The Way Through the Woods

by Colin Dexter

  The hotel proprietor was a small, perpetually semi-shaven Italian who spent half his working hours at reception studying the racing columns of the Sporting Life. He looked up as McBryde took out his wallet.

  “You stay another day, Mr. Mac?”

  “Mc” had been the only part he could read of the semi-legible scrawl with which his guest had signed the register. And there was no typed name on any cheque to help; no cheque at all—just the two crisp twenty-pound notes he received each day for the following night’s B & B, with the repeated injunction (as now) from Mr. Mac: “Give the change to the breakfast girl!” Not a big tip though, for the daily rate was £39.50.

  Soon Luigi Bertolese was again reading through the runners in the 2 P.M. at Sandown Park, and looking especially at a horse there named “Full English”, with some moderate form behind him. He looked down too at one of the twenties, and wondered if the Almighty had whispered a tip in his ear.

  “So you see, old friend? You see?” Morse beamed hugely as he finished his second pint. “It was all due to you. Again!”

  Lewis could see: for once was able to see perfectly clearly. And this for him was the joy of working with the strange man called Morse; a man who was somehow able to extricate himself from the straight-jacketing circumstances of any crime and to look at that crime from some exterior vantage point. It wasn’t fair really! Yet Lewis was very proud to know that he. with all his limitations, could sometimes (as now) be the catalytic factor in the curious chemistry of Morse’s mind.

  “You having any lunch, sir?”

  Morse had been talking for half an hour or so. quietly, earnestly, excitedly. It was now 12:15 P.M.

  “No. Today I’ll take my calories in liquid form.”

  “Well, I think I’ll get myself—”

  “Here!” Morse took the precious twenty-pound note from his wallet. “Don’t go mad with it! Get yourself a cheese sandwich or something—and another pint for me.” He pushed his glass across the slightly rickety table. “And get a beer-mat or something and stick it under one of these legs.”

  For a few seconds as he stood at the bar Lewis looked back at his chief. Several other customers were now seated around, and one youth looked almost embarrassingly blissful as he gazed into the bespectacled eyes of the rather plain young woman sitting beside him. He looked, Lewis decided, almost as happy as Chief Inspector Morse.

  Chapter Forty-five

  His addiction to drinking caused me to censure Aspern Williams for a while, until I saw as true that wheels must have oil unless they run on nylon bearings. He could stay still and not want oil, or move—if he could overcome the resistance

  (Peter Champkin, The Waking Life of Aspern Williams)

  In her laboratory, Dr. Laura Hobson had now begun to write her report, after resuming her analysis of the Wytham bones. Not really “resuming” though, for the bones had hardly left her over the weekend. Quite early on she’d spotted the slight groove on the lower-left rib: it might have been the sharp incision of a rodent’s tooth, of course; but it looked so distinctive, that thinly V-shaped mark. It was almost as if someone had deliberately made a notch in the rib—with a knife or similar instrument. It might be important? But no, that was the wrong way of looking at things. It might be important—no question mark; and Laura was oddly anxious to score a few Brownie-points on her first real enquiry. In any case she’d very much like to ingratiate herself a little with the strange policeman who had monopolized her thoughts these last few days. It was odd how you couldn’t shake someone out of your mind, however hard you tried. And for Laura that weekend Morse should, she felt, have been reported to the Monopolies’ Commission …

  Once more she studied the scene-of-crime photographs, and she could identify quite easily the bone that was engaging her interest now. It had obviously lain in situ—not disseminated as so many of the others; and she felt fairly certain that the incision which her patient investigation had revealed was unlikely to have been caused by the tooth of some wild creature, tearing away a morsel from the still-fleshed bones. Could the notch have been caused by a knife, she wondered: after all, she was working, was she not, upon a murder? So if it wasn’t the foxes or the badgers or the birds … Again she adjusted the focus of the powerful microscope upon the top of the rib-bone, but she knew there could never be any definite forensic findings here. The very most she would suggest in her report was that the marked incision made slantwise across the top of the bottom-left rib-bone might possibly have been caused by some incisor tooth, or more probably some sharp implement—a knife, say. And if it were a knife that had been driven through the lower chest, it could well be, probably was, the cause of death. The body would have bled a good deal, with the blood saturating the clothing (if any?) and then seeping into the soil beneath the body; and not even the intervening months of winter, not even the last of the leaves and the accumulating débris from the growth all round, would ever completely obliterate such traces. That angle, though, was being pursued in the University Agricultural Research Station (coincidentally situated out at Wytham) and doubtless she would be hearing something soon. So what, though? Even if there were clear signs of blood to be found there, at the very most she would have a blood group, and Morse would be able to assume that the body had been murdered in situ. Big deal.

  Morse! She’d heard he was a bit of a stickler for spelling and punctuation, and she wanted to make as good an impression as she could. Halfway down the first page of her report she was doubtful about one word, and spying a Chambers Dictionary on Max’s shelves she quickly looked up the spelling of “noticeable”.

  It was the Pocket Oxford Dictionary that was being consulted (over “proceeding”) by another report-writer that afternoon, in the Thames Valley Police HQ. Orthographic irregularities were not an uncommon phenomenon in Lewis’s writing; but he was improving all the time, and (like his chief) was feeling very happy with life as he transcribed the full notes he had taken on his Swedish investigation.

  At 4 P.M., Mrs. Irma Eriksson knocked lightly on the door of her daughter’s bedroom, and brought in a tray carrying a boiled egg and two rounds of buttered toast. The flu had been virulent, but the patient was feeling a good deal better now, and very much more relaxed.

  As was her mother.

  At 6:45 P.M. the first—well, the first serious—rehearsal was under way for The Mikado. It was quite extraordinary, really, how much local talent there always was; even more extraordinary was how willingly, eagerly almost, this local talent was prepared to devote so much of its time to amateur theatricals, and to submit (in this instance) to the quite ridiculous demands of a producer who thought he knew—and in fact did know—most of the secrets of pulling in audiences, of ensuring laudatory reviews in the local press, of guiding the more talented vocalists into the more demanding rôles, and above all of soothing the petty squabbles and jealousies which almost inevitably arise in such a venture.

  Three hours, his wife had said—about that; and David Michaels had been waiting outside the village hall since 9:30 P.M. It wasn’t all that far from home—back down the lane, past the pub, then right again up the road into the woods—little more than a mile, in fact; but it was now beginning to get really dark, and he was never going to take any chances with his lovely wife. His talented wife, too. She’d only been a member of the chorus-line in the Village Review the previous Christmas; but it had been agreed by all that a bigger part would be wholly warranted in the next production. So she’d been auditioned; and here she was as one of the three little Japanese girls from school. Nice part. Easy to learn.

  She finally emerged at 10:10 P.M. and a slightly impatient Michaels drove her immediately along to the White Hart.

  “Same as usual?” he asked, as she hitched herself up on to a bar stool.

  “ ’Please.”

  So Michaels ordered a pint of Best Bitter for himself; and for his wife that mixture of orange juice and lemonade known as “St. Clements”—a mixture designed to keep the world’s be
ll-ringers in a state of perpetual sobriety.

  An hour later, as he drove the Land-rover back up to the cottage, Michaels felt beside the gear-lever for his wife’s hand, and squeezed it firmly. But she had been very silent thus far; and remained so now, as she tucked the libretto under her arm and got out, locking the passenger door behind her.

  “It’s going to be all right, is it?” he asked.

  “Is what going to be all right?”

  “What do you think I mean? The Mickadoo!”

  “Hope so. You’ll enjoy me, anyway.”

  Michaels locked his own side of the Land-rover. “I want to enjoy you now!”

  She took his hand as they walked to the front porch.

  “Not tonight, David. I’m so very tired—please understand.”

  Morse too was going home at this time. He was somewhat overbeered, he realized that; yet at least he’d everything to celebrate that day. Or so he told himself as he walked along, his steps just occasionally slightly unbalanced, like those of a diffident funambulist.

  * * *

  Dr. Alan Hardinge decided that Monday evening to stay in college, where earlier he’d given a well-rehearsed lecture on “Man and his Natural Environment”. His largely American audience had been generously appreciative, and he (like others that evening) had drunk too much—drunk too much wine, had too many liqueurs. When at 11:30 P.M. he had rung his wife to suggest it would be wiser for him to stay in his rooms overnight, she had raised not the slightest objection.

  Neither Michaels, nor Morse, nor Hardinge, was destined to experience the long unbroken sleep that Socrates had spoken of, for each of the three, though for different reasons, had much upon his mind.

  Chapter Forty-six

  A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees

  (William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell)

  Wednesday, the 29th of July, was promising to be a busy day; and so it proved.

  Inspector Johnson had returned from his holiday the day before, and was now au fait with most of the latest developments in the Swedish Maiden case. At 9:30 A.M. he girded his loins—and rang Strange.

  “Sir? Johnson here.”

  “Well?”

  “I’ve been sorry to read things haven’t worked out at Wytham—”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s just that if you’d be prepared to give me the chance of some men in Blenheim again—”

  “No chance. Don’t you realize that while you’ve been lying barearsed on the beaches we’ve had all these bloody joy-riders—”

  “I’ve read all about it, sir. All I was thinking—”

  “Forget it! Morse is in charge now, not you. All right, he’s probably making a bloody mess of it. But so did you! And until I give the say-so, he’s staying fully in charge. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a train to catch.”

  Morse also had a train to catch and left on the ten o’clock for London, where Lewis had arranged for him to meet a representative of the Swedish Embassy (for lunch), and the supervisor of the King’s Cross YWCA (for tea).

  For Lewis himself, after seeing Morse off at Oxford railway station, there were a great many things still to be done. Preliminary enquiries the previous day had strongly suggested—confirmed really—that Morse’s analysis of the case (to which Lewis, and Lewis alone, was hitherto privy) was substantially correct in most respects. Often in the past Morse had similarly been six or so furlongs ahead of the field only later to find himself running on the wrong racecourse. This time, though, it really did look as if the old boy was right; and from Lewis’s point of view it was as if he’d dreamed of the winner the night before and was now just going along to the bookmaker’s to stick a few quid on a horse that had already passed the winning post.

  Fortunately the pressure was temporarily off the troubles at Broadmoor Lea, and it was no difficulty for Lewis to enlist some extra help. Two DCs were assigned to him for the rest of the day; and this pair were soon off to investigate both the City and the County records of car thefts, car break-ins, car vandalism, etc., in the few days immediately following the last sighting of the Swedish Maiden. Carter and Helpston had seemed to Lewis a pretty competent couple; and so, later that Wednesday, it would prove to be the case.

  In mid-morning, Lewis rang The Oxford Mail and spoke to the editor. He’d like to fax some copy—copy which Morse had earlier drafted—for that evening’s edition. All right? No problem, it appeared.

  NEW DEVELOPMENTS IN SWEDISH MAIDEN MYSTERY

  Detective Chief Inspector Morse of the Thames Valley CID is confident that recently unearthed evidence has thrown a completely new light on the baffling case of Karin Eriksson, who disappeared in Oxford more than a year ago, and whose rucksack was discovered soon afterwards in a hedgerow-bottom at Beg-broke. A body found after a search of Wytham Woods has proved not to be that of the Swedish student, and the chief inspector told our reporter that further searches of the area there have now been called off. Murder enquiries continue, however, and it is understood that the focus of police activity is now once again centred on the Blenheim Estate in Woodstock—the scene of the first phase of intensive enquiries just over a year ago.

  The police are also asking anyone to come forward who has any information concerning Dr. Alasdair McBryde, until very recently living at Seckham Villa, Park Town, Oxford. Telephone 0865 846000, or your nearest police station.

  Later in the day both Chief Superintendent Strange and Chief Inspector Johnson were to read this article: the former with considerable puzzlement, the latter with apparently justifiable exasperation.

  And someone else had read the article.

  The slim Selina had been more than a little worried ever since Morse had called at the agency. Not worried about any sin of commission; but about one of omission, since she’d been almost certain, when Morse had asked for anything on McBryde, that there had been a photograph somewhere. Each Christmas the agency had given a modest little canapé-and-claret do; and later that afternoon in Abingdon Road, and temporarily minus the mighty Michelle, she had decided where, if anywhere, the photograph might be. She looked in the files under “Parties, Promotions etc.”, and there it was: a black and white six-by four-inch photograph of about a dozen of them, party hats perched on their heads, wine glasses held high in their hands—a festive, liberally lubricated crew. And there, in the middle, the bearded McBryde, his arms round two female co-revellers.

  Morse had bought a copy of The Times in Menzies bookstall at Oxford railway station. In the context of the case as a whole, the two Letters to the Editor which he read just after Didcot (the crossword finished all but one clue) were not of any great importance. Yet the first was, for Morse, the most memorable letter of them all, recalling a couplet he’d long been carrying around in his mental baggage.

  From Mr. Gordon Potter

  Sir, My interest in the Swedish Maiden verses is minimal; my conviction is that the whole business is a time-consuming hoax. Yet it is time that someone added a brief gloss to the admirable letter printed in your columns (July 24). If we are to seek a priest of Roman Catholic persuasions as the instigator of the verses, let me suggest that he will also almost certainly be an admirer of the greatest poet-scholar of our own century. I refer to A. E. Housman. How else do we explain line 3 of the printed verses (“Dry the azured skylit water”)? Let me quote Norman Marlow in his critical commentary, A. E. Housman, page 145:

  “Two of the most beautiful lines in Housman’s work are surely these:

  And like a skylit water stood The bluebells in the azured wood.

  Here again is a reflection in water, and this time the magic effect is produced by repeating the syllable ‘like’ inside the word ‘skylit’ but inverted as a reflection in water is inverted.”

  Yours faithfully,

  J. GORDON POTTER,

  “Arlington”,

  Leckhampton Road,

  Cheltenham,

  Glos.

  And the second, the sweetest:

&nbs
p; From Miss Sally Monroe

  Sir, “Hunt” (1. 18)? “kiss” (1. 20)? And so far I only know one poem by heart. “Jenny kissed me when we met”, by Leigh Hunt (1784–1859).

  Yours faithfully,

  SALLY MONROE (aged 9 years)

  22 Kingfisher Road,

  Bicester,

  Oxon.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Yonder, lightening other loads,

  The seasons range the country roads,

  But here in London streets I ken

  No such helpmates, only men

  (A. E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad)

  Morse’s day was satisfactory—but little more.

  He had arrived a quarter of an hour late, with the diesel limping the last two miles into Paddington at walking-pace, for reasons (Morse suspected) not wholly known even to the engine-driver. But he still arrived in good time at the Swedish Embassy in Montague Place for his meeting with Ingmar Engström, a slim, blond fellow in his forties, who seemed to Morse to exude a sort of antiseptic cleanliness, yet who proved competent and helpful, and willing to instigate immediate enquiries into the matter which Morse (with the greatest care) explained to him.

  Lunch was brought into Engström’s office, and Morse looked down unenthusiastically at the thin, pale slice of white-pastried quiche, the half jacket potato, and the large separate bowl of undressed salad.