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By Root 446 0

to it, then, that there was something here that someone was looking for. Hardly a cache of jewels. That seemed ruled out. There could be no secret hiding place, false drawers, spring catches, etc. And the contents of the lockers were pitifully simple. They had their secrets, but they were the secrets of school life. Photographs of pin up heroes, packets of cigarettes, an occasional unsuitable cheap paperback. Especially he returned to Shaista’s locker. It was while bending over that that Miss Vansittart had been killed. What had Miss Vansittart expected to find there? Had she found it? Had her killer taken it from her dead hand and then slipped out of the building in the nick of time to miss being discovered by Miss Chadwick?

In that case it was no good looking. Whatever it was, was gone.

The sound of footsteps outside aroused him from his thoughts. He was on his feet and lighting a cigarette in the middle of the floor when Julia Upjohn appeared in the doorway, hesitating a little.

“Anything you want, miss?” asked Adam.

“I wondered if I could have my tennis racquet.”

“Don’t see why not,” said Adam. “Police constable left me here,” he explained mendaciously. “Had to drop back to the station for something. Told me to stop here while he was away.”

“To see if he came back, I suppose,” said Julia.

“The police constable?”

“No. I mean, the murderer. They do, don’t they? Come back to the scene of the crime. They have to! It’s a compulsion.”

“You may be right,” said Adam. He looked up at the serried rows of racquets in their presses. “Whereabouts is yours?”

“Under U,” said Julia. “Right at the far end. We have our names on them,” she explained, pointing out the adhesive tape as he handed the racquet to her.

“Seen some service,” said Adam. “But been a good racquet once.”

“Can I have Jennifer Sutcliffe’s too?” asked Julia.

“New,” said Adam appreciatively, as he handed it to her.

“Brand new,” said Julia. “Her aunt sent it to her only the other day.”

“Lucky girl.”

“She ought to have a good racquet. She’s very good at tennis. Her backhand’s come on like anything this term.” She looked round. “Don’t you think he will come back?”

Adam was a moment or two getting it.

“Oh. The murderer? No, I don’t think it’s really likely. Bit risky, wouldn’t it be?”

“You don’t think murderers feel they have to?”

“Not unless they’ve left something behind.”

“You mean a clue? I’d like to find a clue. Have the police found one?”

“They wouldn’t tell me.”

“No. I suppose they wouldn’t … Are you interested in crime?”

She looked at him inquiringly. He returned her glance. There was, as yet, nothing of the woman in her. She must be of much the same age as Shaista, but her eyes held nothing but interested inquiry.

“Well—I suppose—up to a point—we all are.”

Julia nodded in agreement.

“Yes. I think so, too … I can think of all sorts of solutions—but most of them are very far-fetched. It’s rather fun, though.”

“You weren’t fond of Miss Vansittart?”

“I never really thought about her. She was all right. A bit like the Bull—Miss Bulstrode—but not really like her. More like an understudy in a theatre. I didn’t mean it was fun she was dead. I’m sorry about that.”

She walked out holding the two racquets.

Adam remained looking round the Pavilion.

“What the hell could there ever have been here?” he muttered to himself.

IV

“Good lord,” said Jennifer, allowing Julia’s forehand drive to pass her. “There’s Mummy.”

The two girls turned to stare at the agitated figure of Mrs. Sutcliffe, shepherded by Miss Rich, rapidly arriving and gesticulating as she did so.

“More fuss, I suppose,” said Jennifer resignedly. “It’s the murder. You are lucky, Julia, that your mother’s safely on a bus in the Caucasus.”

“There’s still Aunt Isabel.”

“Aunts don’t mind in the same way.”

“Hallo, Mummy,” she added, as Mrs. Sutcliffe arrived.

“You must come and pack your things, Jennifer. I’m taking you back with me.”

“Back home?”

“Yes.”

“But—you don’t mean altogether? Not for good?”

“Yes. I do.”

“But you can’t—really. My tennis has come on like anything. I’ve got