Last Seen Wearing

'Do you believe her, sir?'

'No,' said Morse simply.

'What do we do, then?'

'Ah, let her cool her heels in a cell for a night. I dare say she's got a good idea what happened, but I just don't think she killed Baines, that's all.'

'She's covering up for Phillipson, you think?'

'Could be. I don't know.' Morse stood up. 'And I'll tell you something else, Lewis: I don't bloody well care! I think whoever killed Baines deserves a life peerage — not a life sentence.'

'But it's still our job to find out who did, sir.'

'Not for much longer, it isn't. I've had a bellyful of this lot — and I've failed. I'm going to see Strange in the morning and ask him to take me off the case.'

'He won't be very happy about that.'

'He's never very happy about anything.'

'It doesn't sound like you, though, sir.'

Morse grinned almost boyishly. 'I've disappointed you, haven't I, Lewis?'

'Well, yes, in a way — if you're going to pack it all in now.'

'Well, I am.'

'I see.'

'Life's full of disappointments, Lewis. I should have thought you'd learned that by now.'

Alone Morse walked back to his office. If the truth could be told he felt more than a little hurt by what Lewis had just said. Lewis was right, of course, and had spoken with such quiet integrity: but it's still our job to find out who did it. Yes, he knew that; but he'd tried and tried and hadn't found out who did it. Come to think of it, he hadn't even found out if Valerie Taylor were alive or dead. . Just now he'd tried to believe Sheila Phillipson; but the plain fact was that he couldn't. Anyway, if what she said were true, it was much better for someone else to finish off the formalities. Much better. And if she were just shielding her husband. . He let it go. He had sent Lewis round to see Phillipson, but the headmaster was neither at home nor at school, and for the time being the neighbours were looking after the children.

Whatever happened, this Tuesday afternoon was now the end, and he thought back to that first Tuesday afternoon in Phillipson's study. . What, if anything, had he missed in the case? What small, apparently insignificant detail that might have set him on the proper tracks? He sat for half an hour and thought and thought, and thought himself nowhere. It was no good: his mind was stale and the wells of imagination and inspiration were dry as the Sahara sands. Yes, he would see Strange in the morning and hand it all over. He could still make a decision when he wanted to, whatever Lewis might think.

He walked over to the filing cabinet and for the last time took out the mass of documents on the case. They now filled two bulging box-files, and pulling back the spring clips Morse tipped the contents of each haphazardly on to his desk. At least he ought to put the stuff into some sort of order. It wouldn't take all that long, and his mind positively welcomed the prospect of an hour or two of fourth-grade clerical work. Neatly and methodically he began stapling odd notes and sheets to their respective documents, and ordering the documents themselves into a chronological sequence. He remembered the last time he had tipped the contents (not so bulky then) on to his desk, when Lewis had noticed that odd business about the lollipop man. A red herring, that, as it turned out. Yet it could have been a vitally important point, and he himself had missed it. Had he missed anything else, amidst this formidable bumf? Ah, forget it! It was too late now, and he continued with his task. Valerie's reports next. They'd better go into some sort of order, too, and he shuffled them into their sequence. Three reports a year: autumn term; spring term; summer term. No reports at all for the first year in the school, but all the others were there — except one: the report for the summer temi of the fourth year. Why was that? He hadn't noticed that before. . The brain was whirring into life once more — but no! Morse snapped off the current impatiently. It was nothing. The report was just lost; lots of things got lost. Nothing at all sinister about that. . Yet in spite of himself he stopped what he was doing and sat back again in the black leather chair, his fingertips together on his lower lip, his eyes resting casually on the school reports that lay before him. He'd read them all before, of course, and knew their contents well. Valerie had been one of those many could-do-better-if-she-tried pupils. Like all of us. . In fact, the staff at the Roger Bacon School could quite easily have dispensed with terminal reports in Valerie's case: they were all very much the same, and one would have done quite as well as another. Any one. The last one, for example — the report on her spring term's progress (or rather lack of it) in the year in which she'd disappeared. Idly Morse looked down at it again. Acum's signature was there beside the French: 'Could do so well if only she tried. Her accent is surprisingly good, but her vocabulary and grammar are still very weak.' Same old comment. In fact there was only one subject in which Valerie had apparently not hidden her light beneath the bushel of her casual indifference; and oddly enough that was Applied Science and Technology. Funny, really, girls tackling subjects like that. But the curriculum had undergone mysterious developments since his own school days. He picked up the earlier reports and read some of the comments of the science staff: 'Good with her hands'; 'A good term's work'; 'Has good mechanical sense'. He got up from his chair and went over to the shelf where earlier he'd stacked Valerie's old exercise books. It was there: Applied Science and Technology. Morse flicked through the pages. Yes, the work was good, he could see that — surprisingly good. . Hold it a minute! He looked through the book again, more carefully now, and read the headings of the syllabus: Work; Energy; Power; Velocity Ratio; Efficiency of Machines; Simple Machines; Levers; Pulleys; Simple Power-transmission Systems; Car Engines; Clutches. .

He walked back to his desk slowly, like a man in a dreamlike daze, and read the last spring term report once more: French, and Applied Science and Technology. .

Suddenly the hair on his flesh stood erect. He felt a curious constriction in his throat, and a long shiver passed icily down his spine. He reached for the phone and his hand shook as he dialled the number.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

I came fairly to kill him honestly.

(Beaumont and Fletcher,

The Little French Lawyer)