An Advancement of Learning

by Reginald Hill

Landor had been in and out a couple of times. At first Dalziel had suspected he was going to turn out to be a ‘twitterer’, but he was obviously doing a fairly efficient job of keeping the college in balance. The news would be in the evening papers, on the television. Already reporters were beginning to pester. Soon it would be anxious parents. Dalziel had already arranged with the local exchange that one of the college lines was to be kept completely free for his own incoming and outgoing calls.

  ‘I’ve called a staff meeting for first thing tomorrow morning,’ said Landor. ‘If the staff are informed, it helps to cut down student rumour.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Dalziel, uninterested. ‘At least I’ll know where the bugg … they are.’

  ‘I wondered if you could perhaps spare five minutes. Just a statement, you understand. It could help.’

  Dalziel laughed shortly and rudely, but stopped before translating the noise into words. It might not be a bad idea to see this lot as a group.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll try. Now listen, Principal, I’d like to get hold of …’

  There was a knock at the door, Landor opened it. Outside stood Halfdane with Marion Cargo coming up behind him.

  ‘Oh, you’ll do,’ said Dalziel. Halfdane, aware now of Miss Cargo’s presence, stood back and indicated that she could go in first. She shook her head.

  ‘Both of you!’ snarled Dalziel impatiently. ‘Together. And if one of you is superfluous to requirements, I’ll decide.’

  Landor smiled wanly at his colleagues and left.

  ‘I’m Arthur Halfdane,’ began Arthur. ‘I wondered if Sergeant Pascoe … ?’

  ‘He’s away. Working. He has a full-time job. You’ll have to make do with me.’

  Dalziel’s supporters claimed his rudeness was calculated; others, impressed by his record, were willing to concede it might be intuitive; Pascoe asserted it was merely digestive.

  Whatever it was, Halfdane didn’t like it.

  ‘No thanks,’ he said icily. ‘I’ll wait till later.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ said Dalziel indifferently, looking at the young man’s long hair with distaste. ‘I presume you’re not withholding information relevant to our enquiries?’

  ‘No. I merely wanted to ask something.’

  ‘Oh. And you, Miss. Are you giving or just asking?’

  Marion Cargo was obviously not reacting very strongly to external stimuli. The expression on her classical features was brooding, inward-looking. She would never have won a run-of-the-mill beauty competition, but she had a fascinating face and a figure which invited speculation. Halfdane, who had no further reason to stay, made no move to go but looked at the girl with open admiration. Dalziel was suddenly conscious of his paunch, his bald patch and his short-sightedness.

  He scratched his right thigh viciously.

  ‘I’m asking, I’m afraid, Superintendent. It’s about Miss Girling.’

  Another! groaned Dalziel inwardly.

  ‘Miss Disney screamed it was Miss Girling when those bones were dug up. It just seemed absurd, and I thought it was just the result of this when I heard the students talking about it later. They, the ones I heard, were certain it was Miss Girling.’

  Again, thought Dalziel. Interesting.

  ‘But now Mr Dunbar says he’s seen you and you confirmed it was. But I don’t see how …’

  There was real pain on her face, Dalziel was surprised to see.

  ‘You knew Miss Girling then?’ Dalziel asked gently.

  ‘Yes. Of course. She was very very kind to me. And it’s worse because of the statue somehow. If it was her, that is. But I don’t see how it could be?’

  Dalziel turned on what Pascoe called his vibrantly sincere voice, with matching expression.

  ‘Nor do we yet, my dear. But I’m afraid there’s no doubt. It was Miss Girling’s body. I’m sorry.’

  The girl shook her head in bewilderment. Halfdane began to usher her to the door.

  ‘Come on, Marion,’ he said. ‘I’ll buy you a cup of tea.’

  ‘One moment,’ said Dalziel. ‘What did you mean about the statue? Why was it worse because of the statue?’

  Halfdane looked disapproving but halted, his arm supplying quite unnecessary support to Marion Cargo’s waist.

  ‘It was my statue,’ she explained. ‘I designed it. I never thought … But who would want to kill her?’

  Now there were tears in her eyes and Halfdane’s arm was not altogether unnecessary.

  ‘We’ll find out, my dear. Never fret.’

  The girl seemed to pull herself together and even managed a watery smile.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that it all seemed so long ago. Dead. And then it came back. That’s all. At the time it seemed like the end of everything. And when Miss Scotby didn’t get the job and we knew everything would be changed from the way Al wanted, I never thought I’d want to see the place again. But you’ve got to keep moving. I’m glad things are going forward instead of standing still.’

  Dalziel nodded approval of this plucky-little-trouper philosophy but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  ‘Miss Scotby applied for the Principalship, did she?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes. She was hot favourite. There was even a sweepstake and we thought whoever got The Scot was home and dry. But Mr Landor ran home an easy winner.’

  She was quite recovered now and disengaged herself from Halfdane with a small smile of thanks.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dalziel. ‘And good day to you both.’

  He closed the door behind them and stood still for a moment, something Pascoe had suggested about the statue and something Marion Cargo had said almost coming together. But not quite.

  He had no time to manipulate the pieces. There was another knock at the door. His hand was still on the handle and the speed with which he opened it obviously surprised the two men standing outside.

  Dalziel was sufficient of a realist about his own appearance to recognize one of them was built just like himself. Big, bald and beery.

  The other was shorter, slimmer, much more restrained a figure in every way.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Superintendent Dalziel?’ said the fat man. ‘Saltecombe. Head of history. And this is Mr Fallowfield of our biology department.’

  ‘Ah. You’d better come in.’

  So this was Fallowfield, debaucher of youth. Dalziel had seen too many cases where girls much younger than Anita Sewell had been much guiltier than the men accused of debauching them for him to make a quick judgment. But some old Puritanical streak, doubtless traceable to some not so remote part of his Scots ancestry, still made him disapprove.

  But Fallowfield was high on his list of people to be talked to. He had already sent someone round the college in search of him without success.

  ‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Everyone seems to be coming in pairs this afternoon. What’s it for? Protection?’

  ‘That may not be funny in Mr Fallowfield’s case,’ said Henry, rather pompously. Fallowfield shot an annoyed glance at him but Henry shook his head.

  ‘No, Sam. It’s true. You got some nasty looks.’

  ‘And why should people look nastily at Mr Fallowfield?’ asked Dalziel.

  ‘Don’t be coy, Superintendent,’ said Henry, with a Laughtonesque world-weary sigh. ‘You’ve been here long enough to have heard about Mr Fallowfield’s connection with Anita Sewell.’

  Fallowfield, as though growing tired of having Saltecombe do all the talking for him, leaned forward and handed a pink envelope to Dalziel.

  ‘Read that,’ he said.

  With conditioned carefulness, Dalziel removed the single sheet of paper from the envelope and read what was written on it.

  ‘Anita,’ he said. ‘This was the dead girl?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s no date on it. You received it when?’

  ‘Yesterday,’ said Fallowfield almost inaudibly. Then more loudly. ‘Yesterday. Henry came to tell me what had happened. I c
ouldn’t believe it. He asked me about the note.’

  ‘Why?’ snapped Dalziel.

  Saltecombe cleared his throat.

  ‘I’d taken it down to Sam’s cottage early yesterday evening. I recognized the writing. It was none of my business, of course, but when the poor girl was found murdered, I had to say something, even though it was probably quite irrelevant. So I mentioned it.’

  ‘Very public-spirited of you,’ said Dalziel evenly. ‘Tell me, Mr Fallowfield, did Miss Sewell come to see you last night?’

  ‘No.’

  Dalziel said nothing but continued looking steadily at Fallowfield till he felt impelled to qualify his answer.

  ‘I sat up till after midnight but she didn’t appear. Then I went to bed.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dalziel. ‘Where is your cottage, sir?’

  Again the other man’s voice was low, almost inaudible.

  ‘Just above the shore.About a quarter of a mile down from the end of the golf course.’

  Well now, thought Dalziel. I should have known that. Someone should have told me that by now.

  There was a brief silence which did not have the chance to stretch into significance because Saltecombe leaned forward and tapped the desk.

  ‘You see what that means, Superintendent? She might have been on her way there when this terrible thing happened.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Indeed she might. Mr Fallowfield, have you any idea what the girl wanted to see you about?’

  ‘No. No idea.’ The man looked quite ill.

  ‘When did you last have any communication with her?’

  Fallowfield shrugged, as if forcing his memory to function.

  ‘Weeks ago,’ he said. ‘The last time I spoke to her privately was when she came back at the start of this term, or rather not at the start but several days late. She had been under discussion at staff meetings. I wanted to tell her personally that I could not in conscience grade her practical work as of a satisfactory standard.’

  ‘How did she take this?’

  ‘Quietly. She knew I was right, you see. She is - was - a very bright girl.’

  ‘And since then?’

  ‘I have seen her, of course; but never alone. Since the appeal, of course, we have consciously avoided each other.

  ‘She gave you no warning of the appeal; made no threat about its nature?’

  Fallowfield hesitated a split second.

  ‘None,’ he said.

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘Quite certain,’ he said.

  Dalziel felt this was just a beginning, but there was other information he’d like before going further. And he didn’t like interviewing two by two. It was a case he was building, not a bloody ark.

  ‘I’ll keep this if I may,’ he said, waving the note. ‘Thank you for coming, gentlemen. Perhaps we can talk again later.’

  They stood up, both he was interested to note looking relieved.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Saltecombe,’ he said as he walked them to the door. ‘When the candidates for the principal’s job were being interviewed five years ago, who was your favourite for the appointment?’

  Henry laughed unforcedly.

  ‘No question,’ he said. ‘It was me!’

  Another gap in my knowledge, thought Dalziel. I’m slipping.

  ‘But the popular favourite was Scotby,’ went on Henry. ‘Not for me though. I always reckoned a man. Female emancipation results in free competition and in ninety cases out of a hundred, that means a man. So Simeon stepped in.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dalziel. ‘Who else applied internally?’

  ‘Just the three of us.’

  ‘The three?’

  ‘Yes. Scotby, Dunbar and myself. The women thought it was bloody arrogant of Dunbar and me. We were the only men on the staff at the time. But, apart from Simeon, another four started the following September, including you, eh, Sam?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Fallowfield. ‘Look, I think we’d better move now. The superintendent must be frightfully busy.’

  ‘All right. Cheerio, Super.’

  ‘Goodbye to you,’ said Dalziel, again whipping open the door very smartly.

  Standing there, his fist upraised as though to knock, was a slim blond youth dressed all in white.

  ‘Hello, Franny,’ said Henry. ‘You look like a symbol of White Power.’

  He stared incuriously at Dalziel who found himself vaguely intimidated.

  ‘Wrong place. This is police HQ now,’ said Henry.

  ‘The principal’s in the new admin, block,’ said Dalziel.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Franny said politely. ‘Good day.’

  He padded silently away in his tennis shoes.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Dalziel.

  ‘That was Roote, our student president. An interesting boy,’ said Henry. ‘Don’t you think so, Sam?’

  But Fallowfield, Dalziel observed, was only half listening, staring after Roote with a troubled look in his eyes.

  Chapter 9

  … the first great judgment of God upon the ambition of man was the confusion of tongues; whereby the open trade and intercourse of learning and knowledge was chiefly inbarred.

  SIR FRANCIS BACON

  Op. Cit.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Sergeant Pascoe helplessly. ‘Would you say that again?’

  Up till now his sympathy with those living near airports had been casual, unthinking. But for the past hour, ever since he had arrived at the airport, he seemed to have been interrupted either in his talking or his hearing every five minutes.

  It wouldn’t have mattered so much if he had been getting anywhere, but the net result of all the repetitions and amplifications was so far nil. Only the presence at one of the reception desks of a Giant, Unrepeatable Offer, Super-Size pair of breasts had prevented his visit from being utterly pointless. Noting his interest as they walked by to the sound-trap they rested in now, the airport’s Deputy Executive Officer, a cheerful, middle-aged man called Grummitt, told him that the girl had wanted to be a hostess, but according to rumour no airline was willing to risk her presence on a plane.

  Grummitt remembered the Christmas in question quite well. He had been lower down the airport hierarchy then, out at one of the desks himself.

  ‘It can be hell if you get a bit of fog just as the holiday planes are starting. It’s bad enough in the summer, but at Christmas it’s always worse, not just because it’s more common, mind you, but because it’s so bloody short for most people. It’s …’

  The rest was noise.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Pascoe.

  ‘I said, it’s a matter of four or five days for many of them, so if they get held up here for half a day or even a few hours, they see a substantial chunk of their holiday disappearing. And they get mad. Now, I’ve checked as much as I can, and if my memory is correct, that particular day it was thick. Hardly anything got off till the early hours of the next morning. But it was a late-night flight you were interested in, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Not that that makes any difference if I’ve got the right day. Everything would have piled up. There’d be bodies lying around everywhere.’

  ‘That’s what we’re interested in,’ said Pascoe drily.

  Grummitt looked puzzled, but continued, ‘Of course, as you’ll realize, even in normal conditions, after all this time it’s unlikely anyone would recall your Miss-whatsit-Girling? - but in circumstances like that, it’s impossible.’

  ‘Flight lists? Customs?’ suggested Pascoe without hope.

  ‘No use, I’m afraid. It’s too long ago. Contrary to popular belief, no one stores up great sheaves of paper for ever. Do you know what flight she was supposed to be on?’

  ‘No,’ said Pascoe gloomily.

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Grummitt, trying to cheer him up. ‘Even if you did, it probably wouldn’t help. Everyone would be desperately trying to jump up in the queue, trying to get an earlier alternative flight. It’d mostl
y be families, of course, and they would stick together. But someone alone would stand a better chance. She was alone, you say?’

  ‘Yes. We think so.’ Pascoe realized guiltily he had not really thought about it at all. Had Dalziel? Naturally.

  ‘What do you mean, an alternative flight?’

  Another metal cylinder full of fragile human flesh lifted itself laboriously into the air.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘Again, please.’

  ‘I said, if you were due on a flight at midnight and shortly after midnight the mid-day flight finally got away - to your destination of course - you’d obviously be interested in getting a seat on it. Or you might even take a flight to another airport and hope to move on from there.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be any record kept of people changing flights?’

  ‘Oh no. Not now,’ said Grummitt with a laugh.

  Pascoe scowled back at him. But a new idea was forming.

  ‘What about baggage? Your baggage is checked in for one flight. You change to another. Does your baggage get shifted automatically?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. It’s a matter of weight, old boy. Someone may pick up the ticket you’ve vacated and he’ll have baggage too.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Pascoe, disappointed.

  ‘Mind you, I’m not saying that baggage and passengers never get separated. Especially in conditions like the ones we’re talking about, anything’s possible. But they’d end up at the same destination. Unless the passenger changes destination as well as flight.’

  He laughed again. His cheerfulness was beginning to get on Pascoe’s nerves.

  ‘So you can’t help?’ he shouted through the incipient uproar of another jet.

  ‘Afraid not, old boy. Have you tried the Austrians? They probably keep lists for ever. Very thorough fellows. Or travel agents?’

  ‘What?’ screamed Pascoe.

  ‘Travel agents. Probably someone fixed it all up for her. It might even have been a charter. Perhaps they had a courier running around, ticking off names.’

  The noise became bearable. It’s too early in the morning, thought Pascoe. What else haven’t I done?

  ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ he said to Grummitt as they walked out together through the reception area.