lunchtimes—and that only during Valerie's last year at school.
He hadn't meant to ask his next question. It was one of those things that wasn't really anyone else's business. It had struck him, of course, the first time he had glanced at the Colour Supplement: the cards for the eighteenth wedding anniversary, and Valerie at the time almost twenty—or would have been, had she still been alive. He took another deep breath.
'Was Valerie your husband's child, Mrs. Taylor?'
The question struck home and she looked away. 'No. I had her before I knew George.'
'I see,' said Morse gently.
At the door she turned towards him. 'Are you going to see him?' Morse nodded. 'I don't mind what you ask him but . . . but please don't mention anything about . . . about what you just asked me. He was like a father to her always but he . . . he used to get teased a lot about Valerie when we were first married especially . . . especially since we didn't have any kids ourselves. You know what I mean. It hurt him, I know it did, and . . . and I don't want him hurt, Inspector. He's been a good man to me; he's always been a good man to me.'
She spoke with a surprising warmth of feeling and as she spoke Morse could see the lineaments of an erstwhile beauty in her face. He heard himself promise that he wouldn't. Yet he found himself wondering who Valerie's real father had been, and if it might be important for him to find out. If he could find out. If anyone knew—including Valerie's mother.
As he walked slowly away he wondered something else, too. There had been something, albeit hardly perceptible, something slightly off-key about Mrs. Taylor's nervousness; just a little more than the natural nervousness of meeting a strange man—even a strange policeman. It was more like the look he had several times witnessed on his secretary's face when he had burst unexpectedly into her office and found her hastily and guiltily covering up some personal little thing that she hoped he hadn't seen. Had there been someone else in the house during his interview with Mrs. Taylor? He thought so. In an instant he turned on his heel and spun round to face the house he had just left—and he saw it. The right-hand curtain of an upstairs window twitched slightly and a vague silhouette glided back against the wall. It was over in a flash. The curtain was still; all sign of life was gone. A cabbage-white butterfly stitched its way along the privet hedge—and then that, too, was gone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Even the dustbin lid is raised mechanically
At the very last moment
You could dispose of a corpse like this
Without giving the least offence.
(D. J. Enright, No Offence: Berlin)
I T OCCURED TO Morse as he drove down the Woodstock Road into Oxford that although he had done most things in life he had never before had occasion to visit a rubbish tip. In fact, as he turned into Walton Street and slowed to negotiate the narrowing streets that led down to Jericho, he could not quite account for the fact that he knew exactly where to go. He passed Aristotle Lane and turned right into Walton Well Road, over the hump-backed bridge that spanned the canal, and stopped the Lancia beside an open gate, where a notice informed him that unauthorized vehicles were not allowed to drive further and that offenders would be prosecuted by an official with (it seemed to Morse) the portentous title of Conservator and Sheriff of Port Meadow. He slipped the car into first gear and drove on, deciding that he would probably qualify in the 'authorized' category, and rather hoping that someone would stop him. But no one did. He made his way slowly along the concreted pathway, a thin belt of trees on his right and the open green expanse of Port Meadow on his left. Twice when corporation lorries came towards him he was forced off the track on to the grass, before coming finally to the edge of the site, where a high wooden gate over a deep cattle-grid effectively barred all
He hadn't meant to ask his next question. It was one of those things that wasn't really anyone else's business. It had struck him, of course, the first time he had glanced at the Colour Supplement: the cards for the eighteenth wedding anniversary, and Valerie at the time almost twenty—or would have been, had she still been alive. He took another deep breath.
'Was Valerie your husband's child, Mrs. Taylor?'
The question struck home and she looked away. 'No. I had her before I knew George.'
'I see,' said Morse gently.
At the door she turned towards him. 'Are you going to see him?' Morse nodded. 'I don't mind what you ask him but . . . but please don't mention anything about . . . about what you just asked me. He was like a father to her always but he . . . he used to get teased a lot about Valerie when we were first married especially . . . especially since we didn't have any kids ourselves. You know what I mean. It hurt him, I know it did, and . . . and I don't want him hurt, Inspector. He's been a good man to me; he's always been a good man to me.'
She spoke with a surprising warmth of feeling and as she spoke Morse could see the lineaments of an erstwhile beauty in her face. He heard himself promise that he wouldn't. Yet he found himself wondering who Valerie's real father had been, and if it might be important for him to find out. If he could find out. If anyone knew—including Valerie's mother.
As he walked slowly away he wondered something else, too. There had been something, albeit hardly perceptible, something slightly off-key about Mrs. Taylor's nervousness; just a little more than the natural nervousness of meeting a strange man—even a strange policeman. It was more like the look he had several times witnessed on his secretary's face when he had burst unexpectedly into her office and found her hastily and guiltily covering up some personal little thing that she hoped he hadn't seen. Had there been someone else in the house during his interview with Mrs. Taylor? He thought so. In an instant he turned on his heel and spun round to face the house he had just left—and he saw it. The right-hand curtain of an upstairs window twitched slightly and a vague silhouette glided back against the wall. It was over in a flash. The curtain was still; all sign of life was gone. A cabbage-white butterfly stitched its way along the privet hedge—and then that, too, was gone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Even the dustbin lid is raised mechanically
At the very last moment
You could dispose of a corpse like this
Without giving the least offence.
(D. J. Enright, No Offence: Berlin)
I T OCCURED TO Morse as he drove down the Woodstock Road into Oxford that although he had done most things in life he had never before had occasion to visit a rubbish tip. In fact, as he turned into Walton Street and slowed to negotiate the narrowing streets that led down to Jericho, he could not quite account for the fact that he knew exactly where to go. He passed Aristotle Lane and turned right into Walton Well Road, over the hump-backed bridge that spanned the canal, and stopped the Lancia beside an open gate, where a notice informed him that unauthorized vehicles were not allowed to drive further and that offenders would be prosecuted by an official with (it seemed to Morse) the portentous title of Conservator and Sheriff of Port Meadow. He slipped the car into first gear and drove on, deciding that he would probably qualify in the 'authorized' category, and rather hoping that someone would stop him. But no one did. He made his way slowly along the concreted pathway, a thin belt of trees on his right and the open green expanse of Port Meadow on his left. Twice when corporation lorries came towards him he was forced off the track on to the grass, before coming finally to the edge of the site, where a high wooden gate over a deep cattle-grid effectively barred all
Similar Books
