When the doctor arrived he was accompanied by Constable Shattuck. Pascoe turned over his supervisory duties to him and went and joined Dalziel at the sickbay window, looking down at a sizeable group of students hanging round the entrance to the block.
“Landor’s talking to them. Not very successfully,’ grunted Dalziel.
A car coming up the drive had to bleep its horn to clear a path through the students. It was a silver-grey Capri.
“Halfdane,’ said Dalziel. Pascoe wondered how he knew. ‘ bloody cars.”
They watched it out of sight through the main gates.
“Get the doc. to have a look at you,’ said Dalziel and obediently the sergeant went through into the other room. Behind him he heard Dalziel picking up the telephone.
Roote had been pronounced perfectly fit, Pascoe’s rib had been strapped, though the doctor didn’t think there was a break, and Dalziel was just putting his shirt back on for the second time when Henry Saltecombe turned up.
“I couldn’t believe it when they told me this morning. Sam! I’ve been just walking up and down the beach all day.”
He seemed genuinely upset.
There’s a letter for you here, Mr. Saltecombe,’ said Dalziel sympathetically. ‘ have reason to believe Mr. Fallowfield wrote it. I would like you to open it in my presence, read it, and then permit me to read it. It may be relevant to my enquiries and the coroner too will want sight of it.”
Henry seemed to turn even paler.
“From Sam?”
“Yes. Sergeant, just hold that door firmly closed, will you?”
Pascoe took a tight hold of the handle of the office door behind which Constable Shattuck was watching over Roote.
Henry unsealed the envelope awkwardly, tearing it diagonally across the face. There were three handwritten sheets inside. He read them silently, once, twice.
“Here,’ he said handing them to Dalziel and turning away. Dalziel read slowly and methodically, then passed them over to Pascoe.
“Mr. Saltecombe,’ he said. ‘ word in your ear.”
They muttered in a corner as Pascoe read the letter.
“Well, that’s that,’ he said to Dalziel who shook his head warningly.
“Fetch Roote through,’ said the fat man.
Pascoe tapped on the door and Shattuck opened it.
“Bring him out,’ he said to the constable.
Franny stood framed in the doorway.
Henry took a step forward from his corner.
“You bastard,’ he said. ‘ slimy bastard! I hope they jail you for ever.”
Franny did not seem taken aback.
“So you’ve read it,’ he said, looking at Dalziel who held the letter in his hand.
“Francis Roote,’ he said. ‘ will be taken to the Central Police Station where you will be charged with the murders of Alison Girling and Anita Sewell. You are not required to say anything now, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence. At the station you will be given an opportunity to contact your legal adviser.” The murders?’ said Franny disbelievingly. ‘ you can’t do that. Not… look, he must say… what does he say?”
He stepped forward to make a grab at the letter. Shattuck’s arms enfolded him from behind in a comfortable embrace.
“He just mentions you, Franny,’ said Dalziel softly. ”s a lot about you.”
The? Just me? The fool! The bastard! What did he… why… ” “Why not, Franny?’ asked Dalziel. ‘ not?” “Is it a bluff?’ he asked. ‘ it? What’s it matter anyway? Now. Just sit down and listen to this.”
He began talking rapidly. After a couple of minutes Pascoe jumped up, looked at Dalziel and motioned to the telephone. Dalziel standing by the window shook his head and pointed out.
Down the drive moving very sedately came a silver grey Capri. Behind it was a police-car.
Franny was still talking when the door burst open and Halfdane rushed in.
“What the hell’s all this?’ he snarled. ”re in trouble, real trouble, Superintendent. You’ve never known trouble like it… “
Dalziel ignored him completely. Holding Fallowfield’s letter before him like a cross held out to a vampire he went towards the pale slight figure standing between two policemen in the doorway.
“Marion Cargo,’ he said. ‘ am arresting you on suspicion of complicity in the murders of… “
He didn’t finish. She fainted beautifully into the arms of the policemen.
Only the ironic applause from Roote disturbed the beauty of the performance.
Chapter 17
… the unlearned man knows not what it is to descend into himself or call himself to account.
It took them forty-eight hours to even begin to tie the loose ends together. But by the end of that time they had done all that was necessary to do in the college. There had been little time to talk to anyone in the college about events and Cockshut was desperately trying to find some aspect of things which would give him another excuse for action. Pascoe was pleasantly relieved that they were going to get away before this blew up. He glanced at his watch now. He had promised Ellie that he would call in before he went. But Landor had come into the study while they were packing up and Dalziel seemed to be in the mood to offer explanations and assessments.
“The letter!’ said Dalziel. ‘ sweating on the letter and a lot of bloody use it turned out to be.”
“It wasn’t intended to be useful,’ said Simeon Landor gently. ”s just a record of a man’s uncertainty and unhappiness.”
“It would have made me a lot happier if it had mentioned a few names,” said Dalziel gloomily.
There was a photostat of the letter on the study desk in front of Pascoe. He looked down at it again and read it for the hundredth time, still with a sense of emptiness, of loss.
Dear Henry, This is a strange letter to have to write, and a stranger way you might think to repay friendship. I am truly sorry if it is painful for you to read this. But pain is a risk we take in becoming fond of people, isn’t it? As I have found out to my cost.
I have decided to take my life, not out of despair or anything so religious as that. But merely out of confusion. These past few years have been troubled ones for me, troubled not in the way I have always felt troubled by the problems of life and humanity, but troubled by problems of mere living. I have had secrets to hide which I did not wish to know in the first place; I found that quite unbeknown to me I had become a leader and, as a leader, had to be deposed from a position I would have been only too happy to resign. I found myself admitting to accusations that were false rather than make accusations that were true.
(I was never anything more to Anita Sewell than a dear friend. At least I thought so, and I know in the end she did too.) Finally I was driven to absurd delaying tactics on points of procedure and constitutional issues — the kind of thing which has always bored me to tears as you know! — because I did not know what else to do.
In other words I had to make decisions. I really believe the majority of people are lucky enough to get through life without ever having to make a single greatly significant decision. I had to make such a one five years ago. I made it on personal grounds, unselfish I thought at the time, though I’m no longer sure, grounds of love, and respect, and hope, for an individual. The only grounds, I felt, on which such a decision should be taken.
So I concealed my knowledge of the death of Miss. Girling and felt that I had done my lifetime’s duty. No man should have to do that twice. Now five years later, because I did it once, I’m faced with the same decision again. Someone else is dead — Anita — someone much more valuable than Girling.
So, I’m confused. I acted once as I felt I had to act. I felt it was the only way to act. Out of that action came distrust, misunderstanding, contumely, slander, and finally another death. But the reasons for my original action still seem valid. So how do I act now?