An Advancement of Learning. Reginald Hill

Misses Scotby and Disney proved difficult to prise apart. He made the mistake of approaching Disney first, who claimed to be irretrievably committed to an important discussion with two students who looked desperate for escape. Scotby then came into view, so Pascoe quickly switched the attack. The senior tutor said yes, she would be pleased to spare the superintendent a few minutes of her time, upon which Disney cut herself off in the middle of a reminiscence of her last tour of the Holy Land and joined the party before they had gone three paces.

      So Pascoe, poker-faced, ushered them in together; Dalziel to his credit took it in his stride. He came from behind the desk to greet them like a headmaster welcoming important mothers.

      All rubbery smiles like the Michelin-tyre man, thought Pascoe.

      But once they were all seated, he put on his bad-news face.

      ‘Now, Miss Scotby, and you too, Miss Disney, I would like to ask you one or two questions whose relevance may not at first be apparent to you.’

      He’s been rehearsing, thought Pascoe.

      ‘I would be grateful if you would just answer the questions, painful though this may be, without requiring from me any further information to start with.’

      That’s a bit tortuous, thought Pascoe. Get on with it!

      ‘Please go ahead, Superintendent,’ said Miss Scotby in her precise tones. Miss Disney said nothing.

      ‘The questions concern Miss Girling, your late principal. Now, I believe she died in Austria, some five years ago.’

      ‘Five years last Christmas,’ said Miss Scotby.

      ‘In a ski-ing accident?’ asked Dalziel.

      ‘Not exactly,’ said Miss Scotby.

      ‘Asshaschlange.’ The strange outburst came from Miss Disney. The wisp of lace had appeared again and she was having difficulty with her articulation.

      ‘Sorry?’ said Dalziel.

      ‘An avalanche,’ she snapped quite clearly. She essayed another sob, Miss Scotby opened her mouth as though to speak, the sob was contained and she went on. ‘Don’t you recall that dreadful avalanche near Osterwald which swept the hotel coach off the road and over the mountainside? She, Alison … Miss Girling … was in it.’

      ‘How dreadful,’ breathed Dalziel with a light in his eyes which belied the statement. ‘And her body, if you’ll forgive the expression, where …?’

      ‘They never found it,’ said Miss Scotby. ‘There were half a dozen who were not recovered. It was a terrible business.’

      ‘There was a service, Superintendent. On the mountainside. It was most moving,’ interrupted Miss Disney. ‘And quite in order. That was later, of course, much later.’

      ‘You were present?’

      ‘Of course.’ The Disney bosom swelled. ‘Where else should I be? I was dear Al’s oldest friend, after all.’

      Miss Scotby said nothing but shifted her feet in a minutely, eloquent gesture.

      ‘If they never found Miss Girling’s body,’ said Pascoe, ‘and all the passengers were killed, how were they certain she was on the coach?’

      Miss Disney glanced at him coldly but did not deign to answer a subordinate. Miss Scotby had no such qualms.

      ‘Remember it wasn’t just a coach, any coach. It belonged to the Gasthof where Miss Girling stayed every year. They were expecting her that night. She was probably a little delayed by the fog …’

      ‘Fog? Which fog?’ asked Dalziel.

      ‘Well, it was very foggy that December, I remember. There were lots of delays. I remember watching on my television and hoping the principal had got off all right. I’ve often thought that if it hadn’t been for the fog, the coach would probably have picked her up earlier. And she would not have travelled along the road at just that fateful time.’

      ‘I see. And the coach …?’

      ‘It was split in half, I believe, before being swept over the edge into a ravine. It was one of those terrible curving roads with a precipice on one side and a cliff-face on the other. The part of the coach with the luggage boot in it was recovered almost intact. Miss Girling’s luggage was there.’

      She became silent. Pascoe felt that the memory gave her real pain.

      Dalziel having got what he wanted was now keen to get rid of the women.

      ‘Thank you, ladies,’ he said, now a jovial innkeeper at closing-time. ‘You’ve been most helpful. I’ll keep you no longer.’

      The suddenness of the onslaught had them both nearly through the door before Disney dug her heels in.

      ‘Superintendent! My outcry this morning (was it only this morning!) when those awful … remains were found. You cannot be taking it seriously! I was distraught. You are wasting your time. You …’

      Words failed her, but Miss Scotby took up the burden.

      ‘Do you really believe it might have been Miss Girling, beneath her statue, I mean?’

      Dalziel nearly had them over the threshold now. He thrust his great face at them.

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. I really do.’

      They took a step back and he closed the door.

      ‘Well,’ he said rubbing his hands. ‘That’s better. So far, so good. It’s all possible. Now we can sleep. Tomorrow we’ll set about finding out when. Did she get to Austria and come back to be killed? Or perhaps she never got to Austria at all! But she’s kept five years. She’ll keep another day. Not a bad night’s work, this. A bit of luck’s always handy, isn’t it, Sergeant? Wouldn’t you say this has been our lucky night?’

      But Pascoe was not at all certain that he fully agreed.

      It had certainly been Harold Lapping’s lucky night.

      Harold was over seventy, but still in possession of all his faculties. He had served his country with common sense if not distinction in two world wars. He had loved and outlived two wives, and on certain great family festivals he could look with pride on more than twenty legitimate descendants.

      Now in retirement he was a man respected near and far, a church-warden, a pillar of strength in the bowling club, the oldest playing member of the golf club though his handicap had slipped to 12, and an enthusiastic ornithologist.

      He was also a voyeur.

      It started by accident one spring night as he lay silently in the tough sea-grass above the beach vainly watching through his night-glasses (a memento of one of the wars, he forgot which) a weaving of grass which he had optimistically decided was a dunlin’s nest. If it was, the dunlin was obviously spending the night elsewhere. Bored, Harold moved his glasses slowly along an arc, some thirty or forty yards ahead. And found himself peering into a fascinating tangle of arms and legs. It seemed incredible that only two people could be involved. Harold had no desire to disturb the happy pair, so he waited until their demeanour seemed to indicate they were completely oblivious to anything outside themselves before departing. But while waiting he saw no harm at all in continuing to view with expert approval the techniques on display.

      Thereafter whenever his evening’s ornithological research was finished, Harold always cast around with his glasses for a few moments before heading for home.

      Tonight was different. It was far too late for any self-respecting birds to be on show. Harold was on his way home after a couple of pints of mild ale followed by two or three bottles of Guinness and the remnants of a cold pie at a friend’s house. It was close on midnight, but the sun’s light was not long out of the perfectly clear sky. He had turned off the road and cut across the golf course to the sea, more to prolong than shorten his journey home. The tide was half-way in, still a long way to go,