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you do you need an accommodation address and that you use your own address, which is not in the Chalke Valley but in the Cathedra Close at Salisbury. I think you came here by coach on Friday afternoon and that your partner, who was probably at some conferance or other in the area, was scheduled to get here at the same time as you. But he didn't show up. And since you'd already booked your double room you registered and took your stuff up to your room, including a suitcase with the initials "C S O" on it. You suspected something had gone sadly wrong, but as yet you daren't use the phone to find out. You had no option but to wait. I think a call did come through eventually, explaining the situation and you were deeply disappointed and upset – upset enough to shed a tear or two. This morning you hired a taxi to take you to meet this fellow who had let you down, and I think you've spent the day together somewhere. You're back here now because you've booked the, weekend break anyway, and your partner probably gave you a cheque to cover the bill. You'll be leaving in the morning, hoping for better luck next time.'
    Morse had finished – and there was a long silence between them during which he drained his whisky, she her brandy,
    'Another?' asked Morse.
    'Yes. But I'll get them. The cheque he gave me was more tha generous.' The voice was matter-of-fact, harder now, and Morse knew that the wonderful magic had faded. When she returned with the drinks, she changed her place and sat primly opposite him.
    'Would you believe me if I said the suitcase I brought with me belongs to my mother, whose name is Cassandra Osborne?'
    'No,' said Morse. For a few seconds he thought he saw a sign of a gentle amusement in her eyes, but it was soon gone.
    'What about this – this "married man who lives in Oxford"?'
    'Oh, I know all about him.'
    You what?' Involuntarily her voice had risen to a falsetto squeak, and two or three heads had turned in her direction.
    'I rang up the Thames Valley Police. If you put any car number through the computer there -‘
    ‘- you get the name and address of the owner in about ten seconds.'
    'About two seconds,' amended Morse. 'And you did that?' 'I did that.'
    'God! You're a regular shit, aren't you?' Her eyes blazed with anger now.
    'S'funny, though,' said Morse, ignoring the hurt. 'I know his na me – but I still don't know yours .' ‘Louisa, I told you.'
    ‘No. I think not. Once you'd got to play the part of Mrs Something Hardinge, you liked the idea of "Louisa". Why not? You may not know all that much about Coleridge. But about Hardy? That's different. You remembered that when Hardy was a youth he fell in love with a girl who was a bit above him in class and wealth and privilege, and so he tried to forget her. In fact he spent all the rest of his life trying to forget her.'
    She was looking down at the table as Morse went gently on: ‘Hardy never really spoke to her. But when he was an old man he used to go and stand over her unmarked grave in Stinsford churchyard.'
    It was Morse's turn now to look down at the table
    ‘Would you like some more coffee, madame?' The waiter smiled:ely and sounded a pleasant young chap. But 'madame' shook -~ nead, stood up, and prepared to leave
    ‘Claire – Claire Osborne – that's my name.'
    ‘Well, thanks again – for the paper, Claire.'
    ‘That's all right.' Her voice was trembling slightly and her eyes; suddenly moist with tears.
    ‘Shall I see you for breakfast?' asked Morse.
    ‘No. I'm leaving early.'
    ‘Like this morning.'
    'Like this morning.'
    ‘I see,' said Morse.
    'Perhaps you see too much.'
    'Perhaps I don't see enough.'
    'Goodnight – Morse.'
    'Goodnight. Goodnight, Claire.'
     
    When an hour and several drinks later Morse finally decided to retire, he found it difficult to concentrate on anything else except taking one slightly swaying stair at a time. On the second floor, Room 14 faced him at the landing; and if only a line of light had shown itself