welcome.’
Lambert went over to the bookshelves and stooped to read the spines. Old bound editions of the Strand Magazine, handsome copies of Edgar Allan Poe, Wilkie Collins, Conan Doyle, Rider Haggard, John Buchan, Dorothy Sayers, Agatha Christie. He picked out a book at random and opened it. An ornamental ex-libris plate bore a name and date written in faded ink: Gilbert Michael Dawson. March, 1935.
He picked out other books here and there. Some bore the same bookplate with dates ranging from the thirties to the sixties. Others carried more modern plates with Julie’s name – written sometimes in a schoolgirl hand, sometimes in a more adult style, with more recent dates.
The room was very neat. ‘That’s the way she left it,’ Miss Tysoe said. ‘I’ve never had to clear up after her, she’s always been tidy.’
Lambert glanced through the contents of the wardrobe, through drawers and cupboards; he opened the bureau. He found no bank books, no chequebook or credit cards. No letters or diaries, no personal papers of any interest.
But he did come across a folder of snapshots: Julie at various ages, exterior views of a cottage, a garden, a couple who were clearly her parents. Another woman, sitting beside Julie’s mother in the garden under an apple tree, looked about the same age as Julie’s mother. There were several snapshots of a freckle-faced, dark-haired lad of nine or ten, with a cheerful, open smile. And a few photographs of the Eardlows, taken some years ago when they were rather more hale and hearty.
Miss Tysoe could identify none of the photographs; Julie had never shown them to her. She had said little about her background and Miss Tysoe had never pressed her.
When Sergeant Lambert left, Miss Tysoe came limping out to the car with him. ‘I’ll be sure to let you know the moment I hear anything from Julie,’ she assured him. ‘And of course I’ll let the Eardlows know too. I’m pretty certain in my own mind she’s just gone off to think things out. She may decide to leave here altogether, find herself a job in London or some other city. After all, she has no ties, she can please herself.’
Lambert drove on into Millbourne. He called at Julie’s bank and spoke to the manager. Julie had a current account with the bank; it hadn’t been disturbed since the third week in May, the last two transactions being cheques drawn on the account, one dated May 15th, in favour of the estate agent from whom she had hired the caravan and the other, dated May 16th, made out to Calcott House.
Lambert went next to the Advertiser premises, a few doors from the bank. Mr Fielding was busy but when the sergeant’s name and an indication of his mission were sent in to him he broke off at once and came along to reception. He shook hands with Lambert and took him into his office. On the way he mentioned the recent phone call he had received from the Eardlows. He was sorry they felt so worried. He was sure the anxiety was groundless, he had done his best to reassure them. Had the police found any genuine cause for alarm?
No, Lambert told him. They were merely looking into the matter, trying to discover if there was any need for concern, hoping very shortly to be able themselves to reassure the old couple.
In the office Lambert told Fielding he had traced Julie to a caravan a few miles from the hotel where she had gone after leaving Honeysuckle Cottage. She had left the caravan in the last week of May and there, for the moment, at least, the trail ended.
Fielding asked in what way he could be of use. His manner was friendly and helpful. The sergeant told him it would be useful to know Fielding’s general impression of the girl, any idea he had about what might have led her to go off in this way, any guess at where or with whom she might now be. Perhaps, he suggested, Fielding might harbour some half-formed notion, too ill-defined to mention over the phone to the Eardlows, which might nevertheless be of use to the police.
Fielding shook his head with regret. No, he had no such notion. In the three years Julie had been with the Advertiser she had always been a willing and capable worker, punctual and accurate. She had progressed from the general office to telephone sales and was earning good money. He had thought her happy and satisfied in her job. She certainly hadn’t come to him looking for some further opportunity, something with more challenge. If she had he would have taken her seriously, would have done his best to find her a suitable niche.
He was not aware of any trouble between Julie and any other employee. She was a quiet girl with a pleasant manner. The official position was that she was on indefinite leave, unpaid now as her entitlement to paid leave had run out. Her job was being kept open for her – within reason. When she went off in the second week in May Fielding had never imagined she would be absent as long as this, but he would make no attempt to fill her job permanently for another month or two.
Whenever she came back she would be listened to sympathetically. If it turned out that some illness had overtaken her, if she had suffered any kind of breakdown, then she would – if she so wished – be reinstated and her absence treated as sick leave, with backdated pay.
But if it should turn out that she had decided to leave permanently, had found herself another job, maybe, there would be no difficulty about that. She would be given any references she might require, very good references, too. She would be advised about pension rights.
As to what Fielding’s own private guess might be, he admitted he still felt no real concern. He had employed a good deal of female labour for some years now; sudden departures, abrupt termination of employment, unexplained absences, brief or more lengthy, were by no means unknown. He smiled. ‘Usually it’s for some personal reason – when a reason is ever given. You learn not to ask too many questions; you don’t want to find yourself involved in some emotional mishmash, drowned in floods of tears.’
On that score, no, he knew of no boyfriend among the Advertiser staff. ‘But I would scarcely expect to know,’ he added. ‘I never concern myself with gossip, there’s far too much work to be done. Audrey Tysoe – Julie’s landlady at Honeysuckle Cottage; she used to run Personnel here till she retired – she’d be far more likely to know about anything like that.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘If there’s nothing further, I do have an appointment.’
Lambert rose at once. He thanked Fielding for his time, his assistance. If he learned anything definite he would be sure to let Fielding know. Fielding promised to do the same.
Fielding shook hands, walked with him into the corridor. ‘I don’t for one moment think anything’s happened to Julie,’ he said with conviction. ‘In my opinion she’s a girl well able to take care of herself.’
On Monday morning Chief Inspector Kelsey returned from his conference in a worse state than ever. Late nights, smoke-filled rooms, food and drink far too abundant, too indigestible.
A great many matters clamoured for his attention. Very low on his list of priorities came the unknown whereabouts of Miss Julie Dawson. He listened with ill-concealed impatience as Lambert sketched in a brief account of his endeavours with regard to the missing girl. Towards the end of the sergeant’s recital the Chief burst into a paroxysm of coughing. He reached into a drawer and laid hold of yet another bottle containing yet another lethal-looking mixture. He took an extra-long swig, totally heedless by now of all warnings on all labels.
He replaced the bottle in the drawer and sat leaning forward, gasping. No good, he thought, I’m going to have to give in. I can’t go on like this. For once in his life he was going to have to do what the doctor ordered, remove himself from the scene for a couple of weeks. He didn’t give a tuppenny toss where, just somewhere quiet and soothing, where he
