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Pascoe! I didn’t realize you were a member.’

      He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a powerful head. His hair was touched with grey, his eyes deep set in a noble forehead, his rather overfull lips arranged in an ironic smile. Only a pugilist twist of the nose broke the fine Roman symmetry of that face. In short, it seemed to Pascoe to display those qualities of authoritarian, intellectual, sensuous brutality which were once universally acknowledged as the cardinal humours of a good headmaster.

      ‘Dr Haggard? I didn’t realize we were acquainted.’

      ‘Nor I. Did you enjoy the show?’

      ‘In parts.’

      ‘Parts are what it’s all about,’ murmured Haggard. ‘Tell me, are you here in any kind of official capacity?’

      ‘Why do you ask?’ said Pascoe.

      ‘Simply to help me decide where to offer you a drink. Our members usually foregather in what used to be the staff room to discuss the evening’s entertainment.’

      ‘I think I’d rather talk in private,’ said Pascoe.

      ‘So it is official.’

      ‘In part,’ said Pascoe, conscious that this was indeed only a very small part of the truth. Shorter’s story had interested him, Dalziel’s lack of interest the previous day had piqued him, Ellie was representing her union at a meeting that night, television was lousy on Thursdays, and Sergeant Wield had been very happy to supply him with a membership card.

      ‘Then let us drink in my quarters.’

      They went out of the viewing room, which Pascoe guessed had once been two rooms joined together to make a small school assembly hall, and climbed the stairs. Sounds of conversation and glasses as from a saloon bar followed them upstairs from one of the ground-floor rooms. The Wilkinson Square vigilantes had made great play of drunkards falling noisily out of the Club late at night and then falling noisily into their cars, which were parked in a most inconsiderate manner all round the Square. Wield had found no evidence to support these assertions.

      Haggard did not pause on the first-floor landing but proceeded up the now somewhat narrower staircase. Observing Pascoe hesitate, he explained, ‘Mainly classrooms here. Used for storage now. I suppose I could domesticate them again but I’ve got so comfortably settled aloft that it doesn’t seem worth it. Do come in. Have a seat while I pour you something. Scotch all right?’

      ‘Great,’ said Pascoe. He didn’t sit down immediately but strolled around the room, hoping he didn’t look too like a policeman but not caring all that much if he did. Haggard was right. He was very comfortable. Was the room rather too self-consciously a gentleman’s study? The rows of leather-bound volumes, the huge Victorian desk, the miniatures on the wall, the elegant chesterfield, the display cabinet full of snuff-boxes, these things must have impressed socially aspiring parents.

      I wonder, mused Pascoe, pausing before the cabinet, how they impress the paying customer now.

      ‘Are you a collector?’ asked Haggard, handing him a glass.

      ‘Just an admirer of other people’s collections,’ said Pascoe.

      ‘An essential part of the cycle,’ said Haggard. ‘This might interest you.’

      He reached in and picked up a hexagonal enamelled box with the design of a hanging man on the lid.

      ‘One of your illustrious predecessors. Jonathan Wild, Thief-taker, himself taken and hanged in 1725. Such commemorative design is quite commonplace on snuffboxes.’

      ‘Like ashtrays from Blackpool,’ said Pascoe.

      ‘Droll,’ said Haggard, replacing the box and taking out another, an ornate silver affair heavily embossed with a coat of arms.

      ‘Mid-European,’ said Haggard. ‘And beautifully airtight. This is the one I actually keep snuff in. Do you take it?’

      ‘Not if I can help it.’

      ‘Perhaps you’re wise. In the Middle Ages they thought that sneezing could put your soul within reach of the devil. I should hate you to lose your soul for a pinch of snuff, Inspector.’

      ‘You seem willing to take the risk.’

      ‘I take it to clear my head,’ smiled Haggard. ‘Perhaps I should take some now before you start asking your questions. I presume you have some query concerning the Club?’

      ‘In a way. It’s a bit different from teaching, isn’t it?’ said Pascoe, sitting down.

      ‘Is it? Oh, I don’t know. It’s all educational, don’t you think?’

      ‘Not a word some people would find it easy to apply to what goes on here, Dr Haggard,’ said Pascoe.

      ‘Not a word many people find it easy to apply to much of what goes on in schools today, Inspector.’

      ‘Still, for all that …’ tempted Pascoe.

      Haggard regarded him very magisterially.

      ‘My dear fellow,’ he said. ‘When we’re much better acquainted, and you have proved to have a more than professionally sympathetic ear, and I have been mellowed by food, wine and a good cigar, then perhaps I may invite you to contemplate the strange flutterings of my psyche from one human vanity to another. Should the time arrive, I shall let you know. Meanwhile, let’s stick with your presence here tonight. Have my neighbours undergone a new bout of hysteria?’

      ‘Not that I know of,’ said Pascoe. ‘No, it’s about one of your films. One I saw tonight. Droit de Seigneur.’

      ‘Ah yes. The costume drama.’

      ‘Costume!’ said Pascoe.

      ‘Did the nudity bother you?’ said Haggard anxiously.

      ‘I don’t think so. Anyway it was the assault scene I wanted to talk about, where the girl gets beaten up.’

      ‘You found it too violent? I’m astounded.’

      ‘The scene was brought to my attention …’

      ‘By whom?’ interrupted Haggard. ‘Has he not seen A Clockwork Orange? The Exorcist? Match of the Day?’

      ‘I would like you to be serious, Dr Haggard,’ said Pascoe reprovingly. ‘What do you know about the making of these films?’

      ‘In general terms, very little. You probably know more yourself. I’m sure the diligent Sergeant Wield does. I am merely a showman.’

      ‘Of course. Look, Dr Haggard, I wonder if it would be possible to see part of that film again. It’ll help me explain what I’m doing here.’

      Haggard finished his drink, then nodded.

      ‘Why not? I’m intrigued. You could always gatecrash again, of course, but I suppose that might compromise your reputation. Besides, we only have that film until the weekend, so let’s see what we can do.’

      Downstairs again, Haggard left Pascoe in the viewing room and disappeared for a few moments, returning with a small triangular-faced man with large hairy-knuckled hands, one of which was wrapped round a pint tankard.

      ‘Maurice, this is Inspector Pascoe. Maurice Arany, my partner and also, thank God, my projectionist. I am mechanically illiterate.’

      They shook hands. It would have been easy, thought Pascoe, to develop it into a test of strength, but such games were not yet necessary.

      As well as he could he described the sequence he wished to see, and Arany went out. Haggard switched off the lights and they sat together in the darkness till the screen lit up. Arany hit the spot with great precision and Pascoe let it run until the entry of the vengeful husband.

      ‘That’s fine,’ he said and Haggard interposed his arm into the beam of light and the picture flickered and died.

      ‘Well,

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