very big on pride as well, believe me. Harry was a good lecturer and he always managed to stimulate enthusiasm among his students. That’s hard to do these days when you’re in competition with television, video games and God knows what. Stop me if I’m beginning to sound too much like a good reference for him, but it’s true. Most of all, he loved research, real field work, and that’s why he left. When he found himself with enough money to do as he pleased, that’s exactly what he did. Some chaps might have packed it all in and buggered off to the south of France for a life of idleness, sin and luxury, but not Harry. He was a dedicated man.’
At this point they were joined by a smaller, pudgy man, bald except for a few wisps of grey hair above his ears. He had a deeply ingrained frown in his broad brow and a tiny pursed mouth that gave him, overall, a surly and miserly look. His cultured voice was surprisingly soft, and Banks wondered how he managed with a large room full of students. He proved rather taciturn, and after they had ordered roast beef sandwiches and another round of stout, he simply sat and listened as Banks and Darnley went on talking.
‘I think I’ve got a fairly clear picture of Mr Steadman’s professional life now,’ Banks said. ‘It’s something everyone seems to agree on – bright, dedicated, obsessed even.’
At this Talbot tut-tutted, and when he spoke his voice was redolent of Cambridge quadrangles, effete dons and afternoon glasses of amontillado. ‘Surely, er, Chief Inspector, an obsession is something we might define as intrinsically unhealthy, wouldn’t you say? I don’t mean to nit-pick over semantics, of course, but one must admit that the term has definite connotations of mental imbalance. Harold Steadman was most certainly not unbalanced; therefore, he was not obsessed.’ And all the time he talked he frowned, as if the usage really upset him.
Banks apologized. ‘I didn’t mean to imply anything as drastic as that. No, I realize that there’s a difference between dedication and obsession. What I’d like to know is whether he found time for other pursuits. Social life, for example. Did he mix, go to parties, drink?’
Talbot returned in moody silence to his drink, perhaps to contemplate the exact OED definition of ‘obsessed’, as if such eccentricities as ‘social life’ were best left to the lower classes.
‘Do you know, Godfrey,’ Darnley said cheerfully, oblivious to his colleague’s disdain, ‘the chief inspector might not be far wrong.’ He turned to Banks and winked. ‘Yes, Harry liked a few drinks now and then, and he went to the occasional faculty party. But he was never really at ease socially – especially when he was out of his element, so to speak, when there was nobody to talk to about his field. He didn’t care much for sports, never watched television, and he certainly wasn’t a woman chaser.’
‘Do you mean he was uncomfortable in the presence of non-academics?’
‘Oh no, not that at all. I didn’t mean to give you that impression. Harry certainly wasn’t an academic snob. As a matter of fact he invited me up to Gratly once, shortly after he’d moved, and we spent a very pleasant evening in a dingy local with a thriller writer and some other chaps. No, Harry would talk to anybody. That was one of his beefs against academic life, the rampant intellectual snobbery. What I mean is that his heart was in his work and his work was basically to do with people, so he enjoyed their company. There’s a strong human element in his field, you know. It’s not all abstract. He was interested in ordinary people, their background and ways of life. I suppose you know that his main fields were industrial archaeology and the Roman occupation? But he also loved folk music, local lore, things like that. He was fascinated by the history of trade unions, the early working class radicals. So you could say that Harry was quite at home with the common man, he’d just no time for petty chit- chat like you so often get at parties. He always tended to edge conversations in the direction of his interests.’
Talbot nodded in grudging agreement and lit a cigarette. ‘Let me put it this way, Chief Inspector Banks,’ he said in a tone of professor to lowly student. ‘If you were to – if you were able to – sit down now and talk to Harold Steadman, he would probably begin by asking you about your job, how you feel about it, just to get things going. He would discover where you come from and find out about your family background. Then, depending on how interesting he found all that, he would either question you further – say, if your father had been a union man or a farm labourer in the dales – or he would proceed to tell you about the history of your area, how it fits in with the rest of the country, what the Romans did there, and so on. People usually enjoyed his company. He could sense when he was becoming a bore and would usually stop and listen politely for a while. Of course,’ Talbot added, with a deft flick of ash, ‘if he found you boring, then you wouldn’t get much out of him. Am I right, Darnley?’
Darnley nodded.
‘What about Mrs Steadman?’ Banks asked. ‘Did you see much of her when she was in Leeds?’ He addressed the question to Talbot, who seemed to have become quite garrulous, but it was Darnley who answered.
‘At first we did, yes. Quite a pretty little thing, really. Naturally, they were in a new environment and wanted to meet people and settle in. But like many faculty wives, she soon withdrew. It’s common enough, believe me. My wife, for example, wouldn’t be seen dead at an academic gathering these days. It bores them, you see. And they let themselves go over the years. You know, not bothering much about their appearance any more.’
Banks couldn’t be sure whether Darnley was talking about his own wife or about Emma Steadman.
The conversation moved on to generalities again, with Darnley doing most of the entertaining, and Banks soon realized he wasn’t going to learn anything more of value.
When he left, he carried away with him the image of a young couple – perhaps not unlike Sandra and himself in the old days – newly married, the husband beginning what was likely to be a distinguished academic career. There were long summer holidays in Gratly at the Ramsden house; there was the young ambitious Michael courting Penny, the flower of the dale; it was pure peace and innocence with nothing but a bright future ahead for them all.
For Steadman, things seemed to get better and better; for Emma, there was withdrawal from the dull academic life into domestic boredom; for Penny, a wild exciting fling in the fast lane which left her isolated and cynical, cut off from her roots; and for Ramsden, a steady advance up the publishing ladder and a return to his beloved north. It all sounded so idyllic, but one of them was dead. What had gone wrong and why?
An hour later he was no closer to the solution, but his spirits felt lighter, despite the clouds, as he drove into the dales countryside and sang along with Britten’s versions of old English folk songs.
SIX
They were sipping Coke and talking about boys under the scornful lascivious eyes of the old Greek. Hazel Kirk had had her first date with Terry Preston, son of the local grocer, the previous night, and she was titillating her friends with an account of her attempt to keep his wandering hands from her most private parts. Once in a while she would blush while describing the indefinable feelings she had had when she failed in her task.
But Sally Lumb, usually so interested – not to mention condescending – during such discussions, seemed preoccupied. The others noticed, but Hazel, for one, was not going to be done out of her moment of glory simply because madam was sulking.
Anne Downes, perhaps more sensitive to mood and certainly less interested in boys and their inexplicable desires, waited patiently until Kathy Chalmers had stopped giggling and tried to change the subject.
‘They haven’t caught him yet, you know,’ she announced, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose.
‘Who?’ Hazel asked abruptly, annoyed at being dragged away from other, more important thoughts.
‘The killer, of course. Who else? The man who killed Mr Steadman.’
‘How do you know it was a man?’ Hazel asked. It was a question she’d heard on countless television programmes.
‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it,’ Anne snorted. ‘It’d have to be a pretty strong woman to slug him and carry him all the way up that field below Crow Scar.’
‘Mrs Butterworth could have done it,’ Kathy chipped in. They all giggled. Mrs Butterworth was the butcher’s wife, an enormous red-faced woman who towered above her meek hunched husband.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Anne said, allowing herself a smile. ‘Why should she do it? Besides, the effort would probably give her a heart attack.’
‘Jimmy Collins told me the police have been talking to Penny Cartwright and the major,’ Kathy said. ‘He said the old man didn’t give them much time.’
‘How would Jimmy Collins know?’ Anne asked.
‘He was in the shop downstairs. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” my mother always says. I think Penny
