‘Safely stowed,’ he said. ‘Now to work!’
The room was heavy with smoke. The heat of the day, fading now outside as the evening wore on, was trapped in here by the heavy richly patterned curtains which also cut off the mellow light echoed from the sun. The only lumination here came from two candles on a double-branched candelabra on the mantelshelf above the boarded-in fireplace.
The room was full of people. Overfull. It could take at the most half a dozen in any kind of comfort. Now there were over twenty. The smell of smoke had to compete with the smell of human sweat.
‘All right, my loves, now hear this,’ Franny Roote was saying. He was seated cross-legged in the middle of the floor.
‘I didn’t expect much from recall tonight. Interruptions like that shatter all the links. But not to worry. There’ll be other times. As for what happened later, to poor Anita, we know this has nothing to do with any of us.’
He paused. Somewhere outside a girl laughed.
‘Help the police, my loves. Even you, Stuart. It’s your bounden duty under the state.’
There was a slight murmur of amusement at the heavy irony of his tone.
‘But remember our responsibilities to each other. Beware especially of the fat man. Let me know instantly if you are approached.’
Sandra Firth shifted uneasily. Franny clapped his hands once.
‘Now off you go,’ he said. ‘Remember what we decided. We have done nothing wrong.’
There was a general rustle of movement about the room as people stood up and made for the door. But no one spoke. Shadows flickered wildly on the walls as the open door let in a draught of slightly cooler air. Even the heavy curtains stirred, though the window behind them was closed, and suddenly the candles went out. The last few to leave stumbled in the darkness as they made for the narrow rectangle of light visible through the half-open door. Finally one of those who remained pushed the door shut at the same time as Stuart Cockshut relit the candles.
Only five faces were now revealed by the flames. Franny still sat motionless on the floor. Sandra seated herself beside him. Two other girls sat facing them and Cockshut pulled from under the bed a highly polished square of wood on which rested a crystal wine glass and a pile of plastic letters from a Scrabble set. These he arranged swiftly in a large circle round the glass, placed the board in the centre of the seated group then retired to sit on the bed.
‘Thank you, Stuart,’ said Franny. ‘Now, let me see.’
He closed his eyes and bent his head. The others followed suit, breathing deeply through the nose. After a full two minutes, Franny slowly stretched out his hand and laid a finger on the glass. One by one the others did the same. The glass stirred uneasily as though eager to move.
‘Who is there?’ called Franny in a clear, steady voice.
Again the glass stirred, then suddenly set off sliding round the table, emitting a vibrant, bell-like noise as the rim rubbed against the polished wood.
‘Too fast. Too fast,’ said Franny.
The glass came to rest again in the middle of the board.
‘If it’s Anita, she won’t have had the practice yet,’ said Stuart from on the bed, a touch of scepticism in his voice.
‘Hush, hush,’ said Franny. ‘Anita. Are you there?’
Slowly, jerkily the glass began to move again.
‘Yes!’ breathed one of the girls. There were beads of sweat on all their faces now, except for Franny’s.
‘Ask who killed her,’ said Sandra fiercely.
‘Hush,’ repeated Franny.
‘No. Ask!’ said Sandra. ‘Anita! Who did it? Who did it?’
The glass moved rapidly round the ring of letters, pausing nowhere, gathering speed all the time. At first its path followed the circle itself, but suddenly it began to dart across from one side to another, till finally it broke through the barrier of letters, scattering them violently, and ran off the board altogether. It fell sideways as it caught the pile of the carpet and the stem cracked. One of the girls shrieked and started to suck her cut finger.
‘It’s no good,’ said Franny. ‘There’s too much fear there. The ambience is not right somehow. There’s some interference somewhere.’
He peered intensely around the room. A dark shadow moved from behind the Chinese screen which stood against the wall by the corner nearest the door.
‘I expect that’s me,’ said Dalziel, flicking the light switch on. ‘Let’s have outward illumination at least.’
He moved over to the window, wrinkling his nose like a bulldog, pulled back the curtains and with some difficulty threw open the window.
‘There!’ he said, breathing deeply. ‘That’s better.’
Cockshut stood up from the bed and approached him fiercely.
‘What the hell right have you got in here? Have you got a warrant?’
Dalziel looked puzzled.
‘Mr Cockshut, isn’t it? Ah yes. You’d know all about warrants, wouldn’t you, laddie? No, we never use them these days, we prefer illegal methods as I’m sure you know. Now shut up or I might demonstrate a bit of police brutality.’
He turned to where Franny was still seated on the floor. The girls had all risen.
This is your room, isn’t it, Mr Roote?’
‘Yes.’
‘Forgive me if I’ve intruded. There were a lot of people coming in and out earlier so I just joined them. I could see you were busy, so I sat and waited rather than interrupt. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Not at all.’
‘There!’ said Dalziel triumphantly to Cockshut. He squatted down cumbersomely beside Franny and looked with interest at the board and the letters.
‘This is interesting,’ he said. ‘Did you know some police forces go in for this kind of thing in a big way? I believe you yourself had a bit of success. Over Miss Girling’s body, wasn’t it?’
‘That was the Ouija board,’ said Franny.
‘Ah. I see. But tonight didn’t go so well?’
‘No. There was interference. You see, Superintendent, these lines of spiritual communication are very sensitive to the presence of scepticism, especially when its physical embodiment is gross and earthy. Now, what can we do for you?’
‘Mr Roote,’ began Dalziel. ‘You’re the President of the Students’ Union in this college, right? You’ve got the students’ interests at heart. So have I. I want to find out who killed Miss Sewell. And quickly. For all we know, he might be building up to killing someone else. That’s my interest. I’m not concerned with questions of morality and discipline, at least not officially. Let me give you an example. If a group of people over the age of majority care to run around naked in the middle of the night in a remote area of countryside, far removed from the public view, that’s their business. I’ve no interest in publishing lists of names, or writing to anxious parents. If I can do things quietly, I will do them quietly. On the other hand, if I’ve got to stir things up, they’ll hear the stirring from here to the Brocken.’
‘You’re not a warlock by any chance,’ asked Franny with a faint smile. ‘Of course I’m eager to co-operate in any way I can. This story about naked dancers now, where did you get hold of that, I wonder?’
He eyed Sandra speculatively. She shook her head with pleading eyes.
Cockshut could contain himself no longer.
‘You’re threatening us, Dalziel,’ he said. ‘You talk about stirring things up. You’re not the only one who can stir, you’ll find out before the week-end’s done!’
Franny shot him a warning glance. Dalziel merely smiled.
‘Perhaps we could talk more comfortably in my office, Mr Roote?’
‘Why not? Stuart, tidy up for me, there’s a love.’
Cockshut bent down and helped himself to a handful of letters from the board.
‘Big man!’ he shouted after Dalziel as he went through the door. ‘Here! Make a name for yourself!’
The letters whistled past Dalziel’s head and scattered along the t
iled corridor. He glanced down at them as he passed.
There were four of them; a U, a C, a T, and an N.
When Roote caught up with him, he was mildly surprised to find the fat policeman shaking with laughter.
‘You looking for me?’ asked Ellie behind him.
‘Well, I can’t find anybody else,’ said Pascoe before he could stop himself. His remark wasn’t directed at Ellie but arose from his growing annoyance at the way in which these academics seemed to disappear at will. Perhaps they’re all practising witches, he had thought. Perhaps the entire staff of the college are at this very moment chasing each other’s naked backsides round the dunes.
Ellie surprisingly did not take offence. Indeed she seemed glad to see him.
‘You’d better make the most of me, then,’ she said. ‘Fancy a coffee?’
‘Thanks.’
They were outside the block in which Ellie’s flat lay. He had indeed been on his way to call on her when she came up behind. He had left her to the last from a reluctance to be rebuffed once again for apparently using their old friendship for cold professional ends. But no one else seemed to be around. Knocks on doors had produced no replies and the staff common rooms were deserted.
He experienced a strange feeling as he followed Ellie into her flat, but he was too well trained not to have it isolated within a few seconds.
It was a kind of misty familiarity. There were a couple of pictures, an ornament, a Chinese bowl, a small rather threadbare Persian rug, one or two other things, which had at one time in a different room been as familiar to him as his own possessions.
His eyes returned to the rug again, remembering more. On that very scrap of woven fabric he had laid Ellie down for the first time, ignoring the institutional divan shoved into a corner.
‘Take a seat,’ she said with a grin. ‘I’ll make the coffee.’
He had an uncomfortable feeling that she had followed the direction of his eyes and his thoughts very accurately.
‘Had a nice evening?’ he asked, sinking into an old armchair.
‘Not very,’ she called. ‘I’ve been to the local Film Society. Some dull bloody Polish film. Rotten projection, illegible sub-titles and hard wooden chairs. What I would have given for John Wayne, red plush and a tight clinch in the back row!’
‘You should have said,’ he answered lightly. ‘Many there? From the college, I mean?’
‘Not from nowhere. There’s usually half a dozen from here but they all wisely stayed away tonight.’
‘Does Halfdane go?’
‘Sometimes.’ She came in with the coffee. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I heard he had been looking for me. I’ve been away most of the day.’
‘Oh yes. The great detective. How’s it going?’ she asked sarcastically.
He welcomed the change of mood. It gave him a chance to ask questions without appearing to take advantage.
‘Slowly,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of space to fill in.’
‘For instance?’
‘Well, there’s the intangibles. What kind of place is this to work in? In normal conditions I mean. Everybody draws together in the face of the enemy.’
‘Not everybody. It’s a funny atmosphere. All happy and Butlins’-Redcoats on the surface. But lots of oddities. We’re very isolated for a start and instead of improving on lines of communication with the university, socially and administratively I mean, there’s been a kind of contraction into an even tighter little circle. Or groups of little circles.’
‘For instance?’ asked Pascoe in his turn sipping his coffee and trying to concentrate on what Ellie was saying rather than on her brown, well-fleshed legs draped lengthily over the arm of her chair.
‘Well there’s all kind of odd little societies for a start. In the prospectus it looks very good, opportunity to pursue a wide range of interest and activity in the college, that kind of thing. But it’s not really like that. It’s hard to break into these tight little circles. You’ve got to prove you fit, almost. And I suspect you need more than just a proven interest in stamp-collecting or whatever it is.’
‘What for instance? You mean some special sex variation, that kind of thing?’
She made an impatient gesture.
‘Christ, man, you’ve had the fine intellectual edges rubbed off you, haven’t you? Sex sometimes, of course. But more often as a symptom than an end in itself. It’s a matter of belonging. How you belong is unimportant except that people generally take the line of least resistance. Anyway I don’t know why I’m bothering to tell you all this. You can read it in my book.’
She gestured at a fairly bulky file which jutted out of her bookshelves.
‘I’ll look forward to that. What is it - a thesis?’
‘Christ, no! Thesis faeces! That kind of crap’s all behind me now. No, it’s a novel,’ she replied, a defensive note in her voice.
‘Really?’ He was uncertain whether to go on talking about it or not. He decided not. If she wanted to talk about it, she would. The only other novelist he had ever known seemed willing to stop complete strangers in the street and force chunks of his indigestible prose down their throats.
‘What about the staff? Don’t answer if you’d rather not,’ he said. Dalziel would have torn out what remained of his greying hair at such delicacy. Or worse, perhaps admired his hypocrisy. ‘There seem to be a few feuds here. Disney and Fallowfield, for instance.’
She hooted with derision at the names.
‘What d’you expect? There’s nothing queerer than two old queers. No, there’s bloodier battle-grounds than that.’
She paused enticingly, but Pascoe was not to be drawn by hints. If she wanted to say more she would. But she had made a firm assertion and that was worth pursuing.
‘Disney and Fallowfield, two old queers? Why do you say that?’
She looked at him incredulously.
‘Come off it, Sherlock. Walt’s so butch she might as well advertise in the local paper.’
‘Is this guesswork?’ he said, allowing disbelief to colour his tone.
‘Guesswork nothing! When I first came she tried to charm me into her magic circle. What a thought! Poor Walt. It’s mostly sublimated now, I guess. Just girl-talk and confession hour and a bit of shoulder-patting and hair-stroking. She was hit bad when old Girling died, so they tell me.’
Pascoe was surprised.
‘I thought they didn’t get on all that well? That this friendship thing was just a posthumous fantasy.’
Ellie shrugged.
‘I heard different. Who told you that?’
‘Dunbar.’
‘That little Scotch git! What’d he know anyway? I bet they paid money to get him out of Scotland.’
Pascoe pressed on, ignoring this other invitation to divert.
‘And Fallowfield? What about him? Surely this business with the girl
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘That surprised me, I admit. I hadn’t known him long, of course, or well. But I’d have guessed differently about him. What the hell, perhaps he’s just got catholic tastes!’
‘Perhaps. But why …’
She jumped up. Again the legs were much in evidence.
‘Enough’s enough! Drink your coffee and either stop being a policeman or go.’
She went over to a record-player pushed beneath a small sideboard, pulled it out and put a record on.
Pascoe reached into his wallet and produced his warrant card.
‘There you are,’ he said placing it on the mantelpiece. ‘I now have no official standing.’
Feeling incredibly ham, he took Ellie in his arms and they began dancing, pressed close together.
‘Why aren’t you married?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Or are you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No time. Besides I don’t mix with a very nice class of person. You?’
‘God no! Half a dozen offers though; I shouldn’t like you to think no one else had ever asked. And a host of odd boyfriends. But nothing ever cl
icked.’
‘No one now?’ he asked diffidently. ‘I wondered perhaps about that chap the other evening, Halfdane … ?’
She drew away slightly, then laughed.
‘We hardly know each other. But while there’s life … Still, he’s a bit young.’
‘Rubbish,’ he said drawing her close again. ‘You’re perfect. Mature.’
‘Like a good cheese. I’m over thirty now. Hell, I don’t want to be like the others, like Disney and Scotby. Christ, I’m sometimes really sorry that we split up when we did. I even dream about it! Mind you, we’d probably have been divorced by now!’
‘Probably.’
She stopped dancing and looked at him.
‘Anyway, I wouldn’t like you to get the idea that I’m desperately thrashing around for a husband. Especially you.’
‘Of course not,’ he agreed.
‘Good. As long as that’s clear,’ she said, coming back into his arms. ‘You are stopping the night, aren’t you?’
‘Perhaps not all the night,’ he said cautiously.
‘Enough of it,’ she said in his ear. ‘We’ll take a trip down memory lane.’
He awoke at two in the morning. They had been too warm to be covered by anything other than a single sheet and even this had been thrust off in the night. He looked down at her sleeping form on the bed beside him. They had started off on the Persian rug, but eventually transferred here, admitting that comfort came before sentiment. She opened her eyes now.
‘I’d like you to read my book,’ she said.
‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ he said taking hold of her again.
He left at five. It was light outside. She sat naked in an armchair watching him comb his hair in front of the mirror.
‘The book,’ he said.
‘If you like.’
He watched with pleasure as she stood up and went over to the bookshelf.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘Don’t forget your card,’ she said.
He picked it up from the mantelshelf.
‘They say you always leave something in a place you want to come back to,’ he said laughing.
‘You’ve left something,’ she said, opening the door. She seemed keen for him to go, but returned his farewell kiss with enthusiasm.
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