“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?
Well, I’m confused. But not despairing. Living poses too many problems.
Life — and death — are simpler and there is an easy way to get at their meaning, if any. That’s the way I’m taking now.
As for this letter and any information, or hints of information, it contains, do what you will with it. Burn it, or show it to that ill-assorted pair of policemen. What you will. Me, I’ve given up decisions. Except for this last one. Your friend, Sam Fallowfield.
“It’s a terrible letter for anyone to write,’ he said aloud. The others looked at him, Landor sympathetically, Dalziel in irritation.
“It’s a bloody useless letter,’ he reiterated. ‘ tells us nowt. If Roote hadn’t been so keen to get the first blow in before the girl had a chance, we’d have been nowhere. As it is, well I suppose it served some purpose.
He leaned forward, groaned and rubbed himself between the shoulders.
“If my lad hadn’t come when he did, those two would have had all the time in the world to get rid of it. Or they might even have let us find it, for all the use it was. But unread, that was different.”
“They were both so firmly convinced Fallowfield would have told everything he knew and suspected, that they credited us with this knowledge once Mr. Saltecombe told us to read the letter,’ explained Pascoe. ‘ just kept quiet and looked confident.”
Dalziel nodded complacently.
“I told Mr. Saltecombe to look accusing and say a couple of nasty things to Roote when he appeared. That did the trick. And once he thought that Fallowfield had put the finger on him but not the girl, he went wild. I think he even felt betrayed. Imagine!”
“It was odd,’ said Pascoe. ‘ was quite happy to warn Cargo that we still had the letter, that’s why he came into the sickbay and asked about Saltecombe. But the minute he thought the letter wasn’t dangerous to her… ” “Yes,’ said Dalziel. ‘ saw her face then. And I remembered she was right on top of us when I told you I was going up to the Common Room. Also I had a sense of two other people being over me when I got clobbered up there. So when I saw Halfdane’s car making off, I wondered if she might not be in it also. So I put out a call. Poor lad. I feel sorry for him.” You sound it, thought Pascoe, remembering Halfdane’s face ravaged with shock and disbelief. You bloody sound it.
Landor shook his head in perplexity.
“It’s hard to believe… it has hurt us all in more ways than we realize, I think. When will it all be over?’ he asked.
“When someone decides we’ve got to the truth,’ said Dalziel.
