Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

Back in his flat, Morse made two phone

'And no more booze today, Malcolm!'

'What me - drink? On business? Never! And you better not drink, neither.'

'Two sober men - that's what the job needs,' agreed Morse.

'What time you pickin' me up then?'

'No. You're picking me up. Half past seven at my place.'

'OK. And just remember you got more to lose than I 'ave, Mr Morse.'

Yes, far more to lose, Morse knew that; and he felt a shudder of apprehension about the risky escapade he was undertaking. His nerves needed some steadying.

He poured himself a goodly measure of Glenfiddich; and shortly thereafter fell deeply asleep hi the chair for more than two hours.

Bliss.

Johnson parked his filthy F-reg Vauxhall in a fairly convenient lay-by on die Deddington Road, the main thoroughfare which runs at the rear of die odd-numbered houses in Bloxham Drive. As instructed, Morse stayed behind, in the murky shadow of the embankment, as Johnson eased himself through a gap in the perimeter fence, where vandals had smashed and wrenched away several of die vertical slats, and dien, widi surprising agility, descended die steep stretch of slippery grass dial led down to die rear of die terrace.

The coast seemed clear.

Morse looked on nervously as die locksman stood in his trainers at die back of Number 15, patiendy and mediodically doing what he did so well. Once, he snapped to taut attention hard beside die wall as a light was switched on hi one of die nearby houses, dirowing a yellow rectangle over die glistening grass - and dien switched off.

Six minutes.

By Morse's watch, six minutes before Johnson turned the knob, carefully eased the door open, and disappeared within - before reappearing and beckoning a tense and jumpy Morse to join him.

'Do you want the lights on?' asked Johnson as he played the thin beam of his large torch around the kitchen.

'What do you think?'

"Yes. Let's 'ave 'em on. Lemme just go and pull the curtains through 'ere.' He moved into the front living-room, where Morse heard a twin swish, before the room burst suddenly into light.

An ordinary, somewhat spartan room: settee; two rather tatty armchairs; dining-table and chairs; TV set; electric fire installed in the old fireplace; and above the fireplace, on a mantelshelf patinated deep with dust, the only object perhaps which any self-respecting burglar would have wished to take - a small, beautifully fashioned ormolu clock.

Upstairs, the double-bed in the front room was unmade, an orange bath-towel thrown carelessly across the duvet; no sign of pyjamas. On the bedside table two items only: Wilbur Smith's The Seventh Scroll in paperback, and a packet of BiSoDoL Extra indigestion tablets. An old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe monopolized much of the remaining space, widi coats/suits/ trousers on their hangers, and six pairs of shoes neady laid in parallels at the bottom; and on the shelves, to the left, piles of jumpers, shirts, pants, socks, and handkerchiefs.

The second bedroom was locked.

'Malcolm!' whispered Morse down the stairwell.

Two and a half minutes later, Morse was taking stock of a smaller but clearly more promising room: a large book-case containing a bestseller selection from over the years; one armchair; one office chair; the latter set beneath a veneered desk with an imitation leather top, four drawers on either side, and between them a longer drawer with two handles - locked.

'Malcolm!' whispered Morse down the stairwell.

Ninety seconds only this time, and clearly the locksman was running into form.

The eight side-drawers contained few items of interest: stationery, insurance documents, car documents, bank statements, pens and pencils - but in the bottom left-hand drawer a couple of pornographic paperbacks. Morse opened Topless in Torremolinos at random and read a short paragraph.

In its openly titillating way, it seemed to him surprisingly well written. And there was that one striking simile where the heroine's bosom was compared to a pair of fairy-cakes - although Morse wasn't at all sure what a fairy-cake looked like. He made a mental note of the author, Ann Berkeley Cox, and read the brief dedication on the tide page, 'For Geoff From ABC', before slipping the book into the pocket of his mackintosh.

Johnson was seated in an armchair, in die living-room, in the dark, when Morse came down die stairs holding a manila file.

'Got what you wanted, Mr Morse?'

'Perhaps so. Ready?'

With the house now in total darkness, the two men felt their way to the kitchen, when Morse stopped suddenly.

'The torch! Give me the torch.'

Retracing his steps to the living-room, he shone the beam along an empty mantelpiece.

'Put it back!'he said.

Johnson took the ormolu clock from his overcoat-pocket and replaced it carefully on its litde dust-free rectangle.

'I'm glad you made me do that,' confided Johnson quiedy. 'I shouldn't 'a done it in the first place. Anyway, me conscience'll be clear now.'

There was a streak of calculating cruelty in the man, Morse knew that. But in several respects he was a lovable rogue; even sometimes, as now perhaps, a reasonably honest one. And oddly it was Morse who was beginning to worry - about his own conscience.

He went quickly up to die second bedroom once more and slipped the book back in its drawer.

At last, as quiedy as it had opened, die back door closed behind diem and die pair now made dieir way up die grassy gradient to die gap in die slatted perimeter fence.

"You've not lost your old skills,' volunteered Morse.

'Nah! Know what diey say, Mr Morse? Old burglars never die - diey simply steal away.'

' *

In the darkened house behind them, on the mantelshelf in the front living-room, a little dust-free rectangle still betrayed the spot where the beautifully fashioned ormolu clock had so recently stood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

When you have assembled what you call your 'facts' in logical order, it is like an oil-lamp you have fashioned, filled, and trimmed; but which will shed no illumination unless first you light it

(Saint-Exupery, The Wisdom of the Sands)

BACK IN HIS flat, Morse closed the door and shot the bolts, both top and bottom. It was an oddly needless precaution, yet an explicable one, perhaps. As a twelve-year-old boy, he remembered so vividly returning from school with a magazine, and locking all the doors in spite of his certain knowledge that no other member of the family would be home for several hours. And then, even then, he had waited awhile, relishing the anticipatory thrill before daring to open the pages.

It was just that sensation he felt now as he switched on the electric fire, poured a glass of Glenfiddich, lit a cigarette, and settled back in his favourite armchair - not this time, however, with the Naturist Journal which (all those years ago now) had been doing the rounds in Lower IVA, but with the manila file just burgled from the house in Bloxham Drive.

The cover was well worn, with tears and creases along its edges; and maroon rings where once a wine glass had rested, amid many doodles of quite intricate design. Inside the file was a sheaf of papers and cuttings, several of them clipped or stapled together, though not arranged in any chronological or purposeful sequence.

Nine separate items.

- Two newspaper cuttings, snipped from one of the less inhibited of the Sunday tabloids, concerning a Lord Hardiman, together with a photograph of the aforesaid peer fishing in his wallet (presumably for Deutschmarks) outside a readily identifiable sex establishment in Hamburg's Reeperbahn. Clipped to this material was a further photograph of Lord Hardiman arm-in-arm with Lady Hardiman at a polo match in Great Windsor Park (September 1984).

- A letter (August 1979) addressed to Owens from a firm of solicitors in Cheltenham informing the addressee that it was in possession of letters sent by him (Owens) to one of their clients (unspecified); and that some arrangement beneficial to each of the parties might possibly be considered.

- A glossy, highly defined photograph showing a ·· paunchy elderly man fondling a frightened-looking

prepubescent girl, both of them naked. Pencilled on the back was an address in St Albans.

- A stapled sheaf of papers showing the expenses of a director in a Surrey company manufacturing surgical appliances, with double exclamation-marks against several of the mammoth amounts claimed for foreign business trips.

-A brief, no-nonsense letter (from a woman, perhaps?) in large, curly handwriting, leaning italic-fashion to the right: 'If you contact me again I shall take your letters to the police - I've kept them all. You'll get no more money from me. You're a despicable human being. I've got nothing more to lose, not even my money.' No signature but (again) a pencilled address, this time in the margin, in Wimbledon.

- Four sets of initials written on a small page probably torn from the back of a diary:

AM DC JS CB

Nothing more - except a small tick in red Biro against the first three.

- Two further newspaper cuttings, paper-clipped together. The first (The Times Diary, 2.2.96) reporting as follows:

After a nine-year tenure lege, Oxford. Sir Clixby Sir Clixby Bream is retiring would, indeed should, have as Master of Lonsdale Col- retired earlier. It is only the

inability of anyone in the been the result of some

College (including the clas- obscurity in the language of

sicists) to understand the the Statutes themselves; or

Latin of the original Stat- the incompetence of his

utes that has prolonged Sir classical colleagues, none of

Clixby's term. The present whom appears to have been

Master has refused to spec- nominated as a possible

ulate whether such an ext- successor.

The second, a cutting from the Oxford Mail (November 1995) of an article written by Geoffrey Owens; with a photograph alongside, the caption reading, 'Mr Julian Storrs and his wife Angela at the opening of the Polynesian Art Exhibition at the Pitt Rivers Museum.'

- A smudgy photocopy of a typed medical report, marked 'Strictly Private and Confidential', on the notepaper of a private health clinic in the Banbury Road:

Ref: Mr J. C. Storrs

Diagnosis: Inoperable > liver cancer con-

firmed. For second opn. see letter Dr O. V. Maxim (Churchill)

Prognosis: Seven/eight months, or less.

Possibly(??) a year. No longer.

Patient Notes: Honesty best in this case. Strong personality.

Next Appt: See book, but a s a p.

RHT

Clipped to this was a cutting from the obituary columns of one of the national dailies - The Independent, by the look of it - announcing the death of the distinguished cancer specialist Robert H. Turnbull.

- Finally, three photographs, paper-clipped togetfien (i) A newspaper photograph of a strip-club, showing in turn (though indistinguishably) individual photographs of the establishment's principal performers, posted on each side of the narrow entrance; showing also (widi complete clarity) the inviting legend: SEXIEST RAUNCHIEST SHOW IN SOHO.

(ii) A full-lengdi, black-and-white photograph of a tallish botde-blonde in a dark figure-hugging gown, the diigh-slit on the left revealing a length of shapely leg. About die woman diere seemed litde dial was less dian genuinely attractive - except die smile perhaps, (iii) A colour photograph of die same woman seated completely naked, apart from a pair of extraordinarily diin stiletto heels, on a bar-stool somewhere - her overfirm breasts suggesting that die smile in die former photograph was not die only thing about her that might be semi-artificial. The legs, now happily revealed in all dieir lengdiy glory, were those of a young dancer - die legs of a Cyd Charisse or a Betty Grable, much better dian diose in die Naturist Journal...

Morse dosed die file, and knew what he had read: an agenda for blackmail - and possibly for murder.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Sunday, 25 February

He was advised by a friend, with whom he afterwards lost touch, to stay at the Wilberforce Temperance Hotel

(Geoffrey Madan, Notebooks)

I hate those who intemperately denounce beer - and call it Temperance

(G. K. Chesterton)

SOCRATES, ON HIS last day on earth, avowed that death, if it be but one long and dreamless sleep, was a blessing most devoutly to be wished. Morse, on the morning of Sunday, 25 February - without going quite so far as Socrates - could certainly look back on his own long and dreamless sleep with a rare gratitude, since the commonest features of his nights were regular visits to the loo, frequent draughts of water, occasional doses of Nurofen and Paracetamol, an intake of indigestion tablets, and finally (after rising once more from his crumpled bed-linen) a tumbler of Alka-Seltzer.

The Observer was already poking thickly through the

letter-box as he hurriedly prepared himself a subcontinental breakfast. 10.30 a.m.

It was 11.15 a-m- when he arrived at HQ, where Lewis had already been at work for three hours, and where he was soon regaling the chief about his visit to the newspaper offices.

A complete picture of Owens - built up from testimonials, references, records, impressions, gossip - showed a competent, hard-working, well-respected employee. That was the good news. And the bad? Well, it seemed the man was aloof, humourless, unsympathetic. In view of the latter shortcomings (Lewis had suggested) it was perhaps puzzling to understand why Owens had been sent off on a personnel management course. Yet (as the editor had suggested) some degree of aloofness, humourlessness, lack of sympathy, was perhaps precisely what was required in such a role.

Lewis pointed to the cellophane folder in which his carefully paginated photocopies were assembled.

'And one more thing. He's obviously a bit of a hit with some of the girls there - especially the younger ones.'

'In spite of his pony-tail?'

'Because of it, more likely.'

"You're not serious?'

'And you're never going to catch up with the twentieth century, are you?'

'One or two possible leads?'

'Could be.'

'Such as?'

'Well, for a start, the Personnel Manager who saw Owens on Monday. I'll get a statement from him as soon as he gets back from holiday - earlier, if you'd like.'

Morse looked dubious. *Ye-es. But if somebody intended to murder Owens, not Rachel James ... well, Owens' alibi is neither here nor there really, is it? You're right, though. Let's stick to official procedure. I've always been in favour of rules and regulations.'

As Lewis eyed his superior officer with scarce disguised incredulity, he accepted the manila file handed to him across the desk; and began to read.

Morse himself now opened the 'Life' section of The Observer and turned to the crossword set by Azed (for Morse, the Kasparov of cruciverbalists) and considered i across: 'Elephant-man has a mouth that's deformed (6)'. He immediately wrote in MAHOUT, but then put the crossword aside, trusting that the remaining clues might pose a more demanding challenge, and deciding to postpone his hebdomadal treat until later in the day. Otherwise, he might well have completed the puzzle before Lewis had finished with the file.

'How did you come by this?' asked Lewis finally.

Tours not to reason how.'

'He's a blackmailer!'

Morse nodded. 'We've found no evidential motive for Rachel's murder, but...'

'... dozens of 'em for his.'

'About nine, Lewis - if we're going to be accurate.'

Morse opened the file, and considered the contents once more. Unlike that of the obscenely fat child-fondler, neither photograph of the leggy blonde stripper was genuinely pornographic - certainly not the wholly nude one, which seemed to Morse strangely unerotic; perhaps the one of her in the white dress, though ... 'Unbuttoning' had always appealed to Morse more than 'unbuttoned'; 'undressing' than 'undressed'; 'almost naked' to completely so. It was something to do with Plato's idea of process; and as a young classical scholar Morse had spent so many hours with that philosopher.

'Quite a bit of leg-work there, sir.'

*Yes. Lovely legs, aren't they?'

'No! I meant there's a lot of work to do there -research, going around.'

"You'll need a bit of help, yes.'

'Sergeant Dixon - couple of his lads, too - that'd help.'

'Is Dixon still eating the canteen out of jam doughnuts?'

Lewis nodded. 'Andhe's still got his pet tortoise-'

'-always a step or two in front of him, I know.'

For half an hour the detectives discussed the file's explosive material. Until just after noon, in fact.

'Coffee, sir?'

'Not for me. Let's nip down to the King's Arms in Summertown.'

'Not for me,' echoed Lewis. 'I can't afford the time.'

'As you wish.' Morse got to his feet.

'Do you think you should be going out quite so much - on the booze, I mean, sir?' Lewis took a deep breath and prepared for an approaching gale, force ten. 'You're getting worse, not better.'

Morse sat down again.

'Let me just tell you something, Lewis. I care quite a bit about what you think of me as a boss, as a colleague, as a detective - as a friend, yes! But I don't give two bloody monkeys about what you think of me as a boozer, all right?'

'No, it's not all right,' said Lewis quietly. 'As a professional copper, as far as solving murders are concerned -'

'Is concerned!'

' - it doesn't matter. Doesn't matter to me at all.' (Lewis's voice grew sharper now.) 'You do your job - you spend all your time sorting things out - I'm not worried about that. And if the Chief Constable told me you weren't doing your job, I'd resign myself. But he wouldn't say that - never. What he'd say - what others would say -what others are saying - is that you're ruining yourself. Not the Force, not the department, not the murder enquiries - nothing! - except yourself.'

'Just hold on a second, will you?' Morse's eyes were blazing.

'No! No, I won't. You talked about me as a friend, didn't you, just now? Well, as a friend I'm telling you that you're buggering up your health, your retirement, your life - everything!'

'Listen!' hissed Morse. 'I've never myself tried to tell

any other man how to live his life. And I will not be told, at my age, how I'm supposed to live mine. Even by you.'

After a prolonged silence, Lewis spoke again.

'Can I say something else?'

Morse shrugged indifferently.

'Perhaps it doesn't matter much to most people whedier you kill yourself or not. You've got no wife, no family, no relatives, except that aunt of yours in Alnwick-'

'She's dead, too.'

'So, what the hell? What's it matter? Who cares? Well, 7 care, sir. And die missus cares. And for all I know diat girl Ellie Smith, she cares.'

Morse looked down at his desk. 'Not any longer, no.'

'And you ought to care - care for yourself-just a bit'

For some considerable while Morse refrained from making any answer, for he was affected by his sergeant's words more deeply than he would ever be prepared to admit.

Then, finally:

'What about diat coffee, Lewis?'

'And a sandwich?'

'And a sandwich.'

By early afternoon Morse had put most of his cards on the table, and he and Lewis had reached an agreed conclusion. No longer could eidier of diem accept diat Rachel James had been die intended victim: each of diem now looked towards Geoffrey Owens as by far die

likelier target Pursuance of the abundant clues provided by the Owens file would necessarily involve a great deal of extra work; and fairly soon a strategy was devised, with Lewis and Dixon allocated virtually everything except the Soho slot.

'You know, I could probably fit that in fairly easily with the Wimbledon visit,' Lewis had volunteered.

But Morse was clearly unconvinced:

'The Soho angle's the most important of the lot.'

'Do you honesdy believe that?'

'Certainly. That's why-'

The phone rang, answered by Morse.

Owens (he learned) had phoned HQ ten minutes earlier, just after 3 p.m., to report that his property had been burgled over the weekend, while he was away.

'And you're dealing with it? ... Good ... Just die one item you say, as far as he knows? ... I see ... Thank you.'

Morse put down the phone; and Lewis picked up die file, looking quizzically across the desk.

But Morse shook his head. 'Not the file, no."

'What, dien?'

'A valuable litde ormolu clock from his living-room.'

'Probably a professional, sir - one who knows his clocks.' I 'Don't ask me. I know nothing about clocks.'

Lewis grinned. 'We bodi know somebody who does though, don't we, sir?'

CHAPTER THIRTY

This world and the next - and after that all our troubles will be over

(Attributed to General Gordon's aunt)

No KNOCK. THE door opened. Strange entered.

'Haven't they mentioned it yet, Morse? The pubs are open all day on Sundays now.'

As Strange carefully balanced his bulk ori the chair opposite, Morse lauded his luck that Lewis had taken the Owens material down the corridor for photocopying.

'Just catching up on a bit of routine stuff, sir.'

'Really?'

'Why are you here?'

'It's the wife,' confided Strange. 'Sunday afternoons she always goes round the house dusting everything. Including me!'

Morse was smiling dutifully as Strange continued: 'Making progress?'

'Following up a few things, yes."

'Mm ... Is your brain as bright as it used to be?'

'I'm sure it's not'

'Mm ... You don't look quite so bright, either."

'We're all getting older.'

'Worse luck!'

'Not really, surely? "No wise man ever wished to be younger."'

'Bloody nonsense!'

'Not my nonsense -Jonathan Swift's.'

Elbows on the desk, Strange rested his large head on his large hands.

'I'm probably finishing in September, I suppose you'd heard.'

Morse nodded. 'I'm glad they're letting you go.'

'What the 'ell's that supposed to mean?'

'Well, I should think Mrs Strange'll be pleased to have you around, won't she? Retirement, you know ... Getting up late and watching all the other poor sods go off to work, especially on Monday mornings. That sort of thing. It's what we all work for, I suppose. What we all wait for.'

'You mean,' muttered Strange, 'that's what I've been flogging me guts out all this time for - thirty-two years of it? I used to do your sort of job, you know. Caught nearly as many murderers as you in me day. It's just that I used to do it a bit different, that's all. Mostly used to wait till they came to me. No problem, often as not: jealousy, booze, sex, next-door neighbour between the sheets with the missus. Motive- that's what it's all about.'

'Not always quite so easy, though, is it?' ventured Morse, who had heard the sermon several times before.

' Certainly not when you 're around, matey!'

'This case needs some very careful handling, sir. Lots of sensitive enquiries-'

'Such as?'

'About Owens, for a start.'

"You've got some new evidence?'

'One or two vague rumours, yes.'

'Mm ... I heard a vague rumour myself this afternoon. I heard Owens' place got burgled. I suppose you've heard that, too?' He peered at Morse over his half-lenses.

'Yes.'

'Only one thing pinched. Hm! A clock, Morse.'

·Yes.'

'We've only got one or two clock specialists on die patch, as far as I remember. Or is it just the one?'

'The one?'

"You've not seen him - since they let him out again?'

'Ah, Johnson I Yes. I shall have to call round to see him pretty soon, I suppose.'

'What about tomorrow? He's probably your man, isn't he?'

'I'm away tomorrow.'

'Oh?'

'London. Soho, as a matter of fact Few things to check out.'

'I don't know why you don't let Sergeant Lewis do all that sort of tedious leg-work.'

Morse felt the Chief Superintendent's small, shrewd eyes upon him.

'Division of labour. Someone's got to do it.'

"You know,' said Strange, 'if I hadn't got a Supers' meeting in the morning, I'd join you. See the sights ... and everything.'

'I don't think Mrs Strange'd approve.'

'What makes you think I'd tell her?'

'She's - she's not been all that well, has she?'

Strange slowly shook his head, and looked down at the carpet.

'What about you, sir?'

'Me? I'm fine, apart from going deaf and going bald and haemorrhoids and blood pressure. Bit overweight, too, perhaps. What about you?'

Tm fine.'

'How's the drinking going?'

'Going? It's going, er...'

' "Quickly"? Is that the word you're looking for?'

'That's the word.'

Strange appeared about to leave. And - blessedly! -Lewis (Morse realized) must have been aware of the situation, since he had put in no appearance.

But Strange was not quite finished: 'Do you ever worry how your liver's coping with all this booze?'

'We've all got to die of something, they say.'

'Do you ever diink about that - about dying?'

'Occasionally.'

'Do you believe in life after death?'

Morse smiled. 'There was a sign once that Slough Borough Council put up near one of the churches there:

NO ROAD BEYOND THE CEMETERY.'

"You don't think there is, then?' 'No,' answered Morse simply.

'Perhaps it's just as well if there isn't - you know, rewards and punishments and all that sort of thing.' 'I don't want much reward, anyway.'

'Depends on your ambition. You never had much o' that, did you?'

'Early on, I did.'

You could've got to the top, you know dial.'

'Not doing a job I enjoyed, I couldn't. I'm not a form-filler, am I? Or a committee-man. Or a clipboard-man."

'Or a procedure-man,' added Strange slowly, as he struggled to his feet.

'Pardon?'

'Bloody piles!'

Morse persisted.'What did you mean, sir?'

'Extraordinary, you know, the sort of high-tech stuff we've got in the Force these days. We've got a machine here that even copies colour photos. You know, like die one- Oh! Didn't I mention it, Morse? I had a very pleasant little chat widi Sergeant Lewis in the photocopying room just before I came in here. By the look of tilings, you've got quite a few alternatives to go on there.'

'Quite a lot of "choices", sir. Stricdy speaking, you only have "alternatives" if you've just got the two options.'

'Fuck off, Morse!'

That evening Morse was in bed by 9.45 p.m., slowly reading but a few more pages of Juliet Barker's The Brontes, before stopping at one sentence, and reading it again:

Charlotte remarked, 'I am sorry you have changed your residence as I shall now again lose my way in going up and down stairs, and stand in great tribulation,

contemplating several doors, and not knowing which to open.'

It seemed as good a place to stop as any; and Morse was soon nodding off, in a semi-upright posture, the thick book dropping on to the duvet, the whisky on his bedside table (unprecedentedly) unfinished.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

A time

Older than the time of chronometers, older Than time counted by anxious worried women Lying awake, calculating the future, Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel And piece togedier the past and the future

(T. S. Eliot, The Dry Salvages)

THE RESULT OF one election had already been declared, with Mr Ivan Thomas, the Labour candidate, former unsuccessful aspirant to municipal honours, now preparing to assume his dudes as councillor for the Gosforth ward at Kidlington, near Oxford.

At Lonsdale College, five miles further south, in the golden heart of Oxford, the likely outcome of another election was still very much in the balance, with the wives of the two nominees very much - and not too discreetly, perhaps - to the fore in the continued canvassing. As it happened, each of them (like Morse) was in bed - or in a bed - comparatively early that Sunday evening.

Shelly Cornford was always a long time in the bathroom, manipulating her waxed flossing-ribbon in between and up and down her beautifully healthy teeth. When finally she came into the bedroom, her husband was sitting up against the pillows reading the Sunday Times Books Section. He watched her as she took off her purple Jaeger dress, and then unfastened her black bra, her breasts bursting free. So very nearly he said something at that point; but the back of his mouth was suddenly dry, and he decided not to. Anyway, it had been only a small incident, and his wife was probably completely unaware of how she could affect some other men - with a touch, a look, a movement of her body. But he'd never been a jealous man.

Not if he could help it.

She got into bed in her Oxford blue pyjamas and briefly turned towards him.

'Why wasn't Julian at dinner tonight?'

'Up in Durham - some conference he was speaking at. He's back tonight - Angela's picking him up from the station, so she said.'

'Oh.'

'Why do you ask?'

'No reason, darling. Night-night! Sweet dreams, my sweetie!'

She blew a kiss across the narrow space between their beds, turned her back towards him, and snuggled her head into the green pillows.

'Don't be too long with the light, please.'

A few minutes later she was lying still, breathing quite rhythmically, and he thought she was asleep.

As quietly as he could, he manoeuvred himself down beneath the bedclothes, and straightway turned off the light And tried, tried far too hard, to go to sleep himself...

... After evensong earlier that same evening in the College Chapel, the Fellows and their guests had been invited (as was the custom) to the Master's Lodge, where they partook of a glass of sherry before dining at 7.30 p.m. at the top-table in the main hall, the students seated on the long rows of benches below them. It was just before leaving the Master's Lodge that Denis had looked round for his wife and found her by the fireplace speaking to David Mackenzie, one of the younger dons, a brilliant mathematician, of considerable corpulence, who hastily folded the letter he had been showing to Shelly and put it away.

Nothing in that, perhaps? Not in itself, no. But he, Denis Cornford, knew what was in the letter. And that, for the simplest of all reasons, since Mackenzie had shown him the same scented purple sheets in the SCR the previous week; and Cornford could recall pretty accurately, though naturally not verbatim, the passage he'd been invited to consider. Clearly the letter had been, thus far, the highlight of Mackenzie's term:

Remember what you scribbled on my menu that night? Your handwriting was a bit wobbly(!) and I couldn't quite make out just that one word: 'I'd love to take you out and make a f- of you'. I think it was

'fuss' and it certainly begins with an 'F. Could be naughty; could be perfectly innocent. Please enlighten me!

Surely it was ridiculous to worry about such a thing. But there was something else. The two of them had been giggling together like a pair of adolescents, and looking at each other, and she had put a hand on his arm. And it was almost as if they had established a curious kind of intimacy from which he, Denis Comford, was temporarily excluded.

Could be naughty.

Could be perfectly innocent...

'Would you still love me if I'd got a spot on my nose?'

'Depends how big it was, my love.'

'But you still want my body, don't you," she whispered, 'in spite of my varicose veins?'

Metaphorically, as he lay beside her, Sir Clixby sidestepped her full-frontal assault as she turned herself towards him.

"You're a very desirable woman, and what's more you know it!' He moved his hands down her naked shoulders and fondled the curves of her bosom.

'I hope I can still do something for you,' she whispered. 'After all, you've promised to do something for me, haven't you?'

Perhaps Sir Clixby should have been a diplomat:

'Do you know something? I thought the Bishop was never going to finish tonight, didn't you? I shall have to

have a word with the Chaplain., God knows where he found him?'

She moved even closer to the Master. 'Come on! We haven't got all night. Julian's train gets in at ten past ten.'

Two of the College dons stood speaking together on the cobblestones outside Lonsdale as the clock on Saint Mary the Virgin struck ten o'clock; and a sole undergraduate passing through the main gate thought he heard a brief snatch of their conversation:

'Having a woman like her in the Lodge? The idea's undiinkable!'

But who the woman was, the passer-by was not to know.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Monday, 26 February

How shall I give thee up, O Ephraim? How shall I cast thee off, O Israel?

(Hoj^ch.II.v.8)

AT 8.45 A.M. THERE were just the two of them, Morse and Lewis, exchanging somewhat random thoughts about the case, when the young blonde girl (whom Strange had already noticed) came in with the morning post. She was a very recent addition to the typing pool, strongly recommended by the prestigious Marlborough College in the High, her secretarial skills corroborated by considerable evidence, including a Pitman Shorthand Certificate for 120 wpm.

"Your mail, sir. I'm ...' (she looked frightened) 'I'm terribly sorry about the one on top. I just didn't notice.'

But Morse had already taken the letter from its white envelope, the latter marked, in the top left-hand corner, 'Strictly Private and Personal'.

Hullo Morse

Tried you on the blower at Christmas but they said you were otherwise engaged probably in the boozer.

I'm getting spliced. No, don't worry! I'm not asking you for anything this time!! He's nice and he's got a decent job and he says he loves me and he's okay in bed so what the hell. I don't really love him and you bloody well know why that is, don't you, you miserable stupid sod. Because I fell in love with you and I'm just as stupid as you are. St Anthony told me to tell you something but I'm not going to. I want to put my arms round you and hug you tight. God help me! Why didn't you look for me a bit harder Morse? Ellie

No address.

Of course, there was no address.

'Did you read this?" Morse spoke in level tones, looking up at his secretary with unblinking eyes.

'Only till... you know, I realized ...'

"You shouldn't have opened it.'

'No, sir,' she whispered.

"You can type all right?'

She nodded.

'And you can take shorthand?'

She nodded, despairingly.

'But you can't read?'

'As I said, sir...' The tears were starting.

'I heard what you said. Now just you listen to what I'm saying. This sort of thing will never happen again!'

'I promise, sir, it'll-'

'Listen!' Morse's eyes suddenly widened with an almost manic gleam, his nostrils flaring with suppressed fury as he repeated hi a slow, soft voice: 'It won't happen

again - not if you want to work for me any longer. Is that clear? Never. Now get out,' he hissed, 'and leave me, before I get angry with you.'

After she had left, Lewis too felt almost afraid to speak.

'What was all that about?' he asked finally.

'Don't you start poking your bloody nose-' But the sentence went no further. Instead, Morse picked up the letter and passed it over, his saddened eyes focused on the wainscoting.

After reading the letter, Lewis said nothing.

'I don't have much luck widi the ladies, do I?'

'She's still obviously wearing the pendant.'

'I hope so,' said Morse; who might have said rather more, but there was a knock on the door, and DC Learoyd was invited into the sanctum.

Morse handed over the newspaper cuttings concerning Lord Hardiman, together with the photograph, and explained Learoyd's assignment:

'Your job's to find out all you can. It doesn't look all that promising, I know. Hardly blackmail stuff these days, is it? But Owens thinks it is. And that's the point. We're not really interested in how many times he's been knocking on the doors of the knocking-shops. It's finding the nature of his connection with Owens.'

Learoyd nodded his understanding, albeit a little unhappily.

'Off you go, then.'

But Learoyd delayed. 'Whereabouts do you think would be a good place to start, sir?'

Morse's eyeballs turned ceilingward.

'What about looking up His Lordship in Debrett's Peerage, mm? It might just tell you where he lives, don't you think?'

'But where can I find a copy?'

'What about that big building in the centre of Oxford - in Bonn Square. You've heard of it? It's called the Central Library.'

Item 2 in the manila file, as Lewis had discovered earlier that morning, was OBE (Overtaken By Events, in Morse's shorthand). The Cheltenham firm of solicitors had been disbanded in 1992, its clientele dispersed, to all intents and purposes now permanendy incommunicado.

Item 3 was to be entrusted into the huge hands of DC Elton, who now made his entrance; and almost immediately his exit, since he passed no observations, and asked no questions, as he looked down at the paunchy paedo-philiac from St Albans.

'Leave it to me, sir.'

'And while you're at it, see how the land lies here.' Morse handed over the documentation on Item 4 - the accounts-sheets from the surgical appliances company in Croydon.

'Good man, that,' commented Lewis, as the door closed behind die massive frame of DC Elton.

'Give me Learoyd every time!' confided Morse. 'At least he's got the intelligence to ask a few half-witted questions.'

'I don't quite follow you.'

'Wouldn't you need a bit of advice if you called in at some place selling surgical appliances? With Elton's great beer-gut they'll probably think he's called in for a temporary truss.'

Lewis didn't argue.

He knew better.

Also OBE, as Lewis had already discovered, was Item 5. The address Owens had written on the letter was - had been - that of a home for the mentally handicapped in Wimbledon. A Social Services inspection had uncovered gross and negligent malpractices; and the establishment had been closed down two years previously, its management and nursing staff redeployed or declared redundant. Yet no prosecutions had ensued.

'Forlorn hope,' Lewis had ventured.

And Morse had agreed. 'Did you know that "forlorn hope" has got nothing to do with "forlorn" or "hope"? It's all Dutch: "Verloren hoop" - "lost troop".'

'Very useful to know, sir.'

Seemingly oblivious to such sarcasm, Morse contemplated once more the four sets of initials that comprised Item 6:

AM DC JS CB

with those small ticks in red Biro set against the first three of them.

'Any ideas?' asked Lewis.

'"Jonathan Swift", obviously, for "JS". I was only talking about him to the Super yesterday.'

'Julian Storrs?'

Morse grinned. 'Perhaps all of 'em are dons at Lonsdale."

Til check.'

'So that leaves Items seven and eight - both of which I leave in your capable hands, Lewis. And lastly my own little assignment in Soho, Item nine.'

'Coffee, sir?'

'Glass of iced orange juice!'

After Lewis had gone, Morse re-read Ellie's letter, deeply hurt, and wondering whether people in the ancient past had found it quite so difficult to cope with disappointments deep as his. But at least things were over; and in the long run that might make things much easier. He tore the letter in two, in four, in eight, in sixteen, and then in thirty-two - would have torn it in sixty-four, had his fingers been strong enough - before dropping the little square pieces into his wastepaper basket.

'No ice in the canteen, sir. Machine's gone kaput'

Morse shrugged indifferently and Lewis, sensing that the time might be opportune, decided to say something which had been on his mind:

'Just one thing I'd like to ask...'

Morse looked up sharply, "ifou're not going to ask me where Lonsdale is, I hope!'

'No. I'd just like to ask you not to be too hard on that new secretary of yours, that's all.'

'And what the hell's that got to do with you?'

'Nothing really, sir.'

'I agree. And when I want your bloody advice on how to handle my secretarial staff, I'll come and ask for it. Clear?'

Morse's eyes were blazing anew. And Lewis, his own temperature now rising rapidly, left his superior's office without a further word.

Just before noon, Jane Edwards was finalizing an angry letter, spelling out her resignation, when she heard the message over the intercom: Morse wanted to see her in his office.

'Si'down!'

She sat down, noticing immediately that he seemed tired, the whites of his eyes lightly veined with blood.

'I'm sorry I got so cross, Jane. That's all I wanted to say.'

She remained where she was, almost mesmerized.

Very quietly he continued: 'You will try to forgive me - please?'

She nodded helplessly, for she had no choice.

And Morse smiled at her sadly, almost gratefully, as she left

Back in the typing pool Ms Jane Edwards surrep-

titiously dabbed away the last of the slowdropping tears, tore up her letter (so carefully composed) into sixty-four pieces; and suddenly felt, as if by some miracle of St Anthony, most inexplicably happy.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

A recent survey has revealed that 80.5% of Oxford dons seek out the likely pornographic potential on the Internet before making use of that facility for purposes connected with their own disciplines or research. The figure for students, in the same university, is 2% lower

(Terence Benczik, A Possible Future for Computer Technology)

UNTIL THE AGE OF twelve, Morse's reading had comprised little beyond a weekly diet of the Dandy comic, and a monthly diet of the Meccano Magazine - the legacy of the latter proving considerably the richer, in that Morse had retained a lifelong delight in model train-sets and in the railways themselves. Thus it was that as he stood on Platform One at Oxford Station, he was much looking forward to his journey. Usually, he promised himself a decent read of a decent book on a trip like this. But such potential pleasures seldom materialized; hadn't materialized that afternoon either, when the punctual 2.15 p.m. from Oxford arrived fifty-nine minutes later at Paddington, where Morse immediately took a taxi to New Scotland Yard.

Although matters there had been prearranged, it was

purely by chance that Morse happened to meet Paul Condon, the Metropolitan Commissioner, in the main entrance foyer.

"They're ready for you, Morse. Can't stay myself, I'm afraid. Press conference. It's not just the ethnic minorities I've upset this time - it's the ethnic majorities, too. All because I've published a few more official crime-statistics.'

Morse nodded. He wanted to say something to his old friend: something about never climbing in vain when you're going up the Mountain of Truth. But he only recalled the quotation after stepping out of the lift at the fourth floor, where Sergeant Rogers of the Porn Squad was awaiting him.

Once in Rogers' office, Morse produced the photograph of the strip-club. And immediately, with the speed of an experienced ornithologist recognizing a picture of a parrot, Rogers had identified the premises.

'Just off Brewer Street.' He unfolded a detailed map of Soho. 'Here - let me show you.'

The early evening was overcast, drizzly and dank, when like some latter-day Orpheus Morse emerged from the depths of Piccadilly Circus Underground; whence, after briefly consulting his A-Z, he proceeded by a reasonably direct route to a narrow, seedy-looking thoroughfare, where a succession of establishments promised XXXX videos and magazines (imported), sex shows (live), striptease (continuous) - and a selection of freshly made sandwiches (various).

And there it was! Le Club Sexy. Unmistakably so, but prosaically and repetitively now rechristened Girls Girls Girls. It made the former proprietors appear comparatively imaginative.

Something - some aspiration to die higher diings in life, perhaps - prompted Morse to raise his eyes from die ground-floor level of die gaudily lurid fronts there to the architecture, some of it rather splendid, above.

Yet not for long.

'Come in out of the drizzle, sir! Lovely girls here."

Morse showed his ID card, and moved into the shelter of die tiny entrance foyer.

'Do you know herT

The young woman, black stockings and black miniskirt meeting at die top of her diighs, barely glanced at the photograph dirust under her eyes.

'No.'

'Who runs diis place? I want to see him.'

'Her. But she ain't 'ere now, is she? Why don't you call back later, handsome?'

A helmeted policeman was ambling along die opposite pavement, and Morse called him over.

'OK,' die girl said quickly. 'You bin 'ere before, right?'

'Er- one of my officers, yes.'

'Me mum used to know her, like I told die otfier fellah. Just a minute.'

She disappeared down die dingy stairs.

'How can I help you, sir?'

Morse showed his ID to die constable.

'Just keep your eyes on me for a few minutes.'

But there was no need.

Three minutes later, Morse had an address in Praed Street, no more than a hundred yards from Paddington Station where earlier, at the entrance to the Underground, he had admired the bronze statue of one of his heroes, Isambard Kingdom Brunei.

So Morse now took the Tube back. It had been a roundabout sort of journey.

She was in.

She asked him in.

And Morse, from a moth-eaten settee, agreed to sample a cup of Nescafe.

"Yeah, Angie Martin! Toffee-nosed little tart, if you know wo' I mean."

Tell me about her.'

"You're the second one, encha?'

'Er - one of my officers, yes.'

'Nah! He wasn't from the fuzz. Couldna bin! Giv me a couple o' twennies 'e did.'

'What did he want to know?'

'Same as you, like as not'

'She was quite a girl, they say.'

'Lovely on 'er legs, she was, if you know wo' I mean. Most of 'em, these days, couldn't manage the bleedin' Barn Dance.'

'But she was good?'

Yeah. The men used to love 'er. Stick fivers down 'er boobs and up 'er suspenders, if you know wo' I mean.'

'She packed 'em in?'

Yeah.'

'And then?'

'Then there was this fellah, see, and he got to know 'er and see 'er after the shows, like, and 'e got starry-eyed, the silly sod. Took 'er away. Posh sort o' fellah, if you know wo' I mean. Dresses, money, 'otels - all that sort o' thing.'

'Would you remember his name?'

'Yeah. The other fellah - 'e showed me his photo, see?'

'His name?'

'Julius Caesar, I fink it was.'

Morse showed her the photograph of Mr and Mrs Julian Storrs.

'Yeah. That's 'im an' 'er. That's Angie.'

'Do you know why I'm asking about her?'

She looked at him shrewdly, an inch or so of grey roots merging into a yellow mop of wiry hair.

"Yeah, I got a good idea.'

'My, er, colleague told you?'

'Nah! Worked it out for meself, dint I? She was tryin' to forget wo' she was, see? She dint want to say she were a cheap tart who'd open 'er legs for a fiver, if you know wo' I mean. Bi' o' class, tho', Angie. Yeah. Real bi' o' class.'

'Will you be prepared to come up to Oxford - we'll pay your expenses, of course - to sign a statement?'

'Oxford? Yeah. Why not? Bi' o' class, Oxford, innit?'

'I suppose so, yes.'

'Wo' she done? Wo' sort of enquiry you workin' on?'

'Murder,' said Morse softly.

Mission accomplished Morse walked across Praed Street and into the complex of Paddington Station, where he stood under the high Departures Board and noted the time of the next train: Slough, Maidenhead, Reading, Didcot, Oxford.

Due to leave in forty minutes.

He retraced his steps to the top of the Underground entrance, crushed a cigarette-stub under his heel, and walked slowly down towards the ticket-office, debating the wisdom of purchasing a second Bakerloo line ticket to Piccadilly Circus - from which station he might take the opportunity of concentrating his attention on the ground-floor attractions of London's Soho.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The average, healthy, well-adjusted adult gets up at seven-thirty in the morning feeling just plain terrible

(Jean Kerr, Where Did You Put fie Aspirin?)

WITH A LECTURE A.M. and a Faculty Meeting early p.m., Julian Storrs had not been able to give Lewis much time until late p.m.; but he was ready and waiting when, at 4 o'clock precisely, the front doorbell rang at his home, a large red-bricked property in Polstead Road, part of the Victorian suburb that stretches north from St Giles' to Summertown.

Lewis accepted the offer of real coffee, and the two of them were soon seated in armchairs opposite each other in the high-ceilinged living-room, its furniture exuding a polished mahogany elegance, where Lewis immediately explained the purpose of his call.

As a result of police investigations into the murder of Rachel James, Storrs' name had moved into the frame; well, at least his photograph had moved into the frame.

Storrs himself said nothing as he glanced down at die twin passport photograph that Lewis handed to him.

'That is you, sir? You and Ms James?'

Storrs took a deep breath, then exhaled. *Yes.'

"You were having an affair with her?'

'We__yes, I suppose we were.'

'Did anybody know about it?'

Td hoped not.'

'Do you want to talk about it?'

Storrs talked. Though not for long...

He'd first met her just over a year earlier when he'd pulled a muscle in his right calf following an ill-judged decision to take up jogging. She was a physiotherapist, masseuse, manipulator - whatever they called such people now; and after the first two or three sessions they had met together outside the treatment room. He'd fallen in love with her a bit - a lot; must have done, when he considered the risks he'd taken. About once a month, six weeks, they'd managed to be together when he had some lecture to give or meeting to attend. Usually in London, where they'd book a double room, latish mom-ing, in one of the hotels behind Paddington, drink a bottle or two of champagne, make love together most of the afternoon and - well, that was it.

'Expensive sort of day, sir? Rail-fares, hotel, champagne, something to eat..."

'Not really expensive, no. Off-peak day returns, one of the cheaper hotels, middle-range champagne, and we'd go to a pub for a sandwich at lunchtime. Hundred and twenty, hundred and thirty pounds - that would cover it.'

"You didn't give Ms James anything for her services?'

'It wasn't like that I think - I hope - she enjoyed

being with me. But, yes, I did sometimes give her something. She was pretty short of money - you know, her mortgage, HP commitments, the rent on the clinic.'

'How much, sir?'

'A hundred pounds. Little bit more sometimes, perhaps.'

'Does Mrs Storrs know about this?'

'No - and she mustn't!' For the first time Lewis was aware of the sharp, authoritative tone in the Senior Fellow's voice.

'How did you explain spending so much?'

'We have separate accounts. I give my wife a private allowance each month.'

Lewis grinned diffidently. You could always have said they were donations to Oxfam.'

Storrs looked down rather sadly at the olive-green carpet. 'You're right That's just the sort of depths I would have sunk to.'

'Why didn't you get in touch with us? We made several appeals for anybody who knew Rachel to come forward. We guaranteed every confidence.'

'You must understand, surely? I was desperately anxious not to get drawn into things in any way.'

'Nothing else?' .

'What do you mean?'

'Was someone trying to blackmail you, sir, about your affair with her?'

'Good God, no! What on earth makes you think that?'

Lewis drank the rest of his never-hot now-cold real coffee, before continuing quiedy:

'I don't believe you, sir.'

And slowly the truth, or some of it, was forthcoming.

Storrs had received a letter about a fortnight earlier from someone - no signature - someone giving a PO Box address; someone claiming to have 'evidence' about him which would be shouted from the rooftops unless a payment was duly made.

'Of?' asked Lewis.

'Five thousand pounds.'

'And you paid it?'

'No. But I was stupid enough to send a thousand, in fifty-pound notes.'

'And did you get this "evidence" back?'

Storrs again looked down at the carpet, and shook his head.

"You didn't act very sensibly, did you, sir?'

'In literary circles, Sergeant, that is what is called "litotes".'

'Did you keep the letter?'

'No,' lied Storrs.

'Did you keep a note of the PO Box number?'

'No,' lied Storrs.

'Was it care of one of the local newspapers?'

·Yes.'

'Oxford Mail?'

'Oxford Times.'

The living-room door opened, and there entered a darkly elegant woman, incongruously wearing a pair of

sunglasses, and dressed in a black trouser-suit - 'Legs right up to the armpits', as Lewis was later to report.

Mrs Angela Storrs briefly introduced herself, and picked up the empty cups.

'Another coffee, Sergeant?'

Her voice was Home Counties, rather deep, rather pleasing.

'No thanks. That was lovely.'

Her eyes smiled behind the sunglasses - or Lewis thought they smiled. And as she closed the living-room door softly behind her, he wondered where she'd been throughout the interview. Outside the door, perhaps, listening? Had she heard what her husband had said? Or had she known it all along?

Then the door quietly opened again.

'You won't forget you're out this evening, darling? You haven't all that much time, you know.'

Lewis accepted the cue and hurried on his questioning apace:

'Do you mind telling me exactly what you were doing between seven a.m. and eight a.m. last Monday, sir?'

'Last Monday morning? Ah!' Lewis sensed that Julian Storrs had suddenly relaxed - as if the tricky part of the examination was now over - as if he could safely resume his wonted donnish idiom.

'How I wish every question my students asked were susceptible to such an unequivocal answer! You see, I was in bed with my wife and we were having sex togedier. And why do I recall this so readily, Sergeant? Because such an occurrence has not been quite so common these

past few years; nor, if I'm honest with you, quite so enjoyable as once it was.'

'Between, er, between seven and eight?' Lewis's voice was hesitant.

'Sounds a long time, you mean? Huh! You're right More like twenty past to twenty-five past seven. What I do remember is Angela - Mrs Storrs - wanting the news on at half past. She's a great Today fan, and she likes to know what's going on. We just caught the tail-end of the sports news - then the main headlines on the half-hour.'

'Oh!'

'Do you believe me?'

'Would Mrs Storrs remember ... as clearly as you, sir?'

Storrs gave a slightly bitter-sounding laugh. 'Why don't you ask her? Shall I tell her to come through? I'll leave you alone."

'Yes, I think that would be helpful.'

Storrs got to his feet and walked towards the door.

'Just one more question, sir.' Lewis too rose to his feet. 'Don't you think you were awfully naive to send off that money? I think anyone could have told you you weren't going to get anything back - except another blackmail note.'

Storrs walked back into the room.

'Are you a married man, Sergeant?'

'Yes.'

'How would you explain - well, say a photograph like the one you showed me?'

Lewis took out the passport photo again.

'Not too difficult, surely? You're a well-known man, sir - quite a distinguished-looking man, perhaps? So let's just say one of your admiring undergraduettes sees you at a railway station and says she'd like to have a picture taken with you. You know, one of those "Four colour photos in approximately four minutes" places. Then she could carry the pair of you around with her, like some girls carry pictures of pop stars around.'

Storrs nodded. 'Clever idea! I wish I'd thought of it Er... can I ask you a question?'

·Yes?'

'Why are you still only a sergeant?'

Lewis made no comment on the matter, but asked a final question:

*You're standing for the Mastership at Lonsdale, I understand, sir?'

Te-es. So you can see, can't you, why all this business, you know... ?'

'Of course.'

Storrs' face now suddenly cleared.

'There are just the two of us: Dr Cornford - Denis Cornford - and myself. And may the better man win!'

He said it lightly, as if the pair of them were destined to cross swords in a mighty game of Scrabble - and called through to Angela, his wife.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half shut afterwards

(Benjamin Franklin, Poor Richard's Almanack)

IN OXFORD THAT same early evening the clouds were inkily black, the forecast set for heavy rain, with most of those walking along Broad Street or around Radcliffe Square wearing raincoats and carrying umbrellas. The majority of these people were students making their way to College Halls for their evening meals, much as their predecessors had done in earlier times, passing through the same streets, past the same familiar buildings and later returning to the same sort of accommodation, and in most cases doing some work for the morrow, when they would be listening to the same sort of lectures. Unless, perhaps, they were students of Physics or some similar discipline where breakthroughs ('Breaksthrough, if we are to be accurate, dear boy') were as regular as inaccuracies in the daily weather forecasts.

But that evening the forecast was surprisingly accurate; and at 6.45 p.m. the rains came.

Denis Cornford looked out through the window on to Holywell Street where the rain bounced off the surface of the road like arrowheads. St Peter's (Dinner, 7.00 for 7.30 p.m.) was only ten minutes' walk away but he was going to get soaked in such a downpour.

'What do you think, darling?'

'Give it five minutes. If it keeps on like this, I should get a cab. You've got plenty of time.'

'What'll you be doing?' he asked.

'Well, I don't think I'll be venturing out too far, do you?' She said it in a gentle way, and there seemed no sarcasm in her voice. She came up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders as he stood indecisively staring out through the sheeted panes.

'Denis?'

'Mm?'

'Do you really want to be Master all that much?'

He turned towards her and looked directly into her dazzlingly attractive dark eyes, with that small circular white light in the centre of their irises - eyes which had always held men, and tempted them, and occasioned innumerable capitulations.

'Yes, Shelly. Yes, I do! Not quite so badly as Julian, perhaps. But badly enough.'

'What would you give - to be Master?'

'Most things, I suppose.'

'Give up your work?'

'A good deal of that would go anyway. It would be different work, that's all.'

'Would you give me up?'

He took her in his arms. 'Of course, I would!'

"You don't really mean-?'

He kissed her mouth with a strangely passionate tenderness.

A few minutes later they stood arm-in-arm at the window looking out at the ceaselessly teeming rain.

Til ring for a cab,' said Shelly Cornford.

On Mondays the dons' attendance at Lonsdale Dinner was usually fairly small, but Roy Porter would be there, Angela Storrs knew that: Roy Porter was almost always there. She rang him in his rooms at 6.55 p.m.

'Roy?'

'Angela! Good to hear your beautiful voice."

'Flattery will get you exactly halfway between nowhere and everywhere.'

Til settle for that.'

"You're dining tonight?'

·Yep.'

'Would you like to come along afterwards and cheer up a lonely old lady.'

'Julian away?'

'Some Brains Trust at Reading University.'

'Shall I bring a bottle?'

'Plenty of bottles here.'

'Marvellous.'

'Nine-ish?'

'About then. Er ... Angela? Is it something you want to talk about or is it just... ?'

'Why not both?'

You want to know how things seem to be going with the election?'

'I'm making no secret of that'

You do realize I don't know anything definite at all?'

'I don't expect you to. But I'd like to talk. You can understand how I feel, can't you?'

'Of course.'

'And I've been speaking to Julian. There are one or two little preferments perhaps in the offing, if he's elected.'

'Really?'

'But like you, Roy, I don't know anything definite.'

'I understand. But it'll be good to be together again.'

'Oh, yes. Have a drink or two together.'

'Or three?'

'Or four?' suggested Angela Storrs, her voice growing huskier still.

The phone rang at 7.05 p.m.

'Shelly?'

Yes.'

You're on your own?'

You know I am.'

'Denis gone?'

'Left fifteen minutes ago.'

'One or two things to tell you, if we could meet?'

'What sort of things?'

'Nothing definite. But there's talk about a potential benefaction from the States, and one of the trustees met

Denis - met you, I gather, too - and, well, I can tell you all about it when we meet.'

'Allabout it?'

'It's a biggish thing, and I think we may be slightly more likely to pull it off, perhaps, if Denis ..."

'And you'll be doing your best?'

'I can't promise anything.'

'I know that.'

'So?'

'So?'

'So you're free and I'm free.'

'On a night like this? Far too dangerous. Me coming to the Master's Lodge? No chance.'

'I agree. But, you see, one of my old colleagues is off to Greece - he's left me his key -just up the Banbury Road - lovely comfy double-bed - crisp clean sheets -central heating - en suite facilities - mini bar. Tariff? No pounds, no shillings, no pence.'

'You remember pre-decimalization?'

'I'm not too old, though, am I? And I'd just love to be with you now, at this minute. More than anything in the world.'

'You ought to find a new variation on the theme, you know! It's getting a bit of a cliche.'

'Cleeshay', she'd said; but however she'd pronounced it, die barb had found its mark; and Sir Clixby's voice was softer, more serious as he answered her.

'I need you, Shelly. Please come out with me. I'll get a taxi round to you in ten minutes' time, if dial's all right?'

There was silence on die other end of die line.

'Shelly?'

·Yes?'

'Will that be all right?'

'No,' she replied quietly. 'No it won't. I'm sorry.'

The line was dead.

Just before nine o'clock, Cornford rang home from St Peter's:

'Shelly? Denis. Look, darling, I've just noticed in my diary... You've not had a call tonight, have you?'

Shelly's heart registered a sudden, sharp stab of panic.

'No, why?'

'It's just that the New York publishers said they might be ringing. So, if they do, please make a note of the number and tell 'em I'll ring them back. All right?'

'Fine. Yes.'

'You having a nice evening?'

'Mm. It's lovely to sit and watch TV for a change. No engagements. No problems.'

'See you soon.'

'I hope so.'

Shelly put down the phone slowly. 'I've just noticed in my diary', he'd said. But he hadn't, she knew that. She'd looked in his diary earlier that day, to make sure of the time of the St Peter's do. That had been the only entry on the page for 26.2.96.

Or, as she would always think of it, 2/26/96.

Just before ten o'clock, Julian Storrs rang his wife from Reading; rang three times.

The number was engaged.

He rang five minutes later.

The number was still engaged.

He rang again, after a further five minutes.

She answered.

'Angie? I've been trying to get you these last twenty minutes.'

'I've only been talking to Mum, for Christ's sake!'

'It's just that I shan't be home till after midnight, that's all. So I'll get a taxi. Don't worry about meeting me.'

'OK.'

After she had hung up, Angela Storrs took a Thames Trains timetable from her handbag and saw that Julian could easily be catching an earlier train: the 22.40 from Reading, arriving Oxford 23.20. Not that it mattered. Perhaps he was having a few drinks with his hosts? Or perhaps - the chilling thought struck her - he was checking up on her?

Hurriedly she rang her mother in South Kensington. And kept on kept on kept on talking. The call would be duly registered on the itemized BT lists and suddenly she felt considerably easier in her mind.

Morse had caught the 23.48 from Paddington that night, and at 01.00 sat unhearing as the Senior Conductor made his lugubrious pronouncement: 'Oxford, Oxford. This train has now terminated. Please be sure to take all your personal possessions with you. Thank you.'

From a deeply delicious cataleptic state, Morse was

finally prodded into consciousness by no less a personage than the Senior Conductor himself.

'All right, sir?'

'Thank you, yes.'

But in truth things were not all right, since Morse had been deeply disappointed by his evening's sojourn in London. And as he walked down the station steps to the taxi-rank, he reminded himself of what he'd always known - that life was full of disappointments: of which the most immediate was that not a single taxi was in sight

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Tuesday, 27 February

Initium est dimidiumfacti (Once you've started, you're halfway there) (Latin proverb)

AN UNSHAVEN MORSE was still dressed in his mauve and Cambridge blue pyjamas when Lewis arrived at 10 o'clock the following morning. Over the phone half an hour earlier he had learned that Morse was feeling 'rough as a bear's arse' - whatever that was supposed to mean.

For some time the two detectives exchanged information about their previous day's activities; and fairly soon the obvious truth could be simply stated: Owens was a blackmailer. Specifically, as far as investigations had thus far progressed, with the Storrs' household being the principal victims: he, for his current infidelity; she, for her past as a shop-soiled Soho tart. One thing seemed certain: that any disclosure was likely to be damaging, probably fatally damaging, to Julian Storrs' chances of election to the Mastership of Lonsdale.

Morse considered for a while.

'It still gives us a wonderful motive for one of them

murdering Owens - not much of a one for murdering Rachel.'

'Unless Mrs Storrs was just plain jealous, sir?'

'Doubt it'

'Or perhaps Rachel got to know something, and was doing a bit of blackmailing herself? She needed the money all right.'

"Yes." Morse stroked his brisdy jaw and sighed wearily. 'There's such a lot we've still got to check on, isn't there? Perhaps you ought to get round to Rachel's bank manager this morning.'

'Not this morning, sir - or this afternoon. I'm seeing his lordship, Sir Clixby Bream, at a quarter to twelve; then I'm going to find out who's got access to the photocopier and whatever at the Harvey Clinic.'

'Waste o' time,' mumbled Morse.

'I dunno, sir. I've got a feeling it may all tie in together somehow.'

'What with?'

'I'll know more after I've been to Lonsdale. You see, I've already learned one or two things about the situation there. The present Master's going to retire soon, as you know, and the new man's going to be taking up the reins at the start of the summer term -'

' Trinity term.'

' - and they've narrowed it down to two candidates: Julian Storrs and a fellow called Cornford, Denis Corn-ford - he's a Lonsdale man himself, too. And diey say die odds are fairly even.'

'Who's this "they" you keep talking about?'

'One of the porters there. We used to play cricket together.'

'Ridiculous game!'

'What's your programme today, sir?'

But Morse appeared not to hear his sergeant's question.

'Cup o' tea, Lewis?'

'Wouldn't say no.'

Morse returned a couple of minutes later, with a cup of tea for Lewis and a pint glass of iced water for himself. He sat down and looked at his wristwatch: twenty-five past ten.

'What's your programme today?' repeated Lewis.

'I've got a meeting at eleven-thirty diis morning. Nothing else much. Perhaps I'll do a bit of thinking - it's high time I caught up with you.'

As Lewis drank his tea, talking of this and that, he was aware that Morse seemed distanced - seemed almost in a world of his own. Was he listening at all?

'Am I boring you, sir?'

'What? No, no! Keep talking! That's always the secret, you know, if you want to start anything - start thinking, say. All you've got to do is listen to somebody talking a load of nonsense, and somehow, suddenly, something emerges.'

'I wasn't talking nonsense, sir. And if I was, you wouldn't have known. You weren't listening.'

Nor did it appear that Morse was listening even now - as he continued: 'I wonder what time the postman comes to Polstead Road. Storrs usually caught the ten-fifteen

train from Oxford, you say ... So he'd leave the house about a quarter to ten - bit earlier, perhaps? He's got to get to the station, park his car, buy a ticket - buy two tickets ... So if the postman called about then ... perhaps Storrs met him as he left the house and took his letters with him, and read them as he waited for Rachel, then stuffed 'em in his jacket-pocket'

'So?'

'So if... What do most couples do after they've had sex together?'

'Depends, I suppose.' Lewis looked uneasily at his superior. 'Go to sleep?'

Morse smiled waywardly. 'It's as tiring as that, is it?'

'Well, if they did it more than once.'

"Then she - she, Lewis - stays awake and goes quiedy through his pockets and finds the blackmail letter. By the way, did you ask him when he received it?'

'No, sir.'

'Well, find out! She sees the letter and she knows she 1 can blackmail him. Not about die affair diey're having,

perhaps - diey're bodi in dial togedier - but about somediing else she discovered from die letter ... You know, I suspect dial our Ms James was getting a bit of a handful for our Mr Storrs. What do you dunk?' (But Lewis was given no time at all to think.) 'What were die last couple of dates they went to London togedier?'

'That's somediing else I shall have to check, sir.'

'Well, check it! You see, we've been coming round to die idea diat somebody was trying to murder Owens, K haven't we? And murdered Rachel by mistake. But

perhaps we're wrong, Lewis. Perhaps we're wrong.'

Morse looked flushed and excited as he drained his iced water and got to his feet

'I'd better have a quick shave.'

'What else have you got on your programme-?'

'As I say, you see what happens when you start talking nonsense! You're indispensable, old friend. Absolutely indispensabld'

Lewis, who had begun to feel considerable irritation at Morse's earlier brusque demands, was now completely mollified.

Til be off then, sir.'

'No you won't! I shan't be more than a few minutes. You can run me down to Summertown.'

(Almost completely mollified.)

Tfou still haven't told me what-' began Lewis as he waited at the traffic-lights by South Parade.

But a clean-shaven Morse had suddenly stiffened in his safety-belt beside him.

'What did you say the name of that other fellow was, Lewis? The chap who's standing against Storrs?'

'Cornford, Denis Cornford. Married to an American girl.'

'"DC", Lewis! Do you remember in the manila file? Those four sets of initials?'

Lewis nodded, for in his mind's eye he could see that piece of paper as clearly as Morse:

AM DC JS CB

'There they are,' continued Morse, 'side-by-side in the middle - Denis Cornford and Julian Storrs, flanked on either side by Angela Martin - I've little doubt! - and -might it be? - Sir Clixby Bream.'

'So you think Owens might have got something on all-?'

'Slow down!' interrupted Morse. 'Just round the comer here.'

Lewis turned left at the traffic-lights into Marston Ferry Road and stopped immediately outside the Sum-mertown Health Centre.

'Wish me well,' said Morse as he alighted.

PART THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Tuesday, 27 February

The land of Idd was a happy one. Well, almost There was one teeny problem. The King had sleepless nights about it and the villagers were very scared. The problem was a dragon called Diabetes. He lived in a cave on top of a hill. Every day he would roar loudly. He never came down the hill but everyone was still very scared just in case he did -

(Victoria Lee, The Dragon ofldf)

FROM THE WAITING-ROOM on the first floor, Morse heard his name called.

'How can I help?' asked Dr Paul Roblin, a man Morse had sought so earnestly to avoid over the years, unless things were bordering on the desperate.

As they were now.

'I think I've got diabetes.'

'Why do you think that?'

'I've got a book. It mentions some of the symptoms."

'Which are?'

'Loss of weight, tiredness, a longing for drink.'

"You've had the last one quite a while though, haven't you?'

Morse nodded wearily. 'I've lost weight; I could sleep all the time; and I drink a gallon of tap-water a day.'

'As wettas the beer?'

Morse was silent, as Roblin jabbed a lancet into the little finger of his left hand, squeezed the skin until a domed globule appeared, then smeared the blood on to a test-strip. After thirty seconds, he looked down at the reading. And for a while sat motionless, saying nothing. 'How did you get here, Mr Morse?"

'Car.'

'Is your car here?'

'No, I had a lift. Why?'

'Well, I'm afraid I couldn't let you drive a car now.'

'Why's that?'

'It's serious. Your blood sugar level's completely off the end of the chart. We shall have to get you to the Radcliffe Infirmary as soon as we can.'

'What are you telling me?'

'You should have seen me way before this. Your pancreas has packed in completely. You'll probably be on three cjr four injections of insulin a day for the rest of your life. You may well have done God-knows-what damage to your eyes and your kidneys - we shall have to find out. The important thing is to get you in hospital immediately.'

He reached for the phone.

'I only live just up the road,' protested Morse.

Roblin put his hand over the mouthpiece. 'They'll have a spare pair of pyjamas and a toothbrush. Don't worry!'

"You don't realize-' began Morse.

'Hello? Hello! Can you get an ambulance here -Summertown Health Centre - straightaway, please ... The RadclifFe Infirmary... Thank you.'

"You don't realize I'm in the middle of a murder enquiry.'

But Roblin had dialled a second number, and was already speaking to someone else.

'David? Ah, glad you're there! Have you got a bed available? ... Bit of an emergency, yes ... He'll need an insulin-drip, I should think. But you'll know ... Yes ... Er, Mr Morse - initial "E". He's a chief inspector in the Thames Valley CID.'

Half an hour later - weight (almost thirteen stone), blood pressure (alarmingly high), blood sugar level (still off the scale), details of maternal and paternal grandparents' deaths (ill-remembered), all of these duly recorded - Morse found himself lying supine, in a pair of red-striped pyjamas, in the Geoffrey Harris Ward in the Radcliffe Infirmary, just north of St Giles', at the bottom of the Woodstock Road. A tube from the insulin-drip suspended at the side of his bed was attached to his right arm by a Sellotaped needle stuck into him just above the inner wrist, allowing little, if any, lateral movement without the sharpest reminder of physical agony.

It was this tube that Morse was glumly considering when the Senior Consultant from the Diabetes Centre came round: Dr David Matthews, a tall, sum, Mephis-tophelian figure, with darkly ascetic, angular features.

'As I've told you all, I'm in the middle of a murder enquiry,' reiterated Morse, as Matthews sat on the side of the bed.

'And can I tell you something? You're going to forget all about that, unless you want to kill yourself. With a little bit of luck you may be all right, do you understand? So far you don't seem to have done yourself all that much harm. Enough, though! But you're going to have to forget everything about work - everything - if you're going to come through this business without too much damage. You do know what I mean, don't you?'

Morse didn't. But he nodded helplessly.

'Only here four or five days, if you do as we tell you.'

'But, as I say-'

'No "buts", I'm afraid. Then you might be home Saturday or Sunday.'

'But there's so much to do!' remonstrated Morse almost desperately.

'Weren't those the words of Cecil Rhodes?'

'Yes, I think they were.'

'The last words, if I recall aright.'

Morse was silent

And the Senior Consultant continued: 'Look, there are three basic causes of diabetes - well, that's an oversimplification. But you're not a medical man.'

'Thank you,'said Morse.

'Hereditary factors, stress, excessive booze. You'd score five ... six out of ten on the first. Your father had diabetes, I see.'

'Latish in life.'

'Well, you're not exactly a youngster yourself.'

'Perhaps not."

'Stress? You're not too much of a worryguts?'

'Well, I worry about the future of the human race -does that count?'

'What about booze? You seem to drink quite a bit, I see?'

So Morse told him the truth; or, to be more accurate, told him between one-half and one-third of the truth.

Matthews got to his feet, peered at the insulin-drip, and marginally readjusted some control thereon.

'Six out of ten on the second; ten out of ten on the third, I'm afraid. And by the way, I'm not allowing you any visitors. None at all - not even close relatives. Just me and the nurses here.'

'I haven't got any close relatives,' said Morse.

Matthews now stood at die foot of his bed. "You've already had somebody wanting to see you, though. Fellow called Lewis.'

After Matdiews had gone, Morse lay back and thought of his colleague. And for several minutes he felt very low, unmanned as he was with a strangely poignant gratitude.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Thursday, 29 February

The relations between us were peculiar. He was a man of habits, narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one of them. But apart from this I had uses. I was a whetstone for his mind, I stimulated him. He liked to think aloud in my presence

(Conan Doyle, Hie Adventures of the Creeping Man)

'AND 'ow is 'E TODAY, then?' asked Mrs Lewis when her husband finally returned home on Thursday evening, and when soon the fat was set a-sizzling in the chip-pan, with the two eggs standing ready to be broken in the frying pan.

'On the mend.'

'They always say that"

'No. He's genuinely on the mend.'

'Why can't 'e 'ave visitors then? Not contagious, is it, this diabetes?'

Lewis smiled at her. Brought up as she had been in the Rhondda Valley, the gende Welsh lilt in her voice was an abiding delight with him - diough not, to be quite truthful, with everyone.

'He'll probably be out this weekend.'

'And back to work?'

Lewis put his hands on his wife's shoulders as she stood watching the pale chips gradually turning brown.

'This weekend, I should think.'

'You've always enjoyed working with 'im, 'aven't you?'

'Well

'I've often wondered why. It's not as if 'e's ever treated you all that well, is it?'

'I'm the only one he's ever treated well,' said Lewis quietly.

She turned towards him, laterally shaking the chips with a practised right hand.

'And 'ow are you today, then? The case going OK?'

Lewis sat down at the red Formica-topped kitchen table and surveyed the old familiar scene: lacy white doily, knife and fork, bottle of tomato ketchup, bread and butter on one side, and a glass of milk on the other. He should have felt contented; and as he looked back over another long day, perhaps he did.

Temporarily, Chief Superintendent David Blair from the Oxford City Force had been given overall responsibility for the Rachel James murder enquiry, and he had spent an hour at Kidlington Police HQ earlier that afternoon, where Lewis had brought him up to date with the latest developments.

Not that they had amounted to much ...

The reports from DCs Learoyd and Elton were not destined significandy to further die course of the investigation. Lord Hardiman, aged eighty-seven, a sad victim of Alzheimer's disease, and now confined to his baronial hall in Bedfordshire, was unlikely, it seemed, to squander any more of his considerable substance in riotous living along die Reeperbahn. Whilst die child-fondler, recognized immediately by his erstwhile neighbours, was likewise unlikely to disturb die peace for die immediate future, confined as he was at Her Majesty's Pleasure in Reading for die illegal publication and propagation of material deemed likely to deprave and corrupt.

More interestingly, Lewis had been able to report on his own enquiries, particularly on his second interview with Julian Storrs, who had been more willing now to divulge details of dates, times, and hotels for his last diree visits to Paddington with Rachel James.

And after dial, to report on his interview widi Sir Clixby Bream, who had informed Lewis of die imminent election of a new Master, and who had given him a copy of die College Statutes (fortunately, rendered Anglice) widi dieir emphasis upon die need for any candidate for die Mastership to be in good physical health (in corpore sand).

'Nobody can guarantee good healtii,' Blair had observed.

'No, but sometimes you can almost guarantee bad health, perhaps, sir?'

'We're still no nearer to finding how Owens got a copy of tiiat letter?'

'No. I went round to the Harvey Clinic again yesterday. No luck, though. The doc who wrote the letter got himself killed, as you know, and all his records have been distributed around... reallocated, sort of thing."

"They're all in a mess, you mean?'

Lewis nodded. 'Somehow Owens got to know that he hadn't got much time left, didn't he? So he's got three things on him: he knows a good deal about Angela Storrs' past; he knows he was having an affair with Rachel James; and he knows he's pretty certainly hiding his medical reports from his colleagues in College - from everybody, perhaps.'

Quite certainly Morse would have complained about the confusing profusion of third-person pronouns in the previous sentence. But Blair seemed to follow the account with no difficulty.

'From his wife, too?' he asked.

'I wouldn't be surprised.'

"You know, Morse once told me that any quack who tells you when you're going to die is a bloody fool.'

Lewis grinned. 'He's told me the same thing about a dozen times.'

'He's getting better, you say?'

'Out by the weekend, they think.'

"You hope so, don't you?'

Lewis nodded, and Blair continued quietly:

"You're peculiar companions, you know, you and Morse. Don't you think? He can be an ungrateful, ungracious sod at times.'

'Almost always, sir,' admitted Lewis, smiling to himself as if recalling mildly happy memories.

'He'll have to take things more easily now.'

'Would you care to tell him that?'

'No.'

'Just one thing more, sir - about Owens. I really think we ought to consider the possibility that he's in a bit of danger. There must be quite a few people who'd gladly see him join Rachel in the mortuary.'

'What do you suggest, Sergeant?'

'That's the trouble, isn't it' We can't just give him a bodyguard.'

"There's only one way of keeping an eye on him all the time.'

'Bring him in, you mean, sir? But we can't do that - not yet.'

'No. No good bringing him in and then having to let him go. We shall need something to charge him with. I don't suppose ...' Blair hesitated. 'I don't suppose there's any chance that he murdered Rachel James?'

T don't think so, myself, no.'

'What's Morse think?'

'He did think so for a start, but ... Which reminds me, sir. I'd better make another trip to the newspaper offices tomorrow.'

'Don't go and do everything yourself, Sergeant'

'Will you promise to tell the Chief Inspector that?'

'No,' replied Blair as he prepared to leave; but hesitantly so, since he was feeling rather worried himself now about what Lewis had said.

'What did Morse think about the possibility of Owens getting himself murdered?'

'Said he could look after himself; said he was a streetwise kid from the start; said he was a survivor.' 'Let's hope he's right.' 'Sometimes he is, sir,' said Lewis.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

We forget ourselves and our destinies in health; and the chief use of temporary sickness is to remind us of these concerns

(Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journals)

SISTER JANET McQuEEN - an amply bosomed woman now in her early forties, single and darkly attractive to the vast majority of men - had been considerably concerned about her new patient: one E. Morse. Patently, in spite of his superficial patter, the man knew nothing whatsoever of medicine, and appeared unaware, and strangely unconcerned, about his physical well-being; ill-being, rather.

On several occasions during the following days she'd spent some time with him, apologizing for the two-hourly check on his blood sugar levels (even during the night); explaining the vital role of the pancreas in the metabolic processes; acquainting him with the range, colour, purpose, and possible efficacy, of the medication and equipment now prescribed - single-use insulin syringes, Human Ultratard, Human Actrapid, Unilet Lancets,

Exactech Reagent Strips, Enalapril Tablets, Frusemide Tablets, Nifedipine Capsules ...

He'd seemed to understand most of it, she thought And from their first meeting she'd realized that the prematurely white-haired man was most unusual.

'Glad about the pills,' he'd said.

·You are?'

'Different colours, aren't they? White, pink, brown-and-orange. Good, that is. Gives a man a bit of psychological confidence. In the past, I've always thought that confidence was a bit overrated. Not so sure now, diough, Sister.'

She made no answer. But his words were to remain in her mind; and she knew that she would look forward to talking with this man again.

By Tuesday evening, Morse's blood sugar level had fallen dramatically. And at coffee-time on Wednesday morning, Sister McQueen came to his bedside, the fingers of her right hand almost automatically feeling his pulse as she flicked the watch from the starched white lapel of her uniform.

'Shall I survive till the weekend?'

"You hardly deserve to.'

'I'm OK now, you mean?'

She snorted in derision; but winsomely so.

'You know why we didn't want you to have any visitors?'

"You wanted me all to yourself?' suggested Morse.

She shook her head slowly, her sensitive, slim lips widening into a saddened smile.

'No. Dr Matdiews thought you were probably far too

worried about life - about your work - about other things, perhaps. And he didn't want to take any chances. Visitors are always a bit of a stress.'

'He needn't have worried too much about that"

'But you're wrong, aren't you?' She got to her feet You've had four people on the phone every day, regular callers - regular as well-adjusted bowels.'

Morse looked up at her.

'Four?'

'Somebody called Lewis - somebody called Strange -somebody called Blair. All from the police, I think.'

'Four, you said?"

'Ah yes. Sorry. And somebody called Jane. She works for you, she said. Sounds awfully sweet.'

As he lay back after Sister had gone, and switched on the headphones to Classic FM, Morse was again aware of how low he had sunk, since almost everything - a kindly look, a kindly word, a kindly thought, even the thought of a kindly thought - seemed to push him ever nearer to the rim of tears. Forget it, Morse! Forget yourself and forget your health! For a while anyway. He picked up The ABC Murders which he'd found in the meagre ward-library. He'd always enjoyed Agatha Christie: a big fat puzzle ready for the reader from page one. Perhaps it might help a little with the big fat puzzle waiting for him in the world outside the Radcliffe Infirmary...

ABC.

Alexander Bonaparte Gust.

Adele Beatrice Cecil.

Ann Berkeley Cox...

Within five minutes Morse was asleep.

On Thursday afternoon, a slim, rather prissy young dietitian came to sit beside Morse's bed and to talk quickly, rationally, and at inordinate length, about such things as calories and carrots and carbohydrates.

'And if you ever feel like a pint of beer once a week, well, you just go ahead and have one! It shouldn't do you much harm.'

Morse's spirit groaned within him.

The Senior Consultant himself came round again the following morning. The insulin-drip had long gone; blood-readings were gradually reverting to a manageable level; blood pressure was markedly down.

"You've been very lucky,' said Matthews.

'I don't deserve it,' admitted Morse.

'No. You don't'

'When are you going to let me go?'

'Home? Tomorrow, perhaps. Work? Up to you. I'd take a fortnight off myself - but then I've got far more sense than you have.'

Well before hmchtime on Saturday, already dressed and now instructed to await an ambulance, Morse was seated in the entrance corridor of the Geoffrey Harris Ward when Sister McQueen came to sit beside him.

'I'm almost sorry to be going,' said Morse.

·You'll miss us?'

'I'll miss you.'

'Really?'

'Could I ring you - here?' asked Morse diffidently.

'In those immortal words: "Don't ring us - we'll ring you."'

*You mean you will ring me?'

She shook her head. 'Perhaps not And it doesn't matter, does it? What matters is that you look after yourself. You're a nice man - a very nice man! - and I'm so glad we met'

'If I did come to see you, would you look after me?'

'Bed and Breakfast, you mean?' She smiled. "You'd always be welcome in the McQueen Arms.'

She stood up as an ambulance-man came through the flappy doors.

'Mr Morse?'he asked.

'I'd love to be in the McQueen arms,' Morse managed to say, very quietly.

As he was driven past the Neptune fountain in the forecourt of the Radcliffe Infirmary, he wondered if Sister had appreciated that shift in key, from the uppercase Arms to the lower-case arms.

He hoped she had.

CHAPTER FORTY

Sunday, 3 March

Important if true

(Inscription A.W. Kinglake wished to see on all churches)

Forgive us for loving familiar hymns and religious feelings more than Thee, O Lord

(From the United Presbyterian Church Litany)

'BUT I'D BETTER not call before the Archers' omnibus?' Lewis had suggested the previous evening.

'Don't worry about that. I've kept up with events in Ambridge all week. And I don't want to hear 'em again. I just wonder when these scriptwriters will understand that beautiful babies are about as boring as happy marriages.'

'About ten then, sir?'

Morse, smartly dressed in clean white shirt and semi-well-pressed grey flannels, was listening to the last few minutes of the Morning Service on Radio 4 when Lewis was quickly admitted - and cautioned.

'Sh! My favourite hymn.'

In the silence that followed, the two men sat listening with Morse's bleating, uncertain baritone occasionally accompanying the singing.

'Didn't know you were still interested in that sort of thing,' volunteered Lewis after it had finished.

'I still love the old hymns - the more sentimental the better, for my taste. Wonderful words, didn't you think?' And softly, but with deep intensity, he recited a few lines he'd just sung:

7 trace the rainbow through the rain And feel the promise is not vain That Morn shall tearless be.'

But Lewis, who had noted the moisture in Morse's eyes, and who had sensed that the promise of the last line might soon be broken, immediately injected a more joyful note into the conversation.

'It's really good to have you back, sir.'

Apparently unaware that any reciprocal words of gratitude were called for, Morse asked about the case; and learned that the police were perhaps 'treading water' for the time being, and that Chief Superintendent Blair was nominally i/c pro tern.

'David Blair. Best copper in the county' (Lewis was about to nod a partial agreement) 'apart from me, of course.'

And suddenly Lewis felt very happy that he was back in harness with this arrogant, ungracious, vulnerable, lovable man with whom he had worked so closely for so

many years; a man who looked somewhat slimmer, somewhat paler than when he had last seen him, but who sounded not a whit less brusque as he now asked whether Lewis had checked up on the time when Storrs had left home for his last visit with Rachel to Paddington, and the time when the postman had delivered the mail in Polstead Road that same morning. And Lewis had.

9-45-9-50 a-m-9.io-g.2oa.m.

Respectively.

'From which, Lewis, we may draw what conclusions?' 'Precious few, as far as I can see.' 'Absolutely! What other new facts have you got for me?'

So Lewis told him.

It was ten minutes short of noon when Morse dropped the mini-bombshell.

'The Cherwell, do you think, Lewis? The landlord there always keeps a decent pint.'

'But beer's full of sugar, isn't it? You can't-'

'Lewis! This diabetes business is all about balance, that's all. I've got to take all this insulin because I can't produce any insulin myself - to counteract any sugar intake. But if I didn't have any sugar intake to counteract, I'd be in one helluva mess. I'd become hypoglycaemic, and you know what that means.'

Not having the least idea, Lewis remained silent as Morse took out a black pen-like object from his pocket,

screwed off one end, removed a white plastic cap from the needle there, twisted a calibrator at the other end, unbuttoned his shirt, and plunged the needle deep into his midriff.

Lewis winced involuntarily.

But Morse, looking up like some young child expecting praise after taking a very nasty-tasting medicine, seemed wholly pleased with himself.

'See? That'll take care of things. No problem.'

With great care, Lewis walked back from the bar with a pint of Bass and a glass of orange juice.

'I've been waiting a long time for this,' enthused Morse, burying his nose into the froth, taking a gloriously gratifying draught of real ale, and showing, as he relaxed back, a circle of blood on his white shirt just above the waist.

After a period of silence, during which Morse several times raised his glass against the window to admire the colour of the beer, Lewis asked the key question.

'What have they said about you starting work again?'

'What do you say about us seeing Storrs and Owens this afternoon?'

"You'll have a job with Storrs, sir. Him and his missus are in Bath for the weekend.'

'What about Owens?'

'Dunno. Perhaps he's away, too - on another of his personnel courses.'

'One easy way of finding out, Lewis. There's a telephone just outside the Gents.'

'Look, sir! For heaven's sake! You've been in hospital a week-'

'Five days, to be accurate, and only for observation. They'd never have let me out unless-'

But he got no further.

The double-doors of the Cherwell had burst open and there, framed in the doorway, jowls a-quiver, stood Chief Superintendent Strange - looking around, spying Morse, walking across, and sitting down.

'Like a beer, sir?' asked Lewis.

'Large single-malt Scotch - no ice, no water.'

'And it's the same again for me,' prompted Morse, pushing over his empty glass.

T might have known it,' began Strange, after regaining his breath. 'Straight out of hospital and straight into the nearest boozer.'

'It's not the nearest.'

'Don't remind me! Dixon's already carted me round to the Friar Bacon - the King's Arms - the Dew Drop -and now here. And it's about time somebody reminded you that you're in the Force to reduce the crime-level, not the bloody beer-level.'

'We were talking about the case when you came in, sir.'

' What case?' snapped Strange.

'The murder case - Rachel James.'

'Ah yes! I remember the case well; I remember the address, too: Number 17 Bloxham Drive, wasn't it? Well, you'd better get off your arse, matey' (at a single swallow, he drained the Scotch which Lewis had just placed in front of him) 'because if you are back at work, you can

just forget that beer and get over smartish to Bloxham Drive again. Number 15, this time. Another murder. Chap called Owens - Geoffrey Owens. I think you've heard of him?'

PART FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to fact

(I Corinthians, ch. 13, v. 12)

Deja vu.

The street, the police cars, the crowd of curious onlookers, the SOCOs - repetition almost everywhere, as if nothing was found only once in the world. Just that single significant shift: the shift from one terraced house to another immediately adjacent

Morse himself had said virtually nothing since Strange had brought the news of Owens' murder; and said nothing now as he sat in the kitchen of Number 15, Bloxham Drive, elbows resting on the table there, head resting on his hands. For the moment his job was to bide his time, he knew that, during the interregnum between the activities of other professionals and his own assumption of authority: a necessary yet ever frustrating interlude, like that when an in-flight air-stewardess rehearses the safety drill before take-off.

By all rights he should have felt weary and defeated; but this was not the case. Physically, he felt considerably fitter than he had the week before; and mentally, he felt

eager for that metaphorical take-off to begin. Some people took little or no mental exercise except that of jumping to conclusions; while Morse was a man who took excessive mental exercise and who still jumped to dubious conclusions, as indeed he was to do now. But as some of his close colleagues knew - and most especially as Sergeant Lewis knew - it was at times like this, with preconceptions proved false and hypotheses undone, that Morse's brain was wont to function with astonishing speed, if questionable lucidity. As it did now.

Lewis walked through just before 2 p.m.

'Anything I can do for the minute, sir?'

'Just nip out and get me the Independent on Sunday, will you? And a packet of Dunhill.'

'Do you think-?' But Lewis stopped; and waited as Morse reluctandy took a five-pound note from his wallet.

For die next few minutes Morse was aware that his brain was still frustrated and unproductive. And there was something else, too. For some reason, and for a good while now, he had been conscious that he might well have missed a vital clue in die case (cases!) which so far he couldn't quite catch. It was a bit like going through a town on a high-speed train when the eyes had almost caught the name of the station as it flashed so tantaliz-ingly across the carriage-window.

Lewis returned five minutes later with die cigarettes, which Morse put unopened into his jacket-pocket; and with die newspaper, which Morse opened at the Cryptic

Crossword ('Quixote'), glanced at i across: 'Some show dahlias in the Indian pavilion (6)' and immediately wrote in 'HOWDAH'.

'Excuse me, sir - but how do you get that?'

'Easiest of all the clue-types, that. The letters are all there, in their proper, consecutive order. It's called the "hidden" type.'

'Ah, yes!' Lewis looked and, for once, Lewis saw. 'Shall I leave you for two or three minutes to finish it off, sir?'

'No. It'll take me at least five. And it's time you sat down and gave me the latest news on things here.'

Owens' body Morse had already viewed, howsoever briefly, sitting back, as it had been, against the cushions of the living-room settee, the green covers permeated with many pints of blood. His face unshaven, his long hair loose down to the shoulders, his eyes open and staring, almost (it seemed) as if in permanent disbelief; and two bullet wounds showing raggedly in his chest Dead four to six hours, that's what Dr Laura Hobson had already suggested - a margin narrower than Morse had expected, though wider than he'd hoped; death, she'd claimed, had fairly certainly been 'instant' (or 'instantaneous', as Morse would have preferred). There were no signs of any forcible entry to the house: the front door had been found still locked and bolted; the tongue of the Yale on the back door still engaged, though not clicked to the locked position from the inside. On the mantelpiece above the electric fire (not switched on) was a small oblong virtually free of the generally pervasive dust.

The body would most probably not have been discovered

that day had not John Benson, a garage mechanic from Hartwell's Motors, agreed to earn himself a little untaxed extra income by fixing a few faults on Owens' car. But Benson had been unable to get any answer when he called just after 11.15 a-m-! had finally peered through the open-curtained front window; had rapped repeatedly, and increasingly loudly, against the pane when he saw Owens lying asleep on the settee there.

But Owens was not asleep. So much had become gradually apparent to Benson, who had dialled 999 at about 11.30 a.m. from the BT phone-box at the entrance to the Drive.

Thus far no one, it appeared, had seen or heard anything untoward that morning between seven and eight o'clock, say. House-to-house enquiries would soon be under way, and might provide a clue or two. But concerning such a possibility Morse was predictably (though, as it happened, mistakenly) pessimistic. Early Sunday mom-ing was not a time when many people were about, except for dog-owners and insomniacs: the former, judging from the warnings on the lamp-posts concerning the fouling of verges and footpaths, not positively encouraged to parade dieir pets along the street; the latter, if there were any, not as yet coming forward with any sightings of strangers or hearings of gunshots.

No. On the face of it, it had seemed a .typical, sleepy Sunday morning, when the denizens of Bloxham Drive had their weekly lie-in, arose late, walked around their homes in dressing-gowns, sometimes boiled an egg, perhaps - and settled down to read in the scandal sheets about the extra-marital exploits of the great and the not-so-good.

But one person had been given no chance to read his Sunday newspaper, for the News of the Worldlay unopened on the mat inside the front door of Number 15; and few of the others in the Drive that morning were able to indulge their delight in adulterous liaisons, stunned as they were by disbelief and, as the shock itself lessened, by a growing sense of fear.

At 2.30 p.m. Morse was informed that few if any of the neighbours were likely to be helpful witnesses - except the old lady in Number 19. Morse should see her himself, perhaps?

'Want me to come along, sir?'

'No, Lewis. You get off and try to find out something about Storrs - and his missus. Bath, you say? He probably left details of where he'd be at the Porters' Lodge - that's the usual drill. And do it from HQ. Better keep the phone here free.'

Mrs Adams was a widow of some eighty summers, a small old lady who had now lost all her own teeth, much of her wispy white hair, and even more of her hearing. But her wits were sharp enough, Morse sensed that immediately; and her brief evidence was of considerable interest. She had slept poorly the previous night; got up early; made herself some tea and toast; listened to the news on the radio at seven o'clock; cleared away; and then gone out the back to empty her waste-bin. That's when she'd seen him!

'Him?'

'Pardon?'

You're sure it was a man?1

'Oh yes. About twenty - twenty-five past seven.'

The case was under way.

"You didn't hear any shots or bangs?'

'Pardon?'

Morse let it go.

But he managed to convey his thanks to her, and to explain that she would be asked to sign a short statement As he prepared to leave, he gave her his card.

'I'll leave this with you, Mrs Adams. If you remember anything else, please get in touch with me.'

He thought she'd understood; and he left her there in her kitchen, holding his card about three or four inches from her pale, rheumy eyes, squinting obliquely at the wording.

She was not, as Morse had quickly realized, ever destined to be called before an identity parade; for although she might be able to spot that all of them were men, any physiognomical differentiation would surely be wholly beyond the capacity of those tired old eyes.

Poor Mrs Adams 1

Sans teeth, sans hair, sans ears, sans eyes - and very soon, alas, sans everything.

Seldom, in any investigation, had Morse so badly mishandled a key witness as now he mishandled Mrs Arabella Adams.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Alibi (adv.y. in another place, elsewhere (Small's Latin-English Dictionary)

SOME PERSONS IN life eschew all sense of responsibility, and are never wholly at ease unless they are closely instructed as to what to do, and how and when to do it Sergeant Lewis was not such a person, willing as he was always to shoulder his share of responsibility and, not infrequently, to face some apportionment of blame. Yet, to be truthful, he was ever most at ease when given some specific task, as he had been now; and he experienced a pleasing sense of purpose as he drove up to Police HQ that same afternoon.

One thing only disturbed him more than a little. For almost a week now Morse had forgone, been forced to forgo, both beer and cigarettes. And what foolishness it was to capitulate, as Morse had done, to both, within die space of only a couple of hours! But that's what life was all about - personal decisions; and Morse had clearly decided that the long-term disintegration of his liver and his lungs was a price well worth paying, even with diabetes, for the short-term pleasures of alcohol and nicotine.

Yet Morse was still on the ball. As he had guessed, Storrs had left details of his weekend whereabouts at the Porters' Lodge. And very soon Lewis was speaking to the Manager of Bath's Royal Crescent Hotel - an appropriately cautious man, but one who was fully co-operative once Lewis had explained the unusual and delicate nature of his enquiries. The Manager would ring back, he promised, within half an hour.

Lewis picked up the previous day's copy of the Daily Mirror, and sat puzzling for a few minutes over whether the answer to i across - 'River (3)' - was CAM, DEE, EXE, FAL, and so on through the alphabet; finally deciding on CAM, when he saw that it would fit neady enough with COD, the fairly obvious answer to i down -'Fish (3)'. He had made a firm start. But thereafter he had proceeded little, since the combination which had found favour widi the setter of the crossword (EXE/ EEL) had wholly eluded him. His minor hypodiesis, like Morse's earlier major one, was sadly undone.

But he had no time to return (quite literally) to square one, since the phone rang. It had taken the Manager only fifteen minutes to assemble his fairly comprehensive information ...

Mr and Mrs J. Storrs had checked into the hotel at 4 p.m. the previous afternoon, Saturday, 2 March: just the one night, at the special weekend-break tariff of £125 for a double room. The purpose of the Storrs' visit (almost certainly) had been to hear the Bath Festival Choir, since one of the reception staff had ordered a taxi for them at

7 p.m. to go along to the Abbey, where the Faure Requiem was the centrepiece of the evening conceit. The couple had been back in the hotel by about half past nine, when they had immediately gone into the restaurant for a late, pre-booked dinner, the only extra being a bottle of the house red wine.

If the sergeant would like to see the itemized bill... ?

No one, it appeared, had seen the couple after about 11 p.m., when they had been the last to leave the restaurant. Before retiring, however, Mr Storrs had rung through to room service to order breakfast for the two of them, in their room, at 7.45 a.m.: a full English for himself, a Continental one for his wife.

Again, the itemized order was available if the sergeant...

Latest check-out from the hotel (as officially specified in the brochure) was noon. But the Storrs had left a good while before then. As with the other details (the Manager explained) some of the times given were just a little vague, since service personnel had changed. But things could very soon be checked. The account had been settled by Mr Storrs himself on a Lloyds Bank Gold Card (the receptionist recalled this clearly), and one of the porters had driven the Storrs' BMW round to the front of the hotel from the rear garage - being tipped (it appeared) quite liberally for his services.

So that was that.

Or almost so - since Lewis was very much aware that Morse would hardly be overjoyed with such findings; and he now asked a few further key questions.

'I know it's an odd thing to ask, sir, but are you

completely sure that these people were Mr and Mrs Storrs?'

'Well, I ..." The Manager hesitated long enough for Lewis to jam a metaphoric foot inside the door.

"You knew them - know them - personally?'

'I've only been Manager here for a couple of years. But, yes - they were here twelve months or so ago.'

'People change, though, don't they? He might have changed quite a bit, Mr Storrs, if he'd been ill or ... or something?'

'Oh, it was him all right I'm sure of that. Well, almost sure. And he signed the credit-card bill, didn't he? It should be quite easy to check up on that."

'And you're quite sure it was her, sir? Mrs Storrs? Is there any possibility at all that he was spending the night with someone else?'

The laugh at the other end of the line was full of relief and conviction.

'Not - a - chance! You can be one hundred per cent certain of that I think everybody here remembers her. She's, you know, she's a bit sharp, if you follow my meaning. Nothing unpleasant - don't get me wrong! But a little bit, well, severe. She dressed that way, too: white trouser-suit, hair drawn back high over the ears, beauty-parlour face. Quite the lady, really.'

Lewis drew on his salient reminiscence of Angela Storrs:

'It's not always easy to recognize someone who's wearing sunglasses, though.'

'But she wasn't wearing sunglasses. Not when I saw her, anyway. I just happened to be in reception when

she booked in. And it was sft/recognized mA You see, the last time they'd been with us, she did the signing in, while Mr Storrs was sorting out the luggage and the parking. And I noticed the registration number of their BMW and I mentioned the coincidence that we were both "i88J". She reminded me of it yesterday. She said they'd still got the same car.'

You can swear to all this?'

'Certainly. We had quite a litde chat She told me they'd spent dieir honeymoon in the hotel - in the Sarah Siddons suite.'

Oh.

So that was that

An alibi - for both of them.

Lewis thanked die Manager. 'But please do keep all this to yourself, sir. It's always a tricky business when we're trying to eliminate suspects in a case. Not suspects, diough, just.. .just people.'

A few minutes later Lewis again rang the Storrs' residence in Polstead Road; again listening to Mrs Storrs on the answerphone: 'If the caller will please speak clearly after the long tone ...' The voice was a little -what had the Manager said? - a litde 'severe', yes. And quite certainly (Lewis thought) it was a voice likely to intimidate a few of die students if she became die new Master's wife. But after'waiting for the 'long tone', Lewis put down die phone without leaving any message. He always felt awkward and tongue-tied at such moments; and he suddenly realized dial he hadn't got a message to leave in any case.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Horse-sense is something a horse has that prevents him from betting on people

(Father Mathew)

MORSE WAS STILL seated at the kitchen table in Number 15 when Lewis rang through.

'So it looks,' concluded Lewis, 'as if they're in the clear.'

'Ye-es. How far is it from Oxford to Bath?'

'Seventy, seventy-five miles?'

'Sunday morning. No traffic. Do it in an hour and a half- no problem. Three hours there and back.'

"There's a murder to commit in the middle, though.'

Morse conceded the point. "Three and a half.'

'Well, whatever happened, he didn't use his awn car. That was in the hotel garage - keys with die porter.'

'Haven't you heard of a duplicate set of car-keys, Lewis?'

'What if he was locked in - or blocked in?'

'He wwlocked himself, and wnblocked himself, all right?'

'He must have left about four o'clock this morning then, because he was back in bed having breakfast with his missus before eight'

·Ye-es.'

'I just wonder what Owens was doing, sir - up and about and dressed and ready to let the murderer hi at half past five or so.'

'Perhaps he couldn't sleep.'

"You're not taking all this seriously, are you?'

'All right. Let's cross 'em both off the list, I agree.'

'Have we got a list?'

Morse nodded. 'Not too many on it, I know. But I'd like to see our other runner in the Lonsdale Stakes.'

'Do you want me to see him?'

'No. You get back here and look after the shop till the SOCOs have left - they're nearly through.'

With which, Morse put down the phone, got to his feet, and looked cautiously through into the hallway; then walked to the front door, where a uniformed PC stood on guard.

'Has the Super gone?' asked Morse.

"Yes, sir. Five minutes ago.'

Morse walked back to the kitchen and opened the door of the refrigerator. The usual items: two pints of Co-op milk, Flora margarine, a packet of unsmoked bacon rashers, five eggs, a carton of grapefruit juice, two cans of Courage's bitter...

Morse found a glass in the cupboard above the draining-board, and poured himself a beer. The liquid was cool and sharp on his dry throat; and very soon he had opened the second can, his fingers almost sensuously

feeling the cellophane^vrapped cigarettes in his pocket, still unopened.

By the time the SOCOs were ready to move into the kitchen, the glass had been dried and replaced on its shelf.

'Can we kick you out a little while, sir?' It was Andrews, the senior man.

"You've finished everywhere else?'

'Pretty well.'

Morse got to his feet.

'Ah! Two cans of beer!' observed Andrews. "Think diey may have had a drink together before ... ?'

'Not at that time of the morning, no.'

'I dunno. I used to have a friend who drank a pint of Guinness for breakfast every morning.'

'Sounds a civilized sort of fellow.'

'Dead. Cirrhosis of the liver.'

Morse nodded morosely.

'Anyway, we'll give the cans a dusting over, just in case.'

'I shouldn't bother,' said Morse.

'Won't do any harm, surely?'

'I said, I shouldn't bother,' snapped Morse.

And suddenly Andrews understood.

Upstairs there was little to detain Morse. In the front room the bed was still unmade, a pair of pyjamas neatly folded on the top pillow. The wardrobe appeared exactly as he'd viewed it earlier. Only one picture on the walls: Monet's miserable-looking version of a haystack.

The 'study' (Morse's second visit there too!) was in considerable disarray, for the desk-drawers, now liberally dusted with fingerprint powder, had been taken out, their contents strewn across the floor, including the book which had stimulated some interest on Morse's previous visit. The central drawer likewise had been removed, and Morse assumed that after discovering die theft of the manila file Owens had seen no reason to repair the damaged lock.

Nothing much else of interest upstairs, as far as Morse could see; just that one, easy conclusion to be drawn: that die murderer had been looking for something -some documents, some papers, some evidence which could have constituted a basis for blackmail.

Exacdy what Morse had been looking for.

Exacdy what Morse had found.

He smiled sadly to himself as he looked down at the wreckage of the room. Already he had made a few minor blunders in the investigations; and one major, tragic blunder, of course. But how fortunate diat he'd been able to avail himself of JJ's criminal expertise, since odierwise die crucial evidence found in die manila file would have vanished now for ever.

Downstairs, Morse had only die living-room to consider. The kitchen he'd already seen; and die nominal 'dining-room' was dearly a room where Owens had seldom, if ever, dined - an area duck widi dust and crowded widi die sorts of items most householders regularly relegate to their lofts and garden sheds: an old electric fire, a coal scutde, a box of plugs and wires, a traffic cone, an ancient Bakelite wireless, a glass case

containing a stuffed owl, a black plastic lavatory-seat, six chairs packed together in the soixante-neuf position -and a dog-collar with the name 'Archie' inscribed on its disc.

Perhaps, after all, there had been some little goodness somewhere in the man?

Morse had already given permission for the body to be removed, and now for the second time he ventured into the living-room. Not quite so dust-bestrewn here, certainly; but manifestly Owens had never been a houseproud man. Surfaces all around were dusted with powder, and chalk-marks outlined the body's former configuration on the settee. But the room was dominated by blood - the stains, the smell of blood; and Morse, as was his wont, turned his back on such things, and viewed the contents of the room.

He stood enviously in front of the black, three-decked Revox CD-cassette player which stood on a broad shelf in the alcove to the left of the front window, with dozens of CDs and cassettes below it, including, Morse noted with appreciation, much Gustav Mahler. And indeed, as he pressed the 'Play' panel, he immediately recognized Das Lied von derErde.

No man is wholly bad, perhaps...

On the shelf beneath was an extended row of videos: Fawlty Towers, Morecambe and Wise Christmas Shows, Porridge, and several other TV classics. And two (fairly obviously) pornographic videos: Grub Screws, its crudely lurid, technicolor cover-poses hardly promising a course

in carpentry with the Open University; and the plain-covered, yet succincdy entided Sux and Fux, which seemed to speak quite unequivocally for itself. Morse himself had no video mechanism on his rented TV set; but he was in die process of thinking about die benefits of such a facility when Lewis came in, die latter immediately instructed to have a look around.

Morse's attention now turned to die single row of books in die opposite alcove. Mosdy paperbacks: P. D. James, Jack Higgins, Rudi Rendell, Wilbur Smidi, Minette Walters ... RAC Handbook, World Atlas, Chambers Dictionary, Pevsner's Oxfordshire...

'See this?' Lewis suddenly raised aloft die Grub Screws. 'The statutory pom video, sir. Good one, that! Sergeant Dixon had it on at his stag-night'

"You'd like to see it again, you mean?'

'Again? Not for me, sir. Those things get ever so boring after a while. But don't let me stop you if..."

'What? Me? I've got more important diings to do dian watch dial sort of thing. High time I saw Comford, for a start Fix somediing up, Lewis. The sooner die quicker.'

After Lewis had gone, Morse felt unwilling to face die chorus of correspondents and die battery of cameras which awaited those periodically emerging from die front of Number 15. So he sat down, yet again, in die now empty kitchen; and pondered.

Always in his life, he had wanted to know die answers to tilings. In Sunday School he had once asked a question concerning die topographical position of Heaven, only

to be admonished by an unimaginative middle-aged spinster for being so very silly. And he had been similarly discouraged when as a young grammar-school boy he had asked his Divinity master who it was, if God had created the Universe, who in turn had created God. And after receiving no satisfactory answer from his Physics master about what sort of thing could possibly exist out there at the end of the world, when space had run out, Morse had been compelled to lower his sights a little, thereafter satisfying his intellectual craving for answers by finding the values of 'x' and 'y' in (ever more complicated) algebraic equations, and by deciphering the meaning of (ever more complicated) chunks of choruses from the Greek tragedies.

Later, from his mid-twenties onwards, his need to know had transferred itself to the field of crossword puzzles, where he had so often awaited with almost paranoiac impatience the following day's answer to any clue he'd been unable to solve the day before. And now, as he sat in Bloxham Drive on that overcast, chilly Sunday afternoon in early March, he was aware that there was an answer to this present puzzle: probably a fairly simple answer to the question of what exactly had taken place earlier that morning. For a sequence of events had taken place, perhaps about 7.30. Someone had knocked on the door; had gained entry; had shot G*wens twice; had gone upstairs to try to find something; had left via the kitchen door; had gone away, on foot, on a bike, in a car.

Who?

Who, Morse? For it was someone - someone with a human face and with a human motive. If only he could

put together all the clues, he would know. And even as he sat there some pattern would begin to clarify itself in his mind, presenting a logical sequence of events, a causative chain of reactions. But then that same pattern would begin to blur and fade, since there was destined to be no flash of genuine insight on that afternoon.

Furthermore, Morse was beginning to feel increasingly worried about his present failure - like some hitherto highly acclaimed novelist with a score of bestsellers behind him who is suddenly assailed by a nightmarish doubt about his ability to write that one further winner; by a fear that he has come to the end of his creative output, and must face the possibility of defeat.

Lewis came back into the kitchen once more.

Dr Cornford would be happy to meet Morse whenever it suited. Five o'clock that afternoon? Before Chapel? In his rooms in Lonsdale?

Morse nodded. . ,.,

'And I rang the Storrs again, sir. They're back hi Oxford. Seems they had a bit of lunch in Burford on die way. Do you want me to go round?'

Morse looked up hi some puzzlement.

'What the hell for, Lewis?'

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The bells would ring to call her

In valleys miks away: 'Come all to church, good people;

Good people, come and pray.' But here my love would stay

(A. E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad XXI)

MORSE ENQUIRED AT the Lodge, then turned left and walked along the side of the quad to the Old Staircase, where on the first floor he saw, above the door to his right, the Gothic-style white lettering on its black background: DR D. J. CORNFORD.

'I suppose it's a bit early to offer you a drink, Chief Inspector?'

Morse looked at his wristwatch.

'Is it?'

'Scotch? Gin? Vodka?'

'Scotch, please.'

Cornford began to pour an ever increasingly liberal tot of Glenmorangie into a tumbler.

'Say "when"!'

It seemed that the Chief Inspector may have had some difficulty in enunciating the monosyllable, for Cornford paused when the tumbler was half filled with the pale-golden malt.

'When!' said Morse.

'No ice here, I'm afraid. But I'm sure you wouldn't want to adulterate it, anyway.'

"Yes, I would, if you don't mind. Same amount of water, please. We've all got to look after our livers.'

Two doors led off the high-ceilinged, oak-panelled, book-lined room; and Cornford opened the one diat led to a small kitchen, coming back with a jug of cold water.

'I would have joined you normally - without the waterl - but I'm reading die Second Lesson in Chapel tonight' (it was Cornford's turn to consult his wristwatch) 'so we mustn't be all that long. It's diat bit from the Episde to the Romans, Chapter thirteen - the bit about drunkenness. Do you know it?'

'Er, just remind me, sir.'

Clearly Cornford needed no copy of die text in front of him, for he immediately recited the key verse, widi appropriately ecclesiastical intonation:

Let us walk honestly, as in the day; not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying...

You'll be reading from die Kingjames version, dien?' 'Absolutely! I'm an agnostic myself; but what a tragedy diat so many of our Christian brethren have opted for

these new-fongled versions! "Boozing and Bonking", I should think they translate it'

Morse sat sipping his Scotch contentedly. He could have suggested 'Fux and Sux'; but decided against it

Cornford smiled. 'What do you want to see me about?'

'Well, in a way it's about that last bit of your text: the "strife and envying" bit. You see, I know you're standing for the Mastership here ...'

Tes?'

Morse took a deep breath, took a further deepish draught, and then told Cornford of the murder that morning of Geoffrey Owens; told him that various documents from the Owens household pointed to a systematic campaign of blackmail on Owens' part; informed him that there was reason to believe that he, Cornford, might have been - almost certainly would have been - one of the potential victims.

Cornford nodded quietly. 'Are you sure of this?'

'No, not sure at all, sir. But-'

'But you've got your job to do."

"You haven't received any blackmail letters yourself?'

'No.'

. Til be quite blunt, if I may, sir. Is there anything you can think of in the recent past, or distant past, that could have been used to compromise you in some way? Compromise your candidature, say?'

Cornford considered the question. 'I've done a few things I'm not very proud of - haven't we all? - but I'm fairly sure I got away with them. That was in another country, anyway...'

Morse finished the quotation for him: '... and, besides, the wench is dead.'

Cornford's pale grey eyes looked across at Morse with almost childlike innocence.

Yes.'

'Do you want to tell me about them?'

'No. But only because it would be an embarrassment for me and a waste of time for you.'

"You're a married man, I understand.'

"Yes. And before someone else tells you, my wife is American, about half my age, and extremely attractive.' The voice was still pleasantly relaxed, yet Morse sensed a tone of quiet, underlying strength.

'She hasn't been troubled by letters, anonymous letters, anything like that?'

'She hasn't told me of anydiing.'

'Would she tell you?'

Did Morse sense a hint of uneasy hesitation in Corn-ford's reply?

'She would, I think, yes. But you'd have to ask her.'

Morse nodded. 'I know it's a bit of a bodier - but I shall have to do that, I'm afraid. She's, er, she's not around?'

Cornford again looked at his wristwatch.

'She'll be coming over to Chapel very shortly.'

'Has there been much feeling - much tension -between you and the, er, other candidate?'

"The atmosphere on High Table has been a little, let's say, uncomfortable once or twice, yes. To be expected, though, isn't it?'

'But you don't throw insults at each other like those boxers before a big fight?'

'No, we just think them.'

'No whispers? No rumours?'

'Not as far as I'm aware, no.'

'And you get on reasonably well with Mr Storrs?'

Cornford got to his feet and smiled again, his head slightly to one side.

'I've never got to know Julian all that well, really.'

The Chapel bell had begun to ring - a series of monotonous notes, melancholy, ominous almost, like a curfew.

Ten minutes to go.

'Come ye to church, good people, Good people, come and pray,'

quoted Cornford.

Morse nodded, as he ventured one final question:

'Do you mind me asking you when you got up this morning, sir?'

'Early. I went out jogging -just before seven."

'Just you?'

Cornford nodded vaguely.

You didn't go out after that - for a paper? In the car, perhaps?'

'I don't have a car, myself. My wife does, but it's garaged out in New Road.'

'Quite away away.' ,

"Yes,' repeated Cornford slowly, 'quite a way away.'

As Morse walked down the stairs, he diought he'd

recognized Cornford for exactly what he was: a civilized, courteous, clever man; a man of quiet yet unmistakable resolve, who would probably make a splendid new Master of Lonsdale.

Just two things worried him, the first of them only slightly: if Cornford was going to quote Housman, he jolly well ought to do it accurately.

And he might be wholly wrong about the second ...

The bedroom door opened a few moments after Morse had reached the bottom of the creaking wooden staircase.

'And what do you think all that was about5'

'Couldn't you hear?'

'Most of it,' she admitted.

She wore a high-necked, low-skirted black dress, with an oval amethyst pinned to the bodice - suitably ensemb-led for a seat next to her husband in the Fellows' pews.

'His hair is whiter than yours, Denis. I saw him when he walked out.'

The bell still tolled.

Five minutes to go.

Cornford pulled on his gown and threw his hood back over his shoulders with practised precision; then repeated Housman (again inaccurately) as he put his arms around his wife and looked unblinkingly into her eyes.

'Have you got anything to pray for? Anything that's worrying you?'

Shelly Cornford smiled sweetly, trusting that such

deep dissimulation would mask her1 growing, now almost desperate, sense of guilt.

'I'm going to pray for you, Denis - for you to become Master of Lonsdale. That's what I want more than anything else in the world' (her voice very quiet now) 'and that's not for me, my darling - it's for you.'

'Nothing else to pray for?'

She moved away from him, smoothing the dress over her energetic hips.

'Such as what?"

'Some people pray for forgiveness, that sort of thing, sometimes,' said Denis Cornford softly.

Morse had walked to the Lodge, where he stood in the shadows for a couple of minutes, reading the various notices about the College's sporting fifteens, and elevens, and eights; and hoping that his presence there was unobserved - when he saw them. An academically accoutred Cornford, accompanied by a woman in black, had emerged from the foot of the Old Staircase, and now turned away from him towards the Chapel in the inner quad.

The bell had stopped ringing.

And Morse walked out into Radcliffe Square; thence across into the King's Arms in Broad Street, where he ordered a pint of bitter, and sat down in the back bar, considering so many things - including a wholly unprecedented sense of gratitude to the Tory Government for its reform of the Sunday licensing laws.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

I'd seen myself a don, Reading old poets in the library, Attending chapel in an MA gown And sipping vintage port by candlelight (John Betjeman, Summoned by Bells)

IN THE HILARY Term, in Lonsdale College, on Sunday evenings only, it had become a tradition for the electric lighting to be switched off, and for candles in their sconces to provide the only means of illumination in the Great Hall. Such a procedure was popular with the students, almost all of whom had never experienced the romance of candlelight except during power-cuts, and particularly enjoyable for those on the dais whereon the High Table stood, constandy aware as they were of flickering candles reflected in die polished silver of saltcellars and tureens, and the glitter of die cudery laid out with geometrical precision at every place.

On such evenings, no particular table-plan was provided, although it was the regular custom for die visiting preacher (on diis occasion a black bishop from Central

Africa) to sit on the right side of the Master, with the College Chaplain on the left. The other occupants of High Table (which was usually fully booked on Sunday evenings) were regularly those who had earlier attended the Chapel service, often with their wives or with a guest; and in recent years, one student invited by each of the Fellows in rotation.

That evening the student hi question was Antony Plummer, the new organ scholar, who had been invited by Julian Storrs for the very good reason that the two of them had attended the same school, the Services School, Dartmouth, to which establishment some members of the armed forces were wont to send their sons whilst they themselves were being shunted from one posting to another around the world - in former colonies, protectorates, mandated territories, and the few remaining overseas possessions.

Plummer had never previously been so honoured, and from his new perspective, seated between Mr and Mrs Storrs, he looked around him lovingly at the gilded, dimly illuminated portraits of the famous alumni - the poets and the politicians, the soldiers and the scientists -who figured so largely in the lineage of Lonsdale. The rafted timbers of the ceiling were lost in darkness, and the shadows were deep on the sombre panelling of die walls, as deftly and deferentially die scouts poured wine into die sparkling glasses.

Storrs, just a litde late in die proceedings perhaps, decided it was time to play die expansive host.

'Where is your fadier now, Plummer?'

'Last I heard he was running some NATO exercise in Belgium.'

'Colonel now, isn't he?'

'Brigadier.'

'My goodness!'

"You were with him in India, I think.'

Storrs nodded: 'Only a captain, though! I followed my father into the Royal Artillery there, and spent a couple of years trying to teach the natives how to shoot. Not much good at it, I'm afraid.'

'Who - the natives?'

Storrs laughed good-naturedly. 'No - me. Most of 'em could have taught me a few things, and I wasn't really cut out for service life anyway. So I opted for a gender life and applied for a Fellowship here.'

Angela Storrs had finished the bisque soup, and now complimented Plummer on the anthem through which he had conducted his largely female choir during the Chapel service.

'You enjoyed it, Mrs Storrs?'

'Er, yes. But to be quite truthful, I prefer boy sopranos.'

'Can you say why that is?'

'Oh, yes! One just feels it, that's all. We heard the Faure Requiem yesterday evening. Absolutely wonderful -especially die "In Paradisum", wasn't it, Julian?'

'Very fine, yes.'

'And you see," continued Angela, 'I would have known they were boys, even with my eyes shut But don't ask me why. One just feels that sort of thing, as I said. Don't you agree? One shouldn't try to rationalize everything.'

Three places lower down the table, one of the other dons whispered into his neighbour's ear:

'If that woman gets into the Lodge, I'll go and piss all over her primroses!"

By coincidence, colonialism was a topic at the far end of the table, too, where Denis Cornford, his wife beside him, was listening rather abstractedly to a visiting History Professor from Yale.

'No. Don't be too hard on yourselves. The Brits didn't treat the natives all that badly, really. Wouldn't you agree, Denis?'

'No, I wouldn't, I'm afraid,' replied Comford simply. T haven't made any particular study of the subject, but my impression is that the British treated most of their colonials quite abominably.'

Shelly slipped her left hand beneath the starched white tablecloth, and gendy moved it along his diigh. But she could feel no perceptible response.

At the head of the splendid oak plank diat constituted the High Table at Lonsdale, over the roast lamb, served with St Julien 93, Sir Clixby had been seeking to mollify the bishop's bitter condemnation of the English Examination Boards for expecting Rwandan refugees to study the Wars of the Roses. And soon after the profiteroles, the atmosphere seemed markedly improved.

All the conversation which had been criss-crossing the

evening - amusing, interesting, pompous, spiteful -ceased abruptly as the Master banged his gavel, and the assembled company rose to its feet.

Benedictus benedicatur.

The words came easily and suavely, from lips that were slightly over-red, slightly over-full, in a face so smooth one might assume that it seldom had need of the razor.

Those who wished, and that was most of them, now repaired to the SCR where coffee and port were being served (though wholly informally) and where the Master and Julian Storrs stood side-by-side, buttocks turned towards the remarkably realistic gas fire.

'Bishop on his way back to the railway station then?' queried Storrs.

'On his way back to Africa, I hope!' said the Master with a grin. 'Bloody taxi would have to be late tonight, wouldn't it? And none of you lot with a car here."

'It's this drink-driving business, Master. I'm all in favour of it. In fact, I'd vote for random checks myself.'

'And Denis there - hullo, Denis! - he was no help either.'

Comford had followed their conversation and now edged towards them, sipping his coffee.

'I sold my old Metro just before Christmas. And if you recall, Master, I only live three hundred yards away.'

The words could have sounded light-hearted, yet somehow they didn't

'Shelly's got a car, though?"

Cornford nodded cautiously. 'Parked a mile away.'

The Master smiled. 'Ah, yes. I remember now.'

Half an hour later, as they walked across the cobbles of Radclifle Square towards Holywell Street, Shelly Corn-ford put her arm through her husband's and squeezed it. But, as before, she could feel no perceptible response.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

But she went on pleading in her distraction; and perhaps said things that would have been better left to silence.

'Angel! - Angel! I was a child - a child when it happened! I knew nothing of men.'

Tou were more sinned against than sinning, that I admit'

'Then you will not forgive me?*

*I do forgive you, but forgiveness is not all.'

'And love me?'

To this question he did not answer

(Thomas Hardy, less of the dVtlerviUes)

'COFFEE?' SHE suggested, as Cornford was hanging up his overcoat in the entrance hall.

'I've just had some.'

Til put the kettle on.'

'No! Leave it a while. I want to talk to you.'

They sat together, if opposite is together, in the lounge.

'What did you do when the Chaplain invited us all to confess our manifold sins and wickedness?'

The measured, civilized tone of Cornford's voice had

shifted to a slightly higher, yet strangely quieter key; and the eyes, normally so kindly, seemed to concentrate ever narrowingly upon her, like an ornithologist focusing binoculars on an interesting species.

Tarrdon?'

'"In thought, word, and deed" - wasn't that the formula?'

She shook her head in apparent puzzlement 'I haven't the faintest-'

But his words cut sharply across her protestation. 'Why are you lying to me?'

'What-?'

'Shut up!' The voice had lost its control. "You've been unfaithful to me! /know that. You know diat. Let's start from there!'

'But I haven't-'

'Don't lie to me! I've put up with your infidelity, but I can't put up with your liesV

The last word was hissed, like a whiplash across his wife's face.

'Only once, really,' she whispered.

'Recently?'

She nodded, in helpless misery.

'Who with?'

In great gouts, the tears were falling now. 'Why do you have to know? Why do you have to torture yourself? It didn't mean anything, Denis! It didn't mean anything.'

'Hah!' He laughed bitterly. 'Didn't you think it might mean something to me?'

'He just wanted-'

'Who was it?'

She closed her eyes, cheeks curtained with mascara'd tears, unable to answer him.

'Who was it?

But still she made no answer to the piercing question.

'Shall I tell your

He knew - she realized he knew. And now, her eyes still firmly shut, she spoke the name of the adulterer.

'He didn't come here? You went over to the Master's Lodge?'

'Yes.'

'And you went to his bedroom?"

Yes.'

'And you undressed for him?'

'Yes.'

'You stripped naked for him?'

Tes.'

'And you got between the sheets with him?'

Yes.'

'And you had sex? The pair of you had sex together?'

Yes.'

'How many times?'

'Only once.'

'And you enjoyed it!"

Cornford got to his feet and walked back into the entrance hall. He felt stunned, like someone who has just been kicked in the teeth by a recalcitrant shire-horse.

'Denis!' Shelly had followed him, standing beside him now as he pulled on his overcoat.

You know why I did it, Denis? I did it for you. You must know that!'

He said nothing.

'How did you know?' Her voice was virtually inaudible.

'It's not what people say, is it? It's the way they say it But I knew. I knew tonight... I knew before tonight.'

'How couldyou have known? Tell me! Please!'

Cornford turned up the catch on the Yale lock, and for a few moments stood there, the half-opened door admitting a draught of air that felt bitterly cold.

'I didn't know! Don't you see? I just hoped you'd deny everything - even if it meant you had to lie to me. But you hadn't even got the guts to lie to me! You didn't even want to spare me all this pain.'

The door banged shut behind him; and Shelly Corn-ford walked back into the lounge where she poured herself a vast gin with minimal tonic.

And wished that she were dead.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Virgil G. Perkins, author of international bestseller Enjoying Jogging (Crown Publications NY, 1992) collapsed and died whilst jogging with a group of fellow enthusiasts in St Paul yesterday. Mr Perkins, aged 26, leaves behind his wife, Beverley, their daughter, Alexis, and seven other children by previous marriages

(Minnesota Clarion, 23 December 1995)

IN THE KING'S ARMS, that square, cream-painted hostelry on the corner of Parks Road and Holywell Street, Morse had been remarkably abstemious that evening. After his first pint, he had noticed on the door the pub's recommendation in the Egon Ronay Guide (1995); and after visiting the loo to inject himself, he had ordered a spinach-and-mushroom lasagne with garlic bread and salad. The individual constituents of this particular offering had never much appealed to him; yet the hospital dietitian (as he recalled) had been particularly enthusiastic about such fare. And, let it be said, the meal had been marginally enjoyed.

It was 7.45 p.m.

A cigarette would have been a paradisal plus; and yet

somehow he managed to desist. But as he looked around him, at the college crests, the coloured prints, the photographs of distinguished local patrons, he was debating whether to take a few more calories in liquid form when the landlord was suddenly beside him.

'Inspector! I hadn't seen you come in. This is for you - it's been here a couple of weeks."

Morse took the printed card:

Let me tell you of a moving experience - very moving! The furniture van is fetching my effects from London to Oxford at last. And on March i8th I'll be celebrating my south-facing patio with a shower of champagne at 53 Morris Villas, Cowley. Come and join me! RSVP (at above address)

Deborah Crawford

Across the bottom was a handwritten note: 'Make it, Morse! DC.'

Morse remembered her well ... a slim, unmarried blonde who'd once invited him to stay overnight in her north London flat, following a comparatively sober Metropolitan Police party; when he'd said that after such a brief acquaintance such an accommodation might perhaps be inappropriate.

Yes, that was the word he'd used: 'inappropriate'.

Pompous idiot!

But he'd given her his address, which she'd vowed she'd never forget

Which clearly she had.

1

'She was ever so anxious for you to get it,' began the landlord - but even as he spoke the door that led to Holywell Street had opened, and he turned his attention to the newcomer.

'Denis! I didn't expect to see you in tonight. No good us both running six miles on a Sunday morning if we're going to put all the weight back on on a Sunday night.'

Morse looked up, his face puzzled.

"You mean - you went jogging - together - this morning? What time was that?'

'Far too early, wasn't it, David!'

The landlord smiled. 'Stupid, really. On a Sunday morning, too.'

'What time?' repeated Morse.

'Quarter to seven. We met outside the pub here.'

'And where did the pair of you run?'

'Five of us actually, wasn't it, Denis? We ran up to the Plain, up the Iffley Road, across Donnington Bridge, along the Abingdon Road up to Carfax, then through Cornmarket and St Giles' up to the Woodstock Road as far as North Parade, then across to the Banbury, South Parks, and we got back here ..."

'Just before eight,' added Cornford, pointing to Morse's empty glass.

'What's it to be?'

'No, it's my round-'

'Nonsense!'

'Well, if you insist.'

In fact, however, it was the landlord who insisted, and who now walked to the bar as Cornford seated himself.

"You told me earlier' (Morse was anxious to get things

straight) 'you'd been on your own when you went out jogging.'

'No. If I did, you misunderstood me. You said, I think, "Just you?" And when I said yes, I'd assumed that you were asking if both of us had gone - Shelly and me.'

'And she didn't go?'

'No. She never does.'

'She just stayed in bed?'

'Where else?'

Morse made no suggestion.

'Do you ever go jogging, Inspector?' The question was wearily mechanical.

'Me? No. I walk a bit, though. I sometimes walk down to Summertown for a newspaper. Just to keep fit.'

Cornford almost grinned. 'If you're going to be Master of Lonsdale, you're supposed to be fit It's in the Statutes somewhere.'

'Makes you wonder how Sir Clixby ever managed it!'

Cornford's answer was unexpected.

You know, as you get older it's difficult for young people to imagine you were ever young yourself - good at games, that sort of thing. Don't you agree?'

'Fair point, yes.'

'And the Master was a very fine hockey player - had an England trial, I understand.'

The landlord came back with two pints of bitter; then returned to his bar-tending duties.

Cornford was uneasy, Morse felt sure of that. Something regarding his wife, perhaps? Had she had anything to do with the murder of Geoffrey Owens? Unlikely, surely. One thing looked an odds-on certainty, though:

if Denis Comford had ever figured on the suspeci list, he figured there no longer.

Very soon, after a few desultory passages of conversation, Morse had finished his beer, and was taking his leave, putting Deborah's card into the inside pocket of his jacket, and forgetting it.

Forgetting it only temporarily, though; for later that same evening he was to look at it again - more carefully. And with a sudden, strange enlightenment.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by? Behold and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow, which is done unto me, wherewith the Lord hath afflicted me in the day of his fierce anger

(Lamentations, ch. i, v. 12)

FEELING A WONDERFUL sense of relief, Shelly Comford heard the scratch of the key in the front door at twenty-five past eleven. For over two hours she had been sitting upright against the pillows, a white bedjacket over her pyjamas, her mind tormented with the terrifying fear that her husband had disappeared into the dark night, never to return: to throw himself over Magdalen Bridge, perhaps; to lay himself across the railway lines; to slash his wrists; to leap from some high tower. And it was to little avail that she'd listened to any logic that her tortured mind could muster: that the water was hardly deep enough, perhaps; that the railway lines were inaccessible; that he had no razor in his pocket; that Carfax Tower, St Mary's, St Michael's - all were now long shut...

Come back to me, Denis! I don't care what happens

to me; but come back tonight! Oh, God - please,"God - let him come back safely. Oh, God, put an end to this, my overwhelming misery!

His words before he'd slammed the door had pierced their way into her heart 'You hadn't even got the guts to lie to me ... You didn't even want to spare me all this pain.'

Yet how wrong he'd been, with both his accusations!

Her mother had never ceased recalling that Junior High School report: 'She's such a gutsy litde girl.' And the simple, desperately simple, truth was that she loved her husband far more than anydiing or anyone she'd ever loved before. And yet... and yet she remembered so painfully clearly her assertion earlier that same evening: dial more dran anything in die world she wanted Denis to be Master.

And now? The centre of her life had fallen apart Her heart was broken. There was no one to whom she could turn.

Except, perhaps...

And again and again she recalled that terrible conversation:

'Clixby?'

'Shelly!'

'Are you alone?'

Tes. What a lovely surprise. Come over!'

'Denis knows all about us!'

'What''

'Denis knows all about us!'

'"All" about us? What d'ycm mean? There's nothing for him to know - not really.'

Wooing-? Was it nothing to you?'

"You sound like the book of Proverbs - or is it Ecclesiastes?'

'It didn't mean anything to you, did it?'

'It was only the once, properly, my dear. For heaven's

sake!' ijjj 1 'You just don't understand, do you?'

'How did he find out?'

'He didn't'

'I don't follow you.'

'He just guessed. He was talking to you tonight-'

'After Hall, you mean? Of course he was. You were there.'

'Did you say anything? Please, tell me!'

'What? Have you taken leave of your senses?'

'Why did he say he knew, dien?'

'He was just guessing - you just said so yourself.'

'He must have had some reason.'

'Didn't you deny it?'

'But it was true!'

'What the hell's that got to do with it? Don't you see? All you'd got to do was to deny it.'

"That's exactly what Denis said.'

'Bloody intelligent man, Denis. I just hope you appreciate him. He was right, wasn't he? All you'd got to do was to deny it'

'And that's what you wanted me to do?'

' You 're not really being very intelligent, are you?'

'I just can't believe what you're saying.'

'It would have been far kinder.'

'Kinder to you, you mean?'

To me, to you, to Denis - to everybody.'

'God! You're a shit, aren't you?'

'Just hold your horses, girl!'

'What are you going to do about it?'

'What do you mean - "do" about it? What d'you expect me to do?'

'I don't know. I've no one to talk to. That's why I rang you.'

'Well, if there's anything-'

'But there is! I want help. This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me.'

'But don't you see, Shelly? This is something you and Denis have got to work out for yourselves. Nobody else-'

'God! You are a shit, aren't you! Shit with a capital "S^.'

'Look! Is Denis there?'

'Of course he's not, you fool.'

'Please don't call me a fool, Shelly! Get a hold on yourself and put things in perspective - and just remember who you're talking to!'

'Denis!'

"You get back to bed. I'll sleep in the spare room.'

'No. PU. sleep in there-'

'I don't give a sod who sleeps where. We're just not sleeping in the same room, that's all.'

His eyes were still full of anger and anguish, though his voice was curiously calm. 'We've got to talk about

this. For a start, you'd better find out the rights and wrongs and the rest of it about people involved in divorce on the grounds of adultery. Not tonight, though.'

'Denis! Please let's talk now- please! -just for a litde while.'

'What die hell about? About met You know all about me, for Christ's sake. I'm half-pissed - and soon I'm going to be fully pissed - and as well as that I'm stupid -and hurt - and jealous - and possessive - and old-fashioned - and faithful ... You following me? I've watched most of your antics, but I've never been too worried. You know why? Because I knew you loved me. Deep down I knew there was a bedrock of love underneath our marriage. Or I thought I knew.'

In silence, in abject despair, Shelly Comford listened, and the tears ran in furrows down her cheeks.

'We're finished. The two of us are finished, Shelly -do you know, I can hardly bring myself to call you by your name? Our marriage is over and done with - make no mistake about that. You can feel free to do what you want now. I just don't care. You're a born flirt! You're a born prick-teaser! And I just can't live with you any longer. I just can't live with the picture of you lying there naked and opening your legs to anodier man. Can you try to get dial into your thick skull?'

She shook her head in utter anguish.

"You said' (Comford continued) 'you'd have given anything in life to see me become Master. Well, / wouldn't - do you understand that? But I'd have given anything in life for you to be faithful to me - whatever the prize.'

He turned away from her, and she heard the door of the spare bedroom close; then open again.

'When was it? Tell me that. When ?

'This morning.'

"You mean when I was out jogging?"

"Yes," she whispered.

He turned away once more; and she beheld and could see no sorrow like unto her own sorrow.

The keys to her car lay on the mantelshelf.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Monday, 4 March

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Till then I see what's really always there: Unresting death, a whole day nearer now, Making all thought impossible but how And where and when I shall myself die (Philip Larkin,

NEVER, IN HIS lifetime of muted laughter and occasional tears, had Morse spent such a horrifying night. Amid fitful bouts of semi-clumber - head weighted with pain, ears throbbing, stomach in spasms, gullet afire with bile and acidity - he'd imagined himself on the verge of fainting, of vomiting, of having a stroke, of entering cardiac arrest. One of Ovid's lovers had once besought the Horses of the Night to slacken dieir pace and delay diereby the onset of the Dawn. But as he lay turning in his bed, Morse longed for a sign of the brightening sky through his window. During diat seemingly unending night, he had consumed several glasses of cold water, Alka-Seltzer tablets, cups of black

coffee, and the equivalent of a weekly dosage of Nurofen Plus.

No alcohol, diough. Not one drop of alcohol.

At last Morse had decided to abandon alcohol.

Lewis looked into Morse's bedroom at 7.30 a.m. (Lewis was the only person who had a key to Morse's flat.)

In the prestigious area of North Oxford, most householders had long since fitted their homes with anti-burglar devices, with neighbours holding die keys to the alarm mechanism. But Morse had litde need of such a device, for die only saleable, stealable items in his flat were the CDs of all die operas of die man he regarded as a towering genius, Richard Wagner; and his eamesdy assembled collection of first editions of die greatest hero in his life, the pessimistic poet A. E. Housman, who, like Morse, had left St John's College, Oxford, without obtaining a degree.

But not even North Oxford burglars had tastes that were quite so esoteric.

And in any case, Morse seldom spoke to eidier of his immediate neighbours.

"You look awful, sir."

'Oh, for Christ's sake, Lewis! Don't you know if somebody says you look awful, you feel awful?'

'Didn't you feel awful before I said it''

Morse nodded a miserable agreement

'Shall I get you a bit of breakfast?'

'No.'

'Well, I reckon we can eliminate the Storrs - bodi of

'em. I've checked with the hotel as far as possible. And unless they hired a helicopter...'

'We can cross off the Comfbrds, too - him, anyway. He's got four witnesses to testify he was running around Oxford pretending to be Roger Bannister.'

'What about her?'

'I can't really see why... or how.'

'Owens could have been blackmailing her?'

Morse fingered his stubbled chin. 'I don't think so somehow. But there's something there ... something Cornford didn't want to tell me about.'

'What d'you think?'

But Morse appeared unable to answer, as he swung his legs out of bed and sat for a while, alternately turning his torso to left and right.

'Just easing the lumbago, Lewis. Don't you ever get it?'

'No.'

'Just nip and get me a glass of orange juice from the fridge. The unsweetened orange juice.'

As he walked into the kitchen, Lewis heard the post slither through the letter-box.

So did Morse.

'Lewis! Did you find out what time dje postman usually calls in Polstead Road?'

'I've already told you. You were right.'

'About the only bloody thing I have been right about.'

'Arrghh! Cheer up, sir!'

'Just turn out those pockets, will you?' Morse pointed to the suit and shirt thrown carelessly over the only chair in the bedroom. 'Time I had a change of clothes - maybe bring me a change of luck.'

'Who's your new girlfriend?' Lewis held up the invitation card.' "Make it, Morse! DC."'

"That card is wholly private and-'

But Morse got no further.

He felt the old familiar tingling across the shoulders, the hairs on his lower arms standing up, as if a conductor had invited his orchestra to arise after a concert.

'Christ!' whispered Morse irreverently. 'Do you know what, Lewis? I think you've done it again!"

CHAPTER FIFTY

Monday-Tuesday, 4-5 March

The four-barrelled Lancaster Howdah pistol is of .577 in calibre. Its name derived from the story that it was carried by tiger hunters who travelled by elephant and who kept the pistol as a defence against any tiger that might leap on to the elephant's back

(Encyclopedia of Rifles and Handguns, ed. SEAN CONNOLLY)

FOR THE RELATIVES, for the statement-takers and the form-fillers, for the boffins at ballistics and forensics, the murder of Geoffrey Owens would be a serious business. No less than for the detectives. Yet for Morse himself the remainder of that Monday had been unproductive and anti-climactic, with a morning of euphoria followed by an afternoon of blood-trouble.

Hospital instructions had been for him to take four daily readings of his blood sugar level, using a slim, pen-like appliance into which he inserted a test-strip duly smeared with a drop of his blood, with each result appearing, after only thirty seconds, in a small window on the side of the pen. Whilst the average blood sugar level of the healthy person is about 4.5, the pen is

calibrated from i to 25, since the levels of diabetic patients often vary very considerably. Any level higher than 25 is registered as 'HI'.

Now thus far readings had been roughly what Morse had been led to expect (the highest 15.5): it would take some little while - and then only if he promised to do as he was told - to achieve that 'balance' which is the aim of every diabetic. More than disappointing to him therefore had been the 'HI' registered at lunchtime that day. In fact, more of a surprise than a disappointment, since momentarily he was misled into believing that 'HI' was analogous to the greeting from a fruit-machine: 'Hello And Welcome!'

But it wasn't; and Morse was rather worried about himself; and returned to his flat, where he took two further Nurofen Plus for his persisting headache, sat back in his armchair, decided he lacked the energy to do The Times crossword or even to turn on the CD player - and fairly soon fell fast asleep.

At six o'clock he rang Lewis to say he would be doing nothing more that day. Just before seven o'clock he measured his blood sugar once again; and finding it somewhat dramatically reduced, to 14.3, had decided to celebrate with a small glass of Glenfiddich before he listened to The Archers.

The following morning, feeling much refreshed, feeling eager to get on with things, Morse had been at his desk in Police HQ for half an hour before Lewis entered, holding a report.

'Ballistics, sir. Came in last night'

Morse could no more follow the technical terminology of ballistics reports than he could understand a paragraph of Structural Linguistics or recall the configuration of the most recent map of Bosnia. To be sure he had a few vague notions about 'barrels' and 'grooves' and 'cylinders' and 'calibres'; but his knowledge went no further, and his interest not quite so far as that Cursorily glancing therefore through the complex data assembled in the first five pages, he acquainted himself with the short, simply written summary on page six:

Rachel James was fatally shot by a single bullet fired from a range of c. 45 cms; Geoffrey Owens was fatally shot by two bullets fired from a range of c. 100 cms. The pistol used in each case, of .577 in. calibre, was of the type frequently used by HM Forces. Quite certainly the same pistol was used in each killing.

ASH: 4.iii.g6

Morse sat back in the black-leather armchair and looked mildly satisfied with life.

Te-es. I think I'm beginning to wake up at last in this case, Lewis. You know, it's high time we got together, you and me. We've been doing our own little things so far, haven't we? You've gone off to see somebody - I've gone off to see somebody - and we've not got very far,

have we? It's the same as always, Lewis. We need to do things together from now on.'

'No time like the present.'

'Pardon?'

Lewis pointed to the ballistics report 'What do you think?'

'Very interesting. Same revolver.'

'Pistol, sir.'

'Same difference.'

'I think most of us had assumed it was the same, anyway.'

'Really?'

'Well, it's what most of the lads think.'

Morse's smile was irritatingly benign. 'Same revolver - same murderer. Is that what, er, most of the lads think as well?'

'I suppose so.'

'Do you?'

Lewis considered the question. It either was - or it wasn't. Fifty-fifty chance of getting it right, Lewis. Go for it!

'Yes!'

'Fair enough. Now let's consider a few possibilities. Rachel was shot through the kitchen window when she was standing at the sink. The blind was old and made of thinnish material and the silhouette was pretty clear, perhaps; but the murderer was taking a risk. Revolvers' (Lewis had given up) 'are notoriously inaccurate even at close range, and the bullet's got to penetrate a reasonably substantial pane of glass - enough perhaps to knock the aim off course a bit and hit her in the neck instead of the head. Agreed?'

Lewis nodded at what he saw as an analysis not particularly profound. And Morse continued:

'Now the shooting of Owens took place inside the house - from a bit further away; but no glass this time, and a very clear target to aim at. And Owens is shot in the chest, not in the head. A modus operandi quite different from die first'

Lewis smiled. 'So we've got two moduses operandi.'

'Modi, Lewis! So it could be that we've two murderers. But that would seem on the face of it highly improbable, because it's not difficult to guess the reason for the difference... Is it?'

'Well, as I see things, sir, Owens was probably murdered by somebody he knew. He probably invited whoever it was in. Perhaps they'd arranged to meet anyway. Owens was dressed and-' Lewis stopped a moment 'He hadn't shaved though, had he?'

'He was the sort of fellow who always looked as if he needed a shave.'

'Perhaps we should have checked more closely.'

"You don't expect me to check diat sort of thing, do you? I'm a necrophobe - you've known me long enough, surely.'

'Well, that's it then, really. But Packet probably didn't know him.'

'Or her.'

'She must have been really scared if she heard a tap on the window that morning and went to open the blind-'

You're still assuming diat bodi murders were committed by the same person, Lewis."

'And you don't think so?'

Morse shrugged. 'Could have been two lovers or partners or husband and wife - or two completely separate people.'

Lewis was beginning to sound somewhat exasperated. "You know, I shall be much happier when we've got a bit more of the routine work done, sir. It's all been a bit ad hoc so far, hasn't it?' (Morse raised his eyebrows at die Latinism.) 'Can't we leave a few of the ideas until we've given ourselves a chance to check everything a bit?'

'Lewis! You are preaching to the converted. That's exacdy what we've got to do. Go back to die beginning. "In our beginning is our end," somebody said - Eliot, wasn't it? Or is it "In our end is our beginning"?'

'Where do you suggest we begin then, sir?'

Morse considered the question.

'What about you fetching me a cup of coffee? No sugar.'

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Tuesday, 5 March

The overworked man who agrees to any division of labour always gets the worst share

(Hungarian proverb)

'WHERE DO you suggest we begin then?' repeated Lewis, as Morse distastefully sipped his unsweetened coffee.

'When we do start again, we'll probably find that we've been looking at things from the wrong angle. We've been assuming - / have, anyway - that it was Owens who was pulling all the strings. As a journalist, he'd often been in a privileged position with regard to a few juicy stories; and as a man he pretty clearly gloried in the hold he could have on other people: blackmail. And from what we learned, I thought it was likely that the two candidates for the Mastership at Lonsdale were being blackmailed; I thought that they'd have as good a motive, certainly Storrs, as anybody for wishing Owens out of the way. But I never dreamed that Owens was in danger of being murdered, as you know...

'There's just the one trouble about following up that particular hypothesis though, isn't there? It's now clear

that neither of those two, neither Storrs nor Comford -nor their wives for that matter - could have been responsible for both murders. And increasingly unlikely, perhaps, that any of them could have been responsible even for one of the murders. So where does this all leave us? It's a bit like a crossword clue you sometimes get stuck with. You think one bit of the clue's the definition, and the other bit's a build-up of the letters. Then suddenly you realize you've got things the wrong way round. And perhaps I'm reading the clue the wrong way round here, Lewis. What if someone was blackmailing Owens - the exact opposite of our hypothesis? What if -we've spoken about it before - what if Rachel James came to discover something that would upset his carefully loaded apple-cart? And blackmailed him?'

'Trying to climb aboard the gravy-train herself?'

'Exactly. Money! You said right at the start that we needed a motive for Rachel's murder; and I suspect she'd somehow got to know about his own blackmailing activities and was threatening to expose him.'

Lewis was looking decidedly impatient

'Sir! Could we please get along to Owens' office first, and get a few simple facts established?'

'Just what I was about to suggest We shall have to get down there and find out everything we can about him. See the editor, the sub-editor, his colleagues, that personnel fellow - especially him! Go through his desk and his drawers. Get hold of his original application, if we can. Try to learn something about his men-friends, his girlfriends, his enemies, his habits, what he liked to eat and drink, his salary, any clubs he belonged to, his political leanings -'

*We know he voted Conservative, sir.'

' - the newspaper he took, where he usually parked his car, what his job prospects were - yes, plenty to be going on with there.'

'Quite a list Good job diere's two of us, sir.'

'Pardon?'

'Hefty agenda - that's all I'm saying.'

'Not all that much really. Far easier than it sounds. And if you get off straightaway ...' Morse looked at his wristwatch: 10.45 a-m-

Lewis frowned. "You mean you're not joining me?'

'Not today, no.'

'But you just said-'

'One or two important things I've got to do after lunch.'

'Such as?'

'Well, to be truthful, I've been told to take things a bit more gendy. And I suppose I'd better take a bit of notice of my medical advisers.'

'Of course.'

'Don't get me wrong, mind! I'm feeling fine. But I think a little siesta this afternoon ...'

'Siesta? That's what they have in Spain in the middle of die summer when the temperature's up in the nineties - but we're in England in die middle of winter and it's freezing outside.'

Morse looked down at his desk, a litde sheepishly, and Lewis knew that he was lying.

'Come on, sir! It's somediing to do with diat invite you had, isn't it? Deborah Crawford?'

'In a way.'

'Why are you being so secretive about it? You wouldn't tell me yesterday either.'

'Only because it needs a bit more thinking about, that's all.'

' "You and me together" - isn't that what you said?'

Morse fingered the still-cellophaned cigarettes, almost desperately.

'Si' down then, Lewis.'

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

It is the nature of an hypothesis, when once a man has conceived it, that it assimilates every thing to itself as proper nourishment, and, from the first moment of your begetting it, it generally grows the stronger by every thing you see, hear, read, or understand

(Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy)

'IT WASN'T DEBORAH Crawford, Lewis - it was her initials, "DC". When we found that list in the manila file, I jumped the gun. I automatically assumed that "JS" was Julian Storrs - I think I was right about that - and I assumed that "DC" was Denis Comford - and I think I was wrong about that. As things have turned out I don't believe Owens ever knew Cornford at all, or his missus, for that matter. But he knew another "DC": the woman at Number i Bloxham Close - Adele Beatrice Cecil - the ABC lass Owens knew well enough to call by her nickname, "Delia". "DC". And the more I think about her, the more attractive a proposition I find it'

'Well, most men would, sir. Lovely looker!' Ignoring the pleasantry, Morse continued: 'Just consider for a minute what an important figure she is in the

case. She's the prime witness, really. She's the ~otte who sees Owens leave for work about sevenish on the morning Rachel was murdered; she's the one who rings Owens an hour or so later to tell him the police are in Bloxham Close' (again Lewis let it go) 'and gives him a headstart on all the other newshounds. That's what she says, isn't it? But she might not be telling the truth!'

Lewis sat in silence.

'Now, as I recall it, your objection to Owens himself ever being a suspect was the time-factor. You argued that he couldn't have gone to work that morning, parked his car, been seen in the newspaper offices, got in his car again, driven back to Kidlington, murdered Rachel, driven back to Osney Mead again, taken the phone-call from Delia Cecil, driven back to Kidlington again, to be on hand with his mobile and his notebook while the rest of the press are pulling their socks on. He could never have done all that in such a short space of time, you said. Impossible! And of course you were right -'

'Thank you, sir.'

' - in one way; and quite wrong in another. Let's stick to our original idea that the list of initials we found was a blackmail list, and that she's on it - Delia Cecil. He's got something on her, too. So when he asks her to help him in his plan to get Rachel out of the way, she's little option but to co-operate.'

'Have you any idea what this "plan" was, sir?'

'That's the trouble. I've got far too many ideas."

'Want to try me?'

'All right They're all the same sort of plan, really -any plan to cut down that time business you're so worried

about. Let me just outline a possible plan, and see what you think of it. Ready? Owens drives out to work, at ten to seven, let's say - and she follows him, in her own car. When he's parked the car, when his entry's recorded, he goes into the building, makes sure he's seen by somebody - doesn't matter who it is - dien immediately leaves via a side door and gets into her car, parked along the street in front of the offices. Back in Kidlington, he murders Rachel James, about half past seven, and doesn't return to work at all He's got a key and he goes into Delia's house - and waits. At the appropriate time, when the police arrive, a call is made to his own office - he knows there'll be no one there! - and a message is left or isn't left on the answerphone. All that matters is that a telephonic communication is established, and gets recorded on those BT lists we all get, between her phone and Owens' phone in his office. Then all he's got to do is to emerge amid all the excitement once the murder's reported - the police, the local people, the Press, die TV... Well?'

'You make it up as you go along, sir.'

Morse's face betrayed some irritation. 'Of course I bloody do! That's what I'm here for, I just told you. If once we accept diere could be two people involved - two cars - diere are dozens of possibilities. It's like permutat-ing your selection on the National Lottery. I've just given you one possibility, dial's all."

'But it just couldn't-'

'What's wrong with it? Come on! Tell me!'

'Well, let's start widi die car-'

'Cars, plural.'

'All right When he's parked his car-'

'I didn't say that. I deliberately said parked the car, if you'd been listening. It could have been his - it could have been hers: it's the card number that's recorded there, not the car number. She could have driven his car - he could have driven hers - and at any point they could have swapped. Not much risk. Very few people around there at seven. Or eight, for that matter.'

'Is it my turn now?' asked Lewis quietly.

'Go on!'

'I'm talking about Owens' car, all right? That was parked in Bloxham Drive - "Drive" please, sir - when Owens was there that morning. The street was cordoned off, but the lads let him in - because he told them he lived diere. And I saw the car myself.'

'So? He could have left it - or she could have left it -in a nearby street. Anywhere. Up on the main road behind the terrace, say. That's where JJ-'

But Morse broke off.

'It still couldn't have happened like you say, sir!'

'No?'

'No! He was seen in his office, Owens was, remember? Just at the time when Rachel was being murdered! Seen by the Personnel Manager there.'

'We haven't got a statement from him yel, though.'

'He's been away, you know that'

Yes, I do know dial, Lewis. But you spoke to him.'

Lewis nodded.

'On the phone?'

'On die phone.'

You did it through the operator, I suppose?'

Lewis nodded again.

'Do you know who she probably put you through to?' asked Morse slowly.

The light dawned in Lewis's eyes. "You mean ... she could have put me through to Owens himself?'

Morse shrugged his shoulders. 'That's what we've got to find out, isn't it? Owens was deputy Personnel Manager, we know that. He was on a management course only last weekend.'

'Do you really think that's what happened?'

'I dunno. I know one thing, though: it could have happened that way.'

'But it's all so - so airy-fairy, isn't it? And you said we were going to get some facts straight first.'

'Exacdy.'

Lewis gave up die struggle. Til tell you somediing diat would be useful: some idea where the gun is.'

"The "pistol", do you mean?'

'Sorry. But if only we knew where thatvtas ..."

'Oh, I think I know where we're likely to find the pistol, Lewis.'

PART FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Wednesday, 6 March

A good working definition of Hell on Earth is a forced attendance for a couple of days or even a couple of hours at a Young Conservatives' Convention

(Cassandra, in the Daily Mirror, June 1952)

Miss ADELE CECIL (she much preferred 'Miss' to 'Ms' and 'Adele' to 'Delia') had spent the previous evening and night in London, where she had attended, and addressed, a meeting of the chairmen, chairwomen and chairpersons of the Essex Young Conservative Association. Thirty-eight such personages had assembled at Durrants, in George Street, a traditional English hotel just behind Oxford Street, with good facilities, tasteful cuisine, and comfortable beds. Proceedings had been businesslike, and the majority of delegates (it appeared) had ended up in the rooms originally allocated to them.

It was at a comparatively early breakfast in the restaurant that over her fresh grapefruit, with Full English to follow, the head-waiter had informed Adele of the telephone message, which she had taken in one of the hooded booths just outside the breakfast-room.

'How did you know I was here?'

'Don't you remember me? I'm a detective."

Yes, she remembered him - the white-haired, supercilious, sarcastic police officer she didn't want to meet again.

'I shan't be back in Oxford till lunchtime.'

'The Trout? Half past twelve?'

As she started on her eggs, bacon, mushrooms, and sausages, she accepted the good-natured twitting of her three breakfast companions, all male:

'Boyfriend?'

'Couldn't he wait?'

'What's he got...?'

During her comparatively young life, Adele had been companionably attached to a couple of dozen or so men, of varying ages, with many of whom she had slept -though seldom more than once or twice, and never without some satisfactory reassurance about the availability and reliability of condoms, and a relatively recent check-up for AIDS.

They were all the same, men. Well, most of them. Fingers fumbling for hooks at the backs of bras, or at the front these days. So why was she looking forward just a little to her lunchtime rendezvous? She wasn't really, she told herself, as she parked the Rover, crossed the narrow readjust below the bridge, and entered the bar.

'What'll you have?'

'Orange juice and lemonade, please.'

They sat facing each other at a low wooden table, and Morse was immediately (and again) aware of her attrac-

tiveness. She wore a slimly tailored dark-grey outfit, with a high-necked Oxford blue blouse, her ash-blonde hair palely gleaming.

Morse looked down at his replenished pint of London Pride.

'Good time at the Conference?'

'I had a lovely time,' she lied.

'I'm glad it went well,' he lied.

'Do you mind?' She waved an unlit cigarette in the air.

'Go ahead, please.'

She offered the packet across.

'Er, not for the minute, thank you.'

'Well?'

'Just one or two questions.'

She smiled attractively: 'Go ahead.'

Morse experienced a sense of paramnesia. Dejd vu. 'You've already signed a statement - about the morning Rachel was murdered?'

You know that, surely?'

'And it was the truth?' asked Morse, starkly. "You couldn't have been wrong?'

'Of course not!'

"You told me you "had a heart-to-heart" with Rachel once in a while. I think those were your words?'

'So?'

'Does that mean you spoke about boyfriends - men-friends?'

'And clothes, and money, and work-'

'Did you know she was having an affair with Julian Storrs?'

She nodded slowly.

'Did you mention this to Mr Owens?' Morse's eyes, blue and unblinking, looked fiercely into hers.

And her eyes were suddenly fierce, too, as they held his. 'What the hell do you think I'd do that for?'

Morse made no direct answer as he looked down at the old flagstones there. And when he resumed, his voice was very quiet.

'Did you ever have an affair with Julian Storrs?'

She thought he looked sad, as if he hadn't really wanted to ask the question at all; and suddenly she knew why she'd been looking forward to seeing him. So many hours of her life had she spent seeking to discover what lay beneath the physical looks, the sexual prowess, the masculine charms of some of her lovers; and so often had she discovered the selfsame answer - virtually nothing.

She looked long into the blazing log-fire before finally answering:

'I spent one night with him - in Blackpool - at one of the Party Conferences.'

She spoke so softly that Morse could hardly hear the words, or perhaps it was he didn't wish to hear the words. For a while he said nothing. Then he resumed his questioning:

"You told me that when you were at Roedean there were quite a few daughters of service personnel there, apart from yourself?'

'Quite a few, yes.'

"Your own father served in the Army in India?'

'How did you know that5'

'He's in Who's Who. Or he was. He died two years ago. Your mother died of cancer twelve years ago. You were the only child of the marriage.'

'Orphan Annie, yeah!' The sophisticated, upper-crust veneer was beginning to crack.

"You inherited his estate?'

'Estate? Hah!' She laughed bitterly. 'He left all his money to the bookmakers.'

'No heirlooms, no mementoes - that sort of thing?'

She appeared puzzled.' What sort of thing?'

'A pistol, possibly? A service pistol?'

'Look! You don't seriously think /had anything to do with-'

'My job's to ask the questions-'

'Well, the answer's "no",' she snapped. 'Any more questions?'

One or two clearly:

'Where were you on Sunday morning - last Sunday morning?'

'At home. In bed. Asleep - until the police woke me up.'

'And then?

'Then I was frightened. And you want me to tell you the truth? Well, I'm still bloody frightened!'

Morse looked at her again: so attractive; so vulnerable; and now just a little nervous, perhaps? Not frightened though, surely.

Was she hiding something?

Ts there anything more,' he asked gently 'anything at all, you can tell me about this terrible business?'

And immediately he sensed that she could.

'Only one thing, and perhaps it's got nothing ... Julian asked me to a Guest Night at Lonsdale last November, and in the SCR after dinner I sat next to a Fellow there called Denis Cornford. I only met him that once - but he was really nice - lovely man, really - the sort of man I wish I'd met in life.'

'Bit old, surely?'

'About your age."

Morse's fingers folded round the cellophane, and he sought to stop his voice from trembling.

'What about him?'

'I saw him in die Drive, that's all. On Thursday night About eight. He didn't see me. I'd just driven in and he was walking in front of me - no car. He kept walking along a bit, and then he turned into Number 15 and rang the bell. Geoff Owens opened the front door - and let him in.'

"You're quite sure it was him?'

'Oh, yes,' replied Adele.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

He looked into her limpid eyes: 1 will turn this Mozart off, if you don't mind, my love. You see, I can never concentrate on two beautiful things at the same time'

(Passage quoted by Terence Benczik in The Good and the Bad in Mills and Boon)

WITH SUSPICIOUSLY extravagant caution Morse drove the Jaguar up towards Kidlington HQ, again conscious of seeing the name-plate of that particular railway station flashing, still unrecognizably, across his mind. At the Woodstock Road roundabout he waited patiently for a gap in the Ring-Road traffic; rather too patiendy for a regularly hooting hooligan somewhere behind him.

Whether he believed what his ABC girl had told him, he wasn't really sure. And suddenly he realized he'd forgotten to ask her whether indeed it was she who occasionally extended her literary talents beyond her humdrum political pamphlets into the fields of (doubtless more profitable) pornography.

But it was only for a few brief minutes that Morse considered the official confiscation of the titillatingly tided novel, since his car-phone had been ringing as he

finally crossed into Five Mile Drive. He pulled over to the side of the road, since seldom had he been able to discharge two simultaneous duties at all satisfactorily.

It was Lewis on the line - an excited Lewis.

Calling from the newspaper offices.

'I just spoke to the Personnel Manager, sir. It was him!'

'Lew-is! Your pronouns! Wftafexacdywas who?'

'It wasn't Owens I spoke to on the phone. It was the Personnel Manager himself!'

Morse replied only after a pause, affecting a tone of appropriate humility: 'I wonder why I don't take more notice of you in the first place.'

"You don't sound all diat surprised?'

'Little in life surprises me any longer. The big thing is that we're getting things straight at last. Well done!'

'So your girl wasn't involved.'

'I don't think so.'

'Did she tell you anything important?'

'I'm not sure. We know Owens had got something on Storrs, and perhaps ... it might be he had something on Cornford as well.'

'Cornford? How does he come into things?'

'She tells me, our Tory lass, that she saw him going into Owens' house last Thursday.'

'Phew!'

'I'm just going back to HQ, and then I'll be off to see our friends the Cornfords - both of 'em - if I can park.'

'Last time you parked on the pavement in front of the Clarendon Building.'

'Ah, yes. Thank you, Lewis. I'd almost forgotten that'

'Not forgotten your injection, I hope?'

'Oh no. That's now become an automatic part of my lifestyle,' said Morse, who had forgotten all about his lunchtimejab.

The phone was ringing when Morse opened the door of his office.

'Saw you coming in,' explained Strange.

·Yes, sir?'

'It's all these forms I've got to fill in - retirement forms. They give me a headache.'

'They give me a headache.'

'At least you know how to fill 'em in.'

'Can we leave it just a litde while, sir? I don't seem able to cope with two things at once these days, and I've got to get down to Oxford.'

'Let it wait! Just don't forget you'Vi be filling in die same forms pretty soon."

Bloxham Drive was still cordoned off, the police presence still pervasively evident But Adele Beatrice Cecil -alias Ann Berkeley Cox, author of Topless in Torremolinos - was waved dirough by a sentinel PC, just as Geoffrey Owens had been waved through over a fortnight earlier, on die morning diat Rachel James had been murdered.

As she let herself into Number i, she was immediately aware dial the house was (literally) almost freezing. Why

hadn't she left the heating on? How good to have been able to jump straight into a hot bath; or into an electric-blanketed bed; or into a lover's arms ...

For several minutes she thought of Morse, and of what he had asked her. What on earth had he suspected? And suddenly, alone again now, in her cold house, she found herself shivering.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

To an outsider it may appear that the average Oxbridge don works but twenty-four weeks out of the annual fifty-two. If therefore at any point in the academic year it is difficult to locate the whereabouts of such an individual, most assuredly this circumstance may not constitute any adequate cause for universal alarm

(A Workload Analysis of University Teachers, ed. HARRY JUDGE)

JUST AFTER 4 P.M. that same day, Morse rang the bell beside the red-painted front door of an elegant, ashlared house just across from the Holywell Music Room. It was the right house, he knew that, with the Lonsdale Crest fixed halfway between the neatly paned windows of the middle and upper storeys.

There was no answer.

There were no answers.

Morse retraced his steps up to Broad Street and crossed die cobbles of Radcliffe Square to the Porters' Lodge at Lonsdale.

'Do you know if Dr Cornfbrd's in College?'

The duty porter rang a number; then shook his head.

'Doesn't seem to be in his rooms, sir.*

'Has he been in today?'

'He was in this morning. Called for his mail - what, ten? Quarter past?'

"You've no idea where he is?'

The porter shook his head. 'Doesn't come in much of a Wednesday, Dr Cornford. Usually has his Faculty Meeting Wednesdays.'

'Can you try him for me there? It's important'

The porter rang a second number; spoke for a while; put down the phone.

'They've not seen him today, sir. Seems he didn't turn up for the two o'clock meeting.'

'Have you got his home number?'

'He's ex-directory, sir. I can't-'

'So am /ex-directory. You know who I am, don't you?'

The young porter looked as hopefully as he could into Morse's face.

'No, sir.'

'Forget it!' snapped Morse.

He walked back up to Holywell Street, along to the red door, and rang the bell.

There was no answer.

There were no answers.

An over-lipsticked middle-aged traffic-warden stood beside the Jaguar.

'Is this your vehicle, sir?'

"Yes, madam. I'm just waiting for the Chief Constable. He's' (Morse pointed vaguely towards the Sheldonian)

'nearly finished in there. At any rate, I hope he bloody has! And if he hasn't, put the bill to 'im, love - not to me!'

'Sorry!'

Morse wandered across to the green-shuttered Black-well's, and browsed awhile; finally purchasing the first volume of Sir Steven Runciman's History of the Crusades.

He wasn't quite sure why.

Then, for the third time, he walked up to the red door in Holywell Street and rang the bell.

Morse heard the news back in HQi

From Lewis.

A body had been found in a car, in a narrow lane off New Road, in a garage rented under the name of Dr Comford.

For a while Morse sat silent.

'I only met him the once you know, Lewis. Well, the twice, really. He was a good man, I think. I liked him.'

'It isn't Dr Cornford though, sir. It's his wife.'

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Thursday, 7 March

Is it sin

To rush into the secret house of death Ere death dare come to us?

(Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra)

'TELL ME ABOUT it,' said Morse.

Seated opposite him, in the first-floor office in St Aldates Police Station, Detective Chief Inspector Peter Warner told the story sadly and economically.

Mrs Shelly Cornford had been found in the driving-seat of her own car, reclining back, with a hosepipe through the window. The garage had been bolted on the inside. There could be litde doubt that the immediate cause of death was carbon-monoxide poisoning from exhaust fumes. A brief handwritten note had been left on the passenger seat: Tm so sorry, Denis, I can't forgive myself for what I did. I never loved anyone else but you, my darling - S.' No marks of violence; 97 mg blood alcohol - die equivalent (Warner suggested) of two or three stiffish gins. Still a few unanswered questions, of course: about her previous whereabouts that day; about the purchase of the green

hosepipe and the connector, both new. But suspicion of foul play? None.

'I wonder where she had a drink?' asked Morse.

'Well, if she'd walked up from Holywell Street, diere'd be die King's Arms, the White Horse, The Randolph ... But you're the expert'

Morse asked no more questions; but sat thinking of the questionnaire he had set for the Police Gazette (it seemed so long ago): 'If you could gladden your final days widi one of the following...' Yes, without a doubt, if he'd been honest, Morse would have applauded Shelly Comford's choice. And what the hell did it matter where she'd had those few last glasses of alcohol - few last 'units' rather -the measurements into which the dietitian had advised him to convert his old familiar gills and pints and quarts.

'Do you want to see her?'

Morse shook his head.

"You'd better see him, though.'

Morse nodded wearily. 'Is he all right?'

'We-ell. His GP's been in - but he refuses to take any medication. He's in the canteen with one of the sergeants. We've finished widi him, really.'

'Tell me about it,' urged Morse.

Denis Cornford's voice was flat, almost mechanical, as he replied:

'On Sunday just before I met you in the pub she told me she'd been to bed widi another man that morning. I hardly spoke to her after that. I slept in die spare room the last diree nights.'

"The note?' asked Morse gently. 'Is that what she was referring to?'

Yes.'

'Nothing to do with anything else?'

'No.'

'She was there, in your rooms, just before Chapel on Sunday, wasn't she?'

Cornford evinced no surprise.

'We'd had a few harsh words. She didn't want to see you.'

'Do you know who the other man was?"

Yes. Clixby Bream.'

'She told you dial, sir?'

Yes.'

'So - so she couldn't have had anything to do with the Owens murder?'

'No. Nor could the Master."

'Did you have anything to do with it?'

'No.'

'Why did you go to see Owens last Thursday?'

'I knew Owens a bit through various things I did for his newspaper. That night I had to go to Kidlington - I went on the bus - the Kidlington History Society - held at the school - "Effects of the Enclosure Acts in Oxfordshire" - seven o'clock to eight. He lived fairly near - five minutes' walk away. I'd done a three-part article for him on Mediaeval Oxford - Owens said it needed shortening a bit - we discussed some changes - no problems. I got a bus back to Oxford - about nine.'

'Why didn't you tell me you knew Owens?'

'I didn't want to get involved.'

'What will you do now?'

'I left a note for the Master about the election." The voice was still monotonous; the mouth dry. 'I've withdrawn my nomination.'

'I'm so sorry about everything,' said Morse very quietly.

'Yes, I think you are, aren't you?"

Morse left the pale, bespectacled historian staring vaguely into a cup of cold tea, like a man who is temporarily anaesthetized against some overwhelming pain.

'It's a terrible business - terrible!'

The Master poured himself a single-malt Scotch.

'Drink, Chief Inspector?'

Morse shook his head.

'Won't you sit down?'

'No. I've only called to say that Dr Cornford has just told me everything - about you and his wife.'

'Mmm.'

'We shall have to get a statement from you."

'Why is that?'

'The time chiefly, I suppose.'

'Is it really necessary?'

'There was a murder on that Sunday morning.'

'Mmm. Was she one of your suspects?'

Morse made no direct answer. 'She couldn't have been making love to you and murdering someone else at die same time.'

'No.' The bland features betrayed no emotion; yet

Morse was distastefully aware that the Master was hardly displeased with such a succinct, such an unequivocal assertion of Shelly Cornford's innocence, since by implication it was an assertion of his own.

'I understand that Dr Comford has written to you, sir.'

'Exited from the lists, poor Denis, yes. That just leaves Julian Storrs. Good man though, Julian!'

Morse slowly walked to the door.

'What do you think about suicide, Sir Clixby?'

'In general?' The Master drained his tumbler, and thoughtfully considered the question. 'Aristode, you know, thought suicide a form of cowardice - running away from troubles oneself and leaving all the heartache to everybody else. What do you diink?'

Morse was conscious of a deep loathing for this smooth and odious man.

'I don't know what your particular heartache is, sir. You see I never met Mrs Cornford myself. But I'd be surprised if she was a coward. In fact, I've got the feeling she was a bit of a gutsy girl.' Morse stood beside the study door, his face drawn, his nostrils distended. 'And I'll tell you something else. She probably had far more guts in her little finger than you've ever had in the whole of your body!'

Lewis was waiting in the Jaguar outside die Porters' Lodge; and Morse quickly climbed into the passenger seat. His voice was still vicious:

'Get-me-out-of-here, Lewis!'

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Friday, 8 March

Those who are absent, by its means become present: correspondence is the consolation of life

(Voltaire, Philosophical Dictionary)

SERGEANT LEWIS had himself only just entered Morse's office when Jane came through with the post six official-looking letters, opened, with appropriate previous correspondence paper-clipped behind them; one square white envelope, unopened, marked 'Private', and postmarked Oxford; and an airmail letter, also unopened, marked 'Personal', and postmarked 'Washington'.

Jane smiled radiandy at her boss.

'Why are you looking so cheerful?' queried Morse.

'Just nice to have you back, sir, that's all.'

Inside the white envelope was a card, the front showing an auburn-haired woman, in a white dress, reading a book; and Morse read the brief message inside:

Geoffrey Harris Ward

Radcliffe Infirmary

7 March 96

We all miss your miserable presence in the ward. If you haven't finished smoking, we shall never meet

for that G&Tyou promised me. Look after yourself!

Affectionately Janet (McQueen)

P.S. I looked through your old hospital records from many years ago. Know something? I found your Christian name!

'Why are you looking so cheerful?' asked Lewis.

But Morse made no answer, and indeed appeared to be reading the message again and again. Then he opened the letter from America.

Washington 4 March Dear Morse,

Just read your thing in the Police Gazette. How did I know it was yours? Ah, I too was a detective! I'd have had the champagne myself. And I think the Faure Requiem's a bit lightweight compared with the Verdi -in spite of the imprimatur of the Papacy. I know you've always wept to Wagner but I've alvays vept to Verdi myself- and the best Xmas present I had was the Karajan recording of Don Carlos.

I know you're frightened of flying, but a visit here -especially in the spring, they say - is something not to be missed in life. We'll get together again for a jar on

my return (April) and don't leave it too long before you take your pension.

As aye, Peter (Imbert)

Morse handed the letter across to Lewis.

"The old Metropolitan Commissioner!'

Morse nodded, rather proudly.

'Washington DC, that'll be, sir.'

'Where else?'

'Washington CD - County Durham, near enough.'

'Oh.'

'What's your programme today, sir?'

'Well, we've done most of the spadework-'

'Except the Harvey Clinic side of things.'

'And that's in hand, you say?'

'Seeing the woman this morning. She's just back from a few day's holiday.'

'Who's she again? Remind me.'

'I told you about her: Dawn Charles.'

'Mrs or Miss or Ms?'

'Not sure. But she's the main receptionist there. They say if anybody's likely to know what's going on, she is.'

'What time are you seeing her?'

'Ten o'clock. She's got a little flat out at Bicester on the Charles Church Estate. You joining me?'

'No, I don't think so. Something tells me I ought to see Storrs again.'

Lovingly Morse put the 'Girl Reading' (Perugini,

1878) back into her envelope, then looked through Sir Peter's letter once again.

Don Carlos.

The two words stood out and stared at him, at the beginning of a line as they were, at the end of a paragraph. Not an opera Morse knew well, Don Carlos. Another 'DC', though. It was amazing how many DCs had cropped up in their enquiries - and still another one just now in the District of Columbia. And suddenly in Morse's mind the name of the Verdi opera merged with a name he'd just heard: the 'Don' chiming in with the 'Dawn', and the 'Carlos' with the 'Charles'.

Was it Dawn Charles (Mrs or Miss or Ms) who held the key to the mystery? Did they belong to her, that pair of initials in the manila file?

Morse's eyes gleamed with excitement.

'I think,' he said slowly, 'Mr Julian Storrs will have to wait a little while. I shall be coming with you, Lewis - to Bicester.'

PART SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

The best liar is he who makes the smallest amount of lying go the longest way

(Samuel Butler, Truth and Convenience)

DAWN CHARLES looked nervous when she opened the door of her flat in Woodpecker Way and let the two detectives through into the grey-carpeted lounge, where the elder of the two, the white-haired one, was already complimenting her on such an attractive residence.

'Bit unlucky though, really. I bought it at the top of the property boom for fifty-eight thousand. Only worth thirty-four now.'

'Oh dear!'

The man made her feel uneasy. And her mind went back to the previous summer when on returning from France she'd put the Green Channel sticker on the windscreen - only to be diverted into the Red Channel; where pleasantly, far too pleasantly, she'd been questioned about her time abroad, about the weather, about anything and everything - except those extra thousand cigarettes in the back of the boot. It had been as if they were just stringing her along; knowing the truth all the time.

But these men couldn't possibly know the truth, that's what she was telling herself now; and she thought she could handle things. On Radio Oxford just before Christmas she'd heard P. D. James's advice to criminal suspects: 'Keep it short! Keep it simple! Don't change a single word unless you have to!'

'Please sit down. Coffee? I've only got instant, I'm afraid.'

'We both prefer instant, don't we, Sergeant?'

'Lovely,' said Lewis, who would much have preferred tea.

Two minutes later, Dawn held a jug suspended over the steaming cups.

'Milk?'

'Please,' from Lewis.

"Thank you,'from Morse.

'Sugar?'

'Just the one teaspoonful,' from Lewis.

But a shake of the head from Morse; a slight raising of the eyebrows as she stirred two heaped teaspoonfuls into her own coffee; and an obsequious comment which caused Lewis to squirm inwardly: 'How on earth do you manage to keep such a beautiful figure - with all diat sugar?'

She coloured slighdy. 'Something to do with die metabolic rate, so they tell me at die clinic.'

'Ah, yes! The clinic. I'd almost forgotten.'

Again he was sounding too much like die Customs man, and Dawn was glad it was die sergeant who now took over die questioning.

A little awkwardly, a litde ineptly (certainly as Morse saw things) Lewis asked about her training, her past experience, her present position, her relationships with employers, colleagues, clients ...

The scene was almost set.

She knew Storrs (she claimed) only as a patient; she'd known Turnbull (she claimed) only as a consultant; she knew Owens (she claimed) not at all.

Lewis produced the letter stating Julian Storrs' prognosis.

'Do you think this photocopy was made at the clinic?"

'I didn't copy it'

'Someone must have done.'

'I didn't copy it'

'Any idea who might have done?'

'/didn't copy it'

It was hardly a convincing performance, and she was aware that both men knew she was lying. And quiedy -amid a few tears, certainly, but with no hysteria - the truth came out

Owens she had met when the Press had come along for die clinic's 25th anniversary - he must have seen somediing, heard something dial night, about Mr Storrs. After Mr Tumbull had died, Owens had telephoned her - diey'd met in the Bird and Baby in St Giles' - he'd asked her if she could copy a letter for him - yes, that letter - he'd offered her £500 - and she'd agreed -copied die letter - been paid in cash. That was it - dial was all - a complete betrayal of trust, she knew that -somediing she'd never done before - would never have

done in the normal course of events. It was just the money - nothing else - she'd desperately needed the money...

Morse had been silent throughout die interrogation, his attention focused, it seemed, on the long, black-stockinged legs.

'Where does dial leave me - leave us?' she asked miserably.

'We shall have to ask you to come in to make an official statement,' said Lewis.

'Now, you mean?'

'That'll be best, yes.'

'Perhaps not,' intervened Morse. 'It's not all dial urgent, Miss Charles. We'll be in touch fairly soon.'

At the door, Morse thanked her for the coffee: 'Not the best homecoming, I'm afraid.'

'Only myself to blame,' she said, her voice tight as she looked across at die Visitors' parking lots, where the Jaguar stood.

'Where did you go?' asked Morse.

'I didn't go anywhere.'

"You stayed here - in your flat?'

'I didn't go anywhere.'

'What was that about?' asked Lewis as he drove back along die A$4 to Oxford. 'About her statement?'

'I want you to be widi me when we see Storrs diis afternoon.'

'What did you think of her?'

'Not a very good liar.'

'Lovely figure, though. Legs right up to her armpits! She'd have got a job in the chorus line at the Windmill.'

Morse was silent, his eyes gleaming again as Lewis continued:

'I read somewhere that they all had to be the same height and the same build - in the chorus line there.'

'Perhaps I'll take you along when the case is over.'

'No good, sir. It's been shut for ages.'

Dawn Charles closed the door behind her and walked thoughtfully back to the lounge, the suspicion of a smile about her lips.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car

(E. B. White, One Man's Meat)

LEWIS HAD BACKED into the first available space in Polstead Road, the tree-lined thoroughfare that leads westward from Woodstock Road into Jericho; and now stood waiting whilst Morse arose laboriously from the low passenger seat of the Jaguar.

'Seen that before, sir?' Lewis pointed to the circular blue plaque on the wall opposite: 'This house was the home of T. E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) from 1896-1921.'

Morse grunted as he straightened up his aching back, mumbling of lumbago.

'What about a plaque for Mr Storrs, sir? "This was the home of Julian Something Storrs, Master of Lonsdale, 199610... 1997?"'

Morse shrugged indifferently:

'Perhaps just 1996.'

The two men walked a little way along the short road. The houses here were of a pattern: gabled, red-bricked, three-storeyed properties, with ashlared, mullioned win-

dows, the frames universally painted white; interesting and amply proportioned houses built towards the end of the nineteenth century.

'Wouldn't mind living here,' volunteered Lewis.

Morse nodded. 'Very civilized. Small large houses, these, Lewis, as opposed to large small houses.'

'What's the difference?'

'Something to do with the number of bathrooms, I think.'

'Not much to do with the number of garages!'

'No.'

Clearly nothing whatever to do with the number of garages, since the reason for the continuum of cars on either side of the road was becoming increasingly obvious: there were no garages here, nor indeed any room for such additions. To compensate for the inconvenience, the front areas of almost all the properties had been cemented, cobbled, gravelled, or paved, in order to accommodate the parking of motor cars; including the front of the Storrs' residence, where on the gravel alongside the front window stood a small, pale grey, D-registration Citroen, a thin pink stripe around its bodywork.

'Someone's in?' ventured Morse.

'Mrs Storrs, perhaps - he's got a BMW. A woman's car, that, anyway.'

'Really?'

Morse was still peering through the Citroen's front window (perhaps for some more eloquent token of femininity) when Lewis returned from his ineffectual ringing.

'No one in. No answer, anyway.'

'On another weekend break?'

'I could ring the Porters' Lodge.'

Tfou do that small thing, Lewis. I'll be ...' Morse pointed vaguely towards the hostelry at the far end of the road.

It was at the Anchor, a few minutes later, as Morse sat behind a pint of John Smith's Tadcaster bitter, that Lewis came in to report on the Storrs: away again, for the weekend, the pair of them, this time though their whereabouts not vouchsafed to the Lodge.

Morse received die news without comment, appearing preoccupied; thinking no doubt, supposed Lewis, as he paid for his orange juice. Thinking and drinking ... drinking and thinking ... die twin activities which in Morse's view were ever and necessarily concomitant.

Not wholly preoccupied, however.

'I'll have a refill while you're at die bar, Lewis. Smidi's please.'

After a period of silence, Morse asked die question:

'If somebody came to you widi a letter - a photocopied letter, say - claiming your missus was having a passionate affair widi the milkman - '

Lewis grinned. 'I'd be dead worried. We've got a woman on die milk-float.'

' - what would you do?'

'Read it, obviously. See who'd written it'

'Show it to die missus?'

'Only if it was a joke.'

'How would you know that?'

'Well, you wouldn't really, would you? Not for a start You'd try to find out if it was genuine.'

'Exactly. So when Storrs got a copy of that letter, a letter he'd pretty certainly not seen before-'

'Unless Turnbull showed it to him?'

'Doubt it. A death certificate, wasn't it? He'd want to let Storrs down a bit more gently than that.'

'You mean, if Storrs tried to find out if it was genuine, he'd probably go along to the clinic...'

Morse nodded, like some benevolent schoolmaster encouraging a promising pupil.

'And show it to ... Dawn Charles?'

'Who else? She's the sort of Practice Manager there, if anybody is. And let's be honest about things. You're not exactly an expert in the Socratic skills yourself, are you? But how long did it take you to get the truth out of her? Three or four minutes?'

'You think Storrs did it as well?'

'Pretty certainly, I'd say. He's nobody's fool; and he's not going to give in to blackmail just on somebody's vague say-so. He's an academic; and if you're an academic you're trained to check - check your sources, check your references, check your evidence.'

'So perhaps Storrs has been a few steps in front of us all the time.'

Morse nodded. 'He probably rumbled our receptionist straightaway. Not many suspects there at the clinic.'

Slowly Lewis sipped his customary orange juice, his earlier euphoria fading.

"We're not exactly galloping towards the finishing-post, are we?'

Morse looked up, his blue eyes betraying some considerable surprise.

'Why do you say that, Lewis? That's exactly what we are doing.'

CHAPTER SIXTY

Saturday, 9 March

Hombrt apcrccbida media comhttiJo

(A man well prepared has already half fought the battle)

(Cervantes, Don Quixote)

SOMEWHAT CONCERNED about the adequacy of the Jaguar's petrol allowance, Morse had requisitioned an unmarked police car, which just before 10 a.m. was heading south along the A34, with Sergeant Lewis at the wheel. As they approached Abingdon, Morse asked Lewis to turn on Classic FM; and almost immediately asked him to turn it off, as he recognized the Brandenburg Concerto No. 2.

'Somebody once said, Lewis, that it was not impossible to get bored even in the presence of a mistress, and I'm sorry to say I sometimes get a little bored even in the company of Johann Sebastian Bach.'

'Really. I thought it was rather nice.'

'Lew-is! He may be terrific; he may be terrible - but he's never nice. Not Bach!'

Lewis concentrated on the busy road ahead as Morse sank back into his seat and, as was ever his wont in a car, said virtually nothing for the rest of the journey.

And yet Morse had said so many things - things upon

which Lewis's mind intermittently focused again, as far too quickly he drove down to the Chieveley junction with the M4 ...

Once back from Polstead Road, Friday afternoon had been very busy and, for Lewis, very interesting. It had begun with Morse asking about their present journey.

'If you had a posh car, which way would you go to Bath?'

'A34, M4, A46 - probably the best; the quickest, certainly.'

'What if you had an old banger?'

'Still go the same way, I think.'

'What's wrong with the Burford-Cirencester way?'

'Nothing at all, if you like a bit of scenery. Or if you don't like motorway-driving.'

Then another question:

'How do we find out which bank the Storrs use?'

'Could be they have different banks, sir. Shouldn't be too difficult, though: Lloyds, Barclays, NatWest, Midland ... Shall I ring around?'

Morse nodded. 'And try to find out how they've been spending their money recently - if it's possible.'

'May take a bit of time, but I don't see why not Let me find out anyway.'

Lewis turned to go, but Morse had a further request

'Before you do, bring me the notes you made about the Storrs' stay hi Bath last weekend. I'm assuming you've typed 'em up by now?'

'All done. Maybe a few spelling mistakes - a few grammatical lapses - beautifully typed, though.'

It had taken Lewis only ten minutes to discover that Mr Julian Storrs and Mrs Angela Storrs both banked at Lloyds. But there had been far greater difficulty in dealing with Morse's supplementary request.

The Manager of Lloyds (Headington Branch) had been fully co-operative but of only limited assistance. It was very unusual of course, but not in cases such as this unethical, for confidential material concemmg clients to be disclosed. But Lewis would have to contact Lloyds Inspection Department in Bristol.

Which Lewis had prompdy done, again receiving every co-operation; also, however, receiving the disappointing news that the information required was unlikely as yet to be fully ready. Widi credit-card facilities now almost universally available, the volume of transactions was ever growing; and with receipt-items sometimes irregularly forwarded from retail outlets, and with a few inevitable checks and delays in processing and clearance - well, it would take a little time.

'Later diis afternoon?' Lewis had queried hopefully.

'No chance of that, I'm afraid.'

'Tomorrow morning?'

Lewis heard a deep sigh at the other end of the line. 'We don't usually... It is very urgent, you say?'

The phone had been ringing in Morse's office (an office minus Morse) and Lewis had taken the brief call. The post-mortem on Shelly Cornford confirmed death from carbon-monoxide poisoning, and completely ruled out any suspicion of foul play.

A note on yellow paper was Sellotaped to the desk:

Lewis!

-Just off to the Diab. Centre (3.45)

- Yr notes on Bath most helpful, but try to get Sarah Siddons right - two d's, please.

- Good job we're getting a few facts straight before jumping too far ahead. Reculer pour mieux sauter!

- We'll be jumping tomorrow a.m. tho' - to Bath. Royal Crescent informs me the Storrs - Herr und Frau - are staying there again!

-1 need yr notes on Julian Storrs.

- Ring me at home - after the Archers.

M

And on the side of the desk, a letter from the Thame and District Diabetic Association addressed to Det Chief Inspector Morse:

Dear sir,

Welcome to the Club! Sony to be so quick off the mark but news travels fast in diabetic circles.

We meet on the first Thursday of each month 7.30-9 p.m. in the Town Hall in Thame and we shall be delighted if you can come to speak to us. We can

offer no fee but we can offer a warm-hearted and grateful audience.

During this last year we have been fortunate to welcome several very well-known people. For example our last six speakers have been Dr David Matthews, Lesley Hallett, Professor Harry Keane, Angela Storrs, Dr Robert Turner, and Willie Rushton.

Please try to support us if you can. For our 1996/7 programme we are still looking for speakers for October '96 and February '97. Any hope of you filling one of these slots?

I enclose SAE and thank you for your kind consideration...

But Lewis read only the first few lines, for never, except in the course of a criminal investigation, had he wittingly read a letter meant for the eyes of another person...

From the passenger seat Morse had still said nothing until Lewis, after turning off the M4 at Junction 18 on to the A46, was within a few miles of Bath.

'Lewis! If you had a mistress -'

'Not the milk-lady, sir. She's far too fat for me.'

' - and, say, you were having a weekend away together and you told your missus that you were catching the train but in fact this woman was going to pick you up in her car somewhere - The Randolph, say...'

*Yes, sir?' (Was Morse getting lost?)

'Would you still go to the railway station? Would you

make sure she picked you up at the railway station - not The Randolph?'

'Dunno, sir. I've never-'

'I know you haven' t,' snapped Morse. 'Just think, man!'

So Lewis thought. And thought he saw what Morse was getting at.

'You mean it might make you feel a bit better in your own mind - feel a bit less guilty, like - if you did what you said you'd be doing - before you went?' (Was Lewis getting lost?)

'Something like that,' said Morse unenthusiastically as a sign welcomed the two detectives to the Roman City of Bath.

As soon as Lewis had stopped outside the Royal Crescent Hotel, Morse rang through on the mobile phone to the Deputy Manager, as had been agreed. No problem, it appeared. The Storrs had gone off somewhere an hour or so earlier in the BMW. The coast was clear; and Morse got out of the car and walked round to the driver's window.

'Good luck in Bristol!'

Lewis raised two crossed fingers of his right hand, like the logo of the National Lottery, as Morse continued:

'If you find what I hope you're going to find, the battle's half won. And it's mostly thanks to you.'

'No! It was you who figured it all out'

'Wouldn't have done, though, without all those visits of yours to Soho.'

'Pardon, sir?'

'To see the chorus line, Lewis! The chorus line at the Windmill.'

'But I've never-'

'"Legs right up to her armpits," you said, right? And that was the second time you'd used those words, Lewis. Remember?'

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Life, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than a neatly arranged and well-provisioned breakfast table

(Nathaniel Hawthorne, The House of the Seven Gables)

MORSE STOOD FOR some while on the huge slabs that form the wide pavement stretching along the whole extent of the great 5OO-foot curve of cinnamon-coloured stone, with its identical facades of double Ionic columns, which comprise Bath's Royal Crescent. It seemed to him a breathtaking architectural masterpiece, with the four-star hotel exactly at its centre: Number 16.

He walked between die black spiked railings, through die white double-doors, into die black-and-white floor-tiled, high-ceilinged entrance hall, and then to reception, where he was immediately ushered into die beige-carpeted, pine-furnished office of die Deputy Manager, just beyond.

Sara Hickman was from Leicestershire, a tall, slimly attractive woman in her mid-diirties, widi green eyes (just like Sister McQueen) and dark curly hair. She was dressed in a business-like suit; she spoke in a businesslike manner; and so very clearly was she part of an

extremely business-like hotel, since manifold awards -RAG Blue Ribbons, AA Rosettes, Egon Ronay Stars - vied with each other for space around the walls.

After hesitating, finally capitulating, over the offer of coffee, Morse soon found himself listening very carefully.

Sara had (she told him) been able to re-interview almost all of the service personnel who had been on duty the previous weekend, most of whom, as it happened, were performing similar duties that present weekend. But there seemed little to add, at least in general terms, to the details earlier communicated by the Manager himself to the Thames Valley Police. One minor correction: the room the Storrs had slept in was a Standard Twin, not a Standard Double; and in fact the couple had asked for the same room again, if it was available. Which, by some strange coincidence, it was: the only Standard Twin still available in the hotel that weekend. Registration? She passed to Morse the card dated the previous Saturday, 2.3.96: Guest's Name; Address; Telephone No.; Arrival Date; Departure Date; Nationality; Payment Type; Passport No.; Signature; Car Reg. No. - and more. All filled in with a neat, feminine, slightly forward-leaning script, in black Biro; and signed 'Angela Storrs'. It would be comparatively easy to check, of course; but Morse had litde or no doubt that the signature was genuine.

"The Manager told my sergeant, when he rang about last weekend, that we might be able to see some itemized bills?'

Sara Hickman smiled.

'I thought somehow you might ask for them,' she said, and now read aloud from a small sheaf of bills in front of her.

'Last Saturday night they ate at Table twenty-six, in the far corner of the restaurant. He had the Carpaccio of Beef, Truffled Noodles, and Parmesan, for his starter; for his main course, the Seabass served with Creamed Celeriac and Fennel Liqueur; Passion Fruit Mousse for sweet She wasn't quite so adventurous, I'm afraid: Consomme; with Baked Plaice and Green Salad for her main course; and then cream-crackers and Edam - the waiter particularly remembers her asking for the Edam.'

'Good low-fat cheese they tell me,' mumbled Morse, recalling his own hard-nosed dietitian's homily in the Geoffrey Harris Ward. And he was smiling vaguely to himself as the Deputy Manager continued:

'Now, Sunday morning. Mr Storrs had ordered breakfasts for the two of them over the phone the previous night - at about eleven, half past - can't be sure. He said he thought he was probably too late with the form, but he obviously had it in front of him - the night-porter remembers that. He said he'd have a Full English for himself, no kidney though, with the tomato well grilled, and two fried eggs. Said his wife would go for a Continental: said she'd like cereal, Ricicles, if we'd got some - Chief Inspector, we've got a bigger selection of cereals than Salisbury's! - some brown toast and honey, the fresh-fruit compote, and orange juice. Oh, yes' (Sara checked the form again) 'and hot chocolate.'

'The time?' asked Morse.

'It would have been between seven-thirty and eight We don't serve Full English until after seven-thirty - and both breakfasts went up together.'

'And last night for dinner?'

"They didn't eat here.'

'This morning?'

'They had breakfast in their room again. This time they filled in the form early, and left it on the door-knob outside the room. Same as before for Mr Storrs-'

'How do you know it wasn't for her?'

'Well, it's exactly what he ordered before. Here, look for yourself.'

She passed the room-service order across the desk; and Morse saw the instructions: 'Well grilled' against 'Tomato'; no tick against 'Kidney'; the figure '2' against 'Eggs (fried)'.

'I see what you mean,' admitted Morse. 'Not even married couples have exactly the same tastes, I suppose/

'Especially married couples,' said Sara Hickman quietly.

Morse's eyes continued down the form, to the Continental section, and saw the ticks against 'Weetabix' ('semi-skimmed milk' written beside it), 'Natural Yoghurt', 'Toast (brown)', 'Coffee (decaffeinated)'. The black-Biro'd writing was the same as that on the registration form. Angela Storrs' writing. Certainly.

T shall have to have copies of these forms,' said Morse.

'Of course.' Sara got to her feet Til see that's done straightaway. Shall we go over to the bar?'

The day was brightening.

But for Morse the day had already been wonderfully bright; had been for the past hour or so, ever since the Deputy Manager had been speaking with him.

And indeed was very shordy to be brighter still.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Queen Elizabeth the First Slept Here (Notice which according to the British Tourist Board is to be observed in approximately 2400 residences in the United Kingdom)

THEY WALKED ACROSS the splendidly tended garden area behind the main complex to the Dower House, an elegant annexe wherein were situated most of the hotel's suites and bedrooms, as well as the restaurant, the main lounge - and the bar.

Immediately inside the entrance, Morse saw the plaque (virtually a statutory requirement in Bath) commemorating a particularly eminent royal personage:

George IV

1820-1830 Resided here

In the lounge, Morse sat down amid the unashamedly luxurious surroundings of elaborate wall-lights, marble busts - and courteously prompt service, for a uniformed waitress was already standing beside them.

'What would you like to drink, sir?'

Lovely question.

As he waited for his beer, Morse looked around him; and in particular at the portrait above the fireplace there: 'Lord Ellmore, 1765-1817', the inscription read, a fat-cheeked, smooth-faced man, with a protruding lower lip, who reminded Morse unhappily of Sir Clixby Bream.

Then he walked through to the Gents in the corridor just off the lounge where the two loos stood side by side, the Men's and the Ladies' logos quite unequivocally distinct on their adjacent doors.

It would have been difficult even for the myopic Mrs Adams to confuse the two, thought Morse, as he smiled and mouthed a few silent words to himself: 'Thank you! Thank you, Mrs Arabella Adams!' It wasn't that she could have been certain - from some little distance? with her failing eyesight? - that the person she had seen was a man or a woman. Certainly not so far as the recognition of any facial features was concerned. Faces were notoriously difficult to distinguish, appearing so different when seen in profile, perhaps, or in the shadows, or wearing glasses. No! It was

just that old Mrs Adams had always known what men looked like, and what women looked like, since habitually the men wore trousers and the women wore skirts. But of course if someone wore trousers, that certainly didn't prove that the wearer was a man, now did it, Morse? In fact it proved one thing and one thing only. that the person in question was wearing trousers!

Ten minutes later, as he worked his way with diminishing enthusiasm through an over-generous plateful of smoked-salmon sandwiches, Morse saw Sergeant Lewis appear in the doorway - a Lewis looking almost as self-satisfied as the oily Lord Ellmore himself - and raise his right thumb, before being introduced to Sara Hickman.

'Something to drink, Sergeant?'

Thank you. Orange juice, please.'

'Something to eat?'

'What have you got?'

She smiled happily. 'Anything. Anything you like. Our Head Chef is at your command.'

'Can he rustle up some eggs and chips?'

She said she was sure - well, almost sure - that he could, and departed to investigate.

'Lew-is! This is a cordon bleu establishment'

'Should taste good then, sir.'

The buoyant Lewis passed a note to Morse, simultaneously (and much to Morse's relief) helping himself to a couple of sandwiches.

"You don't mind, sir? I'm half starving.'

At 2.30 p.m. Marilyn Hudson, a small, fair-complexioned young woman, was called into Sara's office. Marilyn had been a chamber-cum-kitchenmaid at the hotel for almost three years; and it was soon clear that she knew as much as anyone was likely to know about the day-to-day - and night-by-night - activities there.

Morse now questioned her closely about the morning of the previous Sunday, 3 March.

"You took them breakfast?'

*Yes, sir. About quarter to eight'

"You knocked on the door?'

'Like I always do, yes. I heard somebody say "Come in" so I-'

You had a key?'

'I've got a master-key. So I took the tray in and put it on the dressing-table.'

'Were they in bed together?'

'No. Twin beds it is there. She was on the far side. Difficult to miss her, though.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Well, it was her pyjamas - yellow an' black an' green stripes - up an' down.'

'Vertical stripes, you mean?'

'I'm not sure about that, sir. Just up an' down, like I said. An" she's got the same pair now. I took their breakfast again this morning. Same room - thirty-six.' Marilyn gave a nervous little giggle. 'Perhaps it's time she changed them.'

'She may have got two pairs,' interposed Lewis - not particularly helpfully, judging from the scowl on Morse's face.

'Do you think it could have been anybody else - except Mrs Storrs?'

'No, sir. Like I say, she was there in the bed. But...'

'But what?'

'Well, I saw /z«rall right. But I didn't really see him. He was in the bathroom having a shave - electric razor it was - and the door was open a bit and I saw he was still in his pyjamas and he said thank you but...'

'Would you have recognized him if he'd turned his head?'

For the first time Marilyn Hudson seemed unsure of herself.

'Well, I'd seen them earlier in the hotel, but I didn't notice him as much as her really. She was, you know, ever so dressy and smart - dark glasses she wore - and a white trouser-suit. Same thing as she's got on today.'

Morse turned to Lewis. 'Do you think she's got two white trouser-suits, Sergeant?'

'Always a possibility, sir.'

'So' (if Morse was experiencing some disappointment, he gave no indication of it) 'what you're telling us is that you're pretty sure it was her, but not quite so sure it was him}'

Marilyn considered the question a while before replying:

'No. I'm pretty sure it was both of them, sir.'

'Good girl, our Marilyn,' confided Sara, 'even if her vocabulary's a bit limited.'

Morse looked across at her quizzically:

'Vertical and horizontal, you mean? I shouldn't worry about that I've always had trouble with east and west myself.'

'Lots of people have trouble with right and left,' began Lewis - but Morse was already making a further request

You've still got die details of who was staying here last Saturday?'

'Of course. Just a minute.'

She returned shortly with a sheaf of registration cards; and Morse was looking dirough, flicking them over one at a time - when suddenly he stopped, the familiar tingling of excitement across his shoulders.

He handed the card to Lewis.

And Lewis whistled softly, incredulously, as he read the name.

Morse turned again to Sara. 'Can you let us have a copy of the bill - account, whatever you call it - for Room fifteen?'

You were right then, sir!' whispered Lewis excitedly. You always said it was "DC"!'

Sarah came back and laid the account in front of Morse.

'Single room - number fifteen. Just the one night Paid by credit card.'

Morse looked through the items.

'No evening meal?'

'No.'

'No breakfast either?'

'No.'

'Look! Can we use your phone from here?'

'Of course you can. Shall I leave you?'

*Yes, I think so,' said Morse, 'if you don't mind.

Morse and Lewis emerged from the office some twenty minutes later; and were walking behind reception when one of the guests came through from the entrance hall and asked for the key to Room 36.

Then he saw Morse.

'Good God! What are you doing here?' asked Julian Storrs.

'I was just going to ask you exactly the same question,' replied Morse, with a curiously confident smile.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Why did you murder those workmen in 1893?' It wasn't in 1893. It was in '92.'

(Quoted by H. H. Asquith)

'Do vou WANT my wife to be here as well? I dropped her in the city centre to do a bit of shopping. But she shouldn't be long - if that's what you want?'

'We'd rather talk to you alone, sir.'

'What's this bloody "sir" got to do with things?"

The three of them - Storrs, Morse, Lewis - were seated in Room 36, a pleasingly spacious room, whose windows overlooked the hotel's pool and the sodden-looking croquet-green.

'What's all this about anyway?' Storrs' voice was already sounding a little weary, increasingly tetchy. 'Can we get on with it?'

So Morse got on with it, quickly sketching in the background to the two murders under investigation:

Storrs had been having an affair with Rachel James -and Rachel James had been murdered.

Storrs had been blackmailed by Owens - and Owens had been murdered.

^ \J ¥¥ AM. 4

The grounds for this blackmail were three-fold: his extramarital relationship with Ms James; his dishonest concealment of his medical prognosis; and his wife's earlier career as striptease dancer and Soho call-girl. For these reasons, it would surely have been very strange had Storrs not figured somewhere near the top of the suspect list

As far as the first murder was concerned, Storrs - both the Storrs - had an alibi: they had been in bed widi each other. How did one break that sort of alibi?

As far as the second murder was concerned, Storrs -again both Storrs - had dieir alibis: but this time not only were they in the same bedroom together, but also eighty-odd miles away from the scene of the crime. In fact, in the very room where they were now. But alibis could be fabricated; and if so, they could be broken. Sometimes they were broken.

(Storrs was listening in silence.)

Means? Forensic tests had established that both murders had been committed with the same weapon - a pistol known as the Howdah, often used by senior ranks in the armed forces, especially in India, where Storrs had served until returning to Oxford. He had acquired such a pistol; probably still had it, unless he had got rid of it recendy - very recendy.

The predominant cause - the Prime Mover - for the whole tragic sequence of events had been his obsessive, overweening ambition to gain the ultimate honour during what was left to him of his lifetime - the Mastership of Lonsdale, widi the virtually inevitable accolade of a knighthood.

Motive, then? Yes.

Means? Yes.

Opportunity, though?

If For the first murder, transport from Polstead Road to

Kidlington was easy enough - there were two cars. But the target had not been quite so easy. In fact, it might well have been that Rachel James was murdered mistakenly, because of a mix-up over house-numbers and a pony-tailed silhouette.

But for the second murder, planning had to be far more complicated - and clever. Perhaps the 'in-bed-together' alibi might sound a little thin the second time. But not if he was in a bed in some distant place; not if he was openly observed in diat distant place at the time the murder must have been committed. No one had ever been in two places at the same time: that would be an affront to the rules by which the Almighty had established the universe. But the distance from Oxford to Bath was only eighty-odd miles. And in a powerful car, along the motorway, on a Sunday morning, early ... An hour, say? Pushing it, perhaps? An hour and a quarter, then - two and a half hours on the road. Then there was a murder to be committed, of course. Round it up to three hours, say.

During the last few minutes of Morse's exposition, Storrs had walked across to the window, where he stood looking out over the garden. The afternoon had clouded, with the occasional spatter of rain across the panes. Storrs was humming quietly to himself; and Morse recognized the

13 n\jvr en. i

tune of 'September', one of Richard Strauss's Four Last Songs:

Der Garten trauert

Kiihl sinkt in die Blumen der Regen ...

Then, abruptly, Storrs turned round.

"You do realize what you're saying?' he asked quietly.

'I think I do,' replied Morse.

'Well, let's get a few things straight, shall we? Last Sunday my wife Angela and I had breakfast here, in this room, at about a quarter to eight. The same young girl brought us breakfast this morning, as it happens. She'll remember.'

Morse nodded. 'She's not quite sure it was you, though, last Sunday. She says you were shaving at the time, in the bathroom.'

'Who the hell was it then? If it wasn't me?'

'Perhaps you'd got back by then.'

'Back? Back from Oxford? How did I manage that? Three hours, you say? I must have left at half past four!'

You had a car - '

'Have you checked all this? You see, my car was in the hotel garage - and God knows where that is. I left it outside when we booked in, and gave the keys to one of the porters. That's the sort of thing you pay for hi places like this - didn't you know that?'

Again Morse nodded. "You're right The garage wasn't opened up that morning until ten minutes to nine.'

'So?' Storrs looked puzzled.

"You could have driven someone else's car.'

'Whose, pray?'

Tour wife's, perhaps?'

Storrs snorted. 'Which just happened to be standing outside the hotel - is that it? A helicopter-lift from Polstead Road?'

'I don't know,' admitted Morse.

'All right. Angela's car's there waiting for me, yes? How did I get out of the hotel? There's only the one exit, so I must have slipped unnoticed past a sleeping night-porter-' He stopped. 'Have you checked up whether the front doors are locked after midnight?'

Yes, we've checked.'

'And are they?'

They are.'

'So?' Again Storrs appeared puzzled.

'So the only explanation is that you weren't in the hotel that night at all,' said Morse slowly.

'Really? And who signed the bloody bill on Sunday -what - ten o'clock? Quarter past?'

'Twenty past. We've tried to check everything. You signed the bill, sir, using your own Lloyds Visa Card.'

Suddenly Storrs turned his back and stared out of the rain-flecked window once more:

'Look! You must forgive me. I've been leading you up the garden padi, I'm afraid. But it was extremely interesting hearing your story. Outside, just to the left - we can't quite see it from here - is what the splendid brochure calls its "outdoor heated exercise plunge pool". I was there that morning. I was there just after breakfast -about half past eight. Not just me, either. There was a rich American couple who were staying in the Beau Nash

suite. They came from North Carolina, as I recall, and we must have been there together for twenty minutes or so. Want to know what we were talking about? Bosnia. Bloody Bosnia! Are you satisfied? You say you've tried to check everything. Well, just - check - that! And now, if you don't mind, my dear wife appears to be back. I just hope she's not spent- Good God! She's bought herself anothercoal\'

Lewis, who had himself remained silent throughout the interview, walked across to the rain-flecked window, and saw Mrs Storrs standing beneath the porchway across die garden, wearing a headscarf, dark glasses, and a long expensive-looking white mackintosh. She appeared to be having some litde difficulty unfurling one of die large gaudy umbrellas which the benevolent management left in clumps around the buildings for guests to use when needed - needed as now, for die rain had come on more heavily.

Morse, too, got to his feet and joined Lewis at the window, where Storrs was quiedy humming diat tune again.

Der Garten trauert...

The garden is mourning...

'Would you and your good lady like to join me for a drink, sir? In die bar downstairs?'

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Hypoglycaemia (n): abnormal reduction of sugar content of the blood - for Diabetes sufferers a condition more difficult to spell than to spot

(Small's Enlarged English Dictionary, lyth Edition)

'WHAT DO YOU think they're talking about up there, sir?'

'He's probably telling her what to say.'

Morse and Lewis were seated side-by-side in the Dower House lounge - this time with their backs turned on Lord Ellmore, since two dark-suited men sat drinking coffee in front of the fireplace.

Julian Storrs and a black-tied waiter appeared almost simultaneously.

'Angela'll be down in a minute. Just changing. Got a bit wet shopping.'

'Beforeshe bought the coat, I hope, sir,' said Lewis.

Storrs gave a wry smile, and the waiter took their order.

'Large Glenfiddich for me,' said Storrs. 'Two pieces of ice.'

Morse clearly approved. 'Same for me. What'H you have, Lewis?'

'Does the budget run to an orange juice?'

'And' (Morse turned to Storrs) 'what can we get for your wife?'

'Large gin and slim-line tonic. And put 'em all on my bill, waiter. Room thirty-six.'

Morse made no protestation; and Lewis smiled quietly to himself. It was his lucky day.

'Ah! "Slim-line tonic",' repeated Morse. 'Cuts out the sugar, I believe.'

Storrs made no comment, and Morse continued:

'I know your wife's diabetic, sir. We checked up. We even checked up on what you both had to eat last weekend.'

'Well done!'

'Only one thing puzzles me really: your wife's breakfast on Sunday morning.' He gestured to Lewis, the latter now reading from his notebook:

'Ricicles - that's sort of sugar-frosted toasted rice - my kids used to love 'em, sir - toast and honey, a fruit cocktail, orange juice, and then some hot chocolate."

'Not, perhaps,' added Morse, 'the kind of breakfast a diabetic would normally order, is it? All that sugar? Everything else she ate here was out of the latest diabetic cook-book.'

'Do you know anything about diabetes, Chief Inspector?'

It was a new voice, sharp and rather harsh - for Angela Storrs, dressed in the inevitable trouser-suit (lime-green, this time), but most unusually minus the

dark glasses, had obviously caught some (most5) of the previous conversation:

'Not much,' admitted Morse as he sought to rise from his deep, low chair. 'I've only been diagnosed a week."

'Please don't get up!' It sounded more an order tfian a request.

She took a seat next to her husband on the sofa. 'I've had diabetes for ten years myself. But you'll learn soon enough. You see, one of the biggest dangers for insulin-dependent diabetics is not, as you might expect, excessively high levels of blood sugar, but excessively low levels: hypoglycaemia, it's called. Are you on insulin yourself?'

"Yes, and tfiey did try to tell me something about-'

"You're asking about last weekend. Let me tell you. On Saturday evening my blood sugar was low - very low; and when Julian asked me about breakfast I decided to play things safe. I did have some glucose with me; but I was still low on Sunday morning. And if it's of any interest, I thoroughly enjoyed my sugary breakfast. A rare treat!'

The drinks had arrived.

'Look!' she continued, once the waiter had asked for her husband's signature on die bill. 'Let me be honest widi you. Julian has just told me why you're here. He'd already told me about everything else anyway: about his ridiculous affair with that young Rachel woman; about that slimy specimen Owens.'

'Did you hate him enough to murder him?'

'/ did,' interrupted Storrs vehemently. 'God rot his soul!'

'And about this Mastership business?' Morse looked from one to the other. *You were in that together?'

It was Julian Storrs who answered. 'Yes, we were. I told Angela the truth immediately, about my illness, and we agreed to cover it all up. You see' (suddenly he was looking very tired) 'I wanted it so much. I wanted it more than anything - didn't I, Angela?'

She smiled, and gently laid her own hand over his. 'And /did too, Julian.'

Morse drained his whisky, and thirsted for another.

'Mrs Storrs, I'm going to ask you a very blunt question - and you must forgive me, because that's my job. What would you say if I told you that you didn't sleep with your husband last Saturday night - that you slept with another man?'

She smiled again; and for a few moments the angularity of her face had softened into the lineaments of a much younger woman.

'I'd just hope he was a good lover.'

'But you'd deny it?'

'A childish accusation like that? It's hardly worth denying!'

Morse turned to Storrs. 'And you, sir? What would you say if I told you that you didn't sleep with your wife last Saturday night - that you slept with another woman?'

'I'd just hope shevfas a good lover, I suppose.'

'But you'd deny it, too?'

'Of course.'

'Anything elseyou want to check?' asked Angela Storrs.

'Well, just the one thing really, because I'm still not quite sure that I've got it right.' Morse took a deep

breath, and exhaled rather noisily. You say you came here with your husband in his BMW, latish last Saturday afternoon - stayed here together overnight - then drove straight back to Oxford together the next morning. Is that right, Mrs Storrs?'

'Not quite, no. We drove back via Cirencester and Burford. In fact, we had a bite of lunch at a pub in Burford and we had a look in two or three antiques shops there. I nearly bought a silver toast-rack, but Julian thought it was grossly overpriced.'

'I see ... I see ... In that case, it's about time we told you something else,' said Morse slowly. 'Don't you think so, Sergeant Lewis?'

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Is this a question?' (from an Oxford entrance examination)

If it is, this could be an answer.' (one candidate's reply)

APART FROM themselves and the two men still drinking coffee, the large lounge was now empty.

'Perhaps we could all do with another drink?' It was Morse's suggestion.

'Not for me,' said Angela Storrs.

'I'm all right, thank you,' said Julian Storrs.

'Still finishing this one,' said Lewis.

Morse felt for the cellophaned packet; and almost fell. He stared for a while out of the windows: heavy rain now, through which a hotel guest occasionally scuttled across to the Dower House, head and face wholly indistinguishable beneath one of die gay umbrellas. How easy it was to hide when it was raining!

Almost reluctantly, it seemed, Morse made the penultimate revelation:

'There was someone else staying here last Saturday

night, someone I think both of you know. She was staying - yes, it was a woman! - in the main part of the hotel, across there in Room fifteen. That woman was Dawn Charles, the receptionist at the Harvey Clinic in Banbury Road.'

Storrs turned to his wife. 'Good heavensl Did you realize that, darling?'

'Don't be silly! I don't even know the woman.'

'It's an extraordinarily odd coincidence, though,' persisted Morse. 'Don't you think so?'

'Of course it's odd,' replied Angela Storrs. 'All coincidences are odd - by definition! But life's full of coincidences.'

(Lewis smiled inwardly. How often had he heard those selfsame words from Morse.)

'But this wasn't a coincidence, Mrs Storrs.'

It was Julian Storrs who broke the awkward, ominous silence that had fallen on die group.

'I don't know what that's supposed to mean. All I'm saying is that /didn't see her. Perhaps she's a Faure fan herself and came for the Abbey concert like we did. You'll have to ask her, surely?'

'If we do,' said Morse simply, confidently, 'it won't be long before we learn the trudi. She's not such a competent liar as you are, sir - as the pair of you are!'

The atmosphere had become almost dangerously tense as Storrs got to his feet 'I am not going to sit here one minute longer and listen-'

'Sit down!' said his wife, with an authority so assertive that one of die cofFee-drinkers turned his head briefly in her direction as Morse continued:

"You both deny seeing Miss Charles whilst she was here?'

Tes.'

'Yes.'

'Thank you. Sergeant? Please?'

Lewis re-opened his notebook, and addressed Mrs Storrs directly:

'So it couldn't possibly have been you, madam, who filled a car with petrol at Burford on that Saturday afternoon?'

'Last Saturday? Certainly not!' She almost spat the words at her new interlocutor.

But Lewis appeared completely unabashed. 'Have you lost your credit card recently?'

'Why do you ask that?'

'Because someone made a good job of signing your name, that's all. For twelve pounds of Unleaded Premium at the Burford Garage on the A4O at about three o'clock last Saturday.'

'What exactly are you suggesting?' The voice sounded menacingly calm.

'I'm suggesting that you drove here to Bath that day in your own car, madam-'

But she had risen to her feet herself now.

"You were right, Julian. We are not going to sit here a second longer. Come along!'

But she got no further than the exit, where two men stood barring her way: two dark-suited men who had been sitting for so long beneath the portrait of the bland Lord Ellmore.

She turned round, her nostrils flaring, her wide naked

eyes now blazing with fury, and perhaps (as Morse saw them) with hatred, too, and despair.

But she said nothing further, as Lewis walked quietly towards her.

'Angela Miriam Storrs, it is my duty as a police officer to arrest you on the charge of murder. The murder of Geoffrey Gordon Owens, on Sunday, the third of March 1996. It is also my duty to warn you that anything you now say may be taken down in writing and used in evidence at any future hearing.'

She stood where she was; and still said nothing.

Chief Inspector Morse, too, stood where he was, wondering whether his sergeant had got the wording quite right, as Detective Inspector Briggs and Detective Constable Bott, both of the Avon CID, led Angela Miriam Storrs away.

PART SEVEN

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Twas the first and last time that I'd iver known women to use the pistol. They fear the shot as a rule, but Di'monds-an'-Pearls she did not - she did not

(Rudyard Kipling, Love-o'-Womtn)

(BEING THE tape-recorded statement made by Angela Storrs at Thames Valley Police HQ, Kidlington, Oxon, on the morning of 11 March, 1996; transcribed by Detective Sergeant Lewis; and subsequently amended - for minor orthographic and punctuational vagaries - by Detective Chief Inspector Morse.)

I murdered both of them, Rachel James and Geoffrey Owens. I'm a bit sorry about Rachel.

I was seventeen when I first started working as a stripper in Soho and then as a prostitute and in some porno flicks. Julian Starrs came along several times to the club where I was performing seven or eight times a night, and he arranged to see me, and we had sex a few times in the West End. He was a selfish sod as I knew from the start, especially in those early days, as far as I was concerned. Which was fine by

me. He was obsessively jealous about other men and this was something I wasn't used to. He wanted me body and soul, he said, and soon he asked me to marry him. Which was fine by me too.

I came from no family at all to speak of, but Julian came from a posh family and he had plenty of money. And he was a don at Oxford University and my mum was proud of me. She just wanted me to be somebody important like she'd never been.

I was unfaithful a few times after a few years, especially with some of the other dons who were about as pathetic as the old boys in the Soho basement who used to stick the odd fiver up your panties.

I enjoyed life at Oxford. But nobody took to me all that much. I wasn't quite in the same bracket as the others and I used to feel awkward when they asked me about where I'd been to university and all that jazz, because I couldn't even pretend I was one of them. I wanted to be one of them, though - God knows why! Ours wasn't a tight marriage even from the start. It wasn't too long before Julian was off with other women, and soon, as I say, I was off with other men. Including the Master. He needs his sheets changing every day, that man, like they do in the posh hotels. But he was going at last and that started things really, or is it finished things? Julian desperately wanted to be Master and only one person wanted that more than he did. Me!

In London I'd lived a dodgy, dangerous sort of life

TT .GO. *

like any woman on the sex-circuit does. I'd been mauled about quite a few times, and raped twice, once by a white and once by a black, so I can't be accused of racial prejudice. One of the other girls had a water-pistol that fired gentian-blue dye over anybody trying it on. I don't know why it was that colour but I always remember it from the paint-box I had when I was a little girl, next to burnt Siena and crimson Lake. But Julian had something far better than that. He'd kept a pistol from his Army days and after I had a bit of trouble late one Saturday night in Cornmarket with some football thugs, he said he didn't mind me carrying it around sometimes if it made me feel better. Which it did. I had a new-found sense of confidence, and one weekend Julian took me with some of his TA friends out to the shooting-range on Otmoor and for the first time ever I actually fired a pistol. I was surprised how difficult it was, with the way it jerked back and upwards, but I managed it and I loved it. After that I got used to carrying it around with me - loaded! - when I was out alone late at night. I felt a great sense of power when I held it.

Then came our big opportunity. Julian was always going to be a good bet for the Master's job, and we only had Cornford to beat. I always quite liked Denis but he never liked me, and to make up for it I detested his American wife. But this one thing that stood in the way suddenly became two things, because we learned that Julian would probably be

dead within a year or so although we agreed never to say anything about it to anyone. Then there was that third thing - that bloody man Owens.

He'd written to Julian not to me, and he'd done his homework properly. He knew I'd been a call-girl (sounds better, doesn't it?). He knew about Julian's latest floozie. And he knew about Julian's illness and guessed he was hiding it from the College. He said he'd be ringing and he did, and they met in the Chapters' Bar at The Randolph. All Owens wanted was money, it seems, and Julian's never been short of that. But Julian played it cool and he went back to the bar later on and had a bit of luck because one of the barmaids knew who Owens was because he'd covered quite a few functions there for the newspapers. We didn't need to hire a detective to find his address because it was in the phone-book!

I knew what I was doing that morning because I'd already driven round the area twice and I'd done my homework too. I parked on the main road above the terrace and got through a gap in the fence down to the back. I don't think I meant to shoot him but just frighten him to death if I could and let him know that he'd never be able to feel safe in life again if he kept on with his blackmail. Then I saw him behind the kitchen blind, and I suddenly realized how ridiculously easy it would be to solve all our problems. It wouldn't take more than a single second. I knew he lived alone, and I knew this must be him. His head was only a couple of feet away and I saw the pony-tail that Julian had told me about. I'd

planned to knock on the door and go in and sort things out. But I didn't. I just fired point-blank and that was that. There was a huge thud and a splintering noise and lots of smoke, but only for a second it seemed. Next thing I remember I was sitting in the car trembling all over and expecting to see people rushing around and police sirens and all that. But there was nothing. A few cars drove by and a paper-boy rode past on his bicycle.

It was all a bit like a nightmare I've often had -standing on top of some high building with no rail in front of me and knowing it would be so easy to jump off, and if I did jump off, that would be the end of everything. In the nightmare I was always just about going to jump off when I woke up sweating and terrified. It was the same sort of thing at that window. It was like somebody saying 'Do it!' And I did it. Julian knew what happened but he didn't have anything to do with it.

We planned the second murder together, though. Nothing to lose, was there?

Julian knew someone must have shopped him down at the clinic and he soon found out it was Dawn Charles. So we had the hold on her now and it wasn't difficult to get her to co-operate. She'd got money problems and Julian promised to help if she did what we wanted. Which wasn't much really.

Things went as we planned them. Julian drove down to Bath in the BMW and I followed in my car. He went M4.1 went Burford way. He booked in and left his car in the hotel garage. I left my car in one of

the side-streets behind the hotel. Dawn Charles went by train to Bath changing at Didcot, so Julian told me. She booked into the hotel as herself of course. After we got back from the Abbey, Julian and I had dinner together, and then I left. Julian rang Dawn Charles on the internal phone system and all she had to do was to walk across the garden. I drove back to Oxford and then up to Bicester where I'd got the key to Dawn's flat. It would have been far too risky to go back to Polstead Road.

Unless Julian persuaded her to sleep in the raw Dawn wore my pyjamas, and the hotel-girl took them breakfast in bed the next morning. Mistake about all that sugar, I agree! Dawn Charles is my sort of height and shape, so Julian tells me, and if she wore something that was obviously mine there wouldn't be much of a problem. The whole thing was very neat really. It didn't matter if she was seen round the hotel or if I was, because both of us were staying there officially.

I'd phoned Owens to arrange everything and last Sunday morning I drove round to Bloxham Drive again. Probably he'd have been more wary if I'd been a man instead of a woman but I told him I'd have the money with me. So he said he'd meet me and have a signed letter ready promising he wouldn't try any more blackmail. I went down the slope at the back like before and knocked on the right door this time. It was about a quarter past seven when he let me in and we went through to his front room. I don't think either of us spoke. He was standing there in

front of the settee and I took the pistol out of my shopping bag and shot him twice and left him there for dead.

Angela Storrs 11.3.1996

(As it happened, Lewis was not to read this final version. Had he done so, he might have felt rather surprised -and a little superior? - to notice that his own 'burnt sienna' had been amended to 'burnt Siena', since he had taken the trouble to look up that colour in Chambers, and had spelt it accordingly.)

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Belbroughton Road is bonny, and pinkly burst the spray Of prunus and forsythia across the public way, For a full spring-tide of blossom seethed and departed hence, Leaving land-locked pools of jonquils by a sunny garden fence (John Betjeman, May-Day Song for North Oxford)

SPRING WAS particularly beautiful, if late, in North Oxford that year, and even Morse, whose only potential for floral exhibitionism was a small window-box, much enjoyed the full-belled daffodils and the short-lived violets, though not the crocuses.

Sir Clixby Bream received a letter from Julian Storrs on Tuesday, 12 March. Both contestants had now withdrawn from the Mastership Stakes. At an Extraordinary General Meeting held the next day in the Stamper Room, the Fellows of Lonsdale had little option but to extend yet again the term of the incumbent Master; and by a majority vote to call hi the 'Visitor', that splendidly tided dignitary (usually an archbishop) whose right and duty it was, and is, periodically to inspect and to report on

College matters, and to advise and to intervene in any such disputatious circumstances as Lonsdale, omnium consensu, now found itself. An outside appointment seemed a certainty. But Sir Clixby accepted the situation philosophically, as was his wont ... and the College lawns were beginning to look immaculate again. Life had to go on, even if Denis Cornford was now a broken man, with Julian Storrs awaiting new developments - and death.

Adele Beatrice Cecil had recently learned that the membership of the Young Conservatives had fallen from 500,000 twenty years earlier to 5,000 hi January 1996; and anyway she had for several weeks been contemplating a change in her lifestyle. Morse may have been right in one way, she thought - only one way, though - in suggesting that it was the personnel rather than the policies which were letting the Party down. Yes, it might be time for a change; and on Wednesday, 13 March, she posted off her resignation to Conservative Central Office. She did so with deep regret, yet she knew she was never destined to be idle. She could write English competently, she knew that; as indeed did Morse; as did also her publishers, Erotica Press, who had recently requested an equally sexy sequel to Topless in Torremolinos. And already a nice little idea was burgeoning in her brain almost as vigorously as the wall-flowers she'd planted the previous autumn: an idea about an older man - well, say a whitish-haired man who wasn't quite so old as he looked - and a woman who was considerably younger, about her own

age, say. Age difference, in heterosexual encounters, was ever a guaranteed 'turn-on', so her editor confided.

One man was to continue his officially unemployed status for the remainder of the spring; and probably indefinitely thereafter, although he was a little troubled by die rumour that the Social Security system was likely to be less sympathetic in the future. For the moment, however, he appeared to be adequately funded, judging from his virtually permanent presence in die local pubs and betting-shops. It was always going to be difficult for any official down in the Job Centre to refute his claim that the remuneration offered for some of their 'employment opportunities' could never compensate for his customary lifestyle: he was a recognized artist; and if anyone doubted his word, diere was a man living in North Oxford who would always be willing to give him a reference...

On the mantelpiece in his bedroom, die little ormolu clock ticked on, keeping excellent time.

In die immediate aftermath of Mrs Storrs' arrest, Sergeant Lewis found himself extremely busy, happily i/c die team of companionable DCs assigned to him. So many enquiries remained to be made; so many statements to be taken down and duly typed; so many places to be visited and revisited: Soho, Bloxham Drive, the newspaper offices, die Harvey Clinic, Polstead Road, Lonsdale College, Woodpecker Way, The Randolph, die

Royal Crescent Hotel ... He had met Morse for lunch on the Wednesday and had listened patiently as a rather self-congratulatory Chief Inspector remembered a few of the more crucial moments in the case: when, for example, he had associated that photograph of the young Soho stripper with that of the don's wife at Lonsdale; when the elegantly leggy Banbury Road receptionist had so easily slipped alongside that same don's wife in a chorus line at the Windmill. That lunchtime, however, Lewis's own crucial contributions to such dramatic developments were never even mentioned, let alone singled out for special praise.

Late on Thursday evening, Morse was walking home from the Cotswold House after a generous measure of Irish whiskey (with an 'e', as the proprietor ever insisted) when a car slowed down beside him, the front passenger window electronically lowered.

'Can I give you a lift anywhere?'

'Hello! No, thank you. I only live ...' Morse gestured vaguely up towards the A4O roundabout.

'Everything OK with you?'

'Will be - if you'd like to come along and inspect my penthouse suite.'

'I thought you said it was a flat'

Though clearly surprised to find Morse in his office over the Friday lunch-period, Strange refrained from his usual raillery.

'Can you nip in to see me a bit later this afternoon about these retirement forms?'

'Let's do it now, sir.'

'What's the rush?'

'I'm off this afternoon.'

'Official, is that?'

Yes, sir.'

Strange eyed Morse shrewdly. 'Why are you looking so bloody cheerful?'

'Well, another case solved ... ?'

'Mm. Where's Lewis, by the way?'

'There's still an awful lot of work to do.'

'Why aren't you helping him then?'

'Like I say, sir, I'm off for the weekend.'

You're lucky, matey. The wife's booked me for the lawn-mower.'

'I've just got the window-box myself.'

'Anything in it?"

Morse shook his head, perhaps a little sadly.

You, er, going anywhere special?' asked Chief Superintendent Strange.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you (Philip Larkin, This Be the Verse')

FOR SEVERAL SECONDS after she opened her eyes, Janet McQueen had no idea whatsoever about where she was or what she'd been doing. Then, as she lay there in the green sheets, gradually it flooded back ...

'Ah! Can I perhaps begin to guess our destination?' she'd asked, as the car turned left at Junction 18 and headed south along the A46. 'B&B in Bath - is that what it's going to be?'

Tou'll see.'

As she had seen, for soon the Jaguar turned into the Circus, into Brock Street, and finally straight across a cobbled road, where it stopped beside a large magnolia tree. She looked at the hotel, and her green eyes

widened as she brought her ringless, manicured fingers together in a semblance of prayer.

'Beautiful!'

Morse had turned towards her then, as she sat beside him in her navy pin-striped suit; sat beside him in her V-necked emerald-silk blouse.

You're beautiful, too, Janet,' he said simply, and quietly.

'You've booked rooms for us here?

Morse nodded. 'Bit over the top, I know - but, yes, I've booked the Sarah Siddons suite for myself.'

'What have you booked for me?'

"That's also called the Sarah Siddons suite.'

She was smiling contentedly as the Concierge opened the passenger-seat door.

'Welcome to the Royal Crescent Hotel, madam!'

She'd felt important then.

And she'd loved it

Morse was already up - dressed, washed, shaved - and sitting only a few feet from her, reading The Times.

'Hello!' she said, softly.

He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the mouth. 'Headache?'

'Bit of one!'

"You know your trouble? You drink too much champagne.'

She smiled (she would always be smiling that weekend) as she recalled the happiness of their night together. And throwing back the duvet, she got out of

bed and stood beside him for several seconds, her cheek resting on the top of his head.

'Shan't be long. Must have a shower.'

'No rush.'

'Why don't you see if you can finish the crossword before I'm dressed? Let's make it a race!'

But Morse said nothing - for he had already finished the crossword, and was thinking of the Philip Larkin line that for so many years had been a kind of mantra for him:

Waiting for breakfast while she brushed her hair.

It was late morning, as they were walking arm-in-arm down to the city centre, following the signs to the Roman Baths, that she asked him the question:

'Shall I just keep calling you "Morse"?'.

'I'd prefer that, yes.'

'Whatever you say, sir!'

"You sound like Lewis. He always calls me "sir".'

'What do you call him?'

'"Lewis".'

'Does he know your Christian name?'

'No.'

'How come you got lumbered with it?'

Morse was silent awhile before answering:

'They both had to leave school early, my parents - and they never had much of a chance in life themselves. That's partly the reason, I suppose. They used to keep

on to me all the time about trying as hard as I could in life. They wanted me to do that They expected me to do that. Sort of emotional blackmail, really - when you come to think of it'

'Did you love them?"

Morse nodded. 'Especially my father. He drank and gambled far too much ... but I loved him, yes. He knew nothing really - except two things: he could recite all of Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome by heart; and he'd read everything ever written about his greatest hero in life, Captain Cook - "Captain James Cook, 1728 to 1779", as he always used to call him.'

'And your mother?'

'She was a gentle soul. She was a Quaker.'

'It all adds up then, really?' said Janet slowly.

'I suppose so,' said Morse.

'Do you want to go straight to the Roman Baths?'

'What are you thinking of?'

'Would you like a pint of beer first?'

'I'm a diabetic, you know.'

'I'll give you your injection,' she promised. 'But only if you do me one big favour... I shan't be a minute.'

Morse watched her as she disappeared into a souvenir shop alongside; watched die shapely straight legs above the high-heeled shoes, and the dark, wavy hair piled high at the back of her head. He thought he could grant her almost any favour that was asked of him.

She produced the postcard as Morse returned from the bar.

'What's that for?'he asked.

'Who's that for, you mean. That's for Sergeant Lewis ... He means a lot to you, doesn't he?'

'What? Lewis? Nonsense!'

'He means a lot to you, doesn't he?' she repeated.

Morse averted his eyes from her penetrating, knowing gaze; looked down at the frothy head on his beer; and nodded.

'Christ knows why!'

'I want you to send him this card.'

'What for? We're back at work together on Monday!'

'I want you to send him this card,' she repeated. 'You can send it to his home address. You see, I think he deserves to know your Christian name. Don't you?'

ENVOI

Monday, 18 March

This list is not for every Tom, Dick, and Harry. It's been compiled by Everett Williams, director of the Florida Bureau of Vital Statistics, and on it are the 150 most unusual names he's encountered in 34 years with the bureau. Examples are: Tootsie Roll, Curlee Bush, Emancipation Proclamation Cogshell, Candy Box, Starlight Cauliflower Shaw, and Determination Davenport. But he never encountered a fourth quadruplet called Mo! Williams figures that some parents have a sense of humor - or else a grudge against their offspring

(Gainesville Gazette, 16 February 1971)

ON THE FOLLOWING Monday evening, Mrs Lewis handed the card to her husband:

"This is for you - from Inspector Morse.'

"You mean, you've read it?'

'Course I'ave, boy!'

Smelling the chips, Lewis made no protestation as he looked at the front of the card: an aerial view of Bath, showing the Royal Crescent and the Circus. Then, turning over the card, he read Morse's small, neat handwriting on the back. What he read moved him

deeply; and when Mrs Lewis shouted through from the kitchen that the eggs were ready, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and pretended he was wiping his nose. The card read as follows:

For philistines like you, Lewis, as well as for classical scholars like me, this city with its baths, and temples must rank as one of the finest in Europe. You ought to bring the missus here some time.

Did I ever get the chance to thank you for the few(!) contributions you made to our last case together? If I didn't, let me thank you now - let me thank you for everything, my dear old friend. Yours aye,

Endeavour (Morse)