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me.'
    'The French girl,' Claire interrupted. 'You know about her?'
    'It's in all the papers, isn't it? Of course, I hope no harm comes to her, but carrying on like that she was asking for it, in my opinion.'
    Claire was very still. 'Carrying on like what?'
    Edna sniffed. 'No better than she should be, if you ask me. I've seen her several times around the town, always with a different lad in tow. Oh, she looked proper enough, I grant you—except when she was in the car that time.'
    'What car? When?'
    'Lord love us, Miss Claire, how do I know? A week or two back, at least.' 'Where was the car?'
    'In Farthing Lane, just up from Mrs King's.'
    Claire's mouth was dry. Simon's car? Her brief panic subsided. No, Simon's car was distinctive, to say the least, and Edna knew it well. An ancient and battered sports car in several shades of green, Sarah had christened it The Hesperus, and the name stuck. It was safe to ask, 'Did you see who the man was?'
    Edna sniffed again, disapproval on her face. 'I've got better things to do than spy on courting couples. Anyway, I could only see the back of his head—though come to think of it, he'd got a bald patch on top. I remember thinking he was older than her usual. Shouldn't be surprised if he was married.'
    Was the information worth passing to Simon? It sounded very vague.
    'Anyway,' Edna continued, reverting to her original theme, 'you don't expect any different of foreigners, but you don't want a local girl to go that way, do you?'
    Claire hoped devoutly that Edna's opinion of local girls would never be diminished. 'No,' she agreed prudently, 'you certainly don't.'
    The campus of Broadshire University was landscaped to take advantage of its unique position. From the main Bridge Road, a long driveway wound through rows of trees, with frequent paths leading off signposted to different Halls of Residence—West Park, Avon, Somerset. As they drove, they continually passed groups of students with satchels and bundles of books under their arms, making their way either to or from the main faculty buildings. Eventually the avenue of trees opened into a large space like the centre of a village.
    'Doesn't mention the French Department,'Jackson said, peering at the different arms of the signpost.
    'It'll be the Arts building,' Webb told him, primed by Marshbanks.
    'What's French got to do with drawing?' Jackson demanded, but he turned the car in the direction indicated and they drove into the car park. Inside the building, they approached the porter's desk and the man looked up from his newspaper.
    'Yes, gentlemen? What can I do for you?'
    'Chief Inspector Webb and Sergeant Jackson. We'd like a word with Professor Warwick, if it's convenient.'
    'Ah, you've come about Miss Picard, I suppose. Worrying business. You want the French corridor, sir. Up those stairs and through the swing doors on your left. The secretaries will help you.'
    However, when they reached the first floor, it was to learn that the Professor was lecturing. Webb asked instead for Mr Duncan.
    He was a broad-shouldered Scot in his mid-thirties, with a thatch of dark hair and a small beard. He did not seem overjoyed to see them.
    'There's not much I can tell you,' he began discouragingly as they seated themselves. 'I hardly know Miss Picard. I can't imagine why you think I can help you.'
    'She mentioned your name, sir,' Webb said stolidly.
    The man looked alarmed. 'To whom?'
    'A girlfriend.'
    'I can't think why. She sometimes sits at my table in the refectory, but I've no other contact with her.' 'What's your impression of her?'
    'Och, she's a bright enough girl. Cheerful and friendly.' 'Any particular friends?'
    He shrugged. 'Charlie Peterson, Mike Partridge . . .' His voice tailed off.
    'Do you ever see her off the campus, sir?'
    Duncan flushed. 'I'm a married man, Chief Inspector. With children.'
    Webb smiled slightly. 'That hardly answers my question.'
    'I thought it did. But if you want it more plainly, no, I do not see her outside