Colin Dexter - Last Seen Wearing

'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.)

THEY 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.'