Last Seen Wearing

'In the clear? What are you talking about?'

'I think you called at Mr. Baines's house on Monday night, Mrs. Phillipson.' The tone of his voice was ominously calm, but she only shook her head in semi-humorous disbelief.

'You can't really be serious, can you, Inspector?'

'I'm always serious when I'm investigating murder.'

You don't think — you can't think that I had anything to do with that? On Monday night? Why, I hardly knew the man.'

'I'm not interested in how well you knew him.' It seemed an odd remark and her eyebrows contracted to a frown.

'What are you interested in?'

'I've told you, Mrs. Phillipson.'

'Look, Inspector. I think it's about time you told me exactly why you're here. If you've got something you want to say to me, please say it. If you haven't. .'

Morse, in a muted way, admired her spirited performance. But he had just reminded Mrs. Phillipson, and now he reminded himself: he was investigating murder.

When he spoke again his words were casual, intimate almost. 'Did you like Mr. Baines?'

Her mouth opened as if to speak and, as suddenly, closed again; and whatever doubts had begun to creep into Morse's mind were now completely removed.

'I didn't know him very well. I just told you that.' It was the best answer she could find, and it wasn't very good.

'Where were you on Monday evening, Mrs. Phillipson?'

'I was here of course. I'm almost always here.'

'What time did you go out?'

'Inspector! I just told—'

'Did you leave the children on their own?'

'Of course I didn't — I mean I wouldn't. I could never—'

'What time did you get back?'

'Back? Back from where?'

'Before your husband?'

'My husband was out — that's what I'm telling you. He went to the theatre, the Playhouse—'

'He sat in row M seat 14.'

'If you say so, all right. But he wasn't home until about eleven.'

'Ten to, according to him.'

'All right, ten to eleven. What does—'

'You haven't answered my question, Mrs. Phillipson.'

'What question?'

'I asked you what time you got home, not your husband.' His questions were flung at her now with breakneck rapidity.

'You don't think I would go out and leave—'

'Go out? Where to, Mrs. Phillipson? Did you go on the bus?'

'I didn't go anywhere. Can't you understand that? How could I possibly go out and leave—'

Morse interrupted her again. She was beginning to crack, he knew that; her voice was high-pitched now amidst the elocutionary wreckage.

'All right — you didn't leave your children alone — I believe you — you love your children — of course you do — it would be illegal to leave them on their own — how old are they?'

Again she opened her mouth to speak, but he pushed relentlessly, remorselessly on.

'Have you heard of a baby-sitter, Mrs. Phillipson? — somebody who comes in and looks after your children while you go out — do you hear me? — while you go out — do you want me to find out who it was? — or do you want to tell me? — I could soon find out, of course — friends, neighbours — do you want me to find out, Mrs. Phillipson? — do you want me to go and knock next door? — and the door next to that? — of course, you don't, do you? You know, you're not being very sensible about this, are you, Mrs. Phillipson?' (He was speaking more slowly and calmly now.) 'You see, I know what happened on Monday night. Someone saw you, Mrs. Phillipson; someone saw you in Kempis Street. And if you'd like to tell me why you were there and what you did, it would save a lot of time and trouble. But if you won't tell me, then I shall have to—'

Of a sudden she almost shrieked as the incessant flow of words began to overwhelm her. 'I told you! I don't know what you're talking about! You don't seem to understand that, do you? I just don't know what you're talking about?

Morse sat back in the armchair, relaxed and unconcerned. He looked about him, and once more fastened his gaze on the photograph of the headmaster and his wife above the large bureau. And then he looked at his wristwatch.

'What time do the children get home?' His tone was suddenly friendly and quiet, and Mrs. Phillipson felt the panic welling up within her. She looked at her own wristwatch and her voice was shaking as she answered him.

'They'll be home at four o'clock.'

'That gives us an hour, doesn't it, Mrs. Phillipson. I think that's long enough — my car's outside. You'd better put your coat on — the pink one, if you will.'

He rose from the armchair, and fastened the front buttons of his jacket. I'll see that your husband knows if. .' He took a few steps towards the door, but she laid her hand upon him as he moved past her.

'Sit down, please, Inspector,' she said quietly.

She had gone (she said). That was all, really. It was like suddenly deciding to write a letter or to ring the dentist or to buy some restorer for the paint brushes encrusted stiff with last year's gloss. She asked Mrs. Cooper next door to baby-sit, said she'd be no longer than an hour at the very latest, and caught the 9.20 p.m. bus from the stop immediately outside the house. She got off at Cornmarket, walked quickly through Gloucester Green and reached Kempis Street by about quarter to ten. The light was shining in Baines's front window — she had never been there before — and she summoned up all her courage and knocked on the front door. There was no reply. Again she knocked — and again there was no reply. She then walked along to the lighted window and tapped upon it hesitantly and quietly with the back of her hand; but she could hear no sound and could make out no movement behind the cheap yellow curtains. She hurried back to the front door, feeling as guilty as a young schoolgirl caught out of her place in the classroom by the headmistress. But still nothing happened. She had so nearly called the whole thing off there and then; but her resolution had been wrought up to such a pitch that she made one last move. She tried the door — and found it unlocked. She opened it slightly, no more than a foot or so, and called his name.

'Mr. Baines?' And then slightly louder, 'Mr. Baines?' But she received no reply. The house seemed strangely still and the sound of her own voice echoed eerily in the high entrance hall. A cold shiver of fear ran down her spine, and for a few seconds she felt sure that he was there, very near to her, watching and waiting. . And suddenly a panic-stricken terror had seized her and she had rushed back to the lighted, friendly road, crossed over by the railway station and, with her heart pounding in her ribs, tried to get a grip on herself. In St. Giles' she caught a taxi and arrived home just after ten.

That was her story, anyway. She told it in a flat, dejected voice, and she told it well and clearly. To Morse it sounded in no way like the tangled, mazy machinations of a murderer. Indeed a good deal of it he could check fairly easily: the baby-sitter, the bus conductor, the taxi driver. And Morse felt sure that all would verify the outline of her story, and confirm the approximate times she'd given. But there was no chance of checking those fateful moments when she stood outside the door of Baines's house. . Had she gone in? And if she had, what terrible things had then occurred? The pros and cons were counterpoised in Morse's mind, with the balance tilting slightly in Mrs. Phillipson's favour.