Reginald Hill

Something that she saw there, not in her physical proportions because she had long since come to terms with her lack of beauty, but in or behind her eyes filled them momentarily with tears. But they didn’t fall. Instead she picked up from her dressing-table the old Bible which was so often her only comfort and let it fall open at random. Frequent reading in certain places may have reduced the truly random element in some degree, but this did not occur to her. In any case, Miss. Disney did not believe in random openings of the Good Book.

It was one of her favourite passages.

“Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven,’ she began to incant, her eyes full now of a very different light.

Harold, had he remained so long, would have surely drifted on at this stage.

Thirty or forty yards down the corridor from Miss. Disney he would have struck oil.

Marion Cargo too had just taken a shower, and she had none of the older woman’s inhibitions. Lighting a cigarette she sank naked into a capacious easy-chair. Light filtered through the incompletely drawn curtains laying bars of gold across her brown body, turning her into a nymph of summer.

But her mind was contemplating a cold and foggy day nearly five years earlier when her life had changed. She stirred uneasily and made a movement towards the telephone. She felt the time had come to talk to someone.

The ringing of the doorbell prevented her. Quickly she rose and took a towelling wrap from the bedroom. She was still tying it one handed as she opened the door.

“I’m sorry,’ said Arthur Halfdane. ”s inconvenient? I just thought; well you said, come and have a drink some lime.”

“Of course it’s not,’ she said. ‘ long as you don’t mind. Look, come in. I’m glad you’re here. I’d like to talk to you.”

Obviously there would have been no point in Harold’s remaining there for the moment anyway. Had he struck off at a right-angle and drifted through the evening air till he penetrated the next block, he might have found a much more promising situation.

Sandra Firth lay naked on the bed. Beside her, standing looking down at her, was Franny Roote, his shirt in his hands. She reached up and pulled it from him.

“My word,’ he said. ”re impatient, love. Is it my manly charm?” “The others will be coming soon,’ she said.

He glanced at his watch as he took it off and put it carefully on the bedside table.

“So they will. Perhaps we shouldn’t bother?”

She turned her face away from him and he laughed, undoing the heavy brass-buckle of his trouser-belt.

“By the way, love,’ he said, ‘ were you saying to that nice fat policeman today?” “Nothing,’ she said, pushing herself up on her elbows. ‘. I just wanted to ask, well, you know, what they were doing.”

“Oh,’ he said, still again.

“Yes,’ she said urgently. ‘ just wanted to see what I could find out.”

“And what did you?”

“Nothing, of course. What do you expect?”

“I expect discretion.”

“Discretion! Don’t you want to know who killed Anita!’ Her voice rose and he reached out his hand and caressed her gently.

“Of course I do. Very much.”

Something in his voice chilled her.

“Listen, Franny, let the police do it. It’s their business.”

“Everyone to his trade, eh?’ He laughed again. ‘, you stick to yours in future. I thought I could trust you. Everyone’s getting all independent. Stuart thinks he’s laying the base-work of the people’s bloody revolution. Now you’re off Sherlocking about the place.”

“I’m sorry, Franny. Really.”

“All right,’ he said, pushing his trousers down.

Harold would have been puzzled to observe he did not seem in the slightest degree excited. But Sandra seemed capable of remedying that.

Unfortunately once again there was an interruption, a sharp banging at the door.

“Franny? Open up. Stuart here. I wanted to see you before the others arrived.”

“Hang on a sec! Sorry, love,’ he said to Sandra as he rolled off the bed. ‘ don’t think I can concentrate with Cockshut listening at the door. Later, eh? OK?”

With a blank expression almost amounting to despair Sandra rose up and began to dress.

Harold with a shrug of resignation would surely at this point have launched himself seawards to the more certain delight of bird-song and the golf club.

Miss. Scotby and Simeon Landor were strolling in the garden of the principal’s house, apparently admiring a fine display of roses. The house itself standing on the edge of the college grounds was only two years old. The long line of spinster principals had been easily accommodated in a flat in the Old House. But the ready availability of college-employed labour had already turned the garden into a thing of beauty.

They had been discussing matters of college business. Miss. Scotby still held a writing-pad in her hands in which she had been jotting down notes.

“Roote came to see me today,’ said Landor. ‘ polite. He expressed student concern. He said they were worried.”

“Aren’t we all? We must be careful. That boy Cockshut will be out to cause trouble. Roote’s just a pawn.”

“You think so?”