Last Seen Wearing

'Yes. We had a big party in Donald's, er, in my husband's first term here. All the staff, husbands and wives — you know the sort of thing. The Oxford Mail took that. Took a lot of photographs, in fact'

'Have you got the other photographs?'

'Yes. I think so. Would you like to look at them? My husband won't be long. He's just finishing his bath.'

She rummaged about in a drawer of the bureau, and handed to Morse five glossy, black-and-white photographs. One of them, a group photograph, held his keen attention: the men in dinner jackets and black bow ties, the ladies in long dresses. Most of them looked happy enough.

'Do you know some of the staff?' she asked.

'Some of them.'

He looked again at the group. 'Beautifully clear photograph.'

'Very good, isn't it?'

'Is Acum here?'

'Acum? Oh yes, I think so. Mr. Acum left two years ago. But I remember him quite well — and his wife.' She pointed them out on the photograph; a young man with a lively, intelligent face and a small goatee beard; and, her arm linked through his, a slim, boyish-figured girl, with shoulder-length blonde hair, not unattractive perhaps, but with a face (at least on this evidence) a little severe and more than a little spotty.

'You knew his wife, you say?' asked Morse.

Sheila heard the gurgling death-rattle of the bath upstairs, and for some inexplicable reason felt a cold shudder creeping along her spine. She felt just as she did as a young girl when she had once answered the phone for her father. She recalled the strange, almost frightening questions. .

A shiningly-fresh Phillipson came in. He apologized for keeping Morse waiting, and in turn Morse apologized for his own unheralded intrusion. Sheila breathed an inward sigh of relief, and asked if they'd prefer tea or coffee. With livelier brews apparently out of the question, Morse opted for coffee and, like a good host, the headmaster concurred.

'I've come to ask about Acum,' said Morse, with brisk honesty. 'What can you tell me about him?'

'Acum? Not much really. He left at the end of my first year here. Taught French. Well-qualified chap. Exeter — took a second if I remember rightly.'

'What about his wife?'

'She had a degree in Modern Languages, too. They met at Exeter University, I think. In fact she taught with us for a term when one of the staff was ill. Not too successfully, I'm afraid.'

'Why was that?'

'Bit of a tough class — you know how it is. She wasn't really up to it.'

'They gave her a rough ride, you mean?'

'They nearly took her pants down, I'm afraid.'

'You're speaking metaphorically, I hope?'

'I hope so, too. I heard some hair-raising rumours, though. Still, it was my fault for taking her on. Too much of a blue-stocking for that sort of job.'

'What did you do?'

Phillipson shrugged. 'I had to get rid of her.'

'What about Acum himself? Where did he go?'

'One of the schools in Caernarfon.'

'He got promotion, did he?'

'Well no, not really. He'd only been teaching the one year, but they could promise him some sixth-form work. I couldn't.'

'Is he still there?'

'As far as I know.'

'He taught Valerie Taylor — you know that?'

'Inspector, wouldn't it be fairer if you told me why you're so interested in him? I might be able to help more if I knew what you were getting at.'

Morse pondered the question. 'Trouble is, I don't really know myself.'

Whether he believed him or not, Phillipson left it at that. 'Well, I know he taught Valerie, yes. Not one of his brightest pupils, I don't think.'

'Did he ever talk to you about her?'

'No. Never.'

'No rumours? No gossip?'

Phillipson took a deep breath, but managed to control his mounting irritation. 'No.'

Morse changed his tack. 'Have you got a good memory, sir?'