‘As well as you can know a teacher.’ Sally thought for a moment. ‘But he wasn’t really like a teacher. I mean, I know it was boring and all that, but he liked it. He was enthusiastic. And he even took us to his home for hot dogs and pop after some of the trips.’
‘Us?’
‘Yes, the pupils who lived in Helmthorpe or Gratly. There were about seven of us usually. His wife made us all some food and we just sat and talked about where we’d been and what we’d found. He was a very nice man.’
‘What about his wife, did you know her?’
‘Not really. She didn’t stick around with us. She always had something else to do. I think she was just shy. But Mr Steadman wasn’t. He’d talk to anybody.’
‘Was that the only time you saw him? At school, on trips?’
Sally’s eyes narrowed again. ‘Well, apart from in the street or in shops, yes. Look, if you mean was he a dirty old man, the answer’s no.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Banks said. But he was glad that she had reacted as if it was.
He made her go through the story again while he took down all the particulars. She gave the information unwillingly this time, as if all she wanted was to get out of the place. When she finally left, Banks slouched back in his chair and grinned to think that all his appeal, all his glamour, had been lost in his move from London to Eastvale. Outside in the market square the clock chimed four.
5
ONE
On Tuesday morning, having sent Sergeant Hatchley to Helmthorpe to check on Weaver’s progress, search Harold Steadman’s study and bring in Teddy Hackett for questioning, Banks set off for York to visit Michael Ramsden again.
He drove into the ancient Roman city at about eleven o’clock through suburbs of red-brick boxes. After getting lost in the one-way system for half an hour, he found a parking space by the River Ouse and crossed the bridge to Fisher amp; Faulkner Ltd, a squat ugly brick building by the waterside. The pavements were busy with tourists and businessmen, and the huge Minster seemed to dominate the city; its light stone glowed in the morning sun.
A smart male receptionist pointed him in the right direction, and on the third floor one of Ramsden’s assistants called through to the boss.
Ramsden’s office looked out over the river, down which a small tour boat was wending its way. The top deck was bright with people in summer holiday clothes, and camera lenses flashed in the sun. The boat left a long V of ripples, which rocked the rowing boats in its wake.
The office itself was small and cluttered; beside the desk and filing cabinets stood untidy piles of manuscripts, some stacked on the floor, and two bookcases displaying a set of Fisher amp; Faulkner’s titles. Even in a dark business suit, Ramsden still looked as if his clothes were too big for him; he had the distracted air of a professor of nuclear physics about to explain atomic fission to a layman while simultaneously working out complex formulae in his mind. He brushed back an invisible forelock and asked Banks to sit down.
‘You were a close friend of Harold Steadman’s,’ Banks began. ‘Could you tell me a little about him? His background, how you met, that kind of thing.’
Ramsden leaned back in his swivel chair and crossed his long legs. ‘You know,’ he said, looking sideways towards the window, ‘I was always just a little bit in awe of Harry. Not just because he was nearly fifteen years my senior – that never really mattered – but because I don’t think we ever really got over the student-professor relationship. When we met, he was a lecturer at Leeds and I was just about to begin my studies in London, so we weren’t even at the same university. We weren’t in the same field, either. But these ideas get fixed in one’s mind nonetheless. I was eighteen and Harry was nearly thirty-three. He was a very intelligent, very dedicated man – an exact role model for someone like me at that time.
‘Anyway, although I was, as I said, just about to go to university in London, I always came home at Christmas and in summer. I’d help around the house, do odd jobs, make bacon and eggs for the guests. And I loved being at home, being in the Yorkshire countryside. It was best when Harry and Emma came to stay for their annual holidays. I’d walk for hours, sometimes alone, sometimes with Harold or Penny.’
‘Penny?’ Banks cut in. ‘Would that be Penny Cartwright?’
‘Yes, that’s right. We were very close until I went off to London.’
‘Go on.’
‘We used to go out together, in a casual sort of way. It was all very innocent. She was sixteen and we’d known each other nearly all our lives. She’d even stayed with us for a while after her mother died.’
‘How old was she then?’
‘Oh, about ten or eleven. It was tragic, really. Mrs Cartwright drowned in a spring flood. Terrible. Penny’s father had a nervous breakdown, so she stayed with us while he recovered. It seemed only natural. Later, when… well, you know, we were a bit older… Anyway, Harold was very knowledgeable and enthusiastic about the area. He took to Swainsdale immediately, and pretty soon he was teaching me more than I’d learned living there all my life. He was like that. I was impressed, of course, but as I was about to study English at university I was insufferably literary – always quoting Wordsworth and the like. I suppose you know he bought the house when my mother couldn’t afford to keep it on?’
Banks nodded.
‘Yes,’ Ramsden went on, ‘they came every year, Harry and Emma, and when father died they were in a position to help us out a great deal. It was good for Harry, too. His work at the university was too abstract, too theoretical. He published a book called The Principles of Industrial Archaeology, but what he really wanted was the opportunity to put those principles into practice. University life didn’t give him time enough to do that. He fully intended to teach again, you know. But first he wanted to do some real pioneering work. When he inherited the money, all that became possible.
‘When I graduated, I went to work for Fisher and Faulkner in London first. Then they opened the northern branch and offered me this job. I missed the north and I’d always hoped to be able to make a living up here some day. We published Harold’s second book and he and I developed a good working relationship. The firm specializes in academic books, as you can see.’ He pointed towards the crowded bookshelves, and most of the titles Banks could make out had principles or a study of in them. ‘We do mostly literary criticism and local history,’ Ramsden went on. ‘Next Harry edited a book of local essays, and since that we’ve been working on an exhaustive industrial history of the dale from pre-Roman times to the present. Harry published occasional essays in scholarly journals, but this was to be his major work. Everybody was looking forward to it tremendously.’
‘What exactly is industrial archaeology?’ Banks asked. ‘I’ve heard the term quite often lately, but I’ve only got a vague idea what it means.’
‘Your vague idea is probably as clear as anyone else’s,’ Ramsden replied. ‘As yet, it’s still an embryonic discipline. Basically, the term was first used to describe the study of the machinery and methods of the Industrial Revolution, but it’s been expanded a great deal to include other periods – Roman lead mines, for example. I suppose you could say it’s the study of industrial artefacts and processes, but then you could argue for a month about how to define “industrial”. To complicate matters even further, it’s very hard to draw the line between the subject as a hobby and as an academic discipline. For instance, if someone happens to be interested in the history of steam trains, he can still make a contribution to the field, even though he actually works nine to five in a bank most days.’
‘I see,’ Banks said. ‘So it’s a kind of hybrid area, an open field?’
‘That’s about it. Nobody’s yet come up with a final definition, which is partly why it’s so exciting.’
‘You don’t think Mr Steadman’s death could be in any way linked to his work, do you?’
Ramsden shook his head slowly. ‘I can’t see it, no. Of course, there are feuds and races just like in any other discipline, but I can’t see any of it going that far.’
