentalist as far as village life and village people were concerned. But Charley Nixon wasn’t tied up in an educational world, he didn’t see Robert Fanshaw in professional terms, and he could accept Robert Fanshaw for what he was.
‘Would you say you knew the other heads pretty well too?’
Fanshaw raised an elegant, deprecating shoulder.
‘Let me put it like this. Part of my job is to deal with people in a professional situation. I act as an adviser to my Department. In so doing there are occasions when I have to make recommendations to the Department. These must be based, in part, upon what I think of individuals. Therefore, it follows that part of my job is to make assessments of people, to make what may be called value-judgments .’
‘So you could give me thumbnail sketches of the Burton staff?’
‘The senior people, yes. Without prejudice, of course.’
‘Without prejudice. All right, Mr Fanshaw — what about Stevens?’
An interesting exercise. Fanshaw pursed his lips and rocked slightly on his heels. He stared out through the window.
‘Stevens, Head of the Faculty of Law, Economics and Professional Studies. A young man of promise. Ebullient, go-ahead in my view, and perhaps destined for a principal-ship himself within the next five or ten years. He’s about forty.’
‘Carliss?’
‘Faculty of Science. A short-tempered, explosive feller, prickly, aggressive, with a considerable opinion of his own capabilities which is not shared by all his contemporaries. Ambition is present in his veins; it causes him to get purple in the face on occasion—’
‘When he speaks of Stevens, perhaps?’
Fanshaw stared at Crow and a slow smile spread over his face.
‘I congratulate you, Inspector. It was at least three months before I detected the presence of animosity between the two gentlemen. It’s taken you, what? Twenty-four hours?’
‘Less. But things accelerate under pressure of a murder investigation.’
‘I believe you.’
‘Why does Carliss dislike Stevens?’
‘It’s never been put in such crude terms, Inspector, and I would hesitate to so describe the . . . ah . . . situation between them. But it really comes to this: Dr Anthony Peters is rector of Burton Polytechnic. The post of assistant rector fell vacant just one year ago as a result of the retirement of its incumbent. No suitable applicants came forward for interview; there is a strong possibility that an internal appointment will be made though the governing body has not so intimated as yet. Stevens is a young man who is going places, to use the idiom. Carliss sees his own destination as possibly being the same as Stevens — hence a certain acrimony in social intercourse between them.’
‘You mean they’re both after the job of assistant rector?’
‘I must protest at the directness of your statements, Inspector. No one has ever said this, or suggested it openly. It is my belief that each of them sees himself as the natural candidate. Inevitably this colours their judgment of each other. The colours have been sharpened by the attempts made by Stevens to influence the future academic development of the polytechnic, and the obstacles raised by Carliss at Academic Board level. Carliss also tends to be — ah — excessively industry-oriented. Stevens believes in freedom from entanglement with industrial interests. The two men disagree violently. In Carliss’s case, at least, it might tend to spill over into vituperation, and even slanderous statements.’
‘Such as the suggestion that Stevens is a womanizer?’
Fanshaw smiled and wriggled uncomfortably, smoothing the white hair at the side of his head.
‘I do wish you wouldn’t put things in such black and white terminology. I prefer the secondary colours myself. Stevens . . . it has come to my attention that he is not averse to female company in conversation. Beyond that I cannot comment.’
Crow smiled faintly and Fanshaw was aware that he was amused by the traditional caution of Her Majesty’s Inspectorate. Yet Crow obviously understood the necessity for caution when statements could be interpreted as being other than personal.
‘He trusts you, this man West.’
‘Professionally, yes.’
‘Would you like to be with me when I speak to him?’
‘If you think it will help.’ Fanshaw was surprised and his tone betrayed the emotion. ‘But I hardly see—’
‘I’m a stranger, and a policeman. West is ill. I don’t want to upset him too much. If you’re there it might make him calmer, and he might also be more inclined to speak freely. I’ll also want your opinion of what he has to say.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘It’s not my intention to flatter you. You can help me, it’s as simple as that.’
Fanshaw’s face held an amused smile as he walked in behind Crow. The sister took them to Vernon West’s bedside.
West was sitting up in bed. He looked no different to Fanshaw, except for a slight mottling of his features, and the sunshine picked out on his cheeks a fine tracing of veins, the network of experience, that Fanshaw had not noticed before. He sat quietly, with his hands resting on the bedcovers and he watched the two men approach him. His features were fleshy; he was heavy-jowled and he had a double chin but his mouth was firm and his glance keen. Fanshaw had never thought of him as a soft man, in spite of his heavy build; he possessed a strength of character which helped him considerably in his handling of Faculty affairs but Fanshaw had known at least one young lecturer who had mistaken West’s air of quiet restraint for weakness and had paid the penalty accordingly. Vernon West was nobody’s fool and was capable of reaching firm decisions on logically argued facts. But he never acted precipitately. He weighed up events, and acted when action became necessary, not before.
Crow ambled forward and stood over the man in the bed. Without preamble the policeman said: ‘You’ll have heard what happened at Burton. I’d like to ask you some questions.’
West’s reaction was slight; a tongue moistening dry lips and a quick glance in Fanshaw’s direction.
‘Yes. I heard about . . . about Miss Harland over the radio this morning. Hello, Mr Fanshaw.’
Fanshaw nodded a greeting, and Crow continued.
‘Rosemary Harland was killed about ten in the evening, on the college premises. Statements have already been taken from the other Faculty heads, who knew her fairly well. You knew her also. Would you like to tell me where you were at the relevant time?’
Fanshaw opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. West had glanced in his direction but again had made no other react
ion. He was not obviously disturbed by the direct nature of Crow’s questions.
‘I was at home, ill. There’s no one who can corroborate that, of course.’
‘Tell me precisely what happened.’
‘I had experienced some pain during the morning; a sort of gripping pain in my chest. I suspected indigestion and went back home intending to have a light lunch. Once home, I felt quite unwell, and so I phoned the college and told them I’d be staying away for the afternoon. Then, about two in the afternoon, I had a heart attack. Or to be more medically precise, I suffered an attack of angina pectoris.’
‘This would be a pain only. No crippling effect?’
‘That occurred only later, about five in the afternoon. I had a second attack: this amounted to a lesion, I understand. I had an idea what was happening; I was upstairs at the time and I lay on my bed. I was too scared to go downstairs to the phone: I thought it was safer to keep still. That’s what I did. I must have passed out then, because when I woke, it was close to dawn the next morning. I was feeling somewhat better, and I made my way, very gingerly, believe me, down to the phone, and called an ambulance. Then they brought me here.’
Crow sniffed and made a brief note in a book he fished out of his pocket. ‘Do you drive?’
‘A car? Yes.’
‘Driving gloves?’
‘I have some, yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Keep them in your car?’
‘I do. But why—’
‘Were you friendly with Rosemary Harland?’
Fanshaw watched and listened with interest. He was beginning to wonder why Crow had suggested he come in with him, but it was interesting to see the policeman at work. The blunt, direct attack of his was hardly calculated to make things easier for a man who was ill, but at least this method meant that the interview would be quickly over, and this would probably be best for West in the long run.
Fanshaw sat and listened sympathetically to West’s answers. They were given in a low, quiet voice, with occasional surprised glances in Fanshaw’s direction, as he puzzled at the drift of Crow’s questions. No, he had not been friendly with the girl, he had not known her outside office hours. Yes, he did have a key to the building. They were all the answers that Fanshaw would have expected, the ones he knew would have come.
But then things changed suddenly.
‘Have you anything to add? Anything you think might have some bearing upon her death?’
West said nothing but there was a curious tenseness in him that was communicated to both his visitors. Crow leaned forward.
‘I should add,’ he said, ‘that if there is anything, you should divulge it. In a murder investigation loyalty is misplaced. Is there anything you can tell me? About the girl’s relationships, for instance, with members of staff?’
West licked his lips and looked down at his hands. His eyes narrowed and the lines around his pouched eyes grew deeper.
‘I’m not sure. It’s not really for me to say. It’s just that . . . there have been rumours . . .’ He paused, and silence gathered conspiratorially around the three men. ‘Rumours about Miss Harland . . . and . . . and the rector.’
Something cold touched Fanshaw’s neck.
He stared at West but the man did not meet his glance. Crow said quietly, ‘What sort of rumours?’
‘I can’t really say. Just . . . just veiled hints that there was some sort of relationship between them.’
‘Sexual?’
‘I can’t . . . I don’t know . . .’
‘Who told you about this?’
‘Again, I don’t know. I mean, rumours, where do they start? How do they gain currency?’ West’s speech had begun to speed up, underlined as it was by a slight desperation as though he had found himself in an arena where he had no desire to be, and was facing a bull he had no desire to fight. ‘All I know is that while I’ve been at Burton there have been rumours . . . drifting around, concerning Dr Peters and . . . and the girl.’
Fanshaw hardly listened to the rest. Crow continued to probe, press West for details but they were not forthcoming. West became shorter in his replies. His eyes had taken on a fixed deadness; the glass eyes of a mounted fox-head. It was obvious that he was already regretting what he had said. Finally Crow gave up, took his leave of West and walked out. Fanshaw followed him, after saying quietly to West that he’d be back in a few minutes.
In the corridor outside Crow swung around abruptly to face Fanshaw. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Was he lying?’
‘A value-judgment about a man is one thing, but an ability to detect lies is another.’
‘You said you knew West; that he trusted you. If he’d given you those answers would you have believed them?’
Fanshaw considered for a moment. This was the trouble with Crow — he expected directness, firm statements from which one could not later resile. Such remarks, and attitudes, were contrary to Fanshaw’s character and inclinations.
‘Let me put it like this, Inspector. From the evidence of West’s hospitalization we know that he suffered a mild coronary — though he seems pretty well today and I understand that he’ll be kept only a matter of days before he’s allowed to convalesce at home. I believe his story to that extent.’
‘But?’
‘But I’m confused over his remarks concerning the rector.’
‘You think the rector isn’t capable of having an affair with his secretary?’ Fanshaw winced at Crow’s directness.
‘I didn’t say that. I’m in no position to make any such statement; I don’t know the man well enough to be able to make such remarks or reach conclusions about his private life. No, my confusion arises over West himself.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘West is an introvert; a quiet, unassuming person who says little more than he needs to and keeps very much to himself. He is not a retailer of gossip, he is not the kind of man who listens to it, let alone passes it on.’
‘But he heard rumours concerning Peters.’
‘That’s what I find confusing. First, that he should consciously hear such rumours; second, that he should place any credence upon them; third, that he should regurgitate them for what they are.’
Fanshaw sighed unhappily and looked at Crow with sad eyes.
‘You took me in with you for my opinion, I gather. Well, my opinion is that Mr West was not being completely honest with you in his later remarks.’
Had he been of Crow’s disposition and profession, Fanshaw thought, he’d have put it more crudely. No matter, he’d leave Crow now and go back in to West, pay his respects as he’d meant to on this visit.
He might then discover just why Vernon West had lied.
* * *
It was an unpretentious family house, red brick, grey-tiled roof, a curving, shaven lawn, rose-beds and flowering cherry trees in the front garden, shrubs and vegetable patch in the back. The sitting-room sported a piano on which were perched three photographs of a girl, taken at ages eight, fourteen and twenty; on the settee there had been a leather-backed album open at the third page. It contained some baby snaps. All of the same person, all of the same girl, the girl whose murder Crow was investigating.
He wasn’t here to project sympathy, he was here to probe, to ask questions, to bring back to the minds of the parents the image of a daughter who had died only a matter of hours ago, and died violently. He had to ask them about her recent activities and her friends, suggest that they might look for significance in innocent actions and statements made by her during the last few days, and inevitably bring into their minds the seeds of a suspicion that they might never have known their daughter. This was the unpleasant part of an investigation: the inference that a close-knit family was yet composed of individuals who could and would hide from each other their inner thoughts and desires.
His own ghoulish appearance did nothing to alleviate the problems posed by his questioning, and at such times as this Crow felt himself to be very mu
ch a blunt instrument, lacking finesse and diplomacy, the syrup of a politician, the honey of an ambassador. He knew he would stumble over words and scrape raw nerves because the real sympathy he felt for these people would nevertheless have to be submerged by the necessities of his task — the ferreting of fact out of a welter of emotion and sentiment.
His presence would not be welcome.
Mr Harland was a portly, middle-aged accountant who worked for a respectable engineering firm in Sedleigh and his firmly middle-class situation rendered him incapable of coping with the inexplicable intrusion of murder, with all its unpleasant connotations of the underworld of which he knew nothing. Mrs Harland was fluffy, blonde gone grey, heartbroken and incapable of coherent speech for longer than two minutes, faced as she was by the shadows of her lost daughter — the photographs on the piano, the painting on the wall, the stitching on a cushion cover, the book on a shelf. They drifted in the room for her, the whispers of a girl’s life, dying whispers, dead whispers, rustling like dry leaves in her mind. Crow tried to deal with these two saddened people, tried to ask them firm, logical questions but found himself faced with a dull, uncomprehending hostility from the man and stuttering tears from the woman. No, they did not know why Rosemary would have stayed behind at the college; no, they didn’t worry when she failed to return for she sometimes stayed with her friend, Sally Woods, and they had been told that she was to do so that evening; no, there was no boyfriend as far as they knew for she wasn’t that kind of girl and they resented the suggestion that she was. No. They could think of no reason why anyone, anyone at all, should want to kill their daughter.
It was only with considerable reluctance that they agreed to allow an officer to search through their daughter’s room and possessions.
When Crow drove away it was with a sense of helplessness at his inability to help the couple in any positive way: the person who had existed at the centre of their lives was dead. Crow spent that evening sitting in the Sedleigh Arms with a glass of beer in front of him, pondering on the lines of enquiry that he’d be following the next day — but he had to make a conscious effort to do so, for the Harlands drifted unbidden into his mind. He was sorry for them, and in his job a man could afford little sympathy, for it clouded judgment.