An Advancement of Learning. Reginald Hill
but this is horse’s mouth stuff, eh?’
‘Others?’ said Pascoe.
‘Aye. Disney yesterday. I had to hold her up. “It’s Girling!” she cried. Man, I near ruptured myself. Then some students this morning. They were convinced. Said they had it from a weejy board or some such nonsense. You’re certain, it’s true?’
‘Yes,’ said Pascoe in some exasperation. Dunbar nodded as if reluctantly convinced. He pulled a disproportionately large pipe from his pocket and began to shred what looked like brown paper into the bowl.
‘She had it coming to her, y’know,’ he said. ‘I thought it was the hand of God, but this …’
He struck three unsuccessful matches.
‘You knew Miss Girling then?’ asked Pascoe. He knew full well that Dunbar’s name was on the list of staff surviving from six years before.
‘Aye. Well. Too bloody well. Me and Saltecombe – you’ve met him? Fat chap in charge of history – we were the first men ever appointed here, you know. 1965. Must have been mad. She didn’t want us, I’m pretty sure. But there were pressures. Others could see the way things were going, so we were a kind of concession. Reckoned we were pretty harmless. Mind, I think Disney would have had us operated on if she could. There was a girl got pregnant that year. She didn’t speak to us for days.’
He laughed loudly and his breath scattered charred shavings from his pipe.
‘I don’t know how I’ve stuck it all this time.’
‘But now …?’
‘Now? We exchanged one old woman for another.’
‘You speak very frankly, Mr Dunbar.’
‘It’s my nature, laddie. Look, how the hell did it happen? I mean, what’s she doing here when she should be feeding the edelweiss in Austria?’
‘That’s what we wish to find out. Tell me,’ said Pascoe, ‘when did you last see Miss Girling alive?’
‘Man, that’s a hard one! Let’s see. That morning. The last day of term.’
‘December 16th?’
‘If you say so.’
‘Friday.’
Dunbar looked at him puzzled.
‘Ah, no!’ he said. ‘That would be when the students went off. But not us. Oh no. We used to hang around over the weekend so we could have a cosy little postmortem at a staff meeting on the Monday morning. The 16th, you said? Then it would be Monday 19th.’
‘I see. So all the academic staff were there on Monday 19th. Have you any idea when Miss Girling would have set off on her holiday? She was flying to Austria, you’ll recall.’
‘No recollection at all. The day is dead to me. I’d be off myself as soon as I humanly could.’
‘A pity. Perhaps Miss Disney, or someone on more friendly terms …’
Dunbar stood up, letting loose his unpleasant laugh once more.
‘Disney! Friendly! Man, you’ve been propagandized!’
‘But I understood …’
‘It’s a myth. She’s got no friends among the living, that one, so she appropriates the dead. One of the few things in Al’s favour was that she couldn’t stomach Disney. Good day to you!’
‘Goodbye. I’m sure the superintendent would like to talk …’
But the door was already slamming shut.
‘Not a very nice kind of man,’ said Kent from the window-seat. Pascoe had forgotten he was there.
‘You handled him well, Sergeant. I think I’ll take a little stroll around the estate and soak up a bit of atmosphere. Back in half an hour if I’m wanted.’
Pascoe watched him stride purposefully out of the room. Perhaps I’ll be like him with a year to go to retirement, he thought wryly.
He turned back to his work. Dunbar had been interesting. But first things first. At what stage did Miss Girling cease to be Miss Girling on her way to a winter holiday and become a corpse ready for its grotesque interment beneath her own memorial? Any point you cared to choose on the road from the college to Osterwald seemed as impossible as any other. Only the reasons changed.
At least this wasn’t one where time was of the essence. There was no freshly killed corpse to be examined, no relatives to be informed (perhaps there were? but it wasn’t the same), no frantic rush to track down a killer, while the traces were still fresh. There was no need to browbeat witnesses, to cut corners.
This one could be taken leisurely, almost academically (not that Dalziel would approve of either of those words!).
But it was true. Pascoe felt almost happy as he went about his work. There was a feeling of cosiness in the old panelled room with the wind outside pushing vainly against the window-pane.
Perhaps he should have gone in for the life scholastic after all. These boys knew what they were at, arriving at their (qualified) conclusions after taking the long way round.
Welcome aboard! he told himself.
Down near the shore the wind was stronger than ever, gusting with violence off the land.
Captain Jessup was having difficulty in coping with it. It blew his drives into the rough, his approach shots into bunkers and even his putts he was willing to swear were being steered inches off course by the malevolent blasts.
The captain’s lips pressed together in a tighter and thinner line beneath his sadly ruffled white moustaches.
Douglas Pearl on the other hand had discovered the secret of the perfect golf swing.
Again.
It was a cyclical business this, like the old religions. An endless circle of discovery and loss, death and resurrection. And to be conscious of the gift was often the prelude to losing it. So he viewed the fourteenth fairway uneasily. It ran along the sea shore, separated from the beach by a range of steep-sided dunes, vicious with tangled heather and gorse. The fairway ran round inland in a wide arc; the wise man followed it. The brave and the stupid attempted to carry the broad peninsula of dunes which lay between the tee and the hole.
Pearl stood uncertain. The wind galed forth in new fury. The captain sniffed impatiently. He made his mind a blank, and swung.
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