Last Seen Wearing (26 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

'Now listen, you young limb,' whispered Sikes. 'Go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street doon unfasten it, and let us in.

(Charles Dickens,
Oliver Twist)

L
EWIS'S MOUTH GAPED
in flabbergasted disbelief as this astonishing intelligence partially percolated through his consciousness. 'You can't mean . . .'

   'But I
do
mean. I mean exactly what I say. And that's why we're sitting here waiting, Lewis. We're waiting for Valerie Taylor to come home at last'

   For the moment Lewis was quite incapable of any more intelligent comment than a half-formed whistle. 'Phew!'

   'Worth waiting another few minutes for, isn't she? After all this time?'

   Gradually the implications of what the inspector had just told him began to register more significantly in Lewis's mind. It meant . . . it meant . . . But his mental processes seemed now to be anaesthetized, and he gave up the unequal struggle. 'Don't you think you ought to put me in the picture, sir?'

   'Where do you want me to start?' asked Morse, in a slightly brisker tone.

   'Well, first of all you'd better tell me what's happened to the
real
Mrs. Acum.'

   'Listen, Lewis. In this case you've been right more often than I have. I've made some pretty stupid blunders—as you know. But at last we're getting near the truth, I think. You ask me what's happened to the real Mrs. Acum. Well, I don't know for certain. But let me tell you what I think may have happened. I've hardly got a shred of evidence for it, but as I see things it must have happened something like this.

   'What do we know about Mrs. Acum? A bit prim and proper, perhaps. She's got a slim, boyish-looking figure, and long shoulder-length blonde hair. Not unattractive, maybe, in an unusual sort of way, but no doubt very self-conscious about the blotch of ugly spots all over her face. Then think about Valerie. She's a real honey, by all accounts. A nubile young wench, with a sort of animal sexuality about her that proves fatally attractive to the opposite sex—the men and the boys alike. Now just put yourself in Acum's place. He finds Valerie in his French class, and he begins to fancy her. He thinks she may have a bit of ability, but neither the incentive nor the inclination to make anything of it. Well, from whatever motives, he talks to her privately and suggests some extra tuition. Now let's try to imagine what might have happened. Let's say Mrs. Acum has joined a Wednesday sewing class at Headington Tech.—I know, Lewis, but don't interrupt: it doesn't matter about the details. Where was I? Yes. Acum's free then on Wednesday evenings, and we'll say that he invites Valerie round to his house. But one night in March the evening class is cancelled—let's say the teacher's got flu—and Mrs. Acum arrives home unexpectedly early, about a quarter to eight, and she finds them both in bed together. It's a dreadful humiliation for her, and she decides that their marriage is finished. Not that she necessarily wants to ruin Acum's career. She may feel she's to blame in some way: perhaps she doesn't enjoy sex; perhaps she can't have any children—I don't know. Anyway, as I say, it's finished between them. They continue to live together, but they sleep in different rooms and hardly speak to each other. And however hard she tries, she just can't bring herself to forgive him. So they agree to separate when the summer term is over, and Acum knows it will be better for both of them if he gets a new post. Whether he told Phillipson the truth or not, doesn't really matter. Perhaps he didn't tell him anything when he first handed in his resignation; but he may well have had to say something when Valerie tells him that she's expecting a baby and that he's almost certainly the father. So, as you yourself said this morning, Lewis, they all decide to put their heads together. Valerie, Acum, Phillipson and Mrs. Taylor—I don't know about George. They arrange the clinic in London and fix up the house in North Wales here, where Valerie comes immediately after the abortion, and where Acum will join her just as soon as the school term ends. And Valerie arrives and acts the dutiful little wife, decorating the place and getting things straight and tidy;
and she's still here.
Where the real Mrs. Acum is, I don't know; but we should be able to find out easily enough. If you want me to make a guess, I'd say she's living with her mother, in a little village somewhere near Exeter.'

   For several minutes Lewis sat motionless within the quiet car, until aroused at length by the very silence he took a yellow duster from the glove compartment and wiped the steamy windows. Morse's imaginative reconstruction of events seemed curiously convincing, and several times during the course of it Lewis's head had nodded an almost involuntary agreement.

   Morse himself suddenly looked once more at his wristwatch. 'Come on, Lewis,' he said. 'We've waited long enough.'

   The side gate was locked, and Lewis clambered awkwardly over. The small top window of the back kitchen was open slightly, and by climbing on to the rain-water tub he was able to get his arm through the narrow gap and open the latch of the main window. He eased himself through on to the draining board, jumped down inside, and breathing heavily walked to the front door to let the inspector in. The house was eerily silent.

   'No one here, sir. What do we do?'

   'We'll have a quick look round,' said Morse. I'll stay down here. You try upstairs.'

   The steps on the narrow flight of stairs creaked loudly as Lewis mounted aloft, and Morse stood below and watched him, his heart pounding against his ribs.

   There were only two bedrooms, each of them opening almost directly off the tiny landing: one to the right, the other immediately in front. First Lewis tried the one to his right, and peered round the door. The junk room, obviously. A single bed, unmade, stood against the far wall; and the bed itself and the rest of the limited space available were strewn with the necessary and the unnecessary oddments that had yet to find for themselves a permanent place in the disposition of the Acum household: several bell-jars of home-made wine, bubbling intermittendy; a vacuum cleaner, with its box of varied fitments; dusty lampshades; old curtain rails, the mounted head of an old, moth-eaten deer; and a large assortment of other semi-treasured bric-a-brac that cluttered up the little room. But nothing else. Nothing.

   Lewis left the room and tried the other door. It would be the bedroom, he knew that. Tentatively he pushed open the door slightly further and became aware of something scarlet lying there upon the bed, bright scarlet—the colour of new-spilt blood. He opened the door fully now and went inside. And there, draped across the pure white coverlet, the arms neatly folded across the bodice, the waist tight-belted and slim, lay a long, red-velvet evening dress.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

No one does anything from a single motive.

(S. T. Coleridge,
Biographia Literaria.)

T
HEY SAT DOWNSTAIRS
in the small kitchen.

   'It looks as if our little bird has flown.'

   'Mm.' Morse leaned his head upon his left elbow and stared blankly through the window.

   'When did you first suspect all this, sir?'

   'Sometime last night, it must have been. About half-past three, I should think.'

   'This morning, then.'

   Morse seemed mildly surprised. It seemed a long, long time ago.

   'What put you on to it, though?'

   Morse sat up and leaned his back against the rickety kitchen chair. 'Once we learned that Valerie was probably still alive, it altered everything, didn't it? You see, from the start I'd assumed she was dead.'

   'You must have had
some
reason.'

   'I suppose it was the photograph more than anything,' replied Morse. 'The one of the genuine Mrs. Acum that Mrs. Phillipson showed me. It was a clear-cut, glossy photograph—not like the indistinct and out-of-date ones we've got of Valerie. Come to think of it, I doubt if either of us will recognize Valerie when we
do
see
her. Anyway, I met who I
thought
was Mrs. Acum when I first came up here to Caernarvon, and although she had a towel round her head I couldn't help noticing that she wasn't a natural blonde at all. The roots of her hair were dark, and for some reason' (he left it at that) 'the detail, well, just stuck with me. She'd dyed her hair, anyone could see that.'

   'But we don't know that the real Mrs. Acum is a natural blonde.'

   'No. That's true,' admitted Morse.

   'Not much to go on then, is it?'

   'There was something else, Lewis.'

   'What was that?'

   Morse paused before replying. 'In the photograph I saw of Mrs. Acum, she had a sort of, er, sort of a boyish figure, if you know what I mean.'

   'Bit flat-chested you mean, sir?'

   'Yes.'

   'So?'

   'The woman I saw here—well, she wasn't flat-chested, that's all.'

   'She could have been wearing a padded bra. You just can't tell for certain, can you?'

   'Can't you?' A gentle, wistful smile played momentarily about the inspector's mouth, and he enlightened the innocent Lewis no further. 'I ought to have guessed much earlier. Of course I should. They just don't have anything in common at all: Mrs. Acum—and Valerie Taylor. Huh! I don't think you'd ever find anyone less like a blue-stocking than Valerie. And I've spoken to her
twice
over the phone, Lewis! More than that, I've actually
seen
her!' He shook his head in self-reproach. 'Yes. I really should have guessed the truth a long, long time ago.'

   'From what you said, though, sir, you didn't see much of her, did you? You said she had this beauty-pack—'

   'No, not much of her, Lewis. Not much . . .' His thoughts were very far away.

   'What's all this got to do with the car-hire firms you're trying to check?' asked Lewis suddenly.

   'Well, I've got to try to get
some
hard evidence against her, haven't I? I thought, funnily enough, of letting her give me the evidence herself, but . . .'

   Lewis was completely lost. 'I don't quite follow you.'

   'Well, I thought of ringing her up this morning first thing and tricking her into giving herself away. It would have been very easy, really.'

   'It would?'

   'Yes. All I had to do was to speak to her in French. You see, the real Mrs. Acum is a graduate from Exeter, remember? But from what we know about poor Valerie's French, I doubt she can get very much further than
bonjour.'

   'But
you
can't speak French either can you, sir?'

   'I have many hidden talents of which as yet you are quite unaware,' said Morse a trifle pompously.

   'Oh.' But Lewis had a strong suspicion that Morse knew about as much (or as little) French as he did. And what's more, he'd had no answer to his question. 'Aren't you going to tell me why you'll be checking on the car-hire firms?'

   'You've had enough shocks for one day.'

   'I don't think one more'll make much difference,' replied Lewis.

   'All right, I'll tell you. You see, we've not only found Valerie;
we've also found the murderer of Baines.'
Lewis opened and closed his mouth like a stranded goldfish, but no identifiable vocable emerged.

   'You'll understand soon enough,' continued Morse. 'It's fairly obvious if you think about it. She has to get from Caernarfon to Oxford, right? Her husband's got the car. So, what does she do? Train? Bus? There aren't any services. And anyway, she's got to get there quickly, and there's only one thing she can do and that's to hire a car.'

   'But we don't know yet that she
did
hire a car,' protested Lewis. 'We don't even know she can drive.'

   'We shall know soon enough.'

   The 'ifs' were forgotten now, and Morse spoke like a minor prophet enunciating necessary truths. And with gradually diminishing reluctance, Lewis was beginning to sense the inevitability of the course of events that Morse was sketching out for him, and the inexorable logic working through the inquiry they'd begun together. A young schoolgirl missing, and more than two years later a middle-aged schoolmaster murdered; and no satisfactory solution to either mystery. Just two insoluble problems. And suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, there were no longer two problems—no longer even one problem; for somehow each had magically solved the other.

   'You think she drove from here that day?'

   'And back,' said Morse.

   'And it was Valerie who . . . who killed Baines?'

   'Yes. She must have got there about nine o'clock, as near as dammit.'

   Lewis's mind ranged back to the night when Baines was murdered. 'So she could have been in Baines's house when Mrs. Phillipson and Acum called,' he said slowly.

   Morse nodded. 'Could have been, yes.'

   He stood up and walked along the narrow hallway. From the window in the front room he could see two small boys, standing at a respectful distance from the police car and trying with cautious curiosity to peer inside. But for the rest, nothing. No one left and no one came along the quiet street.

   'Are you worried, sir?' asked Lewis quietly, when Morse sat down again.

   'We'll give her a few more minutes,' replied Morse, looking at his watch for the twentieth time.

   'I've been thinking, sir. She must be a brave girl.'

   'Mm.'

   'And he was a nasty piece of work, wasn't he?'

   'He was a shithouse,' said Morse with savage conviction. 'But I don't think that Valerie would ever have killed Baines just for her own sake.'

   'What
was
her motive then?'

   It was a simple question and it deserved a simple answer, but Morse began with the guarded evasiveness of a senior partner in the Circumlocution Office.

   'I'm a bit sceptical about the word "motive", you know, Lewis. It makes it sound as if there's just got to be one—one big, beautiful motive. But sometimes it doesn't work like that. You get a mother slapping her child across its face because it won't stop crying. Why does she do it? You can say she just wants to stop the kid from bawling its head off, but it's not really true, is it? The motive lies much deeper than that. It's all bound up with lots of other things: she's tired, she's got a headache, she's fed up, she's just plain disillusioned with the duties of motherhood. Anything you like. When once you ask yourself what lies in the murky depths below what Aristotle called the immediate cause . . . You know anything about Aristotle, Lewis?'

   'I've heard of him, sir. But you still haven't answered my question.'

   'Ah, no. Well, let's just consider for a minute the position that Valerie found herself in that day. For the first time for over two years, I should think, she finds herself completely on her own. Since Acum came to join her, he's no doubt been pretty protective towards her, and for the first part of their time together here he's probably been anxious for Valerie not to be caught up in too much of a social whirl. She stays in.
And she'd bleached her hair
—probably right at the beginning. Surprising, isn't it, Lewis, how so many of us go to the trouble of making a gesture—however weak and meaningless. A sop to Cerberus, no doubt. As you know, Acum's real wife had long, blonde hair—that's the first thing anyone would notice about her; it's the first thing I noticed about her when I saw her photograph. Perhaps Acum asked her to do it; may have helped his conscience. Anyway, he must have been glad she
did
dye her hair. You remember the photograph of Valerie in the Colour Supplement? If he saw it, he must have been a very worried man. It wasn't a particularly clear photograph, I know. It had been taken over three years previously, and a young girl changes a good deal—especially between leaving school and becoming to all intents and purposes a married woman. But it still remained a photograph of Valerie and, as I say, I should think Acum was jolly glad about her hair. As far as we know, no one
did
spot the likeness.'

   'Perhaps they don't read the
Sunday Times
in Caernarfon.'

   For all his anti-Welsh prejudices, Morse let it go. 'She's on her own at last, then. She can do what she likes. She probably feels a wonderful sense of freedom, freedom to do something for herself—something that now, for the first time,
can
in fact be done.'

   'I can see all that, sir. But
why?
That's what I want to know.'

   'Lewis! Put yourself in the position Valerie and her mother and Acum and Phillipson and God knows who else must have found themselves. They've all got their individual and their collective secrets—big and little—and somebody else knows all about them. Baines knows. Somehow—well, we've got a jolly good idea how—he got to know things. Sitting all those years in that little office of his, with the telephone there and all the correspondence, he's been at the nerve-centre of a small community—the Roger Bacon School. He's second master there, and it's perfectly proper that he
should
know what's going on. All the time his ears are tuned in to the slightest rumours and suspicions. He's like a bug in the Watergate Hotel: he picks it all up and he puts it all together. And it gives to his sinister cast of character just the nourishment it craves for—the power over other people's lives. Think of Phillipson for a minute. Baines can put him out of a job any day he chooses—but he doesn't. You see, I don't think he gloried so much in the actual exercise of his power as—'

   'He did actually blackmail Phillipson, though, didn't he?'