An Advancement of Learning

They both laughed and when they stopped, the atmosphere had become easier. They spent the next few minutes exchanging news of old university acquaintances. Or rather Ellie provided most of the news and Pascoe most of the questions. He was surprised to find how eager he was for information.

‘You haven’t kept in touch with anyone then?’ she asked finally.

‘Christmas cards. Wedding invitations. That sort of thing.’

‘Summonses. Warrants. That sort of thing,’ she answered, half-joking, half-serious.

‘I’ve been spared that,’ said Pascoe, wholly serious.

She looked embarrassed for a second, a faint flush touching her cheek-bone.

Pascoe began to reach out a hand to touch her face but stopped himself in time.

‘Well, you’ll be spared it here too,’ Ellie said emphatically. ‘The statue had been up for five years or so when I arrived. What’s it all about, anyway?’

‘We’re still trying to find out. Who has been here since the thing was put up, then?’ asked Pascoe casually. He didn’t need the information. He had a list in his document case which told him exactly.

‘I’m not sure. The oldest inhabitants, obviously. Jane Scotby. And Miss Disney. Not Landor, though. That’s obvious. He came when Miss Girling died. The history man, Henry Saltecombe. And George Dunbar, head of stinks. There might be others, we’re a large staff and I haven’t got to know them all yet. But what’s your interest? You don’t think someone on the staff then was responsible?’

‘Responsible for what?’

‘Why, for killing whoever got killed and burying them in the garden,’ said Ellie in surprise.

‘Someone’s responsible,’ replied Pascoe. ‘Any likely runners?’

The atmosphere was changing again.

‘I should have thought that your best approach was to discover who it was that got killed,’ said Ellie a little stiffly.

‘We’re working on it,’ said Pascoe cheerfully.

He glanced at his watch. Dalziel would be expecting some kind of report soon.

‘I must be off. Look, any chance of seeing you later tonight? There’s lots to talk about.’

Ellie hesitated a moment before saying, ‘Yes, surely. I’m dining in tonight and I usually pop into the bar afterwards, about eight. You’ll still be around then? Good. Anyone will direct you.’

‘Right,’ said Pascoe at the door. ‘It was nice to see your name on the staff-list. See you!’

He went out with a casual wave.

‘No doubt,’ said Ellie to the closed door.

She picked up her pen again but did not start to write for some time. She was trembling slightly. He looked at me like a bloody suspect! she thought. Not a sign of emotion. A useful contact! Sod him.

Convinced soon that all her trembling sprang from indignation, she began to write again but had to stop soon to light one of her infrequent cigarettes. Sod him!

Rather sticky, thought Pascoe with some regret as he walked down the corridor from Ellie’s room.

But I won’t work at not being a policeman. Not just to be liked. Not by anyone. It’s not worth it. He congratulated himself once again on his self-possession during the encounter. Then he bumped into a large beautifully rounded girl in a frivolously short skirt.

‘Sorry,’ he said. She smiled and massaged herself voluptuously. He felt his self-possession crack.

Well, sometimes it may be worth it, he emended cautiously.

When he reached Landor’s room, it was empty. He took the lists Dalziel had requested of him from his case and laid them neatly on the desk.

Then he stood back to view the effect. Dissatisfied, he readjusted them minutely to attain perfect symmetry.

‘You’ll make someone a lovely housekeeper,’ said Dalziel from the door.

Five witty answers and several bluntly obscene ones ran through Pascoe’s mind, but he used none of them, merely bowing Dalziel with as much irony as he dared to the desk.

‘What’s this lot then? Lot of bloody names. No good till we know who got the chop, are they?’

‘This might help,’ said Pascoe, delicately touching the central list.

‘Let’s see then. Persons reported missing between … well, you tell me, eh? There might be long words I’d have trouble with.’

It would be nice to think the sneers derived from an affectionate respect. Or perhaps not. Dalziel, according to oral tradition, had destroyed whatever lay between him and his wife despite, or because of, his almost canine affection for her. That had been before Pascoe met him. He had learned the hard way just how much of Dalziel’s invitations to familiarity to accept.

Now he picked up the list and gave it an unnecessary glance. It didn’t do to appear too efficient.

‘Only two real possibilities so far, sir,’ he said. ‘Mrs Alice Widgett, aged thirty-three, housewife. Last seen leaving her home on August 27, destination unknown. She left a tatie-pot in the oven and two children watching television.

‘Secondly, Mary Farish. Widow. Aged forty-five. She’s the nearest. Lived all alone on the outskirts of Coultram. She had a dental appointment at 3 P.M. on November 9th. She left home at 2.15, but never reached the dentist.’

‘That’s what I feel like, too,’ said Dalziel, sticking a nicotine-stained forefinger into his mouth and sucking noisily. ‘Best reason for disappearing I know. Well, the dentist’s a help. He’s still around?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll take details of the jaw along as soon as we get them from the lab.’

‘Who are taking their bloody time. Why no one else? It looks a fair list.’

‘Yes. Some of them are men, of course.’

‘Why? We know the sex, don’t we? Even I can tell the difference between a male and a female skeleton.’

‘Of course,’ said Pascoe soothingly. ‘I just thought it would be useful to know which men felt it necessary to disappear quietly about that time. And the other six women were either seen boarding trains or long-distance buses, or some subsequent contact has taken place, a postcard, a telephone call. This doesn’t cut them out altogether, of course.’

‘Worse bloody luck,’ said Dalziel gloomily. ‘Have you got someone contacting parents, family, friends, again?’

‘No,’ said Pascoe. ‘It didn’t seem necessary. I’ll get their files of course.’

‘On which you’ll find nothing’s been done for five years. Naturally. We can’t spend our precious bloody time chasing around after runaway adults. But you’ll probably find half the sods have turned up again and no one’s thought to tell us. They usually don’t.’

‘I’ll get on to it right away,’ said Pascoe.

‘By the way. Did they have red hair?’