Last Seen Wearing (6 page)

At 1.20 Morse decided it was time to go. They walked back the way they had come, past the Taylors' house and down to the main road, busy at this time with a virtually continuous stream of traffic either way. Here they turned right and came up to the Belisha crossing.

   'Do you think that's our lollipop man?' asked Morse. In the middle of the road stood a white-coated attendant in a peak cap, wielding the sceptre of his authority like an arthritic bishop with a crook. Several pupils of the Roger Bacon School were crossing under the aegis of the standard-bearer, the girls in white blouses, grey skirts and red knee-length socks, the boys (it seemed to Morse) in assorted combinations of any old garments. When the attendant returned from mid-stream, Morse spoke to him in what he liked to think of as his intimate, avuncular manner.

   'Been doing this long?'

   'Just over a year.' He was a small, red-faced man with gnarled hands.

   'Know the chap who did it before?'

   'You mean old Joe. 'Course I did. 'E did it for—oh, five or six year.'

   'Retired now, has he?'

   'Ah. S'pose you could say so. Poor old Joe. Got knocked ower—feller on a motorbike. Mind you, old Joe were gettin' a bit slow. Seventy-two he were when he were knocked ower. Broke 'is 'ip. Poor old Joe.'

   'Not still in hospital, I hope?' Morse fervently prayed that poor old Joe was still limping along somewhere in the land of the living.

   'No. Not 'im. Down at the old folkses place at Cowley.'

   'Well, you be careful,' said Morse, as he and Lewis crossed over with another group of schoolchildren, and stood and watched them as they dawdled past the line of shops and the public lavatories, and reluctantiy turned into the main drive leading to the school.

Back in the office Morse read aloud the relevant part of the testimony of Mr. Joseph Godberry, Oxford Road, Kidlington:

I almost always saw Valerie Taylor at dinner times, and I saw her on 10 June. She didn't cross by my Belisha because when I saw her she was on the other side of the road. She was running fairly quickly as if she was in a dickens of a hurry to meet somebody. But I remember she waved to me. I am quite sure it was Valerie. She would often stop and have a quick word with me. 'Joe' she called me, like most of them. She was a very nice girl and always cheery. I don't know what she did after I saw her. I thought she was going back to school.

Morse looked thoughtful. 'I wonder, now,' he said.

   'Wonder what, sir?'

   Morse was looking into the far distance, through the office window, and into the filmy blue beyond, excitement glowing in his eyes. 'I was just wondering if she was carrying a bag of some sort when old Joe Godberry saw her.'

   Lewis looked as mystified as he felt, but received no further elucidation. 'You see,' said Morse, his eyes gradually refocusing on his sergeant, 'you see, if she
was,
I'm beginning to think that you're wrong.'

   'Wrong, sir?'

   'Yes, wrong. You said you thought Valerie Taylor was still alive, didn't you?'

   'Well, yes. I think she is.'

   'And I think,
think,
mind you, that you're wrong, Lewis. I
think that Valerie Taylor is almost certainly dead.'

CHAPTER SEVEN

And French she spak ful faire and fetisly,

After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,

For French of Paris was to hir unknowe.

(Geoffrey Chaucer,
Canterbury Tales)

D
ONALD PHILLIPSON ARRIVED
in school at 8.00 on Tuesday morning. The Michaelmas Term had been under way for one full week now and things were going well. The anti-litter campaign was proving moderately successful, the new caretaker seemed an amenable sort of fellow, and the Parent-Teacher Association had (somewhat surprisingly, he thought) backed him up to the hilt in his plea for a more rigid ruling on school uniforms. On the academic side only four members of staff had left in the summer (one quarter the previous year's total), the GCE and CSE results had been markedly better than before, and the present term saw the first full intake of thirteen-plus pupils, among whom (if junior-school headmasters could be believed) were some real high-flyers. Perhaps in a few years' time there would be one or two Open Awards at Oxbridge . . . Yes, he felt more than a little pleased with himself and with life this Tuesday morning. The only thing that marred the immediate prospect was a cloud, rather larger than a man's hand, on the not-so-distant horizon. But he felt confident that he would be able to weather whatever storm might break from that quarter, although he must think things through rather more carefully than he had done hitherto.

   At 8.20 the head boy and the head girl would be coming to his study, as they did each morning, and there were several matters requiring his prompt attention. He heard Mrs. Webb come in at 8.15, and Baines at 8.30. Punctuality was sharper, too. He did a small amount of teaching with the sixth form (he was an historian), but he kept Tuesdays completely free. It had been his practice since he was appointed to take off Tuesday afternoons completely and he looked forward to a fairly gentle day.

   The morning's activities went off well enough—even the singing of the hymns in assembly was improving—until 11.15 when Mrs. Webb received the telephone call.

   'Is the headmaster there?'

   'Who shall I say is calling, please?'

   'Morse. Inspector Morse.'

   'Oh, just a minute, sir. I'll see if the headmaster's free.' She dialled the head's extension. 'Inspector Morse would like a word with you, sir. Shall I put him through?'

   'Oh. Er. Yes, of course.'

   Mrs. Webb switched the outside call to the headmaster's study, hesitated a moment, and then quickly lifted the receiver to her ear again.

   '. . . hear from you. Can I help?'

   'I hope you can, sir. It's about the Taylor girl. There are one or two things I'd like to ask you about'

   'Look, Inspector. It's not really very convenient to talk at the minute—I'm interviewing some of the new pupils this morning. Don't you think it would be . . .' Mrs. Webb put the phone down quickly and quietly, and when Phillipson came out her typewriter was chattering along merrily. 'Mrs. Webb, Inspector Morse will be coming in this afternoon at three o'clock, so I shall have to be here. Can you arrange some tea and biscuits for us?'

   'Of course.' She made a note in her shorthand book. 'Just the two of you?'

   'No. Three. He's bringing a sergeant along—I forget his name.'

The anonymous sergeant himself was spending the same morning at the old people's home in Cowley, and finding Mr. Joseph Godberry (in small doses) an interesting sort of fellow. He had fought at Mons in the '14-18 War, had slept, by his own account, with all the tarts within a ten mile radius of Rouen, and had been invalided out of the army in 1917 (probably from sexual fatigue, thought Lewis). He reminisced at considerable length as he sat by his bed in D ward, accepting his present confinement with a certain dignity and good humour. He explained that he could hardly walk now and recounted to Lewis in great detail the circumstances and consequences of his memorable accident

   In fact the 'accident', together with Mons and Rouen, had become one of the major incidents of his life and times; and it was with some difficulty that Lewis managed to steer Joe's thoughts to the disappearance of Valerie Taylor. Oh, he remembered her, of course. Very nice girl, Valerie. In London, bet your bottom dollar. Very nice girl, Valerie.

   But could Joe remember the day she disappeared? Lewis listened carefully as he rambled on, repeating with surprising coherence and accuracy most of what he had said in his statement to the police. In Lewis's opinion, he was a good witness, but he was becoming tired and Lewis felt the moment had come to put the one question which Morse had been so eager for him to ask.

   'Do you remember by any chance if Valerie was carrying anything when you saw her that day— the day she disappeared?'

   Joe moved uneasily in his chair and slowly turned his rheumy old eyes on Lewis. Something seemed to be stirring there and Lewis pressed home the point.

   'You know what I mean, a carrier bag, or a case, or anything like that?'

   'Funny you should say that,' he said at last. 'I never thought about it afore.' He looked as though he were about to haul out some hazy memory on to the shores of light, and Lewis held his breath and waited. 'I reckon as you're right, you know. She were carryin' something. That's it. She were carryin' a bag of some sort; carryin' it in 'er left hand, if me memory serves me correck.'

In Phillipson's study formalities were exchanged in friendly fashion. Morse asked polite questions about the school—quite at his best, thought Lewis. But the mood was to change swiftly.

   Morse informed the headmaster that he had taken over the Taylor case from Chief Inspector Ainley, and the cease-fire was duly observed for a further few minutes, whilst the proper commiserations were expressed. It was only when he produced the letter from Valerie that Morse's manner appeared to Lewis to become strangely abrasive.

   Phillipson read through the letter quickly.

   'Well?' said Morse.

   Lewis felt that the headmaster was more surprised by the sharp tone in the inspector's voice than by the arrival of a letter from his troublesome, long-lost ex-pupil.

   'Well what?' Phillipson clearly was not a man easily bullied.

   'Is it her writing?'

   'I can't tell. Don't her parents know?'

   Morse ignored the question. 'You can't tell me.' The statement was flat and final, with the tacit implication that he had expected something better.

   'No.'

   'Have you got some of her old exercise books we could look at?'

   'I don' t really know, Inspector.'

   'Who would know?' Again the astringent impatience in his voice.

   'Perhaps Baines would.'

   'Ask him in, please,' snapped Morse.

   'I'm sorry, Inspector, but Baines has this afternoon off. Tuesday is games afternoon and . . .'

   'I know, yes. So Baines can't help us either. Who can?'

   Phillipson got up and opened the study door. 'Mrs. Webb? Will you come in here a minute, please.'

   Was Lewis mistaken, or did she throw a rather frightened glance in Morse's direction?

   'Mrs. Webb, the inspector here wonders if any of Valerie Taylor's old exercise books may have been kept somewhere in the school. What do you think?'

   'They may be in the store-room, I suppose, sir.'

   'Would it be the usual practice for pupils themselves to keep them?' Morse addressed himself directly to the secretary.

   'Yes, it would. But in this case I should think her desk would have been turned out at the end of term and the books would be . . .' She was getting lost and looked helplessly towards the headmaster.

   'I'm sure Mrs. Webb is right, Inspector. If the books are anywhere, they will be in the store-room.'

   Mrs. Webb nodded, swallowed hard and was given leave to withdraw.

   'We'd better have a look in the store-room, then. You've no objections?'

   'Of course not. But it's in a bit of a mess, I should think. You know how things are at the beginning of term.'

   Morse smiled weakly and neither confirmed nor refuted his knowledge of such matters.

   They walked along the corridor, down some steps, and turned off right through a classroom, wherein all the chairs were neatly placed upon the tops of the desks. The school was virtually deserted, but intermittent shrieks of joyous laughter from the direction of the sports field seemed to belie the view that games were too unpopular with the majority of pupils.

   The headmaster unlocked the door to the large unwindowed, unventilated store-room, and when the three men entered Lewis found himself facing with some foreboding the piles of dusty textbooks, files and stationery.

   'I'm afraid it may be a longish job,' said Phillipson, with some irritation in his voice. 'If you like, I could get some of the staff to go through all the old exercise books here.' He pointed vaguely to great piles of books stacked on wooden shelves along the far wall.

   'That's very kind of you, headmaster, but we can deal with this all right. No problem. If we can call back to your office when we've finished here?' It was an unmistakable hint that the presence of the headmaster would not profit the present stage of the investigation, and Morse listened carefully as Phillipson retraced his steps to his study. 'He's a bit worried, wouldn't you say, Lewis?'

   'I don't blame him, sir. You've been pretty sharp with him.'

   'Serve him right,' said Morse.

   'What's he done wrong?'

   'I spoke to him on the phone this morning and he said he was interviewing some new pupils.'

   'Perhaps he was,' suggested the honest Lewis.

   'I had the feeling he didn't want to talk just then, and I was right.' Lewis looked at him quizzically. 'I heard a click on the line while we were talking. You can guess who was listening in.'

   'Mrs. Webb?'

   'Mrs. Webb. I rang again later and asked her why she'd been eavesdropping. She denied it, of course; but I told her I'd forget all about it if she told me the truth about who had been in the headmaster's study. She was scared—for her job, I suppose. Anyway, she said that nobody had been in with Phillipson when I rang.'

   Lewis opened his mouth to say something but Morse was already pouncing on the piles of textbooks.

   'Ah, Keats. Fine poet, Keats. You should read him, Lewis . . . Well, well, well.
Travels with a Donkey.'
He picked up a copy and began to read under the cob-webbed central light bulb.

   Lewis made for the far wall of the room, where whole stacks of exercise books, used and unused, mauve, green, blue and orange, were heaped upon the shelves, some bundled neatly, but the majority in loose disarray. Lewis, as always, tackled his task with systematic thoroughness, although he doubted whether he would find anything. Fortunately, it was a good deal easier going than he had thought.