by Colin Dexter
Whilst Morse nodded his head innocently, Mrs. Rodway shook her own in vague exasperation. 'Life's a far more complicated thing than that—Matthew's was—and that Coroner, he made it all sound so . . . uncomplicated.'
'Don't be too, er, hard on him, Mrs. Rodway. A Coroner's main job isn't dealing with right and wrong, and making moral judgements, and all that sort of thing. He's just there to put the bits and pieces into some sort of pattern, and then to stick some verdict, as best he can, in one of the few slots he's got available to him.'
If Mrs. Rodway was at all impressed by this amalgam of metaphors, she gave no indication of it. Perhaps she hadn't even been listening, for she continued in her former vein: 'There were two things—two quite separate things—and they ought to have been considered separately. It's difficult to put it into words, Inspector, but you see there are causes of things, and symptoms of things. And in Matthew's case this drugs business was a symptom of something—it wasn't a cause. I knew Matthew—I knew him better than anyone.'
'So you think . . .?'
'I've stopped thinking. What on earth's the good of churning things over and over again in your mind for the umpteenth time?'
She stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette savagely, and immediately lit another.
'You don't mind me smoking?'
'No, no.'
'Can I offer you gentlemen one?' She held out a packet of King-Size Dunhill International, first to Lewis who shook his head with a smile; then to Morse who shook his head with stoical resolve, since only that same morning, when he'd woken up just before six with parched mouth and pounding head, he had decided to forgo—for evermore—the spurious gratification not only of alcohol but of nicotine also.
Perhaps his decision could wait until tomorrow for its full implementation, though; and he relented. 'Most kind, Mrs. Rodway. Thank you . . . And it's very valuable, what you're saying. Please do go on.'
'There's nothing more to say.'
'But if you felt—feel—so strongly, why didn't you agree to give evidence at the Inquest?'
'How could I? I couldn't even bear to switch on the TV or the radio in case there might be something about it. You couldn't bear that, could you, Inspector? If it had been your child?'
'I—I take your point,' admitted Morse awkwardly.
'You know usually, when things like that happen, you get all the rumour and all the gossip as well. But we didn't have any of that—at the Inquest.'
Three times now Mary Rodway inhaled on her cigarette with such ferocity that she seemed to Lewis hell-bent on inflicting some irreparable damage to her respiratory tract.
But Morse's mind for a few seconds was far away, a glimmer of light at last appearing at the far end of a long, black tunnel.
'So . . .' he picked his slow words carefully, 'you'd hoped that there might be some other evidence given at the Inquest, but you didn't want to provide any of it yourself?.'
'Perhaps it wasn't all that important anyway.'
'Please tell me.'
'No.'
Morse looked around the large lounge. The day was warm already, yet he suspected (rightly) that the two long radiators were turned up to full capacity. Much space on the walls was devoted to pictures: prints of still-life paintings by Braque, Matisse, Picasso; photographs and watercolours of great buildings and palaces, including Versailles and Blenheim—and Wolsey College, Oxford. But virtually no people were photographed or represented there. It was as if those 'things' so frequently resorted to by Mrs. Rodway in her conversation were now figuring more prominently than people.
'You know Dr. McClure, I think,' said Morse.
'I met him first when Matthew went up to Oxford. He was Matthew's tutor.'
'Didn't he have rooms on the same staircase as Matthew?' (Lewis had spent most of the previous evening doing his homework; and Morse's homework.)
'The first year, and the third year, yes. He was out of college his second year.'
'Where was that, do you remember?'
Did Lewis observe a flicker of unease in Mary Rodway's eyes? Did Morse?
'I'm not sure.'
'Oh, it doesn't matter. Sergeant Lewis here can check up on that easily enough.'
But she had her answer now. 'It was in East Oxford somewhere. Cowley Road, was it?'
Morse continued his questioning, poker-faced, as if he had failed to hear the tintinnabulation of a bell: 'What did you think of Dr. McClure?'
'Very nice man. Kindly—genuine sort of person. And, as you say, he took a real interest in Matthew.'
Morse produced a letter, and passed it across to Mrs. Rodway: a single handwritten sheet, on the pre-printed stationery of 14 Evington Road South, Leicester, dated June 2, the day after the Coroner's verdict on Matthew Rodway's death.
Dear Felix
I was glad to talk to you on the phone however briefly. I was so choked I could hardly speak to you. Please do as we agreed. If you find anything else among M's things which would be upsetting please get rid of them. This includes any of my letters he may have kept. He had two family photos in his room, one a framed one of the two of us. I'd like both of them back. But all clothes and personal effects and papers—get rid of them all for me.
I must thank you for all you tried to do for Matthew. He often spoke of your kindness, as you know. I'm so sorry, I can't go on with this letter any more.
Sincerely yours
Mary
Morse now accepted a second cigarette; and as Mrs. Rodway read through the letter Lewis turned his head away from the exhalation of smoke. He was not overmuch concerned about the health risks supposedly linked with passive smoking, but it must have some effect; had already had its effect on the room here, where a thin patina of nicotine could be seen on the emulsioned walls. In fact the whole room could surely do with a good wash-down and redecoration? The corners of the high ceiling were deeply stained, and just above one of the radiators an oblong of pristinely bright magnolia served to emphasise a slight neglect of household renovation.
'Did you write that?' asked Morse.
'Yes.'
'Is there anything you want to tell us about it?'
'Pretty clear, isn't it?'
'Did Dr. McClure find anything in Matthew's rooms?'
'I don't know.'
'Would he have told you if, let's say, he'd found some drugs?'
'I doubt it.'
'Did he think Matthew was taking drugs?'
It was hard for her to say it. But she said it: 'Yes.'
'Did you ever find out where he got his drugs from?'
'No.'
'Did he ever say anything about his friends being or drugs?'
'No.'
'Do you think they may have been?
'I only met one or two of them—on the same staircase'
'Do you think drugs were available inside the college'
'I don't know.'
'Would Dr. McClure have known, if they were?'
'I suppose he would, yes.'
'Was Matthew fairly easily influenced by his friends, would you say?'
'No, I wouldn't.'
The answers elicited from Mrs. Rodway hardly appeared to Lewis exciting; or even informative, for that matter. But Morse appeared content to keep his interlocution at low key.
'Do you blame anyone? About the drugs?'
'I'm in no position to blame anyone.'
'Do you blame yourself?'
'Don't we all blame ourselves?'
'What about Dr. McClure—where did he put the blame?'
'He did say once . . . I remember . . .' But the voice trailed off as she lit another cigarette. 'It was very odd really. He was talking about all the pressures on young people these days—you know, about youth culture and all that sort of thing, about whether standards were declining in . . . well, in everything, I suppose.'
'What exactly did he say?' prompted Morse gently.
But Mary Rodway was not listening. 'You know, if only Matthew hadn't . . . killed himself that night, what
ever the reason was—reason or reasons—he'd probably have been perfectly happy with life a few days later, a week later . . . That's what I can't . . . I can't get over.'
Tears were dropping now.
And Lewis looked away.
But not Morse.
'What exactly did he say?' he repeated.
Mrs. Rodway wiped her tears and blew her nose noisily 'He said it was always difficult to apportion blame in Iife. But he said . . . he said if he had to blame anybody it would be the students.'
'Is that all?'
'Yes.'
'Why was that an "odd" thing to say, though?'
'Because, you see, he was always on the students' side. Always. So it was a bit like hearing a trade-union boss suddenly siding with the Conservative Party.'
'Thank you. You've been very kind, Mrs. Rodway.'
Clearly (as Lewis could see) it was time to depart; and he closed his notebook with what might have passed for a slight flourish—had anyone been interested enough to observe the gesture.
But equally clearly (as Lewis could also see) Morse was momentarily transfixed, the blue eyes gleaming with that strangely distanced, almost ethereal gaze, which Lewis had observed so often before—a gaze which usually betokened a breakthrough in a major case.
As now?
The three of them rose to their feet.
'Did you get to university yourself?.' asked Morse.
'No. I left school at sixteen—went to a posh secretarial college—did well—got a good job—met a nice boss—became his PA—and he married me . . . As I told you, Inspector, he's got a weakness for his PAs.'
Morse nodded. 'Just one last question. When did your husband leave you?'
'I told you, don't you remember? Four years ago.' Suddenly her voice sounded sharp.
'When exactly, Mrs. Rodway?' Suddenly Morse's voice, too, sounded sharp.
'November the fifth—Bonfire Night. Not likely to forget the date, am I?'
'Not quite four years ago then?'
Mrs. Rodway made no further reply.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Everyone can master a grief but he that has it
(SHAKESPEARE, Much Ado About Nothing)
'BIG THING YOU'VE got to remember is that it's a great healer—time. Just give it a while, you'll see.'
It was just before lunchtime that same day, in his office at Kidlington Police HQ, that Chief Superintendent Strange thus sought to convey his commiserations to Detective Chief Inspector Phillotson—going on to suggest that an extended period of furlough might well be a good thing after . . . well, after things were over. And if anyone could help in any way, Phillotson only had to mention it.
'Trouble with things like this,' continued Strange, as he rose from behind his desk and walked round to place a kindly hand on his colleague's shoulder, 'is that nothing really helps much at all, does it?'
'I don't know about that, sir. People are being very kind.'
'I know, yes. I know.' And Strange resumed his seat, contemplating his own kindliness with some gratification.
'You know, sir, I've heard from people I never expected to show much sympathy.'
'You have?'
'People like Morse, for instance.'
'Morse? When did you see Morse? He told me he was off to Leicester this morning.'
'No. He put a note through the letter-box, that's all. Must have been latish last night—it wasn't there when I put the milk-tokens out . . .'
'I'd say he probably wrote it in a pub, knowing Morse.'
'Does it matter where he wrote it, sir?'
'Course not. But I can't imagine him being much comfort to anybody. He's a pagan, you know that. Got no time for the Church and . . . Hope and Faith and all that stuff. Doesn't even believe in God, let alone in any sort of life after death.'
'Bit like some of our Bishops,' said Phillotson sadly.
'Like some Theology dons in Oxford, too.'
'I was still glad to get his letter.'
'What did he say?'
'Said what you just said really, sir; said he'd got no faith in the Almighty; said I just ought to forget all this mumbo-jumbo about meeting . . . meeting up again in some future life; told me just to accept the truth of it all—that she's gone for good and I'll never see her again; told me I'd probably never get over it, and not to take any notice of people who gave you all this stuff about time healing—' Phillotson suddenly checked himself, realising what he'd just said.
'Doesn't sound much help to me.'
'Do you know, though, in an odd sort of way it was. It was sort of honest. He just said that he was sad, when he heard, and he was thinking of me . . . At the end, he said it was always a jolly sight easier in life to face up to the truths than the half-truths. I'm not quite sure what he meant . . . but, well, somehow it helps, when I remember what he said.'
Phillotson could trust himself to say no more, and he rose to leave.
At the door he turned back. 'Did you say Morse went to Leicester this morning?'
'That's where he said he was going.'
'Funny! Odds are I'd have been in Leicester myself. I bet he's gone to see the parents of that lad who killed himself in Wolsey a year or so ago.'
'What's that got to do with things?'
'There were a few newspaper articles, that's all, about the lad, among McClure's papers. And a letter from mother. She started it off "Dear Felix"—as if they'd known each other pretty well, if you see what I mean.'
Strange granted.
'Do you think I should mention it to Morse, sir?'
'No. For Christ's sake don't do that. He's got far too many ideas already, you can be sure of that.'
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Say, for what were hop-yards meant
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man
(A. E. HOUSMAN, A Shropshire Lad, LXII)
THE TURF TAVERN, nestling beneath the old walls of New College, Oxford, may be approached from Holywell Street, immediately opposite Holywell Music Room, via a narrow, irregularly cobbled lane of mediaeval aspect.
A notice above the entrance advises all patrons (althou: Morse is not a particularly tall man) to mind their heads (DUCK OR GROUSE) and inside the rough-stoned, black-beamed rooms the true connoisseur of beers can seat himself at one of the small wooden tables and enjoy a finely cask-conditioned pint; and it is in order to drink and to and to think that patrons frequent this elusively situated tavern in a blessedly music—Muzak—free environment.
The landlord of this splendid hostelry, a stoutly compact, middle-aged ex-Royal Navy man, with a grizzled beard and a gold ring in his left ear, was anticipatorily pulling a pint of real ale on seeing Morse enter, followed by the dutiful Lewis, at 1:50 p.m.
The latter, in fact, was feeling quite pleased with himself. Only sixty-five minutes from Leicester. A bit over the speed-limit all the way along (agreed); but fast-diving was one of his very few vices, and the jazzy-looking maroon Jaguar had been in a wonderfully slick and silky mood as it sped down the M40 on the last stretch of the journey from Banbury to Oxford.
Morse had resisted several pubs which, en route, had paraded their credentials—at Lutterworth, Rugby, Banbury. But, as Lewis knew, the time of drinking, and of thinking, was surely soon at hand.
In North Oxford, Morse had asked to be dropped off briefly at his flat: 'I ought to call in at the bank, Lewis.' And this news had further cheered Lewis, since (on half the salary) it was invariably he who bought about three-quarters of the drinks consumed between the pair of them. Only temporarily cheered, however, since he had wholly misunderstood the mission: five minutes later it was he himself who was pushing a variety of old soldiers through their appropriate holes (White, Green, Brown) in the Summertown Bottle Bank.
Thence, straight down the Banbury Road to the Martyrs' Memorial, where turni
ng left (as instructed) he had driven to the far end of Broad Street. Here, as ever, there appeared no immediate prospect of leaving a car legitimately, and Morse had insisted that he park the Jaguar on the cobble-stone area outside the Old Clarendon building, just opposite Blackwell's.
'Don't worry, Lewis. All the traffic wardens know my car. They'll think I'm on duty.'
'Which you are, sir.'
'Which I am.'
'How are we, Chief Inspector?'
'Less of the "Chief". Sheehy's going to demote me. I'll soon he just an insignificant Inspector.'
'The usual?'
Morse nodded.
'And you, Sergeant?'
'An orange juice,' said Morse.
'Where've you parked?' asked Biff. It was a question which had become of paramount importance in Central Oxford over the past decade. 'I only ask because they're having a blitz this week, so Pam says.'
'Ah! How is that beautiful lady of yours?'
'I'll tell her you're here. She should be down soon anyway.' Morse stood at the bar searching through his pockets in unconvincing manner. 'And a packet of—do you still sell cigarettes?'
Biff pointed to the machine. 'You'll need the right change.'
'Ah! Have you got any change on you by any chance, Lewis . . .?'
When, at a table in the inner bar, Morse was finally settled behind his pint, his second pint, he took from his inside jacket-pocket the used envelope on which Lewis had seen him scribbling certain headings on their return to Oxford.
'Did you know that Wolsey College is frequently referred to, especially by those who are in it, as "The House"?'
'Can't say I did, no.'
'Do you know why?'
'Let me concentrate on the orange juice, sir.'
'It's because of its Latin name, Aedes Archiepiscopi, the House of the Bishop.'