Colin Dexter - The Way Through The Woods

'Yes.' But she was frowning. 'That means – everywhere? Including the bedrooms?'

'Especially the bedrooms,' replied O'Kane, simply if reluctant!'.

Claire looked down at the single key. 'My husband's been held up in London-'

'No problem! Well, only one problem perhaps. We're always a bit pushed for parking – if there are two cars…?'

'He'll have his car, yes. But don't worry about that. There seem to be plenty of room in the side-streets.'

O'Kane appeared grateful for her understanding, and asked if she were familiar with Oxford, with the North Oxford area. And Claire said, yes, she was; her husband knew the area well, so there was no trouble there.

Wishing Mrs Hardinge well, Mr O'Kane departed – leaving Claire to look with admiration around the delightfully designed and decorated accommodation. En suite, too.

O'Kane was not a judgemental man, and in any case the moralality of his guests was of rather less importance to him than the comfort. But already the signs were there: quite apart from the circumstantial evidence of any couple arriving in separate cars, over the years O'Kane had observed that almost every wedded woman arriving first would show an interest in the in-house amenities and the like. Yet Mrs Hardinge(?) had enquired about none of these… he would have guessed too (if asked) that she might well pay the bill from her own cheque-book when the couple left – about 50 per cent of such ladies usually did so. In the early days of his business career, such things had worried O'Kane a little. But not so much now. Did it matter? Did it really matter? Any couple could get a mortgage these days – let alone a couple nights' accommodation in a B & B. She was a pleasantly spoken, attractive woman; and as O'Kane walked down the stairs he hoped she'd have a happy time with that Significant Other who would doubtless be arriving soon, ostensibly spending the weekend away from his wife at some Oxford conference. Oxford was full of conferences…

Claire looked around her. The co-ordinated colour scheme of décor and furnishing was a sheer delight – white, champagne, cerise, mahogany – and reproductions of late-Victorian pictures graced the walls. Beside the help-yourself tea and coffee facilities stood a small fridge, in which she saw an ample supply of milk; and two glasses – and two champagne glasses. For a while she sat on the floral-printed bedspread; then went over to the window and looked out, over the window-box of busy Lizzies, geraniums, and petunias, down on to the Banbury Road. For several minutes she stood there, not knowing whether she was happy or not – trying to stop the clock, to live in the present, to grasp the moment… and to hold it.

Then – her heart was suddenly pounding against her ribs. A man was walking along the pavement towards the roundabout. He wore a pink, short-sleeved shirt, and his forearms were bronzed – as if perhaps he might recently have spent a few days beside the sea. In his left hand he carried a bag bearing the name of the local wineshop, Oddbins; in his right hand he carried a bag with the same legend. He appeared deep in thought as he made his way, fairly slowly, across her vision and proceeded up towards the roundabout.

What an amazing coincidence! – the man might have thought had she pushed open the diamond-leaded window and shouted – Remember me? Lyme Regis? Last weekend?' But that would have been to misunderstand matters, for in truth there was no coincidence at all. Claire Osborne had seen to that.

There was a soft knock on her door, and O'Kane asked if she – if either of them – would like a newspaper in the morning: it was part of the service. Claire smiled. She liked the man. She ordered The Sunday Times. Then, for a little while after he was gone she wondered why she felt so sad.

It was not until just before 9 p.m. that Dr Alan Hardinge arrived – explaining, excusing, but as vulnerable, as loving as ever. And - bless him! – he had brought a bottle of Brut Imperial, and a bottle of Skye Talisker malt. And almost, almost (as she later herself) had Claire Osborne enjoyed the couple of hours they spent together that night between the immaculately laundered sheets of Room 1 in the Cotswold House in North Oxford.

Morse had arrived home at 2.30 p.m. that same day. No one, as far as he knew, was aware that he had returned (except Lewis?); yet Strange had telephoned at 4 p.m. Would Morse be happy to take on the case? Well, whether he would be happy or not, Morse was going to take on the case.

At 5 p.m. he had walked down to Summertown and bought eight pint-cans of newly devised 'draught' bitter, which promised him the taste of a hand-pulled, cask-conditioned drop of ale; and two bottles of his favourite Quercy claret. For Morse – considerately out of condition still – the weight felt a bit too hefty; and outside the Radio Oxford building he halted awhile and looked behind him in the hope of seeing the oblong outline of a red double-decker coming up from the city centre. But there was no bus in sight, so he walked on. As he passed the Cotswold House he saw amongst other things the familiar white sign 'No Vacancies' on the door. He was not surprised. He had heard very well of the place, wouldn't mind staying there himself. Especially for the breakfasts.

strange had been really quite pleased with all the publicity. Seldom had there been such national interest in a purely notional Tiurder; and the extraordinary if possibly unwarranted ingenuity. hich the public had already begun to exercise on the originally rrinted verses was most gratifying – if not as yet of much concrete value. There had been two further offerings in the Letters to the Editor page in the Saturday, 11 July's issue of The Times:

From Gillian Richard

Sir, Professor Gray (July 9) seems to me too lightly to dismiss one factor in the Swedish Maiden case. She is certainly, in my view, alive still, but seemingly torn between the wish to live – and the wish to die. She has probably never won any poetry competition in her life, and I greatly doubt whether she is to be found as a result of her description of the natural world. But she is out there, in the natural world – possibly living rough; certainly not indoors. I would myself hazard a guess, dismissed by Professor Gray, that she is in a car somewhere, and here the poem's attribution (A. Austin 1853^87) can give us the vital clue. What

about an A-registration Austin? It would be a 1983 model, yes; and might we not have the registration number, too? I suggest A 185 -then three letters. If we suppose 3=C, 8=H, and 7=G (the third, eighth, and seventh letters of the alphabet), we have A 185 CGH. Perhaps then our young lady is languishing in an ageing Metro? And if so, sir, we must ask one question: who is the owner of that car? Find her!

Yours etc.,

GILLIAN RICHARD, 26 Hay ward Road, Oxford.

From Miss Polly Rayner

Sir, I understand from your report on the disappearance a year ago of a Swedish student that her rucksack was found near the village of Begbroke in Oxfordshire. It may be that I am excessively addicted to your own crossword puzzles but surely we can be justified in spotting a couple of 'clues' here? The '-broke' of the village name is derived from the Anglo-Saxon word 'brok', meaning 'running water' or 'stream'. And since 'beg' is a synonym of 'ask', what else are we to make of the first three words

in line 7: 'Ask the stream'? Indeec this clue is almost immediately cod-; firmed two lines later in the injunc-" tion 'ask the sun'. 'The Sun' is how \ the good citizens of Begbroke refer I to their local hostelry, and it is ia j and around that hostelry where mlmy view the police should re-* concentrate their enquiries.