Miss Disney was obviously reluctant to agree with any diagnosis from the principal, but Dalziel pressed on.
‘I believe you were against the despoiling of the garden?’
It was a good word. Disney nodded emphatically, her chins and jowls tossing in sprightly dance.
‘Indeed I was. I am! For many reasons. It has always been a place of comfort and repose for those of us not utterly unresponsive to natural beauty. It is almost the only remaining link with the college as it was before all this. And if this were not enough, it is in its own way, which is a very real way, a shrine to the memory of dear Miss Girling.’
She sniffed and took an absurdly small lace handkerchief from her capacious sleeve. Pascoe would have been less surprised to see her pull out the flags of the nations of Europe all strung together.
Dalziel clucked sympathetically.
‘Forgive me for asking,’ he said in a low, vibrantly sincere voice television interviewers use when questioning the tragically bereaved, ‘but why did you say that it was Miss Girling when the - er - decedent’s remains came into view?’
‘It was silly, I know,’ said Miss Disney almost girlishly. ‘But dear Alison was so much in my mind, as you might imagine. And when I saw the bones and the hair …’
She broke off and looked up at the portrait on the wall.
‘She had such lovely red hair, you know. You can’t imagine how it used to be here in the old days. Just a handful of staff and a hundred or so girls. We knew them all by name. Al’s gals, we used to call them. Such nice, decent girls too. Whereas now … !’
‘So it was the hair … ?’ prompted Dalziel.
‘Yes, Superintendent. It was as if Alison had risen from her distant grave to reproach me for permitting all this to happen.’
‘So you passed out?’ Dalziel’s tone was suddenly casually conversational again.
‘I fainted,’ said Miss Disney, moving just as rapidly from the submissive female to her previous role. ‘I must say, Inspector, that I cannot really see how this line of enquiry is relevant. It’s not the uncovering but the burying of these bones which is surely of interest. And that must have happened at least six years ago. Now I must go and teach the remnants of my class.’
She stalked to the door, but paused there a moment as if reluctant to exit on an altogether damnatory note.
‘I’ll tell you one thing, Superintendent,’ she said, reinstating him in his proper rank. ‘Those bones are not all that is buried here. This is no longer a happy place. There is godlessness at work in this college, on all levels. Good day to you.’
Pascoe managed to get the door open before she walked through it. He closed it gently behind her.
Dalziel had seated himself at the principal’s desk and was dialling a number on the internal phone.
‘Hello, love,’ he said. ‘Any chance of some tea for a thirsty policeman? In the principal’s study. Oh, he has, has he? That’s nice. For two? That’s right, tea for two.’
He put the phone down.
‘They’re making us welcome,’ he said. ‘Well now, Sergeant, this is more your kind of scene, as they say. I’m out of my depth here in all this academic intellectual stuff. So what do you make of it?’
Pascoe did not believe a word of this modest disclaimer, but he knew better than to say so. He had a degree in Social Sciences, a qualification Dalziel frequently treated with mock-deference. But when he asked you a question, he listened to what was said, despite all appearances to the contrary.
‘It’s not an unusual kind of situation here,’ he said. ‘The educational expansion programme of the sixties took places like this used to be by the neck and shook them up a bit. Government started thinking industrially about education, that is in terms of plant efficiency, productivity, quotas, etc. Small colleges such as this was could become four or five times larger in as many years.’
‘Could? You mean there was a choice?’ Dalziel sounded faintly incredulous.
‘To some extent. You can’t be too autocratic with an educational system based on liberal principles. Really what it boiled down to was the willingness of those in charge to co-operate. If you dug your heels in, progress was slow. If you went out after money and expansion, it could be relatively rapid. Landor’s obviously an expansionist.’
‘And her?’ Dalziel nodded at the portrait.
‘It sounds as if she was the other kind. A digger-in of heels.’
Dalziel suddenly seemed to lose interest.
‘What do you think Disney meant by “godlessness”? Are they groping each other during her lectures, or something?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Pascoe thoughtfully. ‘Probably just that. Your modern students have come a long way from “Al’s gals” I should imagine. But I can probably find out. I’ve been looking at the staff-list. There’s someone here I was at university with. She’s a lecturer in the Social Sciences department.’
He kept his tone casual but Dalziel, as always, was on to him in a flash.
‘She?’
‘Yes.She. It was a mixed university.’
‘She,’ said Dalziel again, nodding as if some dreadful fear about his sergeant had been confirmed. ‘A close friend?’
‘Close enough. What’s next on the agenda, sir?’
‘Still close?’
‘Hardly. It’s several years now, and…’
‘What?’
‘Didn’t you know, sir? I became a policeman.’
Dalziel let the sarcasm pass unreproved, though not unrecorded. But at least he left the subject.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now check them all. I want to find out who was here five years ago.’
‘I’ve made some enquiries already,’ said Pascoe. ‘Very few.’
‘Fine. Similarly with clerical and domestic staff. Next, a list of everyone who was here five years ago and has since moved on.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Pascoe deferentially. ‘Can we really make the assumption that five years is the significant period?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Can we be certain that this body was put into the hole which had been dug for the statue in the short period between its being dug and the base being dropped into it? Couldn’t the body have been in the ground already when the hole was dug? Or isn’t it even possible that it was buried there later, a hole dug down the side of the base, a groove scraped in the earth underneath the base, and the body pushed into this?’
Dalziel groaned dramatically.
‘It’s all possible, lad,’ he said. ‘It’s possible this was a lost pot-holer trying to dig his way to the surface. But it’s unlikely. I just think it’s unlikely, but then I’m a simple soul, not over-gifted intellectually. But you’re different. And when you’ve done all the other things you’re going to do, just get yourself out there and find me half a dozen good reasons why we can discount your possibilities. Right?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Pascoe.
‘Good. Next, I want a list of all persons reported missing in the area between, let’s see, when was that blasted statue put up, January let’s say, all right, between the previous October and the following April. Better make it the whole year, from July to July. And make sure I get the lab-report on the bones as soon as it’s ready. I don’t want any ambitious young officer working at his career prospects through it for a couple of hours first.’
There was a tap at the door. A pretty, young girl in a blue nylon overall came in carrying a tray which she placed on the desk.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Dalziel with a beam.
‘We’ll just be needing one cup. The sergeant has to go out.’
Pascoe ushered the girl out in front of him, then stopped and turned as Miss Disney had done.
‘By the way, sir,’ he said. ‘Did you get a look at the statue when we arrived?’
‘No,’ said Dalziel, without interest. ‘It’s the base that concerns us here.’
‘Of course,’ said Pascoe. ‘It just seemed a little stran
ge, that’s all.’
He made as if to go. Dalziel’s expected bellow stopped him.
‘In what way strange?’
‘Just strange that the memorial to a woman like Miss Girling should be an eight-foot-tall bronze nude.’
He closed the door quietly behind him. Inside, Dalziel sipped his tea with noisy relish and eyed the portrait of Miss Girling with interested speculation.
Chapter 4
Men’s weaknesses and faults are best known from their enemies, their virtues and abilities from their familiar friends.
SIR FRANCIS BACON
Op. Cit.
Franny Roote lay back along the window-sill, his still form blocking out the sunlight. He was wearing his usual summer dress of white beach-shoes, light cream-coloured slacks and a white shirt which was almost a blouse. This colour scheme combined with his own fair colouring somehow blurred the edges of his frame. Without moving, he dominated the room. Only twenty-three, he had developed a repose and still self-sufficiency beyond the reach of many twice his age; and these things put together gave him the indistinct almost inhuman menace of a figure magnified and blurred by sea-mist. It was an image he worked at.
‘You heard nothing more, Elizabeth?’ he asked quietly.
‘No, Franny,’ said the pretty girl in the blue nylon overall. ‘Just about the lists.’
She sounded apologetic, almost distressed, at having so little to tell.
‘You did well, love,’ he said, nodding once, still not looking at her.
‘Franny,’ said the girl. ‘Tonight. It is tonight, isn’t it? May I come again?’
Now he turned his head and looked full in her face with his light blue eyes.
‘Of course you may. We were expecting you.’
Flushing with pleasure, the girl slipped out of the door with the expertise of one used to leaving rooms unobtrusively.
‘Is that wise?’ asked a long-haired sallow-faced girl with low-slung breasts.
‘Is what wise, Sandra?’ he asked patiently.
‘Her, Elizabeth, coming along. I mean, outsiders can mean trouble.’
‘What you mean is, she’s a kitchen-maid,’ said a small, dark-haired, moustachioed youth fiercely. This was Stuart Cockshut, the Union secretary and Franny’s right-hand man. ‘God, what’s the point of trying to do anything if you can’t shake off your reactionary concepts of an elitist society?’
‘Belt up,’ said Anita Sewell who was sitting on the floor staring moodily into the empty fireplace. ‘Stop talking like a colour-supplement student. It’s not politics that’s bothering Sandra. It’s sex. And she’s right. Franny knows when he’s on to a good thing. He gets an extra slice of juicy meat at dinner. And all the gravy he can manage, don’t you, ducky?’
‘Nervous, love?’ Franny said to her gently. ‘Don’t be.’
‘She’ll be all right on the night,’ said Sandra viciously.
Stuart sniggered. Franny spoke again, reprovingly.
‘It has nothing to do with appetite of any kind, my loves. Nor with politics, Stuart. We do live in an elitist society, despite all you say. But the elites have nothing to do with class, or intellectualism.’
He swung his legs down off the sill and stood up.
‘This business interests me. I’ve always had a feeling about that statue. Something compelled me to it.’
Suddenly he laughed and ran his fingers through his hair, looking for a moment about eighteen.
‘I thought it was just the tits.’
The others laughed too, except for Sandra who was seated on the floor next to Anita. He looked down at her thoughtfully and moved his leg till his calf touched her shoulder. She leaned into his leg and closed her eyes.
‘I wonder whose bones they are,’ said a petite round-faced girl from a corner.
‘The police will find out soon enough,’ said Stuart, making it sound like a fault.
‘Perhaps we can beat them,’ said Franny.
They looked at him puzzled for a moment.
‘Of course!’ said the round-faced girl, jumping up and opening a cupboard behind her. From it she took a large box which she put on a low coffee-table. Out of the box she produced a Ouija board which she quickly set up on the table.
Franny knelt down and put his index finger on the planchette. He contemplated Sandra’s pleading gaze for a moment, shook his head minutely and said, ‘Anita.’
The girl touched the other side of the planchette.
Slowly it began to move.
Eleanor Soper was immersed in her favourite recurring day-dream in which her first novel had met with tremendous critical and popular success. Her elbows rested lightly on the untidy sheets of closely scribbled-on foolscap which were scattered over her desk. She was modestly accepting the plaudits of her colleagues and in particular, like a television instant replay machine, her mind kept on bringing Arthur Halfdane forward to offer his obviously deeply felt congratulations.
She was brought back to reality by a knock at the door.
‘Shit!’ she said. Her own subconscious was capable enough of diverting her energies away from her novel without the additional annoyance of external interruption.
The knock again.
Angrily, she opened the door.
‘Hallo, Ellie,’ said Pascoe.
‘For Godsake,’ she said, motionless with surprise.
Pascoe reached out his hand. She took it and they stood there holding hands, looking at each other.
Pascoe felt relieved and disappointed at the same time as he took in her short black hair cut to the contours of her finely structured head; her grey eyes, questioning now; her strong chin, raised slightly aggressively. He had not known what to expect, had half-feared an immediate return of all the old welter of emotions and passions. Looking into his own mind, he could find no trace of them. That was good. But still he felt sorry that something so strong could have gone so completely.
He looked again at the once so dear and familiar features. Nothing. But he knew he was keeping his mind well away from the equally dear and familiar curves and hollows lying beneath the old sweater and the threadbare slacks.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Sit down. This is - well, Christ, it’s a surprise. I don’t know … what are you doing here?’
‘Combining pleasure with business.’
‘Business? Oh. You mean the statue?’
‘I’m afraid so. But you’re the pleasure.’
They both laughed and when they stopped, the atmosphere had become easier. They spent the next few minutes exchanging news of old university acquaintances. Or rather Ellie provided most of the news and Pascoe most of the questions. He was surprised to find how eager he was for information.
‘You haven’t kept in touch with anyone then?’ she asked finally.
‘Christmas cards. Wedding invitations. That sort of thing.’
‘Summonses. Warrants. That sort of thing,’ she answered, half-joking, half-serious.
‘I’ve been spared that,’ said Pascoe, wholly serious.
She looked embarrassed for a second, a faint flush touching her cheek-bone.
Pascoe began to reach out a hand to touch her face but stopped himself in time.
‘Well, you’ll be spared it here too,’ Ellie said emphatically. ‘The statue had been up for five years or so when I arrived. What’s it all about, anyway?’
‘We’re still trying to find out. Who has been here since the thing was put up, then?’ asked Pascoe casually. He didn’t need the information. He had a list in his document case which told him exactly.
‘I’m not sure. The oldest inhabitants, obviously. Jane Scotby. And Miss Disney. Not Landor, though. That’s obvious. He came when Miss Girling died. The history man, Henry Saltecombe. And George Dunbar, head of stinks. There might be others, we’re a large staff and I haven’t got to know them all yet. But what’s your interest? You don’t think someone on the staff then was responsible?’
‘Responsible for what?’
; ‘Why, for killing whoever got killed and burying them in the garden,’ said Ellie in surprise.
‘Someone’s responsible,’ replied Pascoe. ‘Any likely runners?’
The atmosphere was changing again.
‘I should have thought that your best approach was to discover who it was that got killed,’ said Ellie a little stiffly.
‘We’re working on it,’ said Pascoe cheerfully.
He glanced at his watch. Dalziel would be expecting some kind of report soon.
‘I must be off. Look, any chance of seeing you later tonight? There’s lots to talk about.’
Ellie hesitated a moment before saying, ‘Yes, surely. I’m dining in tonight and I usually pop into the bar afterwards, about eight. You’ll still be around then? Good. Anyone will direct you.’
‘Right,’ said Pascoe at the door. ‘It was nice to see your name on the staff-list. See you!’
He went out with a casual wave.
‘No doubt,’ said Ellie to the closed door.
She picked up her pen again but did not start to write for some time. She was trembling slightly. He looked at me like a bloody suspect! she thought. Not a sign of emotion. A useful contact! Sod him.
Convinced soon that all her trembling sprang from indignation, she began to write again but had to stop soon to light one of her infrequent cigarettes. Sod him!
Rather sticky, thought Pascoe with some regret as he walked down the corridor from Ellie’s room.
But I won’t work at not being a policeman. Not just to be liked. Not by anyone. It’s not worth it. He congratulated himself once again on his self-possession during the encounter. Then he bumped into a large beautifully rounded girl in a frivolously short skirt.
‘Sorry,’ he said. She smiled and massaged herself voluptuously. He felt his self-possession crack.
Well, sometimes it may be worth it, he emended cautiously.
When he reached Landor’s room, it was empty. He took the lists Dalziel had requested of him from his case and laid them neatly on the desk.
Then he stood back to view the effect. Dissatisfied, he readjusted them minutely to attain perfect symmetry.
‘You’ll make someone a lovely housekeeper,’ said Dalziel from the door.
An Advancement of Learning Page 3