by Colin Dexter
Morse’s eyes were suddenly shining; and taking the torn letter from a drawer in his desk, he concentrated his brain upon it once more, his perusal punctuated by ‘Yes!’, ‘Of course!’, and finally ‘My son, you’re a genius!’; whilst Lewis himself sank back in his chair and dropped back a further furlong in the case
‘Very illuminating,’ said Morse. ‘You say that not even the chairman would know the final results until a few hours before the lists are put up?’
Lewis nodded: ‘That’s right.’
‘But doesn’t that cock up just about everything?’
‘Unless, sir,’ Lewis now felt happy with himself, ‘she was way out at the top of the list- the star of the whole show, sort of thing.’
‘Mm. We could ring up the chairman?’
‘Which I have done, sir.’
It was Morse himself who was happy now. The penicillin was working its wonders, and he felt strangely content. ‘And she was the top of the list, of course?’
Lewis, too, knew that life was sometimes very good. ‘She was, sir. And if you want my opinion-’
‘Of course, I do!’
‘ – if this girl’s uncle or whatever turns out to own a sex-club in Soho, we’ve probably found the key to the case, and the sooner we get up there the better.’
‘You’ve got a good point there, Lewis. On the other hand it’s vital for one of us to stay here.’
‘Vital for me, I suppose?’
But Morse ignored the sarcasm, and adumbrated for the next half-hour to his sergeant a few of the stranger thoughts that had criss-crossed his brain throughout the day.
It was getting late now; and, when Lewis left, Morse was free once more to indulge his own thoughts. At one time his mind would leap like a nimble-footed Himalayan goat; at another, it would stick for minutes on end like a leaden-footed, diver in a sandbank. It was time to call it a day, that was obvious.
He was not quite finished, however, and before he left his office he did two things.
First, he amended his reconstruction of the fifth line of the tornm letter so that it now read:
both you and me. My ward, Jane Summers of Lonsdale
Second, he took a sheet of paper and wrote the following short piece (reproduced below as it appeared in the Oxford Mail the following day):
CLUE TO MURDER
Customers of Marks and Spencers in the Oxford area are being asked to join in the hunt for the murderer of a 60-year-old man found in the canal at Thrupp. The bloodstained socks on the body (not yet identified) have been traced as one of just 2,500 pairs distributed around a handful of M & S stores in the Oxford region. The socks were of navy-blue cotton, with two light blue rings round the tops. Anyone who might have any information is asked to ring Kidlington 4343.
Only after dictating this absurd news-item (comma included) did Morse finally leave his office that day to return to his bachelor flat. There he played through the first act of Die Walkure and began to make significant inroads into the bottle just purchased from Augustus Barnett. When, at midnight, he looked around for his pyjamas, he couldn’t quite remember why he had bothered the newspaper editor; yet he knew that when a man was utterly at a loss about what he should do, it was imperative that he should do something- like the motorist stuck in a snowdrift who decided to activate his blinkers alternately.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Friday, 25th July
Discussion of identity, and of death, leads the two detectives gradually nearer to the truth,
Lewis came in early the next morning (although not so early as Morse), and immediately got down to reading the medical report from the lab.
‘Gruesome all this, isn’t it, sir?’
‘Not read it,’ replied Morse.
‘You know, chopping a chap’s head off.’
‘It’s one way of killing someone. After all, the experiment has been tried on innumerable occasions and found to be invariably fatal.’
‘But the head was cut off after he was dead-says so here.’
‘I don’t give two monkeys how he was killed. It’s the why that we’ve got to sort out. Why did someone chop his head off-just tell me that, for a start.’
‘Because we’d have identified him, surely. His teeth would have been there and-’
‘Come off it! Helluva job that’d be, hawking some dental chart round a few million dentists-’
‘Thousands, you mean.’
‘ – and perhaps he didn’t have any teeth, like sometimes I wish I hadn’t.’
‘It says here that this chap might have been killed somewhere else and taken out to the canal later.’
‘So?’
‘What do people usually get carried around in?’ asked Lewis.
‘Cars?’ (Morse hardly enjoyed being catechized himself.)
‘Exactly! So if the body was too big to get into the boot of the car____________________’
‘You cut him down to size.’
‘That’s it. It’s like one of those ghost things, sir. You sort of tuck the head underneath the arm.”
‘Where’s the head now, then?’
‘Somewhere in the canal.’
‘The frogmen haven’t found it.’
‘Heads are pretty heavy, though. It’s probably stuck way down in the mud.’
‘What about the hands, Lewis? You reckon we’re going to find them neatly folded next to the head? Or is some poor little beggar going to find them in his fishing-net?’
‘You don’t seem to think we’re going to find them, sir.’
Morse was showing signs of semi-exasperation. ‘You’re missing the bloody point, Lewis! I’m not asking where they are. I’m asking why someone chopped them off.’
‘Same as before. Must be because someone could have identified them. He may have had a tattoo on the back of his wrist or something.’
Morse sat quite still. He knew even then that Lewis had made a point of quite extraordinary significance, and his mind, like some downhill skier, had suddenly leaped into the air across a ridge and landed neatly upon a track of virgin snow…
Lewis’s voice seemed to reach his ears as if through a wadge of tightly packed cotton wool. ‘And what about the legs, sir. Why do you think they were chopped off?’
‘You mean you know?’ Morse heard himself saying.
‘Hardly that, sir. But it’s child’s play these days’ for the forensic boys to find a hundred-and-one things on clothes, isn’t it? Hairs and threads and all that sort of thing-’
‘Even if it’s been in water for a few days?’
‘Well, it might be more difficult then, I agree. But all I’m saying is that if we knew whose the body was-’
‘We do, Lewis. You can be sure of that- surer than ever. It’s Browne-Smith’s.’
‘All right. If it’s Browne-Smith’s body, then we shan’t have much trouble in finding out if it’s Browne-Smith’s suit, shall we?’
Morse was frowning in genuine puzzlement. ‘You’re losing me, Lewis.’
‘All I’m trying to say, sir, is that if someone carefully chopped off this fellow’s head and his hands to stop us finding out who he was-’
‘Yes?’
‘ – well, I don’t reckon he would have left the fellow dressed in his own suit.’
‘So someone dressed the corpse in someone else’s suit, is that it?’
‘Yes. You see, a lot of people could wear each other’s jackets. I mean, I could wear yours-you’re a bit fatter than I am round the middle, but it’d fit in a way. And with a jacket in the water a few days, it’d probably shrink a bit anyway, so no one’s going to notice too much. But-’ and here Lewis paused dramatically ‘-if people start wearing each other’s trousers, sir-well, you could find a few problems, couldn’t you? They might be too long, or too short; and it wouldn’t be difficult for anyone to see almost immediately that the suit was someone else’s. Do you see what I mean? I think the dead man must have been several inches shorter, or several inches taller, than the fellow whose su
it he was dressed in! And that’s why the legs were chopped off. So as I see it, sir, if we can find out whose suit it is, we shall know one thing for certain: the owner of the suit isn’t the corpse-he’s probably the murderer!’
Morse sat where he was, looking duly impressed and appreciative. As a result of his visit to the dentist he had himself arrived at a very similar conclusion (although by a completely different route), but he felt it proper to congratulate his sergeant.
‘You know, they say your eyes begin to deteriorate about the age of seven or eight, and that your brain follows suit about twenty years later. But your brain, Lewis. It sharper every day.’
Lewis leaned back happily. ‘Must be working with you. Sir’
But Morse appeared not to hear him, staring out (as Lewis had so often seen him) across the concreted yard that lay outside bis window. And thus he stared for many, many minutes; and Lewis had almost read the medical report through a second time before Morse spoke again.
‘It’s very sad about life, really, you know. There’s only one thing certain about it, and that’s death. We all die, sooner or later. Even old Max, with all his laudable caution, would probably accept that. “The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power…”.’
‘Pardon, sir?’
‘We shall all die, Lewis – even you and me – just like that poor fellow we fished out of the pond. There are no exceptions.’
‘Wasn’t there just the one?’ asked Lewis, quietly.
‘You believe that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mm.’
‘Why do you mention all this, sir-you know, about dying and so on?’
‘I was just thinking about Browne-Smith, that’s all. I was just thinking that a man we all thought was dead is probably alive again-that’s all.’
That’s all. For a little while Lewis had almost convinced himself that he might be a move or two ahead of Morse, Yet now, as he shook his head in customary bewilderment, he knew that Morse’s mind was half a dozen moves ahead of all the world So he sat where he was, like a disciple in the Scriptures at the feet of the Master, wondering why he ever bothered to think about anything himself at all.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Friday, 25th July
Morse decides to enjoy the hospitality of yet another member of Lonsdale’s top brass, whilst Lewis devotes himself to the donkey work.
It was high time something was done, Morse knew that. There was the dead man’s suit to start with, for surely Lewis had been right in maintaining that the minutest detritus of living would still be lingering somewhere in the most improbable crannies of pockets and sleeves. Then there was the mysterious man Gilbert, who had been given free (and official) access to the room in which the two letters had probably been typed: Gilbert the furniture-man, who might at that very minute be shifting the last of the crates and the crockery… Yes, it was high time the pair of them actually did something. Necesse erat digitos extrahere.
Morse was (as almost always when in a car) a morose and uncommunicative passenger as Lewis drove down to Lonsdale via St Giles’ and the Cornmarket, then left at Carfax and into the High. At the Lodge, it was the same young porter on duty. But this tune he refused to hand over the keys to any room before consulting higher authority; and Morse was still trying to get through to the Bursar when a man walked into the Lodge whom he had seen several times when he had dined at Lonsdale. It was the Vice-Master.
Ten minutes later, Lewis, with two keys in his hand, was climbing up the steps of Staircase T, whilst Morse was seating himself comfortably in a deep armchair in the Vice-Master’s suite, and agreeing that although it was rather early in the day a glass of something might not be totally unwelcome.
‘So you see, Inspector’ (it was several minutes later) ‘it’s not a very happy story at all-not an unusual one, though. That pair could never have got on together, whatever happened; but there were no signs of open animosity-not, as I say, until five years ago.’
‘Since when they’ve never even spoken to each other?’
‘That’s it.’
‘And the reason for all this?’
‘Oh, there’s no great secret about that. I should think almost everyone in the college knows, apart from one or two of the younger fellows.’
‘Tell me about it.’
It appeared that only two crucial ordinances had been decreed for election to the Mastership of Lonsdale College: first, that any nominand must be a layman; second, that such a person must be elected by the eight senior fellows of the college, with a minimum of six votes needed in favour, and with the election declared invalid if even a single vote was cast against. It had been common knowledge five years ago, in spite of the so-called “secret” nature of the ballot, that when Dr Browne-Smith had been proposed and seconded, one solitary vote had thwarted his election hopes; equally common knowledge was the fact that when Mr Westerby’s name, in turn, had been put forward, one single slip of paper was firmly printed with a ‘No’. The third choice-the compromise candidate-had also been one of the college’s senior fellows, and it had been a relief for everyone when the present Master had been voted into office, nem. Con.
‘Head of House!’ said Morse slowly. ‘Great honour, isn’t it?’ (He was suddenly conscious that he had repeated verbatim the question he had asked of Andrews.)
‘Some people would give a lot for it, yes.’
‘Would you?
The Vice-Master smiled. ‘No! You can leave me out of the running, inspector. You see, I’m in holy orders, and so, as I said, I’m just not eligible.’
‘I see,’ said Morse. ‘Now just getting back to Dr Browne-Smith for a minute. I’d be grateful, sir, if you could tell me something about his, well, his personal Life.’
‘Such as?’ The Vice-Master’s eyes were upon him, and Morse found himself wondering how much, or how little, he could ever expect to know of the complex web of relationships within this tight community of Lonsdale.
‘What about his health, for example?’
Again the shrewd look, as if the question had been fully expected.’He was a very sick man, Inspector.But you knew that yesterday, didn’t you? By the way, Andrews said you looked just a little surprised when he told you.’
‘How long had,you known?’ countered Morse.
‘Three weeks, I suppose. The Master called Andrews and me up to his room one evening after Hall. Strictly confidential, he said, and all that-but we had to know, of course, because of Browne-Smith’s teaching commitments.’
‘When did the Master think…?’
‘Certainly no longer than the end of the Hilary Term.’
‘Mm.’
‘And you’re wondering whether his teaching days might not be over already. Am I right?’
‘How much did Andrews tell you?’ asked Morse.
‘Everything. You didn’t mind, I hope?’
Morse felt oddly uncomfortable with the man, and after asking a few more vague questions about Browne-Smith’s lifestyle, he got up to go. ‘You getting some holiday soon, sir?”
‘Once the Master gets back. We usually alternate so that one of us is here for most of the vac. I know that some people haven’t much time for all us lazy academic layabouts, but there’s a lot to do in a college apart from looking after students. But you’d know that, of course.’
Morse nodded, and knew that he could very soon learn to dislike this unclerically garbed parson intensely.
‘We shall co-operate as much as we can,’ continued the Vice-Master. ‘You know that. But it would be nice to be kept in the picture – just a little, perhaps?’
‘Nothing really to tell you, sir-not yet, anyway.’
‘You don’t even want to tell me why your sergeant took the key to Westerby’s room as well?’
‘Ah, that! Yes, I ought to have mentioned that, sir. You see, there’s just a possibility that the corpse we found up in the canal wasn’t Browne-Smith’s after all.’
‘Really?’
But Morse declined to
elaborate further as he made his farewell and strode away across the quad, sensing those highly intelligent eyes upon him as he turned into the Porters’ Lodge. From there he progressed, only some hundred yards, into the bar of the Mitre, where he had agreed to meet Lewis. He would be half an hour early, he realized that; but a thirty-minute wait in a pub was no great trial of patience to Morse.
Once inside Browne-Smith’s room, Lewis had taken out of its plastic wrapper the dark-blue jacket found on the corpse and measured it carefully against the jackets in the bedroom wardrobe: it was the same length, the same measurement round the chest, of the same sartorial style, with a single slit at the back and slim lapels. There could be little doubt about it: the jacket bad belonged to Browne-Smith. After rehanging the suits, Lewis methodically looked through the rest of the clothes, but learned only that each of the five pairs of shoes was size nine, and that four brand-new pairs of socks were all of navy-blue cotton with two light blue rings round the tops.
Westerby’s rooms opposite were silent and empty now, only the faded brown fitted carpet remaining, with oblong patches of pristine colour marking the erstwhile positions of the heavier furniture. Nothing else at all, except a plastic spoon and an jar of Nescafe on the draining-board in the kitchen.
Lewis’s highly discreet inquiries in the college office produced (amongst other things) the information that Browne-Smith certainly wore a suit very similar to the one he now unwrapped once more; and the college secretary herself (whom even Lewis considered very beautiful) was firmest of all in such sad corroboration.
The young porter was still on duty when Lewis handed back the two keys, and was soon chatting freely enough when Lewis asked about “Gilbert Removals”. As far as the porter could remember, Mr Gilbert himself had been down to T Staircase about four or five times; but he’d finished now, for Mr Westerby had at last been ‘shifted’.
‘Funny you should ask about Mr Gilbert, sergeant. He’s like your chief- both of ‘em got the jaw-ache by the look of things.’