Last Seen Wearing

of French Teaching in Secondary Schools will significantly affect the notorious inability of English children to learn the language of any other nation. So many conferences, especially before the start of the Michaelmas Term! She is efficient and has almost everything ready for the evening's business: lists of those attending, details of their schools, programmes for the following two days' activities, certifications of attendance and the menus for the evening's banquet. There remain only the name-tags, and using the red ribbon and the upper case she begins typing the name and provenance of each of the delegates. It is a fairly simple and quick operation. She then cuts up the names into neat rectangles and begins to fit them into the small celluloid holders: MR. J. ABBOT, The Royal Grammar School, Chelmsford; MISS P. ACKROYD, High Wycombe Technical College; MR. D. ACUM, City of Caernarfon School. . and so on, to the end of the list.

She is finished by midday and takes all her bits and pieces to the Conference Room, where at 6.30 p.m. she will sit behind the reception desk and greet the delegates as they arrive. To be truthful, she rather enjoys this sort of thing. Her hair will be most cunningly coiffured, and on her name-tag she has proudly printed 'Lonsdale College' as her own academic provenance.

With the new stretch of the M40 blasted through the heart of the Chilterns, the journey to and from London is now quicker than ever; and Morse feels reasonably satisfied with his day's work when he arrives back in Oxford just after 4.00 p.m. Lewis was quite right: there were one or two things that could only be checked in London, and Morse thinks that he has dealt with them. On his return he calls in at Police HQ and finds an envelope, heavily sealed with Sellotape, and boldly marked for the attention of Chief Inspector Morse. The pieces are beginning to fall into place. He dials Acum's home number and waits.

'Hello?' It is a woman's voice.

'Mrs. Acum?'

'Yes, speaking.'

'Could I have a word with your husband, please?'

'I'm afraid he's not here.'

'Will he be in later?'

'Well, no. He won't. He's away on a teachers' conference.'

'Oh, I see. When are you expecting him back, Mrs. Acum?'

'He said he hoped to be back Tuesday evening — fairly late, though, I think.'

'I see.'

'Can I give him a message?'

'Er, no. Don't worry. It's not important. I'll try to ring him later in the week.'

'You sure?'

'Yes, that'll be fine. Thanks very much, anyway. Sorry to trouble you.'

'That's all right.'

Morse sits back and considers. As he's just said, it isn't really important.

Baines is not a man of regular habits, nor indeed of settled tastes. Sometimes he drinks beer, and sometimes he drinks Guinness. Occasionally, when a heavy burden weighs upon his mind, he drinks whisky. Sometimes he drinks in the lounge, and sometimes he drinks in the public bar; sometimes in the Station Hotel, and sometimes in the Royal Oxford, for both are near. Sometimes he doesn't drink at all.

Tonight he orders a whisky and soda in the lounge bar of the Station Hotel. It is a place with a very special and a very important memory. The bar is fairly small, and he finds he can easily follow long stretches of others' conversations; but tonight he is deaf to the chatter around him. It has been a worrying sort of day — though not worrying exactly; more a nervy, fluttery sort of day. Clever man, Morse!

Several of the customers are waiting for the London train; smartly dressed, apparently affluent. Later there will be a handful who have missed the train and who will book in for the night if there are vacancies; relaxed, worldly men with generous expense allowances and jaunty anecdotes. And just once in a while there is a man who deliberately misses his train, who rings his wife and tells his devious tale.

It had been a chance in a thousand, really — seeing Phillipson like that. Phillipson! One of the six on the short-list, a list that had included himself! A stroke of luck, too, that she had not seen him when, just after 8.30, they had entered arm-in-arm. And then they had actually appointed Phillipson! Well, well, well. And the little secret glittered and gleamed like a bright nugget of gold in a miser's hoard.

Phillipson, Baines, Acum; headmaster, second master, ex-Modern Languages master of the Roger Bacon School, and all thinking of Valerie Taylor as they lay awake that Sunday night listening as the wind howled and the rain beat down relentlessly. At last to each of them came sleep; but sleep uneasy and disturbed. Phillipson, Baines, Acum; and tomorrow night one of the three will be sleeping a sleep that is long and undisturbed; for tomorrow night at this same time one of the three will be dead.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

They wish to know the family secrets and to be feared accordingly.

(Juvenal, Satire III, 113)

MORSE WOKE FROM a deep, untroubled sleep at 7.30 a.m. and switched on Radio Oxford: trees uprooted, basements flooded, outbuildings smashed to matchwood. But as he washed and shaved, he felt happier than he had done since taking over the case. He saw things more clearly now. There was a long way still to go but at least he had made the first big breakthrough. He would have to apologize to Lewis — that was only fit and proper; but Lewis would understand. He backed out the Lancia and got out to lock the garage doors. The rain had ceased at last and everywhere looked washed and clean. He breathed deeply — it was good to be alive.

He summoned Lewis to his office immediately, cleared his desk, and cheated by having a quick preliminary look at 1 across: Code name for a walrus (5). Ha! The clue was like a megaphone shouting the answer at him. It was going to be his day!

Lewis greeted his chief defensively; he had not seen him since the previous Thursday morning. Where Morse had been he didn't know, and what he'd been doing he didn't really care.