LITMIR.BIZ

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was sure she would turn up again before long. She had left most of her things at the cottage – that must surely mean she intended returning, if only to collect her belongings. She had lodged with Miss Tysoe for two years. Before that she had stayed with three or four other landladies but hadn’t been happy with any of them.

      Miss Tysoe didn’t normally take in lodgers. She had been in charge of personnel at the Advertiser until her retirement and Julie had told her she hadn’t been able to find digs she was happy in. ‘I offered to take her in here, temporarily,’ Miss Tysoe explained. ‘Till she could look round to find somewhere she really liked. But we both found it worked well, her being here. I liked having someone around in the evenings and at weekends, and Julie liked living out of town; it was what she had been used to before she came to Millbourne. She wasn’t a girl who wanted to go out much in her free time. So she stayed on.’

      But they had never been close. Both tended to be self-sufficient, and Julie was not by nature a confiding girl. It was a satisfactory relationship of good-natured live and let live, with mutual benefits. There had never been any friction between them.

      Lambert told her he now knew that Julie had stayed in a caravan for several days after leaving Calcott House. No, Miss Tysoe had no idea where Julie might have gone at the end of her caravan stay. She wasn’t entirely surprised at Julie taking herself off on indefinite leave; she had been showing signs of restlessness for some time. She had made remarks about the Advertiser being small fry, Millbourne being a very provincial place, Honeysuckle Cottage being in a backwater.

      From her years in personnel work Miss Tysoe had garnered a good deal of experience of young women and she believed she could read the signs. ‘I think it could have been her twentieth birthday that sparked it off,’ she hazarded. ‘She seemed to feel it was some kind of milestone. When she first came to Millbourne she hadn’t long lost her mother. She badly needed a breathing space to come to terms with adult life. And I suppose, coming more or less straight from school into a newspaper office, from a little village to a town, it all seemed new, interesting and exciting, being out in the world on her own, learning a job, earning money.

      ‘But that was three years ago. By this time she must feel on top of her job, it can’t be much of a challenge any more. She’s probably beginning to want something livelier and more demanding. She might feel she’s completed one stage of her growing up – after all, at twenty, she’s no longer an adolescent. I imagine she’s ready to spread her wings again, take a good look at her life and how she intends to spend it. She’ll come back, I’m positive, when she’s reached some decisions.’

      ‘What about boyfriends?’ Lambert wanted to know. ‘A pretty young girl, she must surely have boyfriends.’

      But Miss Tysoe was positive there was no one. Nor did Julie have any close girlfriend. There had been two girls at the Advertiser she had been friendly with at one time but both had left some time ago. As far as Miss Tysoe knew, Julie hadn’t kept up with either of them, nor could she say where either was now living. She was sure Julie had made no special friend since then. ‘Most of the young women at the Advertiser are married, with young families,’ she pointed out. ‘They have their own very busy lives to lead, apart from their jobs.’

      Lambert asked if she could tell him the name of Julie’s bank and she was able to supply it. She also told him Julie had a savings account with a building society, but she didn’t know which one. Nor did she know if she had a post-office account.

      Lambert asked if he might look through her things. She took him upstairs to a good-sized room, comfortably furnished as a bedsitter. ‘She often stayed up here, reading or watching TV,’ Miss Tysoe told him. She indicated a portable television set, well-filled bookshelves. ‘If she wanted to join me downstairs, she was always 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

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