by Colin Dexter
When the man had fastened up her buttons, she had felt belittled and cheap-on the wrong side of the habitual transaction. But she also felt deeply interested.
‘Yes, it’s safe,’ she said, finally answering his question.
‘No microphones? No two-way mirrors?’
She shook her head. ‘About my father-’
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
She looked at him: a man over sixty, perhaps; fairly well-preserved by the look of him; head balding, teeth nicotined, jowls blue, chin somewhat sagging, but the mouth still firm and not without some sensitivity. No, she couldn’t remember him.
‘I called at your house once, but that was a long time ago. You were, I don’t know, fifteen or sixteen-still at school, anyway, because your mother asked you to go and do your homework in the kitchen. It was the year after the war was over, and I’d known your father – we were in the same mob together. In fact, I was with him when he died.’
‘What do you want?’ she asked abruptly.
‘I want you to do something for me – something you’ll be paid for doing-paid very well.’
‘What-?’
But he held up his hand. ‘Not now! You’re living at 23A Colebourne Road-is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to come and see you, if I may.’
He had come the next evening, and talked whilst she listened. And, when she’d expressed her willingness to do what he asked, a deal was done, a partial payment made. And now, this very day, she had acted the role that he had asked of her, and the final payment had been made. A lot of easy money for a little easy work, and yet…
Yes, it was that little ‘and yet’ that caused her mind to fill with nagging doubts as she sat and sipped her China tea. She knew enough, of course-she’d insisted on that. But perhaps she should have insisted on knowing more, especially about the sequel to her own performance in the drama. They couldn’t -they wouldn’t, surely-have… killed him?
Her lips felt dry, and she reached for her handbag, opened the flap, and delved around for a few seconds before unscrewing a circular container-for the second time that day.
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday, 16th July
In which the Master ofLonsdale is somewhat indiscreet to a police inspector, and discusses his concern for one of his colleagues, and for the niceties of English grammar.
On the fifth morning after the events described in the preceding chapter, Detective Chief Inspector Morse, of the Thames Valley Constabulary, was seated in his office at Kidlington, Oxon. One half of him was semi-satisfied with the vagaries of his present existence; the other half was semi-depressed. Earlier that very morning he had sworn himself a solemn vow that the day ahead would be quite different. His recent consumption of food, tobacco, and alcohol had varied only within the higher degrees of addictive excess; and now, at the age of fifty-two, he had once again decided that a few days of virtually total abstinence was urgently demanded by stomach, lungs, and liver alike. He had arrived at his office, therefore, unbreakfasted, having already thrown away a half-full packet of cigarettes, and having left his half-empty wallet on the bedside-table. Get thou behind me, Satan! And, indeed, things had gone surprisingly well until about 11.30 a.m., when the Master of Lonsdale had rung through to HQ and invited Morse down to lunch with him.
‘Half-past twelve-in my rooms-all right? We can have a couple of snifters first.’
‘I’d like that,’ Morse heard himself saying.
As he walked towards the Master’s rooms in the first quad, Morse passed two young female students chattering to each other like a pair of monkeys.
‘But surely Rosemary’s expecting a first, isn’t she? If she doesn’t get one-’
‘No. She told me that she’d made a terrible mess of the General Paper.’
‘So did I.’
‘And me!’
‘She’ll be awfully disappointed, though…’
Yes, life was full of disappointments, Morse knew that better than most; and, as he half-turned, he watched the two young, lovely ladies as they walked out through the Porter’s Lodge. They must be members of the college- two outward and happily visible signs of the fundamental change of heart that had resulted in the admission of women to these erstwhile wholly. masculine precincts. Now when he himself had been up at St John’s…But, abruptly, he switched off the memories of those dark, disastrous days.
‘What’ll it be, Morse? No beer, I’m afraid but-gin and tonic-gin and French?’
‘Gin and French-lovely!’ Morse reached over and took a cigarette from the well-stocked open box on the table.
The Master beamed in avuncular fashion as he poured his mixtures with a practised hand. He had changed little in the ten years or so that Morse had known him: going to fat a little, but as distinguished-looking a man now, in his late fifties, as he had been in his late forties; a tall man, with that luxuriant grey hair still framing the large head; the suits (famed throughout the University) as flamboyant as ever they were, and today eye-catchingly complemented by a waistcoat of green velvet. A successful man, and a proud man. A Head of a House.
‘You’ve got women here now, I see,’ said Morse.
‘Yes, old boy. We were almost the last to give in-but, well, it’s been a good thing on the whole. Very good, some of them.’
‘Good-looking, you mean?’
The Master smiled. ‘A few.’
‘They sleep in?’
‘Some of them. Still, some of them always did, didn’t they?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Morse; and his mind drifted back to those distant days just after the war, when he had come up to Oxford with an exhibition in Classics from one of the Midland grammar schools.
‘Couple of firsts this year-among the girls, I mean. One in Greats, one in Geography. Not bad, eh? In fact the Classics girl, Jane-’ Suddenly the Master stopped and leaned forward earnestly, awkwardly twiddling the large, onyx dress-ring on the little finger of his left hand. ‘Look Morse! I shouldn’t have said-what I just said. The class-lists won’t be out for another week or ten days-’
Morse waved his right hand across the space between them, as though any mental recollection of the indiscretion had already been expunged. ‘I didn’t hear a word you said, Master. I know what you were going to tell me, though.’
‘Oh?’
‘She’s got the top first in the University, and she’ll soon get a summons for a congratulatory viva. Right?’
The Master nodded. ‘Super girl-bit of a honey, too, Morse. You’d have liked her.’
‘Still would, I shouldn’t wonder.’
The Master’s eyes were twinkling with merriment now. How he enjoyed Morse’s company!
‘She’ll probably marry some lecherous sod,’ continued Morse, ‘and end up with half a dozen whining infants.’
‘You’re not exactly full of the joys of summer.’
‘Just envious. Still there are more important things in life than getting a first in Greats.’
‘Such as?’
Morse considered the question a few moments before shaking his head. ‘I dunno.’
‘I’ll tell you one thing. There’s not likely to be anything much more important for her. We shall probably offer her a junior fellowship here.’
‘You mean you’ve already offered her one.’
‘Please don’t forget, will you, that I-er-I shouldn’t have said anything about all this. I’m normally very discreet.’
‘Must be the drink,’ said Morse, looking down into his empty glass.
‘Same again? Mixture about right?’
‘Fraction more gin, perhaps?’ Morse reached for another cigarette as the Master refilled the glasses. ‘I suppose she could take her pick of all the undergrads?’
‘And the dons!’
‘You never married, did you, Master.’
‘Nor did you.’
For some minutes the two of them sat silently sipping. Then Morse asked: ‘Has she got a
mother?’
‘Jane Summers, you mean?’
‘You didn’t mention her surname before.’
‘Odd question! I don’t know. I expect so. She’s only, what, twenty-two, twenty-three. Why do you ask?’
But Morse was hardly listening. In the quad outside it had been comparatively easy to pull the curtain across the painful memories. But now? Not so! His eyes seemed on the point of shedding a gin-soaked tear as he thought again of his own sad days at Oxford…
‘You listening?’
‘Pardon?’ said Morse.
‘You don’t seem to be paying much attention to what I’m saying.’
‘Sorry! Must be the booze.’ His glass was empty again and the Master needed no prompting.
‘Will you keep a gentle eye on things for me, then? You see, I’m probably off myself this weekend for a few days.’
‘Few weeks, do you mean?’
‘I’m not sure yet. But if you could just, as I say, keep an eye on things – you’d put my mind at rest.’
‘Keep an eye on what’
‘Well, it’s just-so unlike Browne-Smith, that’s all. He’s the most pedantic and pernickity fellow in the University. It’s-it’s odd. No arrangements, none. Just this note left at the lodge. No apology for absence from the college meeting; nothing to the couple of students he’d arranged to see.’
‘You’ve got the note?’
The Master took a folded sheet from his dove-grey jacket and handed it over:
Please keep any mail for me here. I shall be away for several days. Sudden irresistable offer-quite out of the blue. Tell my scout to look after my effects,,i.e. to keep the rooms well dusted, put the laundry through and cancel all meals until further notice.
B-S
Morse felt a tingle in his veins as he read through the brief, typewritten message. But he said nothing.
‘You see,’ said the Master, ‘I just don’t think he wrote that.’
‘No?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘When did the Lodge get this?’
‘Monday morning-two days ago.’
‘And when was he last seen here?’
‘Last Friday. In the morning, it was. He left college at about quarter-past eight, to catch the London train. One of the fellows here saw him on the station.’
‘Did this note come through the post?’
‘No. The porter says it was just left there.’
‘Why are you so sure he didn’t write it?’
‘He just couldn’t have written it. Look, Morse, I’ve known him for twenty-odd years, and there was never a man, apart from Housman, who was so contemptuous about any solecism in English usage. He was almost paranoiac about things like that. You see, he always used to draft the minutes of the college meetings, and even a comma out of place in the final version would bring down the wrath of the gods on the college secretary. He even used to type a draft before he’d put a bloody notice on the board!’
Morse looked at the letter again. ‘You mean he’d have put commas after “sudden”-and “through”?’
‘By Jove, yes! He’d always use commas there. But there’s something else. Browne-Smith was the only man in England, I should think, who invariably argued for a comma after “i.e.”.’
‘Mm.’
‘You don’t sound very impressed.’
‘Ah! But I am. I think you may be right.’
‘Really?’
‘You think he’s got a bird somewhere?’
‘He’s never had a “bird”, as you put it.’
‘Is Jane Summers still in residence?’
The Master laughed aloud with genuine amusement. ‘I saw her this morning, Morse, if you must know.’
‘Did you tell her she’d got a first?’ A smile was playing slowly around Morse’s mouth, and the” Master’s shrewd eyes were again upon him.
‘Not much point pretending with you, is there? But no! No, I didn’t tell her that. But I did tell her that perhaps she had every reason to be-er, let’s say, optimistic about her-ah, future. Anyway, it’s time we went down for lunch. You ready to eat?’
‘Can I keep this?’ Morse held up the single sheet, and the Master nodded.
‘Seriously, I’m just a fraction worried. And you just said, didn’t you, that I might be right?’
‘You are right. At least, you’re almost certainly right in suggesting that he didn’t type it. He could have dictated it, of course.’
‘Why are you so sure?’
‘Well,’ said Morse, as the Master locked the door behind them, ‘he was a literary pedant for a good many years before you met him. He was one of my “Mods” tutors, you see; and even then he’d bark away at the most trivial sort of spelling mistake as if it were the sin against the Holy Ghost. At the time, of course, it didn't seem to matter two farts in the universe; but in an odd sort of way I came to respect his views- and I still do. I'd never let a spelling mistake go through my secretary-not if I could help it.'
‘Never?’
‘Never!’ said Morse, his grey-blue eyes sober and serious as the two men lingered on the landing outside the Master's rooms. ‘And you can be absolutely sure of one thing, Master. Browne-Smith would have died sooner than misspelt “irresistible”.'
‘You don't think-you don't think he is dead?’
‘Course he's not!’ said Morse, as the two old friends walked down the stairs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Week beginning Wednesday, 16th July
In which those readers impatiently waiting to encounter the first corpse will not be disappointed, and in which interesting light is thrown on the character of the detective, Morse.
It had been 2.30 p.m. when Morse finally left Lonsdale; and after stocking himself up from a tobacconist's shop just along the High, he was back in his Kidlington office just before three o'clock, where nothing much appeared to have happened during his absence.
On leaving Lonsdale, he had promised the Master to ‘keep an eye on things’ (a quite meaningless phrase, as Morse saw it) should any aspect of Browne-Smith's sudden departure take on a slightly more sinister connotation.
To an observer, Morse's eyes would have appeared slightly ‘set’, as Shakespeare has it, and his mood was mellowly maudlin. And as he sat there, his freely-winged imagination glided easily back to the fateful days of his time at Oxford…
After eighteen months as a National Serviceman in the Royal Signals Regiment, Morse had come up to St John's College, where his first two years were the happiest and most purposeful of his life. He had worked hard at his texts, attended lectures regularly, been prompt with unseens and compositions; and it had been no surprise to his tutors when such an informed and intelligent young man had duly gained a first in Classical Moderations. With two years ahead of him- two years in which to study for Greats-the future seemed to loom as sure as the sun-bright day that would follow the rosy-fingered dawn -particularly so, since the slant of Morse’s mind was ideally suited to the work ahead of him in History, Logic, and Philosophy. But in the middle of his third year he had met the girl who matched the joy of all his wildest dreams.
She was already a graduate of Leicester University, whence a series of glowing testimonials had proved sufficiently impressive for her application to take a D.Phil. at Oxford to be accepted by St Hilda’s. For her first term, she had been alloted digs way out in the distances of Cowley Road. But amidst the horsehair sofas and the sombre, dark-brown furnishings, she had been unhappy and had jumped at the opportunity of a smaller flat in Number 22 St John Street (just off St Giles’) at the start of the Hilary Term. It was so much brighter, so much nearer the heart of things, and only a short walk from the Bodleian Library, where she spent so much of her time. She felt happy in her new room. Life was good.
At this same time it was customary for the Dean of St John’s to farm out most of his third-year undergraduates to some of the nearby College property and, from the start of the Michaelmas term, Morse had moved into St John’s Roa
d: Number 24.
They first met one night in late February, during the interval of the OUDS’ production of Doctor Faustus at the New Theatre, only some fifty yards or so away, in Beaumont Street. Morse had finally managed to order a pint of beer at the crowded bar when he felt a lightly laid hand upon his shoulder -and turned round to find a pale face, the blonde hair high upswept, the hazel eyes looking into his with an air of pleading diffidence.
‘Have you just ordered?’
‘Yes-I’ll soon be out of your way.’
‘You wouldn’t mind, would you, ordering a drink for me as well?’
‘Pleasure!’
Two gins and tonics, please.’ She pushed a pound note into his hand-and was gone.
She was seated in a far corner of the bar, next to a dark-haired dowdy-looking young woman; and Morse, after negotiating his way slowly through the throng, carefully placed the drinks on the table.
‘You didn’t mind, did you?’
It was the blonde who had spoken, looking up at him with widely innocent eyes; and Morse found himself looking at her keenly – noting her small and thinly nostrilled nose, noting the tiny dimples in her cheeks, and the lips that parted (almost mischievously now) over the rather large but geometrically regular teeth.