'What was he like?'

'Middle-age, sort of-raincoat he had on, I remember-no hat-getting a bit bald, I reckon.'

'And you say you'd never seen him before?'

'No.'

Walters was getting very puzzled, and he needed time to think about this new evidence. In a few seconds, however, his puzzlement was to be overtaken by an astonished perplexity, for Jackson proceeded to add a gloss on that categorically spoken 'no'.

'I reckon I seen him later, though.'

'You what?'

'I reckon I seen him later, I said. He went in there again while you was there, officer. About quarter past ten, I should think it was. You must have seen him because you let him in yourself, if me memory serves me right. Must have been a copper, I should think, wasn't he?'

After Walters had left, Jackson sat in his back kitchen drinking a cup of tea and feeling that the interview had been more than satisfactory. He hadn't been at all sure about whether he should have mentioned that last bit, but now he felt progressively happier that he had in fact done so. His plan was being laid very carefully, but just a little riskily; and the more he could divert suspicion on to others, the better it would be. How glad he was he'd kept that key! At one point he'd almost chucked it into the canal-and that would have been a mistake, perhaps. As it was he'd just 'stuck it through the letter box'-exactly the words he'd used to the constable. And it was the truth, too! Telling the truth could be surprisingly valuable. Sometimes.

The recently formed Summertown Bridge Club had advertised itself (twice already in the Oxford Times and intermittently in the windows of the local newsagents) as the heaven-sent answer to those hundreds of residents in North Oxford who had played the game in the past with infinite enjoyment but with rather less than infinite finesse, and who were now a little reluctant to join one of the city's more prestigious clubs, where conversation invariably hinged on trump-coups and squeezes, where county players could always be expected round the tables, and where even the poorest performer appeared to have the enviable facility of remembering all the fifty-two cards at a time. The club was housed in Middle Way, a road of eminently desirable residences which runs parallel to the Banbury Road and to the west of it, linking Squitchey Lane with South Parade. Specifically, it was housed at a large white-walled residence, with light-blue doors and shutters, some half-way down that road, where lived the chairman of the club (who also single-handedly fulfilled the functions of its secretary, treasurer, hostess, and general organiser), a gay and rather gaudy widow of some sixty-five summers who went by the incongruously youthful name of Gwendola Briggs and who greeted Detective Constable Walters effusively under the mistaken impression that she had a new-and quite handsome-recruit to a clientele that was predominantly (much too predominantly!) female. Never mind, though! A duly identified Walters was anxious, it seemed, to talk about the club, and Gwendola, as publicity agent, was more than glad to talk about it. Ms. Scott ('She wore a ring, though,') had been a member for about six months. She was quite a promising, serious-minded player ('You can never play bridge flippantly, you know, Constable.'), and her bidding was improving all the time. What a tragedy it all was! After a few years (who knows?) she might have developed into a very good player indeed. It was her actual playing of the cards that sometimes wasn't quite as sharp as… Still, that was neither here nor there, now, was it? As she'd said, it was such a tragedy. Dear, oh dear! Who would ever have thought it? Such a surprise. No. She'd no idea at all of what the trouble could have been. Tuesday was always their night, and poor Anne ('Poor Anne!') had hardly ever missed. They started at about 8 p.m. and very often played through until way past midnight-sometimes (the chairman almost smiled) until 3 or 4 a.m. Sixteen to twenty of them, usually, although one quite disastrous night they'd only had nine. ('Nine,-Constable!') Anne had moved round the tables a bit, but (Gwendola was almost certain) she must have been playing the last rubber with Mrs. Raven ('The Ravens of Squitchey Lane, d'you know them?'), old Mr. Parkes ('Poor Mr. Parkes!') from Woodstock Road, and young Miss Edgeley ('Such a scatterbrain!') from Summertown House.

Walters took down the addresses and walked across the paved patio towards the front gate with the strong impression that the ageing Gwendola was far more concerned about the re-filling of an empty seat at a green baize table than about the tragic death of an obviously enthusiastic and faithful member of the club. Perhaps even such modest stakes as tuppence a hundred tended to make you mean deep down in the soul; perhaps with all those slams and penalty points and why-didn't-you-play-so-and-so, a bridge club was hardly the happiest breeding-ground for any real compassion and kindliness. Walters was glad he didn't play.

It was not a good start, for Miss Catharine Edgeley was away from home. The young, attractive brunette who shared the flat informed Walters that Cathy had left Oxford that same morning after receiving a telegram from Nottingham: her mother was seriously ill. Declining the offer of a cup of tea, Walters asked only a few perfunctory questions.

'Where does Miss Edgeley work?'

'She's an undergraduate at Brasenose.'

'Do they have women there?'

'They've always had women at Brasenose, haven't they?' said the brunette slowly.

But Walters missed the second joke of the day, and drove down to Squitchey Lane, where he received from Mrs. Raven an inordinately long and totally unhelpful account of the bridge evening; and thence to Woodstock Road, where he received from Mr. Parkes an extremely brief but also totally unhelpful account of the same proceedings. So that was that.

As it happened Walters had been unusually unlucky that day. But life can sometimes be a cussed business, and even a policeman with a considerably greater endowment of nous than Walters possessed must hope for a few lucky breaks here and there. And, indeed, Walters was no one's fool. As he lay beside his young wife in Kidlington that night, there were several points that now appeared clear to him. Bell was quite right-there was no doubt about it: the Scott woman had hanged herself, albeit for reasons as yet unapparent. But there were several fishy (fishy?) aspects about the affair. The bridge evening (evening?) had finally finished at about 2.45 a.m., and almost certainly Anne Scott had gone home shortly after that. How, though? Got a lift with someone? In a taxi? On a bicycle? (He'd forgotten to put the point to the garish Gwendola.) And then something had gone sadly wrong. Time of death could not be firmly established, but the medical report suggested she had been dead at least ten hours before the police arrived, and that meant… But Walters wasn't quite sure what it meant. Then again there was the business of the front door being left open. Why? Had she forgotten to lock it? Unlikely, surely. Had someone else unlocked it, then? If so, the key on the inside must first have been removed. Wasn't that much more likely, though? He himself always took the key out of his own front door and placed it by the telephone on the hall table. Come to think of it, he wasn't quite sure why he did it. Just habit, perhaps. Three keys… three keys… and one of them must have opened that door. And if it wasn't Anne Scott herself and if it wasn't Mrs. Purvis… Jackson! What if Jackson had gone in, unlocking the door with his own key, called out for Ms. Scott, heard no reply, and so walked through-into the kitchen! Jackson would know all about that sticking door because he'd been through it at least twice on each of the two previous days. And what if… what if he'd… Yes! The chair must have been in the way and he would almost certainly have knocked it over as he pushed the door inwards… would probably have picked it up and placed it by the kitchen table before turning round and- Phew! That would explain it all, wouldn't it? Well, most of it. Yet why, if that had happened, hadn't Jackson phoned the police immediately? There was a phone there, in number 9. Had Jackson felt guilty about something? Had there been something-money, perhaps?-in the kitchen that his greedy soul had coveted? It must have been something like that. Then, of course, there was that other mystery: Morse! For it must have been Morse whom Jackson had seen there that day. What on earth was he doing there earlier in the afternoon? Was he taking German lessons? Walters thought back to those oddly tentative, yet oddly searching questions that Morse had asked that night. 'Is she-is she dead?' Morse had asked him. Just a minute! How on earth…? Had one of the policemen outside mentioned who it was they'd found? But no one could have done, for there was no one else who knew… Suddenly Walters shot bolt upright, jumped out of bed, slipped downstairs, and with fingers all thumbs, riffled through the telephone directory until he came to the Ms. Rubbing his eyes with disbelief he stared again and again at the entry he'd been looking for: 'Morse, E., 45 The Flats, Banbury Road'. Morse! 'E.M. M. Was it Morse who'd been expected that afternoon? Steady on, though! There were a thousand and one other people with those initials-of course there were. But Morse had been there that afternoon-Walters was now quite sure in his own mind of that. It all fitted. Those questions he'd asked about doors and locks and lights-yes, he'd been there, alright. Now if Morse had a key and if he, not Jackson, had found his way through into the kitchen… Why hadn't he reported it, then? Money wouldn't fit into the picture now, but what if somehow Morse had… what if Morse was frightened he might compromise himself in some strange way if he reported things immediately? He'd rung later, of course-that would have been his duty as a police officer… Walters returned to bed but could not sleep. He was conscious of his eye-balls darting about in their sockets, and it was in vain that he tried to focus them on some imaginary point about six inches in front of his nose. Only in the early hours did he finally drift off into a disturbed sleep, and the most disturbing thought of all was what, if anything, he was to say to Chief Inspector Bell in the morning.