Last Seen Wearing

Lewis felt abashed. 'Oh, I see,' he said quietly.

'Once a week in term time, if you want me to keep guessing, Tuesdays, likely as not, when he had the afternoon off. Tuesday afternoons, Lewis. Do you see what that means?'

'You mean,' stammered Lewis, 'that Baines probably. . probably. .'

'Probably knew more about the fate of Valerie Taylor than we thought, yes. I should think that Baines would park somewhere near the Taylors' house — not too near — and wait until Valerie had gone off back to school. Then he'd go in, get his pound of flesh, pay his stamp duty—'

'Bit dangerous, wasn't it?'

'If you're a bachelor like Baines and you're dying to spill your oats — well. . After all, no one would know what was going on. Lock the door and—'

Lewis interrupted him. 'But if they'd arranged to meet the day that Valerie disappeared, it would have been crazy for Mrs. Taylor to have murdered her daughter.'

'It was crazy anyway. I don't think she would have worried too much if the police force was out the front and the fire brigade was out the back. Listen. What I think may have happened on that Tuesday is this. Baines parked pretty near the house, probably in a bit of waste land near the shops, just above the Taylors' place. He waited until afternoon school had started, and then he saw something very odd. He saw Valerie, or who he thought was Valerie, leave by the front door and run down the road. Then he went up to the house and knocked — we didn't find a key, did we? — and he got no answer. It's all a bit odd. Has his reluctant mistress — well, let's hope she was reluctant — has she slipped out for a minute? He can almost swear she hasn't, but he can't be absolutely sure. He walks back, frustrated and disappointed, and scratches his balls in the car; and something tells him to wait. And about ten minutes later he sees Mrs. Taylor walking — probably walking in a great hurry — out of one of the side streets and going into the house. Has she been out over the lunchtime? Unusual, to say the least. But there's something odder still — far odder. Something that makes him sit up with a vengeance. Valerie — he would remember now — had left with a basket; and here is Valerie's mother returning with the very same basket. Does he guess the truth? I don't know. Does he go to the house again and knock? Probably so. And I would guess she told him she couldn't possibly see him that afternoon. So Baines walks away, and drives home, and wonders. . Wonders even harder the next day when he hears of Valerie's disappearance.'

'He guessed what had happened, you think?'

'Pretty sure he did.'

Lewis thought for a minute. 'Perhaps Mrs. Taylor just couldn't face things any longer, sir, and told him that everything was finished; and he in turn might have threatened to go to the police.'

'Could be, but I should be very surprised if Baines was killed to stop him spilling the beans — or even some of them. No, Lewis. I just think that he was killed because he was detested so viciously that killing him was an act of superb and joyous revenge.'

'You think that Mrs. Taylor murdered him, then?'

Morse nodded. 'You remember the first time we saw Mrs. Taylor in the pub? Remember that large American-style handbag she had? It was a bit of a puzzle at first to know how anyone could ever cart such a big knife around. But the obvious way to do it is precisely the way Mrs. Taylor chose. Stick it in a handbag. She got to Kempis Street at about a quarter-past nine, I should think, knocked on the door, told a surprised Baines some cock-and-bull story, followed him into the kitchen, agreed to his offer of a glass of something, and as he bends down to get the beer out of the fridge, she takes her knife out and — well, we know the rest.'

Lewis sat back and considered what Morse had said. It all hung loosely together, perhaps, but he was feeling hot and tired.

'Go and have a lie down,' said Morse, as if reading his thoughts. 'You've had about enough for one day.'

'I think I will, sir. I shall be much better tomorrow.'

'Don't worry about tomorrow. I shan't do anything until the afternoon.'

'It's the inquest in the morning, though, isn't it?'

'Formality. Pure formality,' said Morse. 'I shan't say much. Just get him identified and tell the coroner we've got the bloodhounds out. 'Murder by person or persons unknown.' I don't know why we're wasting public money on having an inquest at all.'

'It's the law, sir.'

'Mm.'

'And tomorrow afternoon, sir?'

'I'm bringing the Taylors in.'

Lewis stood up. 'I feel a bit sorry for him, sir.'

'Don't you feel a bit sorry for her?' There was a sharp edge on Morse's voice; and after he had gone Lewis wondered why he'd suddenly turned so sour.

At four o'clock that same afternoon, as Morse and Lewis were talking together and trying to unravel the twisted skein of the Valerie Taylor case, a tall military-looking man was dictating a letter to one of the girls from the typing pool. He had some previous experience of the young lady in question, and decided it would be sensible to make the letter even briefer than he had intended; for although it would contain no earth-shattering news, he was anxious for it to go in the evening post. He had tried to phone earlier but had declined to leave a message when he learned that the only man who could have any possible interest in the matter was out — whereabouts temporarily unknown. At four-fifteen the letter was signed and in the evening postbag.

The bombshell burst on Morse's desk at 8.45 a.m. the following morning.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

(A. Conan Doyle, The Sign of Four)