The Way Through The Woods by Colin Dexter

really managed to speak to you my daughter. I never told you my darling daughter because I did not know – and you can never know why and can never understand.
     
    I have reached a decision. This journal shall be discontinued. Always when I look back on what I have written I see nothing of any worth – only self-indulgence – theatricality – over-emotionalism. Just one plea Imake. It was never forced or insincere or hypocritical. No, never!
    But no more.

chapter eighteen
A 'strange coincidence' to use a phrase
    By which such things are settled now-a-days
    (Lord Byron, Don Juan)
     
    Claire osborne turned right from the A4O down into Banbury Road, knowing that she would have to drive only three or four hundred yards along it, since she had received a detailed map through the post. She was a little surprised – a lot surprised – when she spotted, on her right, the Cotswold House, a considerably more striking and attractive building than the 'suburban, modern, detached,' blurb of The Good Hotel Guide had led her to expect. She experienced an unexpected feeling of delight as she parked her Metro MG (what a disaster not taking that to Lyme!) on the rusty-red asphalt in front of the double-fronted guest-house, built of honey-coloured Cotswold stone in the leafy environs of North Oxford.
    Flower-baskets in green, red, purple, and white, hung all around her as she rang the bell at the front door, on which a white notice read 'No Vacancies'. But Claire had earlier found a vacancy, and booked it: a vacancy for two.
    The door was opened by a tall, slim man, with a shock of prematrrarely grey hair, black eyebrows, a slightly diffident smile, and asoft Irish brogue.
    ‘Hello’
    ‘Hello. My name's Mrs Hardinge, and I think you'll find-'
    ‘Alraedy found, Mrs Hardinge. And I'm Jim O'Kane. Now do come in. won't you? And welcome to the Cotswold House.' With which splendid greeting he picked up her case and led her inside, Claire felt immediately and overwhelmingly impressed.
    Brifly O'Kane consulted the bookings register, then selected a key from somewhere, and led the way up a semi-circular staircase, no trouble finding us, I trust?'
    ‘Your little map was very helpful.'
    'Good journey?'
    'No problems.'
    O'Kane walked across the landing, inserted a key in Room opened the door, ushered his guest inside, followed her with the suitcase, and then, with a courteous, old-world gesture, hande her a single key – almost as if he were presenting a bouquet flowers to a beautiful girl.
    'The key fits your room here and the front door, Mrs Hardinge’
    'Fine.'
    'And if I could just remind you' – his voice growing somewhat apologetic – 'this is a non-smoking guest-house… I did mention it when you rang.'
    'Yes.' But she was frowning. 'That means – everywhere? Including the bedrooms?'
    'Especially the bedrooms,' replied O'Kane, simply if reluctant!'.
    Claire looked down at the single key. 'My husband's been held up in London-'
    'No problem! Well, only one problem perhaps. We're always abit pushed for parking – if there are two cars…?'
    'He'll have his car, yes. But don't worry about that. There seem to be plenty of room in the side-streets.'
    O'Kane appeared grateful for her understanding, and asked if she were familiar with Oxford, with the North Oxford area. And Claire said, yes, she was; her husband knew the area well, so there was no trouble there.
    Wishing Mrs Hardinge well, Mr O'Kane departed – leaving Claire to look with admiration around the delightfully designed and decorated accommodation. En suite, too.
     
    O'Kane was not a judgemental man, and in any case the moralality of his guests was of rather less importance to him than the comfort. But already the signs were there: quite apart from the circumstantial evidence of any couple arriving in separate cars, over the years O'Kane had observed that almost every wedded woman arriving first would show an interest in the in-house amenities and the like. Yet Mrs