Reginald Hill

The Advancement of Learning by Reginald Hill

An Advancement of Learning

REGINALD HILL

Reginald Hill is a native of Cumbria and a former resident of Yorkshire where his outstanding Dalziel and Pascoe crime novels are set. He says he always regarded himself as a writer of some sort, but until he wrote A Clubbable Woman (1970), which introduced Chief Superintendent Andy Dalziel and young PC Peter Pascoe, he had managed to avoid putting his theory to the test. Since then it has received ample confirmation. An Advancement of Learning (1972), now a major TV series, introduced Sergeant Pascoe to Eleanor (Ellie) Soper, and Pascoe’s subsequent police career and his private life have been unfolded with wit, drama, suspense and impeccable style in Ruling Passion (1973), An April Shroud (1975), A Pinch of Snuff (1978), A Killing Kindness (1980), Deadheads (1983), Exit Lines (1984), Child’s Play (1987), Under World (1988), Bones and Silence (1990), which won the CWA Gold Dagger Award, One Small Step (1990), Recalled to Life (1992), Pictures of Perfection (1994) and The Wood Beyond (1996).

An Advancement of Learning A Dalziel and Pascoe novel

REGINALD HILL

HarperCollinsPublishers

This paperback TV tie-in edition 1996

Previously published by Harper Collins in 1993

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollinsPublishers 1971

Copyright Š Reginald Hill 1971

ISBN 0 00 649859 0

For Malcom & Anne Mike & Jo Jim & Kathy

… to have the true testimonies of learning to be better heard, without the interruption of tacit objections, I think good to deliver it from the discredits and disgraces it hath received, all from ignorance; but ignorance severally disguised; appearing sometimes in the zeal and jealousy of divines; sometimes in the severity and arrogance of politiques; and sometimes in the errors and imperfections of learned men themselves.

Sir Francis Bacon

The Advancement of Learning.

Chapter 1.

If a man will begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts; but if he will be content to begin with doubts, he shall end in certainties.

SIR FRANCIS BACON

There had been a great deal of snow that December, followed by hard frost. A few days before Christmas a thaw set in, temperatures rose steeply, the snow became slush. The sun greedily sucked up the moisture till it saturated the air and impinged on all the senses.

Fog.

You could smell it in the great industrial towns, its edge of carbon and sulphur biting into the windpipe.

You could see it clearly wherever you looked. But it was all you could see.

You could taste it if you walked out in it without a scarf or kerchief wrapped round your mouth.

You could feel it, damp and greasy, on your skin. Almost under your skin.

And you could hear it. No sound passed through it that it did not muffle and crush and make its own.

It made driving difficult but not impossible. If you drove with care, if your motivation was strong and impelling, it was possible to get to your destination.

Flying was impossible.

Airport lounges filled. And overfilled. And overspilled. Till the atmosphere of damp and smoke and noise and frustration was almost as bad as the fog outside.

Occasionally it raised itself off the ground. Sometimes long enough for a plane to taxi out on the runway.

Sometimes long enough for a plane to get away, which made the waiting even more unbearable for those still crammed in the restaurants, bars and lounges.

Confusion breeds confusion. People found themselves separated from their baggage, their tickets, their passports and sometimes even other people.

Some went home and bought a frozen turkey the next day. Some cancelled their flights at the airport, some claimed refunds later. Passenger lists became as scrappy as leaves from the Delphic oracle.

Finally a light wind breathed out of the south-west a couple of times and brought back the reassuring stars.

It was a warm wind. It blew gently over half of Europe, melting what remained of the great snows at sea-level.

Higher up, however, it proved more difficult. Which was good, for it was the snow that most of the thousands marching in still dubious queues across black, wet runways were seeking.

But sometimes the wind’s breath blew long enough and hot enough to loosen the grip which the long, frozen fingers of snow had fastened on the side of steep and deep.

Which was bad.

Merry Christmas.

The hot June sun glinted merrily on the placid blue sea, the long white sands, the unconscious sun-bathers and a little farther inland, the balding head of Douglas Pearl, solicitor, through the open windows of the long committee room. A neurotic motion to close the windows in the interests of security had been ignored by the chairman, who now waved Pearl and the girl who accompanied him to their appointed seats.

“Forgive me, sir,’ said the solicitor, standing up immediately he and the girl had been seated, ‘ before we begin, may I formally establish that all those present are