and said in a low voice, ‘, what happened the other night, the dancing I mean, will anyone have to know about it? Like the bursar — or my parents. I wouldn’t like… ” “I don’t see why, love,’ said Dalziel, slitting open a kipper. ‘ as long as you keep on bringing me food like this. What made you decide to be a witch, love?”
The girl’s hand went to her mouth, a completely natural example of a classic gesture.
“Oh, I didn’t want… I’m not a witch… not really, I don’t believe … “
“It was just exciting, was it? And of course, Mr. Roote’s very nice, isn’t he?”
She blushed deeply.
“Yes, yes. I think so. I just went because of him. I’d only been once before and then he… went with me. And I thought it’d be the same. I’d rather there’d been just the two of us. But it was dark, and it didn’t seem to matter. But this time, last Thursday, it wasn’t me. He explained. It was a special one, midsummer or something… “
Pascoe and Dalziel exchanged glances and Pascoe began consulting his pocket diary.
‘… and he had to have someone who… hadn’t before. You see. It was the ceremony, that was all, he’d rather have been with me.”
“My God!’ said Pascoe.
“So it was Anita, instead,’ said Dalziel quietly.
“Yes. It should have been. I didn’t want to stay, but I thought if I went… anyway, I was glad when someone came, before… anything really happened.”
“You all ran?”
“Oh yes. I grabbed my clothes and ran as fast as I could. It wasn’t until later I found I’d left my bra and I wasn’t going back for it then.”
She managed a bit of a smile which Dalziel returned.
“I don’t blame you. We’ll let you have it back. You didn’t happen to see who it was who disturbed you all?”
“No. I’m sorry. She was too far, just a shape — ‘
“She?”
“Oh yes. I could tell it was a woman, from the outline of the skirts, I mean. But I didn’t wait to look closer.”
“Well, thank you very much, my dear. If there’s anything else you remember, just have a chat with me, eh? And remember, mum’s the word.”
He placed a stumpy finger across his lips and winked ludicrously. With a look of great relief on her face the girl left the room, still ignoring Pascoe.
“So much for Henry,’ said Dalziel through a mouthful of kipper. ‘ he was wearing a kilt. Your breakfast’s getting cold.”
I’ll just have coffee and a bit of toast.”
“Please yourself. In that case — ‘ Dalziel transferred Pascoe’s kippers to his own plate.
“Midsummer’s eve,’ said Pascoe.
“Is that special?’ asked Dalziel.
“Yes, in a way,’ said Pascoe slowly. ”s not one of the great witches’ nights like Walpurgisnacht, April the thirtieth, or Hallowe’en. But it’s pretty important. The eve of St. John the Baptist as well.”
“Dancing girls and heads on platters,’ offered Dalziel starting on his third kipper. ‘, Sergeant, you’re not really taking this witchcraft bit seriously? It’s just an ingenious method of getting lots of gravy!
Adds a bit of spice too. Like playing sardines at a party. No one says, let’s all lie on the floor together and grope each other. No, you have an acceptable structure, a game. And you all end up lying on the floor groping each other. Remember? This boy Roote’s just a bit more ingenious.”
“Yes. Isn’t he? And the virgin?”
“Variety is the spice. Imagine him telling that nice kid from the kitchen that he’d prefer her but the ceremony required he got stuck into someone else! What a nerve!”
“But she was a virgin.”
Dalziel pushed his plate away and burped.
“So were they all. Once. It’s not an uncommon state even in this bloody randy age.”
“Yes, but still
“Drink your coffee, lad.” Pascoe supped the lukewarm liquid thoughtfully.
“How about this,’ he said. ‘ gets back from the dunes with the others, who were they? Oh yes, Cockshut and the girl Firth. Then he gets to thinking about what he’s missed that night, to wit, Anita. He broods on it a while, and finally sets out to get what he considers his due, ceremony or none.”
“A year’s a long time to wait,’ agreed Dalziel.
“But she’s not there. Perhaps he sees her making off. He follows her to Fallowfield’s cottage. Waits till she comes out and is making her way back — ‘
‘ — then jumps on her and kills her. Why?”
“If I knew that we’d have him in here with us,’ said Pascoe.
“All right. Talk’s over,’ said Dalziel leaping up energetically. They’re not going to let us stay here for ever, you know. Let’s do some work.”
The morning went by quickly. Checks on the files and papers locked up in the study revealed no signs of interference. (Why should they be interested in interfering anyway? Pascoe asked himself. Unless — ) But the bottle of Glen Grant in the filing cabinet had a couple of prints which matched those on the plastic cup Dalziel had taken from Cockshut.
The superintendent seemed uninterested now. ‘ wants Cockshut?’ he asked. ‘ would just make him feel important.’ An examination of the room in which Fallowfield had been found was even less productive. The key to the locked lab door was found in his pocket. The heroin had almost certainly been self-administered. Only the absence of a note bothered Dalziel.
“I’ve a feeling he was the kind of man who would like to have explained himself in the end,’ he said.
One of the college gardeners dimly recollected having seen Fallowfield enter the science block about lunch time. This fitted in quite well with the medical report. While the two policemen had been so eagerly enquiring after him, he had been sitting alone in a dingy little storeroom, dying. It was illogical, but somehow the thought made Pascoe feel guilty.
“Perhaps he did do the damage in his cottage himself,’ he suggested again. ‘ Prospero, burning his books.”
“What did we do him for?’ asked Dalziel, interested.
The memory of those books, recalled another chain of thought which his mind had set aside, incomplete, till they could get hold of Fallowfield.
Now Fallowfield was beyond any contact the police could hope for, whatever he himself may have believed. But the links of information might still be obtained elsewhere. He thought a while, then went in search of Sandra Firth.
She was not in her room. As it was shortly after twelve, he started to make his way towards the bar where it seemed likely she might be found.
But as he came out into the bright and by now very hot sunlight he saw her standing beneath the beech trees which grew in the patch of ground which lay within the broad sweeping U-bend of the drive. She was talking with considerable animation to someone — in fact, they both seemed to be talking at the same time — and Pascoe felt a tremor of excitement as he looked at the other person. It was Miss. Disney, obviously returning from morning service. A prayer-book (he guessed) was clutched in one black-gloved hand while the other held a large crocodile- skin handbag.
But the article of attire which had caught Pascoe’s eye was her hat. It was absurd. On another woman it might have been forgiven as frivolous.
But on Disney — I It was light blue and dark orange with an artificial red geranium pinned rakishly on one side. And in outline it had the shape of a man’s porkpie.
Pascoe approached.
“Now that evil man is gone,’ Disney was saying, ‘ had hoped that some of you, that you above all, Sandra, might have been at the service this morning. The vicar cannot understand; it’s not my fault I have told him;
