before?'
'You mean old Joe. 'Course I did. 'E did it for—oh, five or six year.'
'Retired now, has he?'
'Ah. S'pose you could say so. Poor old Joe. Got knocked ower—feller on a motorbike. Mind you, old Joe were gettin' a bit slow. Seventy-two he were when he were knocked ower. Broke 'is 'ip. Poor old Joe.'
'Not still in hospital, I hope?' Morse fervently prayed that poor old Joe was still limping along somewhere in the land of the living.
'No. Not 'im. Down at the old folkses place at Cowley.'
'Well, you be careful,' said Morse, as he and Lewis crossed over with another group of schoolchildren, and stood and watched them as they dawdled past the line of shops and the public lavatories, and reluctantiy turned into the main drive leading to the school.
Back in the office Morse read aloud the relevant part of the testimony of Mr. Joseph Godberry, Oxford Road, Kidlington:
I almost always saw Valerie Taylor at dinner times, and I saw her on 10 June. She didn't cross by my Belisha because when I saw her she was on the other side of the road. She was running fairly quickly as if she was in a dickens of a hurry to meet somebody. But I remember she waved to me. I am quite sure it was Valerie. She would often stop and have a quick word with me. 'Joe' she called me, like most of them. She was a very nice girl and always cheery. I don't know what she did after I saw her. I thought she was going back to school.
Morse looked thoughtful. 'I wonder, now,' he said.
'Wonder what, sir?'
Morse was looking into the far distance, through the office window, and into the filmy blue beyond, excitement glowing in his eyes. 'I was just wondering if she was carrying a bag of some sort when old Joe Godberry saw her.'
Lewis looked as mystified as he felt, but received no further elucidation. 'You see,' said Morse, his eyes gradually refocusing on his sergeant, 'you see, if she was, I'm beginning to think that you're wrong.'
'Wrong, sir?'
'Yes, wrong. You said you thought Valerie Taylor was still alive, didn't you?'
'Well, yes. I think she is.'
'And I think, think, mind you, that you're wrong, Lewis. I think that Valerie Taylor is almost certainly dead.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
And French she spak ful faire and fetisly,
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,
For French of Paris was to hir unknowe.
(Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales)
D ONALD PHILLIPSON ARRIVED in school at 8.00 on Tuesday morning. The Michaelmas Term had been under way for one full week now and things were going well. The anti-litter campaign was proving moderately successful, the new caretaker seemed an amenable sort of fellow, and the Parent-Teacher Association had (somewhat surprisingly, he thought) backed him up to the hilt in his plea for a more rigid ruling on school uniforms. On the academic side only four members of staff had left in the summer (one quarter the previous year's total), the GCE and CSE results had been markedly better than before, and the present term saw the first full intake of thirteen-plus pupils, among whom (if junior-school headmasters could be believed) were some real high-flyers. Perhaps in a few years' time there would be one or two Open Awards at Oxbridge . . . Yes, he felt more than a little pleased with himself and with life this Tuesday morning. The only thing that marred the immediate prospect was a cloud, rather larger than a man's hand, on the not-so-distant horizon. But he felt confident that he would be able to weather whatever storm might break from that quarter, although he must think things through rather more carefully than he had done hitherto.
At 8.20 the head boy and the head girl would be coming to his study, as they did each morning, and there were several matters requiring his prompt attention. He heard Mrs. Webb come in at 8.15, and Baines at 8.30. Punctuality was sharper, too. He did a small amount of teaching with the sixth form (he was an historian), but he kept
'You mean old Joe. 'Course I did. 'E did it for—oh, five or six year.'
'Retired now, has he?'
'Ah. S'pose you could say so. Poor old Joe. Got knocked ower—feller on a motorbike. Mind you, old Joe were gettin' a bit slow. Seventy-two he were when he were knocked ower. Broke 'is 'ip. Poor old Joe.'
'Not still in hospital, I hope?' Morse fervently prayed that poor old Joe was still limping along somewhere in the land of the living.
'No. Not 'im. Down at the old folkses place at Cowley.'
'Well, you be careful,' said Morse, as he and Lewis crossed over with another group of schoolchildren, and stood and watched them as they dawdled past the line of shops and the public lavatories, and reluctantiy turned into the main drive leading to the school.
Back in the office Morse read aloud the relevant part of the testimony of Mr. Joseph Godberry, Oxford Road, Kidlington:
I almost always saw Valerie Taylor at dinner times, and I saw her on 10 June. She didn't cross by my Belisha because when I saw her she was on the other side of the road. She was running fairly quickly as if she was in a dickens of a hurry to meet somebody. But I remember she waved to me. I am quite sure it was Valerie. She would often stop and have a quick word with me. 'Joe' she called me, like most of them. She was a very nice girl and always cheery. I don't know what she did after I saw her. I thought she was going back to school.
Morse looked thoughtful. 'I wonder, now,' he said.
'Wonder what, sir?'
Morse was looking into the far distance, through the office window, and into the filmy blue beyond, excitement glowing in his eyes. 'I was just wondering if she was carrying a bag of some sort when old Joe Godberry saw her.'
Lewis looked as mystified as he felt, but received no further elucidation. 'You see,' said Morse, his eyes gradually refocusing on his sergeant, 'you see, if she was, I'm beginning to think that you're wrong.'
'Wrong, sir?'
'Yes, wrong. You said you thought Valerie Taylor was still alive, didn't you?'
'Well, yes. I think she is.'
'And I think, think, mind you, that you're wrong, Lewis. I think that Valerie Taylor is almost certainly dead.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
And French she spak ful faire and fetisly,
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,
For French of Paris was to hir unknowe.
(Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales)
D ONALD PHILLIPSON ARRIVED in school at 8.00 on Tuesday morning. The Michaelmas Term had been under way for one full week now and things were going well. The anti-litter campaign was proving moderately successful, the new caretaker seemed an amenable sort of fellow, and the Parent-Teacher Association had (somewhat surprisingly, he thought) backed him up to the hilt in his plea for a more rigid ruling on school uniforms. On the academic side only four members of staff had left in the summer (one quarter the previous year's total), the GCE and CSE results had been markedly better than before, and the present term saw the first full intake of thirteen-plus pupils, among whom (if junior-school headmasters could be believed) were some real high-flyers. Perhaps in a few years' time there would be one or two Open Awards at Oxbridge . . . Yes, he felt more than a little pleased with himself and with life this Tuesday morning. The only thing that marred the immediate prospect was a cloud, rather larger than a man's hand, on the not-so-distant horizon. But he felt confident that he would be able to weather whatever storm might break from that quarter, although he must think things through rather more carefully than he had done hitherto.
At 8.20 the head boy and the head girl would be coming to his study, as they did each morning, and there were several matters requiring his prompt attention. He heard Mrs. Webb come in at 8.15, and Baines at 8.30. Punctuality was sharper, too. He did a small amount of teaching with the sixth form (he was an historian), but he kept
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