Inspector Morse 11 The Daughters of Cain

"Super just rang through, sk---"

"'Rang' through," muttered Morse.

"---and wanted me to tell you straightaway. It's Mrs. Phillotson, sir. She died earlier this afternoon. Seems she had another emergency op... and well, she didn't pull through. He didn't tell me any more. He just wanted you to know, he said."

Roberts left, and Lewis looked on as Morse slowly sat down in the brown leather armchair, staring, it seemed, at the design on the carpet--the eyes, usually so fierce and piercing, now dull and defeated; a look of such self-loathing on his face as Lewis had never seen before.

It was five minutes later that Lewis made an offer which (as he knew) could hardly be refused.

"Fancy a beer, sir? The King's Arms down the road's open--Open All Day, it says outside."

But Morse shook his head, and sat there in continued si-lence.

So for a while Lewis pretended to complete an already completed task. Perhaps he should have felt puzzled? But no. He wasn't puzzled at all.

Tomorrow was Thursday....

And the next day was Friday....

Strange how they'd both cropped up already that day: the Man Who Was Thursday and the Girl Who Was Friday. Yet at this stage of the case, as they sat together in Daventry Court, neither Morse nor Lewis had the vaguest notion of how crucial one of the two was soon to become.

Chapter Eleven

You; my Lady, certainly don't dye your hair to deceive the others, nor even yourself; but only to cheat your own image a little before the looking-glass (Lu IGI PIRANDELLO, Henry IV)

When for a second time she had put down the phone Eleanor Smith stared at her own carpet, in this case threadbare, tastelessly floral affair that stopped, at eacl wall, about eighteen inches short of the chipped skirting boards.

The callstdn't been unexpected. No. Ever since sheh read of Mc Clure's murder in the Oxford Mail she'd half ex pected, half feared that the police would be in touch. Twice at least twice, she remembered sending him a postcard; am once a letter--a rambling, adolescent letter written just afte they'd first met when she'd felt particularly lonely on dark and cloudy day. And knowing Felix, even a bit, sh thought he'd probably have kept anything she might hav, sent him.

Their first meeting for a drink together had been in th Chapters Bar of The Randolph. Good, that had been. N, pretences then, on either side. But he'd gently refused t. consider her a "courtesan" if only for the reason (as he' smilingly informed her) that anagrammatically, and appro priately, the word gave rise to "a sore Yes, quite good really, that first evening--that first nighl in fact--together. Above all perhaps, from her point o view, it had marked a nascent interest in crossword puzzles, which Felix had later encouraged and patiently fostered....

They'd found her telephone number in his flat--of course they had. Not that it was any great secret. Not ex-actly an ex-directory, exclusive series of digits. A number, rather, that in the early days had been slipped into half the BT phone-boxes in East Oxford, on a card with an amateur-ishly drawn outline of a curvaceous brunette with bouncy boobs. Her! But it was there; there in that telephone-thing of his on the desk. She knew that, for she'd seen it there.

Odd, really. She'd b. ave expected someone with such a fine brain as Felix to have committed her five-figure number to a permanent place in bis memory. Seemingly not, though. Poor old Felix.

She'd never loved anyone in life really-except her mum. But among her clients, that rather endearing, kindly, caring sort of idiot, Felix, had perhaps come nearer than anyone.

He'd never mentioned any enemies. But he must have had at least one--that much was certain. Not that she could help. She knew nothing. If she had known something, she'd have volunteered the information before now.

Or would she?

The very last thing she wanted was to get involved with the police. With her job? Come off it! And in any case there was no point in it. The last time she'd been round to Felix's apartment had been three weeks ago, when he'd cooked steak for the two of them, with a bottle of vintage claret to wash it down; and two bottles of expensive cham pagne, one before... things; and one after.

Poor old Felix.

A very nice person in the very nasty world in which she'd lived these last few years.

Easy enough fooling the fuzz! Just said she wasn't there, hadn't she? Just said she was in Spain. Just said there'd been this photo of a bare-breasted tourist in Torremolinos. Been a bit of a problem if that second copper'd asked for the photo, though. But he'd sounded all right--they'd both sounded all right. Just not very bright, that's all. Would they check up on her? But what if they did? They'd soon under stand why she'd told a few fibs. It was a joke. Bit of fun. No one wanted to get involved in a murder enquiry.