by Colin Dexter
“You don’t think there is, then?”
“No,” answered Morse simply.
“Perhaps it’s just as well if there isn’t—you know, rewards and punishments and all that sort of thing.”
“I don’t want much reward, anyway.”
“Depends on your ambition. You never had much o’ that, did you?”
“Early on, I did.”
“You could’ve got to the top, you know that.”
“Not doing a job I enjoyed, I couldn’t. I’m not a form filler, am I? Or a committeeman. Or a clipboard man.”
“Or a procedure man,” added Strange slowly, as he struggled to his feet.
“Pardon?”
“Bloody piles!”
Morse persisted. “What did you mean, sir?”
“Extraordinary, you know, the sort of high-tech stuff we’ve got in the Force these days. We’ve got a machine here that even copies color photos. You know, like the one—Oh! Didn’t I mention it, Morse? I had a very pleasant little chat with Sergeant Lewis in the photocopying room just before I came in here. By the look of things, you’ve got quite a few alternatives to go on there.”
“Quite a lot of ‘choices,’ sir. Strictly speaking, you only have ‘alternatives’ if you’ve just got the two options.”
“Fuck off, Morse!”
That evening Morse was in bed by 9:45 P.M., slowly reading but a few more pages of Juliet Barker’s The Brontës, before stopping at one sentence, and reading it again:
Charlotte remarked, “I am sorry you have changed your residence as I shall now again lose my way in going up and down stairs, and stand in great tribulation, contemplating several doors, and not knowing which to open.”
It seemed as good a place to stop as any; and Morse was soon nodding off, in a semiupright posture, the thick book dropping onto the duvet, the whiskey on his bedside table (unprecedentedly) unfinished.
Chapter Thirty-one
A time
Older than the time of chronometers, older
Than time counted by anxious worried women
Lying awake, calculating the future,
Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel
And piece together the past and the future.
—T. S. ELIOT, The Dry Salvages
The result of one election had already been declared, with Mr. Ivan Thomas, the Labor candidate, former unsuccessful aspirant to municipal honors, now preparing to assume his duties as councillor for the Gosforth ward at Kidlington, near Oxford.
At Lonsdale College, five miles further south, in the golden heart of Oxford, the likely outcome of another election was still very much in the balance, with the wives of the two nominees very much—and not too discreetly, perhaps—to the fore in the continued canvasing. As it happened, each of them (like Morse) was in bed—or in a bed—comparatively early that Sunday evening.
Shelly Cornford was always a long time in the bathroom, manipulating her waxed flossing-ribbon in between and up and down her beautifully healthy teeth. When finally she came into the bedroom, her husband was sitting up against the pillows reading the Sunday Times Books Section. He watched her as she took off her purple Jaeger dress, and then unfastened her black bra, her breasts bursting free. So very nearly he said something at that point; but the back of his mouth was suddenly dry, and he decided not to. Anyway, it had been only a small incident, and his wife was probably completely unaware of how she could affect some other men—with a touch, a look, a movement of her body. But he’d never been a jealous man.
Not if he could help it.
She got into bed in her Oxford blue pajamas and briefly turned toward him.
“Why wasn’t Julian at dinner tonight?”
“Up in Durham—some conference he was speaking at. He’s back tonight—Angela’s picking him up from the station, so she said.”
“Oh.”
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason, darling. Night-night! Sweet dreams, my sweetie!”
She blew a kiss across the narrow space between their beds, turned her back toward him, and snuggled her head into the green pillows.
“Don’t be too long with the light, please.”
A few minutes later she was lying still, breathing quite rhythmically, and he thought she was asleep.
As quietly as he could, he maneuvered himself down beneath the bedclothes, and straightway turned off the light. And tried, tried far too hard, to go to sleep himself …
… After evensong earlier that same evening in the College Chapel, the Fellows and their guests had been invited (as was the custom) to the Master’s Lodge, where they partook of a glass of sherry before dining at 7:30 P.M. at the top table in the main hall, the students seated on the long rows of benches below them. It was just before leaving the Master’s Lodge that Denis had looked round for his wife and found her by the fireplace speaking to David Mackenzie, one of the younger dons, a brilliant mathematician, of considerable corpulence, who hastily folded the letter he had been showing to Shelly and put it away.
Nothing in that, perhaps? Not in itself, no. But he, Denis Cornford, knew what was in the letter. And that, for the simplest of all reasons, since Mackenzie had shown him the same scented purple sheets in the SCR the previous week; and Cornford could recall pretty accurately, though naturally not verbatim, the passage he’d been invited to consider. Clearly the letter had been, thus far, the highlight of Mackenzie’s term:
Remember what you scribbled on my menu that night? Your handwriting was a bit wobbly(!) and I couldn’t quite make out just that one word: “I’d love to take you out and make a f—of you.” I think it was “fuss” and it certainly begins with an “f.” Could be naughty; could be perfectly innocent. Please enlighten me!
Surely it was ridiculous to worry about such a thing. But there was something else. The two of them had been giggling together like a pair of adolescents, and looking at each other, and she had put a hand on his arm. And it was almost as if they had established a curious kind of intimacy from which he, Denis Cornford, was temporarily excluded.
Could be naughty.
Could be perfectly innocent …
“Would you still love me if I’d got a spot on my nose?”
“Depends how big it was, my love.”
“But you still want my body, don’t you,” she whispered, “in spite of my varicose veins?”
Metaphorically, as he lay beside her, Sir Clixby sidestepped her full-frontal assault as she turned herself toward him.
“You’re a very desirable woman, and what’s more you know it!” He moved his hands down her naked shoulders and fondled the curves of her bosom.
“I hope I can still do something for you,” she whispered.
“After all, you’ve promised to do something for me, haven’t you?”
Perhaps Sir Clixby should have been a diplomat:
“Do you know something? I thought the Bishop was never going to finish tonight, didn’t you? I shall have to have a word with the Chaplain. God knows where he found him?”
She moved even closer to the Master. “Come on! We haven’t got all night. Julian’s train gets in at ten past ten.”
Two of the College dons stood speaking together on the cobblestones outside Lonsdale as the clock on Great Saint Mary’s struck ten o’clock; and a sole undergraduate passing through the main gate thought he heard a brief snatch of their conversation:
“Having a woman like her in the Lodge? The idea’s unthinkable!”
But who the woman was, the passerby was not to know.
Chapter Thirty-two
Monday, February 26
How shall I give thee up, O Ephraim? How shall I cast thee off, O Israel?
—Hosea, ch. 2, v. 8
At 8:45 A.M. there were just the two of them, Morse and Lewis, exchanging somewhat random thoughts about the case, when the young blonde girl (whom Strange had already noticed) came in with the morning post. She was a very recent addition to the typing pool, strongly recommended by the
prestigious Marlborough College in the High, her secretarial skills corroborated by considerable evidence, including a Pitman Shorthand Certificate for 120 wpm.
“Your mail, sir. I’m …” (she looked frightened) “I’m terribly sorry about the one on top. I just didn’t notice.”
But Morse had already taken the letter from its white envelope, the latter marked, in the top left-hand corner, “Strictly Private and Personal.”
Hullo Morse,
Tried you on the blower at Christmas but they said you were otherwise engaged probably in the boozer. I’m getting spliced. No, don’t worry! I’m not asking you for anything this time!! He’s nice and he’s got a decent job and he says he loves me and he’s okay in bed so what the hell. I don’t really love him and you bloody well know why that is, don’t you, you miserable stupid sod. Because I fell in love with you and I’m just as stupid as you are. St. Anthony told me to tell you something but I’m not going to. I want to put my arms round you and hug you tight. God help me! Why didn’t you look for me a bit harder Morse?
Ellie
No address.
Of course, there was no address.
“Did you read this?” Morse spoke in level tones, looking up at his secretary with unblinking eyes.
“Only till … you know, I realized …”
“You shouldn’t have opened it.”
“No, sir,” she whispered.
“You can type all right?”
She nodded.
“And you can take shorthand?”
She nodded, despairingly.
“But you can’t read?”
“As I said, sir …” The tears were starting.
“I heard what you said. Now just you listen to what I’m saying. This sort of thing will never happen again!”
“I promise, sir, it’ll—”
“Listen!” Morse’s eyes suddenly widened with an almost manic gleam, his nostrils flaring with suppressed fury as he repeated in a slow, soft voice: “It won’t happen again—not if you want to work for me any longer. Is that clear? Never. Now get out,” he hissed, “and leave me, before I get angry with you.”
After she had left, Lewis too felt almost afraid to speak.
“What was all that about?” he asked finally.
“Don’t you start poking your bloody nose—” But the sentence went no further. Instead, Morse picked up the letter and passed it over, his saddened eyes focused on the wainscoting.
After reading the letter, Lewis said nothing.
“I don’t have much luck with the ladies, do I?”
“She’s still obviously wearing the pendant.”
“I hope so,” said Morse; who might have said rather more, but there was a knock on the door, and DC Learoyd was invited into the sanctum.
Morse handed over the newspaper cuttings concerning Lord Hardiman, together with the photograph, and explained Learoyd’s assignment:
“Your job’s to find out all you can. It doesn’t look all that promising, I know. Hardly blackmail stuff these days, is it? But Owens thinks it is. And that’s the point. We’re not really interested in how many times he’s been knocking on the doors of the knocking shops. It’s finding the nature of his connection with Owens.”
Learoyd nodded his understanding, albeit a little unhappily.
“Off you go, then.”
But Learoyd delayed. “Whereabouts do you think would be a good place to start, sir?”
Morse’s eyeballs turned ceilingward.
“What about looking up His Lordship in Debrett’s Peerage, mm? It might just tell you where he lives, don’t you think?”
“But where can I find a copy?”
“What about that big building in the center of Oxford—in Bonn Square. You’ve heard of it? It’s called the Central Library.”
Item 2 in the manila file, as Lewis had discovered earlier that morning, was OBE (Overtaken By Events, in Morse’s shorthand). The Cheltenham firm of solicitors had been disbanded in 1992, its clientele dispersed, to all intents and purposes now permanently incommunicado.
Item 3 was to be entrusted into the huge hands of DC Elton, who now made his entrance; and almost immediately his exit, since he passed no observations, and asked no questions, as he looked down at the paunchy pedophiliac from St. Albans.
“Leave it to me, sir.”
“And while you’re at it, see how the land lies here.” Morse handed over the documentation on Item 4—the accounts sheets from the surgical appliances company in Croydon.
“Good man, that,” commented Lewis, as the door closed behind the massive frame of DC Elton.
“Give me Learoyd every time!” confided Morse. “At least he’s got the intelligence to ask a few half-witted questions.”
“I don’t quite follow you.”
“Wouldn’t you need a bit of advice if you called in at some place selling surgical appliances? With Elton’s great beer gut they’ll probably think he’s called in for a temporary truss.”
Lewis didn’t argue.
He knew better.
Also OBE, as Lewis had already discovered, was Item 5. The address Owens had written on the letter was—had been—that of a home for the mentally handicapped in Wimbledon. A Social Services inspection had uncovered gross and negligent malpractices; and the establishment had been closed down two years previously, its management and nursing staff redeployed or declared redundant. Yet no prosecutions had ensued.
“Forlorn hope,” Lewis had ventured.
And Morse had agreed. “Did you know that ‘forlorn hope’ has got nothing to do with ‘forlorn’ or ‘hope’? It’s all Dutch: ‘Verloren hoop’—‘lost troop.’ ”
“Very useful to know, sir.”
Seemingly oblivious to such sarcasm, Morse contemplated once more the four sets of initials that comprised Item 6:
with those small ticks in red Biro set against the first three of them.
“Any ideas?” asked Lewis.
“ ‘Jonathan Swift,’ obviously, for ‘JS.’ I was only talking about him to the Super yesterday.”
“Julian Storrs?”
Morse grinned. “Perhaps all of ’em are dons at Lonsdale.”
“I’ll check.”
“So that leaves Items seven and eight—both of which I leave in your capable hands, Lewis. And lastly my own little assignment in Soho, Item nine.”
“Coffee, sir?”
“Glass of iced orange juice!”
After Lewis had gone, Morse reread Ellie’s letter, deeply hurt, and wondering whether people in the ancient past had found it quite so difficult to cope with disappointments deep as his. But at least things were over; and in the long run that might make things much easier. He tore the letter in two, in four, in eight, in sixteen, and then in thirty-two—would have torn it in sixtyfour, had his fingers been strong enough—before dropping the little square pieces into his wastepaper basket.
“No ice in the canteen, sir. Machine’s gone kaput.”
Morse shrugged indifferently and Lewis, sensing that the time might be opportune, decided to say something which had been on his mind:
“Just one thing I’d like to ask …”
Morse looked up sharply. “You’re not going to ask me where Lonsdale is, I hope!”
“No. I’d just like to ask you not to be too hard on that new secretary of yours, that’s all.”
“And what the hell’s that got to do with you?”
“Nothing really, sir.”
“I agree. And when I want your bloody advice on how to handle my secretarial staff, I’ll come and ask for it. Clear?”
Morse’s eyes were blazing anew. And Lewis, his own temperature now rising rapidly, left his superior’s office without a further word.
Just before noon, Jane Edwards was finalizing an angry letter, spelling out her resignation, when she heard the message over the intercom: Morse wanted to see her in his office.
“Si’ down!”
She sat down, noticing immediately that he seeme
d tired, the whites of his eyes lightly veined with blood.
“I’m sorry I got so cross, Jane. That’s all I wanted to say.”
She remained where she was, almost mesmerized.
Very quietly he continued: “You will try to forgive me—please?”
She nodded helplessly, for she had no choice.
And Morse smiled at her sadly, almost gratefully, as she left.
Back in the typing pool Ms. Jane Edwards surreptitiously dabbed away the last of the slow-dropping tears, tore up her letter (so carefully composed) into sixty-four pieces; and suddenly felt, as if by some miracle of St. Anthony, most inexplicably happy.
Chapter Thirty-three
A recent survey has revealed that 80.5 percent of Oxford dons seek out the likely pornographic potential on the Internet before making use of that facility for purposes connected with their own disciplines or research. The figure for students, in the same university, is 2 percent lower.
—TERENCE BENCZIK, A Possible Future for Computer Technology
Until the age of twelve, Morse’s reading had comprised little beyond a weekly diet of the Dandy comic, and a monthly diet of the Meccano Magazine—the legacy of the latter proving considerably the richer, in that Morse had retained a lifelong delight in model train sets and in the railways themselves. Thus it was that as he stood on Platform One at Oxford Station, he was much looking forward to his journey. Usually, he promised himself a decent read of a decent book on a trip like this. But such potential pleasures seldom materialized; hadn’t materialized that afternoon either, when the punctual 2:15 P.M. from Oxford arrived fifty-nine minutes later at Paddington, where Morse immediately took a taxi to New Scotland Yard.
Although matters there had been prearranged, it was purely by chance that Morse happened to meet Paul Condon, the Metropolitan Commissioner, in the main entrance foyer.
“They’re ready for you, Morse. Can’t stay myself, I’m afraid. Press conference. It’s not just the ethnic minorities I’ve upset this time—it’s the ethnic majorities, too. All because I’ve published a few more official crime statistics.”