She got up and walked away. She would have to do something about Don. Either he would kill her, or she would kill him. It wasn’t clear at the moment which way it would go. They were engaged now in a silent battle. The death might not be physical, of course (although in her case she stood a chance of getting that victory too), but with any luck each of them would have killed something in the other.
She gave Don a little wave from the door, which was pure insolence on her part.
She walked down the big steps and stopped by the big desk with slots above where letters waited. There was a note telling her that the student policewoman’s class was cancelled for tonight. The girls were on duty. She crumpled the note into her pocket. She knew what was keeping them busy. There was trouble in this town.
Shirley was waiting for her outside. Charmian wasn’t surprised. Some things you can predict. The turn of the wheel predicted Shirley and there she was. The police were playing the new murder very close to their chest and Shirley was looking for information.
“Is it true that one of the students from Marchbanks is a spy?’’
“I haven’t heard that,’’ said Charmian.
“And that a girl, a German, is being deported?’’
“Is she?’’ asked Charmian, giving nothing away, but probably more than she thought.
“Because if so, she’s around the town still,’’ said Shirley.
“Is she?’’ asked Charmian, surprised.
“Yes. I thought someone ought to know,’’ said Shirley with satisfaction. “And aren’t you pleased you’re the one I told?’’
“Where did you see her?’’ said Charmian without enthusiasm.
“Sitting in the restaurant in the station, drinking their lousy coffee.’’
“The station? She could have been on her way out.’’
“She’d missed the last train to London then. And when she went, she didn’t go trainwards.’’
“Where were you?’’
“Drinking coffee too,’’ said Shirley blandly. She took a cigarette out and fumbled in the crowded objects in her handbag for a lighter, removing most of the contents one by one and then replacing them.
“You ought to get rid of that bottle of morphine,’’ said Charmian, noticing the bottle nestling next to an object in chamois leather at the bottom of the bag.
“Remind me again,’’ said Shirley. “ I’ve got quite fond of it. It’s a memento.’’
“Did you follow Lulie?’’
“I’m a journalist, not a detective.’’
“You’re not doing too badly,’’ said Charmian. “ I’ll remember Lulie’s around. Thanks. How did she look?’’
“She’d been crying.’’
Charmian smiled. Not a kind, sympathetic smile, but a smile as if that was good news to hear Lulie had been crying.
“You’re getting nasty,’’ said Shirley, studying her.
“I’ve been that way a long time.’’
“No, perhaps nasty isn’t the right word. You look more revengeful.’’
“I am absolutely determined to see justice is meted out.’’
“Yes, that’s the face of justice all right.’’ She turned away. “I never thought I’d like it and I don’t.’’ She opened her bag for the usual soothing cigarette.
“Of course, I know why you are pushing things like this,’’ said Charmian, looking at the bag. Shirley waited. “Yes. If you do a good story on all this, then it’s a job in Fleet Street for you, isn’t it?’’
“Yes, that’s it,’’ said Shirley.
“Come and sit on that bench near the tree and smoke your cigarette.’’
They sat down where the little birds cheeped and fluttered all round them. A short line of birds perched next to them on the bench. The line fidgeted around, always in and out, never still, except for one at the end who sat there, quiet, never moving.
“You look better now,’’ said Shirley. “ You looked so tired and white there, I thought you were going to faint.’’
“It was a bad moment. More mental than physical. It’s passed now, though.’’
They smoked in silence. Charmian watched the birds moving about. “Anonymous little creatures, aren’t they?’’ She brushed one aside. “ When one of them moves, there’s another, absolutely identical, all ready to step into its place. They worry me rather.’’
“Yes, I can see that.’’ Shirley stared across the grass to the great door of the hall. “ The meeting’s over in there. People are beginning to come out. I ought to have been there really, not sitting with you.’’
“It wasn’t an important meeting.’’
“Isn’t it funny how things turn out?’’ Shirley was still staring into space. “ I thought my life was already made up. That I would go along a certain track, not altering much for the next twenty years. Now, suddenly, it’s wide open. Anything could happen.’’
The two women looked at each other. “And is that a good feeling?’’ said Charmian. “It ought to be a good feeling.’’ She stared hopefully at Shirley, who did not answer, but looked as if she knew an answer was expected from her.
“All right, you needn’t say anything,’’ said Charmian. “I know how you feel, or I can guess. Yes, let’s put it like this, I can guess.’’
“I thought the police didn’t guess,’’ said Shirley, with a half smile.
“It’s all guessing. That’s how one goes forward.’’
“And if it’s a bad guess? And what you’ve guessed is wrong?’’
“We must start again,’’ said Charmian. “Another guess. But it’s surprising how often one guesses right. That’s called experience.’’
While they were sitting there a man who had been dead and well buried started to stir. He would keep on waking.
“I heard a story once,’’ said Shirley, “ about a young woman who in the course of her work, professional, exacting work it was, met a man who said he loved her, perhaps he did too, at any rate he certainly admired her. I think she responded, too. Well, that’s what my story says, but because her work demanded it, she destroyed him.’’
“That’s an old story,’’ said Charmian harshly. “And there are lots of variations on it.’’
“I know that,’’ said Shirley. “ It’s a classic, isn’t it? All the same, what she did was ruthless. Of course, she was young, ambitious, perhaps we mustn’t blame her too much. I believe she did get promotion of a sort after his case.’’
“You have been doing research.’’
“All the same I believe she paid for it and that her life was changed by it.’’
“Well, perhaps,’’ said Charmian irritably. “You could say that of almost everything.’’
“I’ve done some tough things myself,’’ said Shirley slowly. “And I’ve paid for them. One does, you know. That’s called natural law.’’
“What a nice revengeful universe you live in,’’ cried Charmian.
“Yes, I do,’’ said Shirley. “ We all do.’’
Ann Hooks and Nancy Bennett had parted and Ann was on her way home. Officially tomorrow was her day off, but she knew already she wouldn’t be taking it. What had she arranged to do with it? Last week, which now seemed an age ago, she had said she would go and visit her elder sister and her sister’s family. She’d have to ring and put that off. Her sister wouldn’t be surprised. Nothing surprised her sister. She had five children and already three grandchildren and looked as though she could carry the same imperturbability on to the next generation yet. There must be some capacity in a dark skin for absorbing shock, thought Ann.
In the evening she rang up her sister.
“I shan’t be over, Vi.’’
“I’m not surprised,’’ said her sister.
“I thought you wouldn’t be.’’
“Just look in when you can then,’’ said her sister patiently. “ I’m always in.’’
“I know you are. That worries me, Vi. You ought to get out more.’’
&nbs
p; “It don’t harm me,’’ said Vi. “Besides, there’s plenty of us here.’’
“Well, I’ll come and see you.’’
“You do that. And bring that young man with you.’’
“Don’t embarrass me,’’ said Ann and rang off. But she didn’t embarrass that easily. What she really meant was: do not pain me, do not cause me to fear. Embarrassment makes a good stand-in for fear. It is pain, with another hat on. Her sister knew this, of course, for, although imperturbable, she could also be a little cruel. Perhaps you have to be one to be the other.
Ann went home to her small two-roomed apartment, washed some clothes and did not eat supper. There seemed no place for food in her life somehow.
She got up early in the morning, determined to do a good day’s work. “ I want to be beforehand with things today,’’ she said to herself. Over her breakfast she read the latest news about the fire in which Priscilla Duval had died and about which she knew no more than the general public. Perhaps she lingered over these reports just a little while and so was later than she meant to be. By the time she got round to the station where she was based, a report had already come in asking her to hurry to Palmer’s Road School. A bright new day was dawning there also, and all the ranks for battle had to be drawn up.
Chapter Eleven
The ranks were being drawn up in the University too.
The royal visit was going ahead, of course, no one wanted to cancel it because of some bomb scare. But the police had been working overtime. The security squad had been up all night going over the buildings and making what they called “contingency plans’’. Next morning early, they were still at it.
“We’ve got it all organised,’’ said the superintendent in charge. The rank of the police officer in command had risen as the crisis had assembled itself. First, when things looked normal, a Sergeant had come along and looked at things. As soon as the word “ bomb’’ was mentioned an Inspector had appeared who had gone over things again. Now a Superintendent had arrived. With him was a quiet man in a dark overcoat. The police gossip was that he was in direct radio touch with Whitehall by a little radio he carried next to his heart. Actually in his heart, some said, placed there by a special operation.
But this was the only joke they allowed themselves, otherwise their mood was sober.
“That’s a nasty black eye you’ve got,’’ said the Superintendent to the Sergeant. It was a large spreading bruise from eye to nose.
“Got it last weekend at the demo in University Square. Student gave it to me. With a brick. And she was a friend of my own daughter. Been in our house. Can you beat it? A girl knew and she gave me this.’’
“What did you do to your daughter?’’
The Sergeant shrugged and moved away.
“He didn’t do anything,’’ said his friend. “What could he do? She don’t understand him and he don’t understand her. No communication, as they say. Anyway, what can he do? He doesn’t want her to lose her grant.’’
“That’d be the way to stop ’em. Cut off their grants,’’ said another.
“No. I’m against that. I know that would be wrong. I wish they’d let me have my time off, though. Cancelled. Weekend after weekend. So I can stand in a line while they try to push my face in. ‘What do you do this for?’ I asked one kid last week. ‘For freedom,’ she said. She’d screamed herself hoarse, poor little bird.’’
“I’d give ’em a good hiding if they were mine.’’
“No. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t do that. Any more than I would. No, they’ll get clobbered soon enough once they get out into the world. Leave them till then.’’
Philosophical and resigned, they got on with their job of making the University safe. They knew about the murders but they were not concerned with them. Murder was not their business, protection was.
In the vaulted University Library great preparations had been made for the royal visit. In the Senate Room they were making even greater ones, here they would actually meet, speak and shake hands (some of them), and they wanted to look their best. Academic gowns look their nicest against a background of dark wood and white flowers. The flowers had been done by a professional firm of flower arrangers to whom white flowers had meant one of two things, so to be on the safe side they had brought lots of lilies. The Senate room was empty now, you couldn’t tell if it was waiting for a coffin or a bride. One solitary bird had managed to get in from the outside and was hopping round the foliage.
The two Professors who thought they ran the University, Professor Wilbraham and Professor Jones, and the two who really did, Professor Devlin and Professor Frobisher, arrived in alert quartet. For the best of reasons they found it necessary to keep an eye on each other. They fussed about, scattering flowers and bumping into chairs. Gowns got in the way and they had academic hoods on as well.
“It’s a great occasion, a great occasion,’’ said Professor Jones.
“I thought you were against the monarchy,’’ said Devlin.
“Only in Wales,’’ said Jones.
“I hope they’ve got the seating right,’’ said Devlin. “It’s really most important to get these things right. Everyone must be in their proper place. I wouldn’t like anyone to think we didn’t know how to do things.’’
“I thought you were a Republican,’’ said Jones.
“Only in Ireland,’’ said his colleague, who was quietly altering a place card and giving an enemy a less prominent seat.
“I’ve already checked everything,’’ said Professor Wilbraham. “Anyway, the University Steward knows his job.’’ He looked at Frobisher, who looked back understandingly. These insecure barbarians, they were saying to each other, each convinced that without him would perish Church, Crown and Establishment.
“Where are all the policemen going to be?’’ asked Jones.
“I hope we shan’t notice them,’’ said Wilbraham, who was a prim man.
“We shall if they stand around. And they can’t sit.’’
“I don’t see why not,’’ said Devlin. “ Don’t be snobbish.’’
“I just meant there won’t be room. Look here, look at my place. I’m wedged up against the pillar and the new wife of the Professor of Ergometrics.’’
“She looks very adaptable,’’ said Frobisher; he was the University’s ladies’ man. “I’ll change places, if you like.’’
“The policemen won’t be noticeable,’’ said Wilbraham. “They are going to be waiters.’’
“I should think policemen acting as waiters would be very noticeable,’’ said Devlin. “ But nicely so, of course, dear boys,’’ He was not a ladies’ man.
They completed their inspection of the room and went out, locking the door behind them. A uniformed policeman stood outside. He hadn’t been in the force very long. This was his second week after training and he was still a little confused. He wasn’t sure whether he was on guard against a bomb or a murderer.
He yawned. He had had an early start.
All over the University, in student residences and lodgings, the day began promptly too. Somehow it hadn’t been a night for sleeping soundly and wasn’t now a morning to sleep late.
Presently they started pouring into their classes and lectures. Nothing was to be cancelled on account of a bomb, a murder or a royal visit. Everything as normal, was the message. But no one was normal underneath. No one, except a few lucky souls who lived such remote, dedicated lives that everyday events didn’t impinge. There was such a one bending over his slides in the Zoology laboratory. He hadn’t left his bench and instruments for three days now and his experiments were at such a stage he wouldn’t be out for another thirty-six hours. He knew nothing about anything. There was another in the stacks underneath the Library block; this boy was studying the State Papers, 1700 to 1790. He had a paper to write by the end of the week and he wouldn’t eat or sleep until it was finished. Sheila Waters was programming the computer in the Computer House. She wasn’t dedicated to her work, or special
ly enthusiastic, just very hard pressed, with a programme to run. She had a boy in London she wanted to see and if she worked full out now, she could have two days off next week. Her whole spirit was concentrated on the next week. She wasn’t really in this week at all. If she had a worry it was simply that the person to whom she’d lent her set of keys would not hand them back to her before she left the building. She had to lock up. Fellow students were notoriously unrealistic.
She was surprised when hands gripped her shoulders and she felt herself dragged backwards.
“Hey you,’’ she said, indignantly.
The day started early for Charmian too, and she could never say at which point in it she became aware of what the militants were really aiming at. They were too sensible and too shrewd to be extravagant. Violence had to earn its keep. They were practical, they wanted to achieve something. Or, put it another way: they wanted to destroy something real.
She got her first feeling about it when she went into the student coffee-house to get some breakfast. Breakfast with her had been a non-meal for some time, but she was ready to drink coffee. She saw Emily in a corner, hunched over a book. She flinched as she saw Emily drop coffee over it. Emily mopped it up, unconcerned, and turned over a page.
Don and Van were sitting together at the next table. Don had his back to Charmian, but Van saw her and whispered something to Don. Charmian sat down and watched them. She let her coffee get cold while she smoked a cigarette. They knew she was watching them and didn’t care. Ash from her cigarette flicked on to a large atlas which the man crowded next to her was consulting.
A New Kind of Killer, and Old Kind of Death Page 12
