by Colin Dexter
She’d known Bert Gilbert for only a few weeks. He’d come into the sauna one morning-very much in control of himself-and asked her if she’d be willing to entertain a very special client of his; yes, at the address Morse had mentioned; and, yes, with a sequel much as he’d described it. After that Gilbert had obviously taken a liking to her, spent a fair amount of money on her, and wanted to keep seeing her. Had kept seeing her. But he’d got jealous and morose, and was soon telling her that he wanted her to pack up her job and go to live with him. For her part, the whole thing had been the old familiar story of an ageing man behaving like an infatuated schoolboy-and she’d told him so.
That was all.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Morse.
Her eyes were looking down at the thickly-piled carpet: “Winifred- Winifred Stewart. Not much of a name, is it? Some people are christened with horrid names.’
‘Mm.’
She looked up. ‘What’s your name?’
‘They call me Morse: Inspector Morse.’
‘But that’s your surname.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t want to tell me your Christian name?’
‘No.’
‘Like that, is it?’ (She was smiling.)
Morse nodded.
‘What about that drink? You’ve sobered up a bit, you know.’
But (quite amazingly) Morse had hardly heard her. ‘Do you – do you go with lots of men?’
‘Not lots, no. I’m a very expensive item.’
‘You earn a lot of money?’
‘More than you do.’ Her voice had grown harsh again, and Morse felt sad and dejected.
‘Do you get much pleasure from-er-’
‘From having sex with clients? Not much, no. Occasionally though-if you want me to be honest.’
‘I’m not sure I do,’ said Morse.
She stood up and poured herself a glass of dry Vermouth, without renewing her offer to the Chief Inspector. ‘You don’t know much about life, do you?’
‘Not much, no.’ He seemed to her to look so lost and tired now, and she guessed he must have had a busy day. But had she known it, his mind was working at a furious rate. There was something (he knew it!) that he’d been missing all the way along; something he doubted he would learn from this disturbingly attractive woman; something that she probably couldn’t tell him, anyway, even when she came (as he knew she would) to the second part of the tale she had to tell.
‘When did you last see Gilbert?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure-’
‘You say you saw him quite a few times after you entertained his special client?’
It was puzzling to Morse how the tone of her voice could vary so vastly (and so suddenly) between the gentle and jarring. It was the latter again now.
‘You mean did I go to bed with him?’
Morse nodded. And for the first time she was aware of the cold, almost merciless eyes that stared upon her, and she felt the sensation of a psychological and almost physical stripping as she answered him, her top lip quivering.
‘Yes!’
‘Was that after you’d met your second special client?’
Her startled eyes looked into his, and then down to the Wilton again. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘Please tell me all about that,’ said Morse quietly.
For a few moments she said nothing; then she picked up her glass and quickly drained it.
‘Before I do-would you like to come to bed with me?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’ She stood up and loosened her belt, allowing the sides of her bathrobe to fall apart before drawing them together again and retying the belt tightly around her waist.
‘Quite sure,’ lied Morse.
So Winifred Stewart (it was now past eight o’clock) told Morse about her second special client, a Mr Westerby, who also hailed from Oxford. And Morse listened very carefully, nodding at intervals and seemingly satisfied. But he wasn’t satisfied. It was all interesting-of course it was; but it merely corroborated what he’d already known, or guessed.
‘What about that drink?’ he asked.
Mrs Angela Price looked knowingly at her husband when she I finally heard the quiet voices on the doorstep. It was a quarter to midnight, and BBC 1 had already finished its transmission.
Lewis had finally gone to bed about ten minutes before Morse found a taxi on the Richmond Road. He’d hoped that Morse would have been back before now, and had tried repeatedly to get in touch with him, both at HQ and at his home. For he had received a remarkable piece of news that same afternoon from the young porter at Lonsdale, who had received a card by second post; a card from Greece; a card from Mr Westerby.
At 2a.m., Winifred Stewart was still lying awake. The night was sultry and she wore no nightdress as she lay upon her bed, covered by a lightweight sheet. She thought of Morse, and she felt inexpressibly glad that she had met him; longed, too, with one half of her mind, that he would come to visit her again. And yet knew, quite certainly, that if he did her soul would be completely bared and she would tell him all she knew. Two thirds of the tragic tale had now been told; and if ever he began to guess the final truth… Yet, with the other half of her mind she didn’t want him back – ever – for she was now a very frightened woman.
At 3 a.m. she went to the bathroom to take some Disprin tablets.
At 4 a.m. she was still awake, and suddenly she felt the night had grown so very cold.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Wednesday, 30th July
In which ‘The Religion of the Second Mile’ is fully explained, and Morse is peremptorily summoned to his superior.
As he sat back comfortably in a first-class compartment of the 10 a.m. “125” from Paddington, Morse felt the residual glow of a great elation. For now (as he knew) the veil of the temple had been rent in twain.
The previous night he had missed the last train to Oxford and only just managed to find, on the highest floor of a cheap hotel, a cramped and claustrophobic room in which the water-pipes had groaned and gurgled through the early hours. But it was in this selfsame mean and miserable room that Morse, as he lay on his back in the darkness with both hands behind his head, had finally seen the amazing light of truth. Half occupied with the lovely woman he had left so recently, half with the other problems that beset him still, his mind had steadfastly refused to rest. He sensed that he was almost there, and the facts of the case raced round and round his brain like an ever-accelerating whirligig. The old facts… and the new facts.
Not that he had learned much that was surprisingly new from Mrs Emily Gilbert. Nor, for that matter, from Miss Winifred Stewart-except for the confirmation that she had, indeed, agreed to entertain a second special guest from Oxford whose name was Mr Westerby. There had been a few other things, though. She’d told him, for example, that Emily had been simultaneously wooed by each of the Gilbert brothers; that, of the two, Alfred was considerably the more interesting and cultured-particularly because of his love of music; but that it was Albert who had won the prize with his livelier, albeit coarser, ways. The brothers were still very much alike (she’d told him)-extraordinarily so in appearance-but if they’d been holidaying together in Salzburg Alfred would have gone to a Mozart concert and Albert to The Sound of Music… Yes, that was something new; but it hardly seemed to Morse of much importance. Far more important was what she hadn’t told him, for he had sensed the deep unease within her when she’d told him of her time with Westerby: not the unease of a woman telling obvious untruths; the unease, rather, of a woman telling something less than all she knew…
It was at that very point in his whirling thoughts that Morse had jerked himself up in his bed, switched on the bedside lamp, and reached for the only object of comfort that the sombre room could offer him: the Gideon Bible that rested there beside the lamp. In two minutes his fumbling and excited fingers had found what he was seeking. There it was- St Matthew, Chapter Five, Verse Forty-One: ‘And whosoever shall compe
l thee to go a mile, go with him twain.’ He remembered vividly from his youth a sermon on that very text-from a wild, Welsh minister: The Religion of the Second Mile’. And it was with the forty watt bulb shedding its feeble light over the Gideon Bible that Morse smiled to himself in unspeakable joy, like one who has travelled on a longer journey still – that third and final mile…
At last he knew the truth.
‘In two minutes we shall be arriving at Oxford station,’ came the voice over the microphone. ‘Passengers for Banbury, Birmingham, Charlbury…’ Morse looked at his watch: 10:1 a.m. No need for any great rush now-no need for any rush at all. He walked from the station up to the bus-stop in Cornmarket; and at 11.30 was back at Police HQ in Kidlington, where a relieved-looking Lewis awaited him.
‘Good time, sir?’
‘Marvellous!’ said Morse, seating himself in the black leather chair and beaming benignly. ‘We expected you back yesterday.’
‘ “We”? Who’s that supposed to mean?’
‘The super was after your blood last night, sir-and this morning.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘I said you’d ring him as soon as you got in.’
Morse dialled Strange’s number immediately. Engaged. ‘How about you, Lewis? You have a good time?’
‘I don’t know, sir. There’s this.’
He handed over the postcard he had picked up the previous I evening from Lonsdale, and Morse looked down at a glossy photograph of ancient stones. He turned the card over, and read that such crumbling masonry was nothing less than the remains of the royal palace of Philip II of Macedon (382-336 BC). Then he saw the large Hellas stamp, featuring sea shells set against a blue-green background; then the message, neatly penned and very brief: ‘Wonderful weather. Any mail to Cambridge Way. Staying on a further week. Regards to the Master-and to your good selves. G.W.’
‘Lovely place, Greece, Lewis.’
‘I wouldn’t know, I’m afraid.’
‘Perhaps Westerby doesn’t know either,’ said Morse slowly
‘Pardon, sir?’
‘You’d better keep it, of course-but he’s not in Greece. It’s; forgery-you can see that, surely!’
‘But-’
‘Look, Lewis! Look at that franking.’ Lewis looked closely but saw little more than a blackened circle, with whatever lettering there may have been so smudged that it was quite illegible. He could, though, just about decipher one or two of the letters: there was an “O” (certainly) and: “N” (possibly) near the beginning of one word, and the next word probably ended in an “E”. But he could make nothing of it, and looked up to find that Morse was smiling still.
‘I shouldn’t take too much notice of it, Lewis. It’s not too difficult to get hold of a Greek postage-stamp, is it? And then if you get a date-stamp and push it vaguely one way instead of banging it straight down you’ll get the same sort of blur as that. You see, someone just brought the card into the Lodge and left it handily upon a pile of mail. It’s all a fake! And, if you like, I’ll tell you where the date-stamp comes from: it comes from Lonsdale College.’
The phone rang before Lewis could make any answer, and a harsh voice barked across the line: ‘That you, Morse? Get over here-and get over here quick!’
‘I think you’re in the dog-house,’ said Lewis quietly.
But Morse appeared completely unconcerned as he rose to his feet and put his jacket on.
‘I’ll tell you something else about that card, Lewis. We know a man, don’t we, who’s been writing a book about our Mister Philip Two of Macedon-remember?’
Yes, Lewis did remember. Just as Morse had done, he’d seen the typescript on the desk in Browne-Smith’s room, as well as the pile of postcards that had lain beside it. And, as Morse walked across to the door, he felt annoyed and disappointed with himself. There was one thing Morse hadn’t mentioned, though.
‘Is the handwriting a fake as well, sir?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ replied Morse. ‘Why don’t you go and find out, if you can? No rush, though. I think the super and I may well be in for rather a longish session.’
‘Siddown, Morse!’ growled Strange, his long gaunt face set grimly and angrily. ‘I heard last night-and again this morning – from the Metropolitan Commissioner.’ His eyes fixed Morse’s as he continued. ‘It seems that a member of my force- you Morse!-was witness to a major crime in London yesterday; that you left the scene of this crime without adequate explanation and in defiance of normal police procedures; that you allowed the only other witness of this crime to go off home – God! – a home incidentally which doesn’t exist; that you then went off to see a woman up in North London to tell her that her husband had just been murdered; and if all that’s not enough,’ the blood was rising in his face, ‘you couldn’t even get the name of the bloody corpse right!’
Morse nodded agreement, but said nothing.
‘You realize, don’t you, that this is an extremely serious matter?’ Strange’s voice was quieter now. ‘It won’t be in my hands, either.’
‘No, I understand that. And you’re right, of course-it’s a very serious matter. The only thing is, sir, I don’t think that even you quite understand how desperately serious it is.’
Strange had known Morse for many years and had marvelled many times at the exploits of this extraordinary and exasperating man. And there was something about the way in which Morse had just spoken that signalled a warning. It would be wise for him to listen, he knew that.
So he listened.
It was more than two hours later when Strange’s middle-aged secretary saw the door open and the two men emerge. Earlier she had been informed that, short of a nuclear explosion, her boss was not to be disturbed; and she did know a little (how not?) of the reason for Morse’s summons from on high. Yet now she saw that it was Strange’s face which looked, of the two, the more drained and set; and she bent her head a little closer to the clattering keys, as if her presence there might cause embarrassment. The two men had said nothing more to each other, she was sure of that-except that Strange had murmured a muted ‘Thank you’ as Morse had walked across the room. Then, after Morse was gone, and just before her boss had closed his office door, she thought she heard him speak once more: ‘My God!’
THE END OF THE SECOND MILE
THE THIRD MILE
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Friday, 1st August
Like some latter-day Pilgrim, one of the protagonists in this macabre case is determined to rid himself of his burden.
Two days after the events described in the previous chapter, a man looked about him with extreme circumspection before inserting one of his keys into the door at the rear entrance of the luxury fiats in Cambridge Way. The coast was clear. Apart from the uniformed police constable standing outside the front entrance, he guessed (and guessed correctly) that at last he was alone. He moved silently up the carpeted staircase and let himself into the room that faced the first landing; there was just one thing he had to do. Once inside the flat he fixed his rather ancient hearing-aid into his right ear (exactly as he’d done three days before), nicked over the lock on the Yale (a precaution he’d earlier omitted to take), and took from his pocket a newly purchased screwdriver-a larger, shinier, more effective instrument than the one which had bored its way through Gilbert’s spine. He’d known the truth, of course, on that previous visit; known it immediately he’d entered the main sitting-room. For, although the crates seemed all (quite properly) still unopened, from the mantelpiece Mercator’s head had stared at him accusingly…
After performing his grisly task-it took him only a few minutes-he retraced his steps to the rear entrance and let himself out into the bright afternoon sunlight, where he promptly hailed a taxi. He saw the driver’s eyes flick to the mirror as his hearing-aid began to oscillate; so he turned off the volume and took it out. It had served its purpose well today, and he put it away and sought to relax as the taxi threaded its way through the heavy traffic. But his mi
nd could give him little rest… If only on that terrifying day… But no! Awaiting Gilbert had been an almost certain early retribution. Money! That was all that Gilbert had demanded – then more money. An odd compulsion (as it appeared to the man in the taxi); certainly when compared with the motivations that dominated his own life – the harbouring of inveterate hatreds, and the almost manic ambition, sometimes so carefully concealed, for some degree of worldly fame.
‘Here we are, sir: Paddington.’
Why Paddington? Why not Euston, or Victoria, or Liverpool Street? Why any railway station? Perhaps it was the anonymity of such a place-a place at which he could deposit the burden of his sin that lay so heavily in the supermarket carrier-bag he tightly clutched as he walked through the swing doors of the Station Hotel and turned right to the gentlemen’s toilet. No one else was there, and he closed the door behind him in the furthest of the cubicles that faced the open pissoir. Here, he lifted the plastic ring of the lavatory seat, climbed on to the circular fixture and lifted the covering of the porcelain cistern. But the water-filled cavity was far too narrow-and suddenly he was jerked into a frozen stillness, for he heard the door-catch click in a nearby cubicle. Something had to be done quickly. He felt inside the carrier-bag and took out a flat package wrapped round with a copy of The Times-a package which, judging from its shape, might have held two sandwiches, and which now plopped into the water and sank immediately to the bottom of the cistern.
Still carrying the bulk of his burden, he walked out of the hotel into the main-line station, where he drifted aimlessly about until he saw the planks and scaffolding at the furthest end of Platform One. He made his way slowly along this platform, intermittently turning his eyes upwards to take in Brunei’s magnificent wrought-iron roof that arched above him. He had already seen the skip-half-full of building rubble and general rubbish… Apart from a solitary orange-coated workman a few yards up the line, he was alone. Suddenly turning, he dropped his bag into the skip and sauntered back towards the unmanned ticket-barrier. He would have enjoyed a pot of searing hot tea and a buttered scone in the cool lounge of the Station Hotel, but he dared not trust himself. He was shaking visibly and the sweat was cold upon his forehead. It was time to return to base, to lie down awhile, to tell himself that the task he’d so much dreaded was now accomplished-if not accomplished well.