Reginald Hill - An Advancement of Learning

“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. ‘ 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. ‘ 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 shortsightedness.

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. ”ll buy you a cup of tea.” “One moment,’ said Dalziel. ‘ 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. ‘ 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. ‘ 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. ‘. 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. ‘ 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. ”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. ‘ 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 couldn’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.