Last Seen Wearing

'Sit down, please, Inspector,' she said quietly.

She had gone (she said). That was all, really. It was like suddenly deciding to write a letter or to ring the dentist or to buy some restorer for the paint brushes encrusted stiff with last year's gloss. She asked Mrs. Cooper next door to baby-sit, said she'd be no longer than an hour at the very latest, and caught the 9.20 p.m. bus from the stop immediately outside the house. She got off at Cornmarket, walked quickly through Gloucester Green and reached Kempis Street by about quarter to ten. The light was shining in Baines's front window — she had never been there before — and she summoned up all her courage and knocked on the front door. There was no reply. Again she knocked — and again there was no reply. She then walked along to the lighted window and tapped upon it hesitantly and quietly with the back of her hand; but she could hear no sound and could make out no movement behind the cheap yellow curtains. She hurried back to the front door, feeling as guilty as a young schoolgirl caught out of her place in the classroom by the headmistress. But still nothing happened. She had so nearly called the whole thing off there and then; but her resolution had been wrought up to such a pitch that she made one last move. She tried the door — and found it unlocked. She opened it slightly, no more than a foot or so, and called his name.

'Mr. Baines?' And then slightly louder, 'Mr. Baines?' But she received no reply. The house seemed strangely still and the sound of her own voice echoed eerily in the high entrance hall. A cold shiver of fear ran down her spine, and for a few seconds she felt sure that he was there, very near to her, watching and waiting. . And suddenly a panic-stricken terror had seized her and she had rushed back to the lighted, friendly road, crossed over by the railway station and, with her heart pounding in her ribs, tried to get a grip on herself. In St. Giles' she caught a taxi and arrived home just after ten.

That was her story, anyway. She told it in a flat, dejected voice, and she told it well and clearly. To Morse it sounded in no way like the tangled, mazy machinations of a murderer. Indeed a good deal of it he could check fairly easily: the baby-sitter, the bus conductor, the taxi driver. And Morse felt sure that all would verify the outline of her story, and confirm the approximate times she'd given. But there was no chance of checking those fateful moments when she stood outside the door of Baines's house. . Had she gone in? And if she had, what terrible things had then occurred? The pros and cons were counterpoised in Morse's mind, with the balance tilting slightly in Mrs. Phillipson's favour.

'Why did you want to see him?'

'I wanted to talk to him, that's all.'

'Yes. Go on.'

'It's difficult to explain. I don't think I knew myself what I was going to say. He was — oh, I don't know — he was everything that's bad in life. He was mean, he was vindictive, he was — sort of calculating. He just delighted in seeing other people squirm. I'm not thinking of anything in particular, and I don't really know all that much about him. But since Donald has been headmaster he's — how shall I put it? — he's waited, hoping for things to go wrong. He was a cruel man, Inspector.'

'You hated him?'

She nodded hopelessly. 'Yes, I suppose I did.'

'It's as good a motive as any,' said Morse sombrely.

'It might seem so, yes.' But she sounded unperturbed.

'Did your husband hate Baines, too?' He watched her carefully and saw the light flash dangerously in her eyes.

'Don't be silly, Inspector. You can't possibly think that Donald had anything to do with all this. I know I've been a fool, but you can't. . It's impossible. He was at the theatre all night. You know that'

'Your husband would have thought it was impossible for you to be knocking at Baines's door that night, wouldn't he? You were here, at home, with the children, surely?' He leaned forward and spoke more curtly again now. 'Make no mistake, Mrs. Phillipson, it would have been a hell of a sight easier for him to leave the theatre than it was for you to leave here. And don't try to tell me otherwise!'

He sat back impassively in the chair. He sensed an evasion somewhere in her story, a half-truth, a curtain not yet fully drawn back; and at the same time he knew that he was almost there, and all he had to do was sit and wait. And so he sat and waited; and the world of the woman seated opposite him was slowly beginning to fall apart, and suddenly, dramatically, she buried her head in her hands and wept uncontrollably.

Morse fished around in his pockets and finally found a crumpled apology for a paper handkerchief, and pushed it gently into her right hand.

'Don't cry,' he said softly. 'It won't do either of us any good.'

After a few minutes the tears dried up, and soon the snivelling subsided. 'What can do us any good, Inspector?'

'It's very easy, really,' said Morse in a brisk tone. 'You tell me the truth, Mrs. Phillipson. You'll find I probably know it anyway.'

But Morse was wrong — he was terribly wrong. Mrs. Phillipson could do little more than reiterate her strange little story. This time, however, with a startling addition — an addition which caught Morse, as he sat there nodding sceptically, like an uppercut to the jaw. She hadn't wanted to mention it because. . because, well, it seemed so much like trying to get herself out of a mess by pushing someone else into it. But she could only tell the truth, and if that's what Morse was after she thought she'd better tell it. As she had said, she ran along to the main street after leaving Baines's house and crossed over towards the Royal Oxford Hotel; and just before she reached the hotel she saw someone she knew — knew very well — come out of the lounge door and walk across the road to Kempis Street. She hesitated and her tearful eyes looked pleadingly and pathetically at Morse.

'Do you know who it was, Inspector? It was David Acum.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

For oily or spotty skin, first cleanse face and throat, then pat with a hot towel. Smooth on an even layer of luxurious 'Ladypak', avoiding the area immediately, around the eyes.

(Directions for applying a beauty mask)

AT 6.20 THE FOLLOWING morning Morse was on the road: it would take about five hours. He would have enjoyed the drive more with someone to talk to, especially Lewis, and he switched on the Lancia's radio for the 7.00 a.m. news. The world seemed strangely blighted: abroad there were rumours of war and famine, and at home more