Death is now my neighbour - Morse 12

by Colin Dexter

  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 little 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'll be filling in the 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 through by a sentinel PC, just as Geoffrey Owens had been waved through over a fortnight earlier, on the morning that Rachel James had been murdered.

  As she let herself into Number 1, she was immediately aware that 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 the cobbles of Radcliffe Square to the Porters' Lodge at Lonsdale.

  'Do you know if Dr Cornford'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 I 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 Blackwell'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 HQ. 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 Cornford.

  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 little 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: 'I'm 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 - the 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, there'd be the 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 with one of the following.. .'Yes, without a doubt, if he'd been honest, Morse would have applauded Shelly Cornford'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 with 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 with another man that morning. I hardly spoke to her after that. I slept in the spare room the last three nights.'

  "The note?' asked Morse gently. Ts 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 that, 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.'

&n
bsp; '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 the 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 Cornford 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. 'Aristotle, you know, thought suicide a form of cowardice - running away from troubles oneself and leaving all the heartache to everybody else. What do you think?'

  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 the 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 radiantly 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&T you 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 always kept 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 that sugar?'

  She coloured slightly. 'Something to do with the metabolic rate, so they tell me at the clinic'

  'All, yes! The clinic. I'd almost forgotten.'

  Again he was sounding too much like the Customs man, and Dawn was glad it was the sergeant who now took over the questioning.

  A little awkwardly, a little 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?' 'I didn't copy it'

  It was hardly a convincing performance, and she was aware that both men knew she was lying. And quietly -amid a few tears, certainly, but with no hysteria - the truth came out.

  Owens she had met when the Press had come along for the clinic's 25th anniversary - he must have seen something, heard something that night, about Mr Storrs. After Mr Turnbull had died, Owens had telephoned her - they'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 the letter - been paid in cash. That was it - that was all - a complete betrayal of trust, she knew that -something 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 the interrogation, his attention focused, it seemed, on the long, black-stockinged legs.