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to do better than this.”
    “Leaning on you, are they?” he asked sympathetically.
    Carol sighed, thinking of the urgent telephone calls from the Commissioner of Police and from Sir Richard. “A bit,” she said.
    Sybil went to the last class of the day with a feeling of relief. It was a senior English class, and she wanted to sink into Shakespeare’s language and forget the present. She smiled wryly to herself as she faced the class. After all, Hamlet was about death and suspicion, murder and motives, but somehow the familiar words in their iambic patterns seemed comforting.
    Initially it was hard to keep the attention of the students—the events of the day before and the heat of the afternoon combined against her. But then began one of those lessons that sometimes spontaneously occur, where minds are caught and held. It was exhilarating and satisfying to be part of the comments, arguments, and insights bubbling in the class, and Sybil had no opportunity to think of anything else. When the final bell went she felt refreshed, smiling at the students as they hurried out of the room to the freedom of the hot summer afternoon.
    “Can I speak to you for a minute?”
    Sybil looked up at Evan’s anxious face. He towered over her, gangling in that awkward half-boy, half-man stage. “What is it?”
    “Catch you up,” called Evan in response to a curious look from a friend who had paused in the doorway. He waited until they were alone, and then said, “Look, I didn’t know who to ask. It’s about Mr. Pagett.”
    Sybil stared at him. “Mr. Pagett?” she repeated stupidly.
    Evan shifted nervously. “What I need to know is, well. . . I want to know if I should go to the police.”
    “What about?”
    “It’s not important, really, but it might look . . .” Evan paused, then said the rest in a rush. “The end of last week, after school, Mr. Pagett and I had a fight. It was about Hilary.”
    “Hilary Cosgrove?” asked Sybil, remembering that she hadn’t been in the class sitting in her usual seat next to Evan.
    Evan nodded miserably. “She’s been seeing Mr. Pagett outside school. At his place. I didn’t like it. I waited and caught him after lessons on Friday and asked him to stop seeing her, but he just laughed at me.”
    “Evan, why are you telling me this?”
    “Because I punched him and knocked him over. I didn’t mean to do it, but I lost my temper. And when I tried to say I was sorry, he yelled at me and said he’d make sure I failed my exams. Someone must have heard—the cleaners, someone. Do I go to the police and tell them, or do I wait and see if anyone else does?”
    “You don’t know anything about Mr. Pagett’s death, do you?”
    “No, of course not, but that’s why . . .” He shrugged, looking helpless.
    Sybil felt a hypocrite as she said, “Then I think it would look better if you told them first. If someone already knows, they’re going to find out anyway.”
    Evan ducked his head, embarrassed. “Thanks. Don’t say anything about Hilary to anyone, will you?”
    As Sybil watched him go she wondered if, under different circumstances, she would have taken the advice she had just given Evan, and told Carol Ashton the truth about seeing Bill. But what circumstances would let her willingly allow someone else to see her inner self? Her thoughts swung to Terry and the argument Carol Ashton had interrupted the day before. He wanted to possess her, to own her—not only physically, but mentally and emotionally. Terry had shouted at her, “I have every right to follow you, Syb. You know I love you. Tell me why you went to see Bill last night. I want to know.” Carol Ashton ringing the front doorbell had cut into her furious reply.
    She mechanically gathered her books together. “Greta Garbo was right,” she said to the empty room, “I want to be alone.”

Chapter Four
     
    Sybil was sound asleep, dreaming that Carol Ashton’s green eyes were appraising her coldly as Sybil was arrested