Dalziel turned on what Pascoe called his vibrantly sincere voice, with matching expression.
“Nor do we yet, my dear. But I’m afraid there’s no doubt. It was Miss. Girling’s body. I’m sorry.”
The girl shook her head in bewilderment. Halfdane began to usher her to the door.
“Come on, Marion,’ he said. ”ll buy you a cup of tea.” “One moment,’ said Dalziel. ‘ did you mean about the statue? Why was it worse because of the statue?”
Halfdane looked disapproving but halted, his arm supplying quite unnecessary support to Marion Cargo’s waist.
“It was my statue,’ she explained. ‘ designed it. I never thought
… But who would want to kill her?”
Now there were tears in her eyes and Halfdane’s arm was not altogether unnecessary.
“We’ll find out, my dear. Never fret.”
The girl seemed to pull herself together and even managed a watery smile.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that it all seemed so long ago. Dead. And then it came back. That’s all. At the time it seemed like the end of everything.
And when Miss. Scotby didn’t get the job and we knew everything would be changed from the way Al wanted, I never thought I’d want to see the place again. But you’ve got to keep moving. I’m glad things are going forward instead of standing still.”
Dalziel nodded approval of this plucky-little-trouper philosophy but his thoughts were elsewhere.
“Miss. Scotby applied for the Principalship, did she?’ he asked.
“Oh yes. She was hot favourite. There was even a sweepstake and we thought whoever got The Scot was home and dry. But Mr. Landor ran home an easy winner.”
She was quite recovered now and disengaged herself from Halfdane with a small smile of thanks.
“Thank you,’ said Dalziel. ‘ good day to you both.”
He closed the door behind them and stood still for a moment, something Pascoe had suggested about the statue and something Marion Cargo had said almost coming together. But not quite.
He had no time to manipulate the pieces. There was another knock at the door. His hand was still on the handle and the speed with which he opened it obviously surprised the two men standing outside.
Dalziel was sufficient of a realist about his own appearance to recognize one of them was built just like himself. Big, bald and beery.
The other was shorter, slimmer, much more restrained a figure in every way.
“Yes?’ he said.
“Superintendent Dalziel?’ said the fat man. ‘. Head of history. And this is Mr. Fallowfield of our biology department.”
“Ah. You’d better come in.”
So this was Fallowfield, debaucher of youth. Dalziel had seen too many cases where girls much younger than Anita Sewell had been much guiltier than the men accused of debauching them for him to make a quick judgment. But some old Puritanical streak, doubtless traceable to some not so remote part of his Scots ancestry, still made him disapprove.
But Fallowfield was high on his list of people to be talked to. He had already sent someone round the college in search of him without success.
“Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘ seems to be coming in pairs this afternoon. What’s it for? Protection?”
That may not be funny in Mr. Fallowfield’s case,’ said Henry, rather pompously. Fallowfield shot an annoyed glance at him but Henry shook his head.
“No, Sam. It’s true. You got some nasty looks.”
“And why should people look nastily at Mr. Fallowfield?’ asked Dalziel.
“Don’t be coy, Superintendent,’ said Henry, with a Laughtonesque world-weary sigh. ”ve been here long enough to have heard about Mr. Fallowfield’s connection with Anita Sewell.”
Fallowfield, as though growing tired of having Saltecombe do all the talking for him, leaned forward and handed a pink envelope to Dalziel.
“Read that,’ he said.
With conditioned carefulness, Dalziel removed the single sheet of paper from the envelope and read what was written on it.
“Anita,’ he said. ‘ was the dead girl?”
“Yes.”
There’s no date on it. You received it when?”
“Yesterday,’ said Fallowfield almost inaudibly. Then more loudly.
“Yesterday. Henry came to tell me what had happened. I couldn’t believe it. He asked me about the note.”
“Why?’ snapped Dalziel.
Saltecombe cleared his throat.
“I’d taken it down to Sam’s cottage early yesterday evening. I recognized the writing. It was none of my business, of course, but when the poor girl was found murdered, I had to say something, even though it was probably quite irrelevant. So I mentioned it.”
“Very public-spirited of you,’ said Dalziel evenly. Tell me, Mr. Fallowfield, did Miss. Sewell come to see you last night?”
“No.”
Dalziel said nothing but continued looking steadily at Fallowfield till he felt impelled to qualify his answer.
“I sat up till after midnight but she didn’t appear. Then I went to bed.”
“I see,’ said Dalziel. ‘ is your cottage, sir?”
Again the other man’s voice was low, almost inaudible.
“Just above the shore. About a quarter of a mile down from the end of the golf course.” Well now, thought Dalziel. I should have known that. Someone should have told me that by now.
There was a brief silence which did not have the chance to stretch into significance because Saltecombe leaned forward and tapped the desk.
“You see what that means, Superintendent? She might have been on her way there when this terrible thing happened.”
Thank you, sir. Indeed she might. Mr. Fallowfield, have you any idea what the girl wanted to see you about?”
“No. No idea.’ The man looked quite ill.
“When did you last have any communication with her?”
Fallowfield shrugged, as if forcing his memory to function.
“Weeks ago,’ he said. The last time I spoke to her privately was when she came back at the start of this term, or rather not at the start but several days late. She had been under discussion at staff meetings. I wanted to tell her personally that I could not in conscience grade her practical work as of a satisfactory standard.”
“How did she take this?”
“Quietly. She knew I was right, you see. She is — was a very bright girl.”
“And since then?”
“I have seen her, of course; but never alone. Since the appeal, of course, we have consciously avoided each other.”
“She gave you no warning of the appeal; made no threat about its nature?”
Fallowfield hesitated a split second.
“None,’ he said.
“You’re certain?”
“Quite certain,’ he said.
Dalziel felt this was just a beginning, but there was other information he’d like before going further. And he didn’t like interviewing two by two. It was a case he was building, not a bloody ark.
I’ll keep this if I may,’ he said, waving the note. ‘ you for coming, gentlemen. Perhaps we can talk again later.”
They stood up, both he was interested to note looking relieved.
“Tell me, Mr. Saltecombe,’ he said as he walked them to the door. ‘ the candidates for the principal’s job were being interviewed five years ago, who was your favourite for the appointment?”
Henry laughed unforcedly.
“No question,’ he said. ‘ was me!” Another gap in my knowledge, thought Dalziel. I’m slipping.
“But the popular favourite was Scotby,’ went on Henry. ‘ for me though. I always reckoned a man. Female emancipation results in free competition and in ninety cases out of a hundred, that means a man. So Simeon stepped in.”
“I see,’ said Dalziel. ‘ else applied internally?”
“Just the three of us.”
The three?”
“Yes. Scotby, Dunbar and myself. The women thought it was bloody arrogant of Dunbar and me. We were the only men on the staff at the time. But, apart from Simeon, another four started the following September, including you, eh, Sam?” “That’s right,’ said Fallowfield. ‘, I think we’d better move now.
The superintendent must be frightfully busy.”