Outside in the corridor they heard another door open. Pascoe peered out cautiously. A few yards along stood a man, carefully closing a door behind him. It was Halfdane.
Pascoe glanced enquiringly at Ellie, but her face showed no emotion.
They waited in silence a few minutes till Halfdane had moved cautiously away.
‘Cheerio, love,’ said Pascoe, kissing her once more. ‘See you later.’
She still didn’t speak and he left, moving swiftly but quietly down the corridor, pausing only to glance at the name on the door Halfdane had come out of.
It was Marion Cargo.
The next name was Miss Disney’s and normally Pascoe might have noticed that the door-handle was not quite at the right angle as though someone was standing inside, holding it tightly. But he was pleasurably tired, his mind and body full of pleasant impressions.
He paused outside to breathe in the balmy morning air and listen to the birds.
It looked like being a red-hot day. But he could be wrong. For instance yesterday, for all its early lack of promise, had turned out very fine indeed.
Chapter 11
With arts voluptuary, I couple practices jocularly; for the deceiving of the senses is one of the pleasures of the senses.
SIR FRANCIS BACON
Op. Cit.
‘What the hell happened to you last night?’ asked Dalziel. ‘I went round to your room three times.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘I got held up.’ Dalziel looked at him critically. ‘Held up, eh? It must be age. Anyway, you should be old enough to look at this.’
Pascoe had found his chief wandering around, apparently merely enjoying the morning sunshine, in an area just beyond the large beech hedge which marked the farthermost bourne of the staff-garden. A couple of old garden-sheds stood against the hedge and, as he spoke, Dalziel dramatically flung open the door of the larger. The sun poured in and ricocheted off the broad flanks of the woman who lay there on a bed of sacking. Upright she might have been dramatic; on her back she was almost obscene. Pascoe had last seen her on the back of a builder’s truck.
‘So this is where they put it,’ he said, patting the statue’s upraised left knee. ‘So much for Miss Girling’s immortal memory.’
He looked enquiringly at Dalziel.
‘You told me to have a look, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘So I tracked her down. That was a good point you made. Not before time, I might add. Why should a woman like Girling have a memorial like this? And furthermore, how did they manage to get it up so quickly - February someone said. It usually takes ages to organize anything like that - deciding on a design, getting someone to do it, the artistic work - it all adds up. There’s many a Great War memorial just got finished in time for 1939.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Pascoe, sensing a reminiscence coming on. ‘How do you think they managed it?’
Dalziel scratched his navel then, as though in comparison, did the same to the statue.
‘Tell me, lad,’ he said, ‘you’ve got an eye for the girls. That lass, Cargo, how old would you say she was?’
‘Cargo?’ said Pascoe. ‘Which is she?’
Dalziel looked at him in disgust.
‘The best thing on the staff,’ he said. ‘Your Miss Soper must have strong powers of attraction. Let’s see. I would say, at a guess, without actually handling the merchandise, that she can’t be any more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight at the outside. Probably twenty-seven. Does that suggest anything to you?’
‘Wait a minute!’ said Pascoe. ‘She wasn’t on the list of staff employed when Girling was boss!’
‘So!’
‘So … I don’t know. Perhaps she was just commissioned to do the job and got a full-time post later?’
‘Commissioned for a job like this at twenty-one?’
‘Twenty-one? Yes, twenty-one. Of course!’ said Pascoe. ‘She must have been a student.’
‘Well done! Yes, one of Al’s famous gals. And here, if I’m not mistaken, she comes.’
Pascoe looked along the beech hedge. At the far end a uniformed constable appeared with Marion Cargo. He pointed towards the two detectives, put a finger to his helmet and went on his way.
‘Very gallant,’ observed Dalziel. ‘Miss Cargo, how nice of you to come!’
He had to raise his voice as she was still some twenty yards away. Pascoe watched her approach with interest.
Nice, he thought. Not built on traditional art-mistress lines, all bum and bosom, but none the worse for that. She could go to the vicar’s tea-party dressed like that and still put a bit of strength in the sexton’s arm. Oh, yes.
His thoughts turned rather guiltily to Ellie. What the hell. There were no ties there. Last night’s encounter had been the chance-in-a-million crossing of orbits which now would spin them light-years apart.
He liked the image. Perhaps Ellie could use it in her book. He had tried the first chapter over breakfast. It hadn’t held him but he felt he ought to persevere.
‘Why do you want to see me, Superintendent?’ asked Marion. Then she saw the statue through the open door.
‘Oh,’ she said in neutral tones.
‘It’s a pity,’ said Dalziel, ‘that it should be lying here out of sight. Like all that stuff in the basement of the National Gallery.’
That’s it, thought Pascoe. He’ll mention ‘The Stag at Bay’ then he’s shot his bolt.
‘Not really,’ said Marion. ‘It’s not very good.’
‘You mustn’t say that. I’m no judge, but I know what I like, and this looks fine to me.’
Dalziel nodded sagely as though he had just bestowed a Nobel Prize.
‘But,’ he went on, ‘if you place so little value on it, why were you so upset when it came down? Everyone remarked on it.’
‘Everyone,’ had been Landor.
Marion flushed.
‘Not because of the statue itself,’ she said. ‘I know it’s absurd but, well, it had a sentimental value. That’s all.’
‘Really? You mean, because of Miss Girling?’
‘Yes. It was her idea, you see …’
‘Her idea!’ broke in Pascoe. Dalziel looked at him reprovingly.
‘… and she gave me so much encouragement. She was really super. The others didn’t want it, you know, they didn’t think it was the thing. I thought they’d have banned it after it all happened, but instead they decided to use it as …’
She stopped and turned away.
‘There, there,’ said Dalziel, patting her shoulder avuncularly. But his eyes were glancing smugly at Pascoe.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said finally, moving from under the next of Dalziel’s blows.
‘Not at all. Quite understand,’ he said. ‘So, Miss Cargo, you started work on the statue in …’
‘… September. It should have gone up before Christmas, but the weather was so awful that they didn’t get the hole dug for the base till the last week of term.’
‘You’d be a final year student at the time?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And after Miss Girling’s reported death, it was decided to use your statue as a memorial to her?’
‘Yes. Like I - said, not everyone agreed. Miss Scotby was very much against it.’
‘And Miss Disney?’
‘No, actually. It was her and Henry Saltecombe who talked the others into it. It was a bit absurd. I mean, the thing was meant to symbolize youthful drive and energy.’
‘And the base,’ continued Dalziel, ‘when did they put the concrete base into the hole?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Marion. ‘Is it important?’
‘Yes,’ said Dalziel.
She thought hard.
‘I can’t say, I’m afraid. There was a hole there when we left for the hols, and the base was in when we got back. That’s all I can say.’
‘Sergeant Pascoe, perhaps you could …’
Pascoe did not wait for him to finish, but nodded and began to step out rapidly towards
the college.
‘And when did you come back to the college?’
‘Oh, just a year ago. I’d done a bit of teaching, got some extra qualifications on part-time courses, then this job came up. It seemed like fate somehow. I’d said I’d never come back after the last year. But that all seemed such a long time before. Now it’s all started again.’
She slammed shut the door of the shed, frightening a blackbird which had been perched on the roof, observing them.
‘Sorry,’ she called contritely after it, but it didn’t look round.
‘Thank you very much, my dear,’ said Dalziel. ‘Let me walk you back to college.’
He turned to the low archway cut in the hedge which led through into the garden.
‘No thanks,’ said Marion looking through the gap. ‘I think I’ll stroll around here for a while.’
These artists have bloody sensitive souls, thought Dalziel as he watched her go. She even came the long way round.
He found Pascoe in Landor’s study in the act of replacing the telephone receiver.
‘Easy!’ said the sergeant. ‘Very nice for once. It was the builders who are doing the work here now. I gave their office a tinkle and got right in touch with the man who supervised the job. He remembered it well.’
He paused dramatically. Dalziel belched.
‘The base was lowered into place on Tuesday the twentieth of December.’
‘There’s a thing,’ said Dalziel.
‘She never left.’
‘Or didn’t go far if she did.’
‘Scotby saw her driving off at 6 P.M.’
‘Saw someone driving off at 6 P.M.’
‘Or says she saw someone driving off.’
‘What do we know about her movements that day?’
‘We’ve got an outline.’
‘We need more than a bloody outline. Sergeant, let’s get to work and fill it in!’
Filling it in proved more difficult than it sounded, but not more difficult than Pascoe had come to expect. If getting hold of staff on a working day was difficult, getting hold of them on a Saturday morning proved almost impossible.
Landor was nowhere to be found. His wife, a pale skeletal woman, denied all knowledge of his whereabouts. She was only certain he would be back for lunch.
‘We have guests,’ she added defensively as though Pascoe were holding her certainty against her.
It’s all I’d hold, thought Pascoe.
Scotby, the main source of what little information he already had about the course of events on the nineteenth of December, had likewise disappeared.
He banged on the door of her room, then Disney’s, and finally Ellie’s.
‘Hi,’ she said. She was still in her dressing-gown. ‘Coffee?’
‘I’d better not,’ he said. She seemed to be expecting to be kissed so he obliged. The dressing-gown fell open.
‘I’m looking for Scotby. Or Disney,’ he said hurriedly, averting his eyes.
‘It takes all sorts to make a world,’ she answered, fastening her belt.
‘Any ideas?’
‘Well, Scotby’ll be down on the beach with a great lump of animality between her legs.’
‘What?’
‘Riding. She rides. Horses. It keeps her fit,’ said Ellie lighting a cigarette and coughing violently. ‘And it sweats out her refined little lust for Simeon.’
‘Landor? You’re joking!’
‘Please yourself. I’ve watched her. She’d love to get her saddle over him,’ said Ellie coarsely. ‘Anyway she makes do with Black Beauty every Saturday and Sunday morning. There’s a riding-school beyond the golf club.’
‘And Disney?’
‘Hair.Every Saturday. You didn’t think it could look as unkempt as that by nature? No, it’s a wash and set and a bit of capital titillation from the fingers of some epicene young man.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ said Pascoe gloomily.
‘You’re welcome. In fact,’ she added, dropping her voice to a husky whisper, ‘you’re very welcome.’
She laughed after him as he retreated back to Dalziel.
‘It’s no good,’ he said. ‘They’re all out of reach, those who might be some good to us.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Dalziel. ‘They’ll all be back. I just rang the chairman of the governors.’
‘Oh?’
‘You did say there was a governors’ meeting that day, didn’t you? It might be interesting to find out what it was about, when it ended, that sort of thing.’
‘And was it?’
‘I said it might be. He was out.’
‘Having his hair done or riding?’
‘Is it a dirty private joke?’ asked Dalziel. ‘No, he’s on his way here for lunch with Landor. There’s a cricket match this afternoon, college versus the locals. Landor’s bent on keeping up the appearance of normality. So we’ll see him then. And the others likely. Meanwhile …’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘You can catch up on your reading. This is what I got out of Roote last night. While you were busy.’
According to Franny’s statement, a small group of students, Anita Sewell among them, had gone down to the beach for a midnight bathing party. No, there hadn’t been anything odd or sinister going on. Witches’ dances? That was absurd. Mr Lapping must have mistaken some very ordinary ‘pop’ dancing - he was an old gentleman, wasn’t he? Music? Yes, they had had a transistor. There was always pop music on the radio, no matter what time. As for nudity, well some of them wore very skimpy costumes. At night, from a distance … Why did the party break up? Somebody disturbed them. It was silly really, they weren’t breaking the law, just a couple of silly college regulations perhaps, if that. But it was dark, and late, and someone panicked and ran. Then they all grabbed their clothes and made off. It was a bit of fun. Exciting. That was all. They mostly stuck in groups, no one wanted to be alone. He’d been with Stuart Cockshut, Sandra Firth and a couple of others. All the time? Yes, all the time and all the way back to college. They’d had coffee in Sandra’s room. Sat and talked for half an hour. No, he couldn’t remember noticing what Anita did when they scattered. Perhaps one of the others … certainly he would make out a list of their names.
‘Anything there, sir?’
‘I should be very much surprised. I’ve got a couple of the lads sorting round them; there’s always a chance. I went back to see the girl Firth, and Chairman Cockshut last night. They confirmed Roote’s story.’
‘Is it true then?’
Dalziel snorted contemptuously.
‘You’re joking! No, our Mr Lapping had it right, I reckon. Harmless dancing indeed! There was obviously some kind of pretty abandoned sexual rollicking going on. I don’t know what we’re coming to. But the important bit, about the party breaking up, and Roote and the others coming back here, now that’s true, I’d say. The girl was too obviously relieved when she got on to that bit of the story. She might as well have stuck up a notice saying, “Here endeth the lies and beginneth the truth!” So we’re nowhere.’
‘What do you reckon happened?’ asked Pascoe. ‘She runs off into the night without a stitch on, comes back for her clothes a short while later when things are quiet, meets Mr X, perhaps the one who interrupted them in the first place, and is quietly done to death?’
‘That’s a good question,’ said Dalziel. ‘Perhaps you’ll try leaving a bit to answer in future. Anyway, you didn’t tell me in your question what happened to her clothes.’
‘X took them.’
‘Why?’
‘Kinky?’
Dalziel shook his head.
‘This doesn’t smell like a kinky one to me. Look, get Roote, Cockshut, any of them that were in on this bathing party. No, not the lot, any one of them. I’ll pick up Mr Lapping and we’ll all go and see exactly where it was they were dancing. I want to see how far it was from where the girl was found.’
‘Right, sir,’ said Pascoe.
Outside he met one of the consta
bles Dalziel had set to checking up on the names on Franny Roote’s list.
‘Anything?’
‘Not a glimmer, Sarge,’ said the young man lugubriously.
‘All right. Look, take a quick walk up to the golf club and tell Mr Kent the super’s on his way. Make it snappy.’
From behind the half-open door, Dalziel watched the scene with interest. He too had noted Detective-Inspector Kent’s unnecessarily sporty looking outfit that morning. But now he nodded in approval.
He liked loyalty in junior officers. He was sure Sergeant Pascoe would have done as much for him.
Almost sure.
Miss Disney and Miss Scotby were very differently situated, and neither would have changed with the other for love or wealth.
Miss Disney sat under a hair-drier like a science-fiction monster with a badly fitting space-helmet.
For a while the dextrous hands and tongue of Neville, her favourite hair-artist, had soothed her mind, but now with only herself and an absurdly frivolous magazine for company, her thoughts were beginning to chase each others’ tails again. She tried to concentrate on the only readable part of the glossy magazine on her lap - the Reverend Ronald Rogers’s weekly message to the housewife - but even this was distasteful, quoting St Paul in support of his advice to mothers on dealing with the sexual problems of the adolescent.
It would have been even more distasteful, however, to be where Miss Scotby was. Her face animated in a way which few students would have recognized, she rose and sank rhythmically with the body of her horse as it cantered through the shallows of the outgoing tide. As it approached the groyne which was the usual limit of their outward ride, it slowed down of its own accord, but Miss Scotby urged it on. Surprised, it scrambled over the groyne, sinking fetlock-deep in the drift of soft sand piled against the farther side, and Miss Scotby was almost unseated. She recovered expertly, however, and brought her mount to a halt, facing out to sea.
In a moment she would ride back and experience once again the fierce exhilaration of the gallop. But now she sat in thought, a grey-haired little woman with a face long practised at keeping the counsel of the mind that worked so busily behind it.
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