A clown, thought Stuart. A self-centred, amoral, socially non-productive clown. He had known him for three years now and was still unsure how seriously the man took his own claims. He himself had never concealed his own scepticism for all the mumbo-jumbo of seances and magic ritual which Franny delighted in. And his philosophy, if it merited so respectable a title, was a lot of meaningless, anti-social crap. But the man had something; power, charisma, call it what you will. Such men had to be used, though never trusted. It had been wiser to join him rather than oppose him, Stuart reassured himself; politically wiser he meant, of course, uneasily aware at the back of his mind of the whole range of sensual delights the union had procured for him. Nor, he had to admit, had the political education of the college proceeded at quite the speed he had hoped for. The place was still fragmented, divided.
He was in his final year now. There was a career in protest
these days for the dedicated true-believer, which was what he was. They thought highly of him at the International Action Group HQ. But despite all his efforts, little of note in the world of student politics had taken place here. Poor Anita had seemed the best bet, though it had been Franny who masterminded that. In fact in his more pessimistic moments, Stuart sometimes felt that his pretence of lieutenantship was becoming a little too real.
But tonight, if he moved with care, they might get some concerted action at last.
The interrupter sat down and Stuart resumed his speech.
“I think we have been patient long enough; there comes an end to patience. We have delayed action long enough; there comes a time for action. Anita Sewell’s death was a terrible thing; but it should not be allowed to obscure the authoritarian, anachronistic and cavalier fashion in which she was treated before her death. And since her death, arising out of it in fact, we have had other instances of the relatively insignificant and subordinate role we are expected to play in this college. At the principal’s request, the staff are kept fully informed of the developments of this unpleasant business. But what of us? It’s one of us who is murdered, it is the rest of us who may still be in danger. What danger? you ask. How can I tell you when no one will tell us anything? No; the only approaches made to any of the student body by the police have been high-handed, arrogant, and worse still, they have often revealed a depth of background knowledge about individuals which can only have come from their getting access to so-called confidential files of a type we have been assured does not exist!”
There was very satisfying uproar at this point. Franny and Stuart permitted themselves a brief shared smile, and rumours of the noise were once again borne on the still air to Pascoe’s room, but neither of the inmates was in the least disturbed.
Chapter 14.
For the mind of man is far from the nature of a clear and equal glass, wherein the beams of things should reflect, according to their true incidence; nay, it is rather like an enchanted glass, full of superstition and imposture if it be not delivered and reduced.
SIR FRANCIS BACON Op. Cit.
Dalziel was used to being dragged from the black depths of sleep by untimely summonses. But it didn’t make him any sweeter when it happened.
Usually it was the telephone. This time it was a sharp double knock at his door. He glanced at his watch as he rolled out from under the solitary sheet that was all the warm night required. It was twelve thirty-five.
“Who’s there?’ he snarled as he began to pull his trousers over his muscular, tortuously-veined legs. He was expecting to have to go out. He had spent many years training his subordinates - and some superiors - in this if nothing else. Nobody ever woke him up on business not urgent enough to take him out.
“Simeon Landor. May I come in?” Dalziel paused, surprised by the light, academically diffident tones where he had expected the official brusqueness of Pascoe or one of the others.
“Wait,’ he said, slipping his braces over his bare shoulders. It took him a couple of minutes to find the key which had fallen from beneath his pillow down the back of the bed. He had slept behind locked doors ever since his wife left him. Perhaps before. Perhaps that had been one of the reasons. He had managed to forget everything except the pain and surprise. Nothing ever surprised him now without casting that shadow of pain, even when the surprise was pleasant.
“What’s up?’ he asked as he opened the door. He felt uneasy. Landor wouldn’t come running himself unless it was urgent. On the other hand Landor had never undergone the Dalziel training course. Perhaps he could have stayed in bed.
Landor’s first words confirmed his suspicions.
“Sorry to disturb you, Superintendent, but I thought you ought to know, there’s a student demonstration going on.”
Dalziel groaned and started back towards the bed.