by Colin Dexter
As he had hitherto analysed the case, assessing motive and opportunity and means, Morse had succeeded in con-vincing himself that two or perhal)s three persons, acting to some degree in concert, had probably been responsible for Brooks's murder. Each of the three (as Morse saw things) would have regarded the death of Brooks, though for slightly different reasons, as of eonsiderable benefit to the human race.
Three suspects.
Three women: the superficially gentle Brenda Brooks, who had suffered sorely in the o1 of the neglected and maltreated wife; the enigmatic IVlrs. Stevens, who had de veloped a strangely strong bond between herself and her cleaning-lady; and the step-daughter, Eleanor Smith, who had left home in her mid-teens, abused (how could Morse know?) mentally, or verbally, or physically, or sexually even....
Women set apart from the rest of their kind by the sign of the murderer--by the mark of Cain.
A confusing figuration of "if's" had permutated itself in Morse's restless brain that previous night, filtering down to exactly the same shortlist as before, since the Final Arbiter had handed to Morse the same three envelopes. In the first, as indeed in the second, the brief verdict was typed out in black letters: "Not Guilty"; but in the third, Morse had read the even briefer verdict, typed out here in red capitals: "GUILTY." And the name on the front of the third envelope was--Eleanor Smith.
For almost an hour, Morse and Lewis had spoken together that morning: spoken of thoughts, ideas, hypotheses. And when he returned from the canteen with two cups of coffee at 8 A.M., Lewis stated, starkly and incontrovertibly, the simple truth they both had to face: "You know, I just don't see--I just can't see--how · Brenda Brooks, or this Mrs. Stevens--how either of them could have done it. We've not exactly had a video-camera on them since the knife was stolen--but not far off. All right, they'd got enough motive. But I just don't see when they had the opportunity."
"Nor do I," said Morse quietly. And Lewis was encour to continue.
"I know what you mean about Mrs. Stevens, sir. And I agree. There's somebody pretty clever behind all this, and she's the only one of the three who's got the brains to have thought it all out. But as I say...'
Morse appeared a little pained as Lewis continued: "... she couldn't have done it. And Mrs. Brooks couldn't have done it either, could she? She's got the best motive of any of them, and she'd probably have the nerve as well. But she couldn't have planned it all, surely, even if somehow she bad the opportunity--at night, say, after she got back from Stratford. I just don't see it."
"Nor do I," repeated Morse, grimacing as he sipped an-other mouthful of weak, luke-warm coffee.
"So unless we're looking in completely the wrong direction, sir, that only leaves..."
But Morse was only half listening. "Unless," Lewis had just said... the same word the Warden had used the pre-vious day when he'd been talking of the red-and-white striped barrier. In Morse's mind there'd earlier been a log-ical barrier to his hypothesis that Brooks's body must have been taken to the Thames in some sort of vehicle--as well as that literal barrier. But the Warden had merely lifted that second barrier, hadn't he? Just physically lifted it out of the way.
So what if he, Morse, were now to lift that earlier barrier, too?
"Lewis! Get the car, and nip along and have a word with the headmaster of the Proctor Memorial. Tell him we'd like to see Mrs. Stevens again. We can either go round to her house or, if she prefers, she can come here."
"Important, is it, sir?"
"Oh, yes," said Morse. "And while you're at it, you can drop me off at the path lab. I want another quick word with the lovely Laura."
Chapter Fifty-eight
Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen (Hebrews, ch .11, v .1)
Coming out of her lab to greet Morse, Dr. Laura Hobso appeared incongruously contented with her work. Sb pointed to the door behind her.
"You'd better not go in there, Chief Inspector. Not fi the minute. We've nearly finished, though--the main bit anyway."
"Anything interesting?"
"Do you call stomach contents interesting?"
"No."
"Looks as if they've got some vague prints all righ though--on the knife. I'll keep my fingers crossed for yo We're all hoping, you know that."
"Thank you." Morse hesitated. "It may sound a bit fa fetched I know, but..."
"Yes?"
"The knife--I'm doing a little bit of hoping myself-knife used to murder Mc Clure was very similar to"--Mors nodded towards the main lab---"to the knife that was stole from the Pitt Rivers."
"Yes, I knew that."
"What I was wondering is this. Is there any possibility-any possibility at all--that Brooks was murdered with a other knife---one of the same type, one with the same so of blade--then for the knife you've got in there--the on Cotin Ixtr with the possible prints on it--to be stuck in him.., after-wards?" Laura Hobson looked at him curiously.
"Have two knives, you mean? Stick one in him, take it out, then stick the other in?"
Morse looked uneasy, yet there was still some flicker of hope in his face. "When I said 'afterwards,' I meant, well, a few hours later---a day even.`?"
With a sad smile, she shook her head. "No chance. Un-less your murderer's got the luck of the devil and the skill of a brain-surgeon--"
"Or a boy with a model-aeroplane kit.'?"
"---you'd have some clear external evidence of the two incisions--and don't forget he was stabbed through his clothes."
"And there aren't...?"
"No. No signs at all. Besides that, though, you'd have all the internal evidence: the two separate termini of the knife points; two distinct sets of lacerations on either side of "
"I see, yes," mumbled Morse.
"I don't know whether you do, though. Look! Let me ex-plain. Whenever you have a knife-wound--"
"Please, not!" said Morse. "I believe all you say. It's just that I've never been able to follow all these physiological labellings. They didn't teach us any of that stuff at school."
"I know," said Laura quietly. "You did Greek instead.
You told me once, remember, in our.., in our earlier days, Chief Inspector.`?"
Feeling more than a little embarrassed, Morse avoided her eyes.
"How would it have helped, anyway.`?" continued Laura, in a more business-like tone.
"Well, I've been assuming all along that the theft of the knife from the Pitt Rivers was a blind: a blind to establish an alibi, or alibis; to try to establish the fact that Brooks wasn't murdered until after the knife was stolen."
She nodded, appreciating the point immediately. "You mean, if he'd been murdered on a particular day with one knife, and then, the day after, a second knife was stolen; and if the f Lrst knife was subsequently removed from the body, and the second knife inserted into the wound--pet like the police like you, could well have been misled al the time of death."
"That's a splendidly constructed sentence," said "Waste of breath, though, really. I wouldn't have misled."
"You're sure?"
"Ninety4nine per cent sure."
"Could you just rule out the other one per cent--for Please?"
"Waste of time. But I will, yes, if that's what you "I'm very grateful."
"Don't you want to see the contents of his pockets? clothes?"
"I suppose I ought to, yes."
Again she looked at him curiously. "It's as if yot been putting your.., well, your faith in something, isn'
And I feel I've let you down."
"I lost all my faith a long time ago, I'm afraid."
"Much better to have evidence, in our job."
Morse nodded; and followed Laura Hobson's sba[ legs into a side-room, where she gestured to a table by window.
'Tll leave you to it, Chief Inspector."
Morse sat down and first looked through the official Possession Property" form, listing the items found Brooks's person.
The wallet which had been removed at the river-sid establi
sh identity (and which Morse had already 1oo through, anyway) was among the items, and he quickly amined its few (now dry) contents once more: one: note; one 5 pounds note; a Lloyds Bank plastic card; an ID c for the Pitt Rivers Museum; a card showing official mc bership of the East Oxford Conservative Club. Noth else. No photographs; no letters.
Nor were the other items listed and laid out there small transparent bags of any obvious interest: a comb; a white handkerchief; 2 pounds 74 pencein assorted coina what had once been a half-packet of now melted indig tion tablets; and a bunch of seven keys. It was this latter item only which appeared to Morse worthy of some brief consideration.
The biggest key, some 3 inches in length, was grimy dark-brown in colour, and looked like a door-key; as per-haps did the two Yale keys, one a khaki colour, the other shinily metallic. The other four keys were (possibly?) tbr things like a garden shed or a bicycle-lock or a briefcase or a box or... But Morse's brain was suddenly engaged now: the fourth small key, a sturdy, silvery key, had the number "X10" stamped upon it; and Morse gazed through the win-dow, and wondered. Was it one of a set of keys? A key to what? A key to where? Would it help to spend a few hours sorting out these seven keys and matching them to their locks? Probably not. Probably a waste of time. But he ought to do it, he knew that. So he would do it. Or rather he'd get Lewis to do it.
From the dead man's clothing Morse quickly decided that nothing could be gleaned which could further the in-vestigation one whit; and he was standing up now, preparing to leave, when Laura came back into the small room.
Phone-call for Morse. Sergeant Lewis. In her office.
Lewis was ringing from the Head's office of the Proctor Memorial School. Mrs. Julia Stevens had been granted temporary leave from her duties. Well, indefinite leave really---but the terminological inexactitude had avoided any difficult embarrassment all round. She would not be returning to school, ever; she had only a few months to live; and a supply teacher had already taken over her classes. Soon everyone would have to know, of course; but not yet. She wasn't at home, though; she'd gone away on a brief holiday, abroad the Head had known that, too. Gone off with a friend, destination unknown.
"Do we know who the friend is?" asked Morse. "Well, you do, don't you?"
"I could make a guess."
"Makes you wonder if they're guilty after all, doesn't it?"
"Or innocent," suggested Morse slowly.
The condition of Kevin Costyn was markedly improved.
With no surgery now deemed necessary, he had been re-moved from the ICU the previous lunchtime; and already the police had been given permission to interview him--at least about the accident.
Very soon he would be interviewed about other matters, too. But although he was reluctantly willing to talk about ram-raiding and stolen vehicles, he would say nothing whatsoever about the murder of Edward Brooks. He may have lied and cheated his way through life, but there was one promise, now, that he was never going to break.
Seated in the sunshine outside a small but fairly expensive hotel overlooking La Place de la Concorde, Julia reached out and clinked her friend's glass with her own; and both women smiled.
"How would you like to live here, Brenda?"
"Lordy me! Lovely. Lovely, isn't it, Mrs. Stevens?"
"Anywhere you'd rather be T'
"Oh no. This is the very best place in the whole world--apart from Oxford, of course."
Since she'd arrived, Julia had felt so very tired; but so very happy, too.
Chapter Fifty-nine
St. Anthony of Egypt (c .251-356 AD): hermit and founder of Christian monasticism. An ascetic who freely admitted to being sorely beset by virtually every temptation, and most especially by sexual temptation. Tradition has it that he fre-quently invited a nightly succession of naked women to pa-rade themselves in front of him as he lay, hands manacled behind his back, in appropriately transparent yet not wholly claustrophobic sacking (SIMON SM^LL, An Irreverent Survey of the Saints)
At 9:30 n.M. on Tuesday, September 27, Morse walked down the High from Carfax. There were several esteemed jewellers' shops there, he knew that; and he looked in their windows. He was somewhat uncertain, however, of what exactly to purchase--and wholly uncertain about whether his present errand was being made easier, or more difficult, by his strong suspicion now that it had been Eleanor Smith who had murdered her step-father (the same Eleanor who had formally identified the body the previous day). Perh[s in a sense it was going to be easier, though, since in probability he wasn't looking for a wedding present longer, the prospect of an imminent marriage now seemi. g increasingly remote. Yet for some reason he still wanted buy the girl a present: a personal present.
Something like Lewis had suggested.
"How much is that?" he asked a young female assist in the shop just across from the Covered Market.
"Nice little pendant, isn't it, sir? Delicate, tasteful, and quite inexpensive, really."
"How much is it T' repeated Morse.
"Only 5, sir."
Only!
Morse looked down at the representation on the tiny oval pendant of--of somebody? "St. Christopher, is it?"
"St. Anthony, sir. A well-known Christian saint."
"I thought he was the patron saint of lost property."
"Perhaps you're thinking of a later St. Anthony?"
But Morse wasn't. He thought there'd only been one St. Anthony.
"If... if I bought this, I'd need a chain as well, wouldn't I?"
"It would be difficult to wear without a chain, yes." She was laughing at him, Morse knew that; but it hadn't been a very bright question. And very soon he was survey-Lng a large selection of chains: chains with varied silver- or gold-content; chains of slightly larger or slightly smaller links; chains of different lengths; chains of differing prices.
So Morse made his purchase: pendant plus chain (the cheapest).
Then, after only a few steps outside the jeweller's up to-wards Carfax Tower, he performed a sudden U-mm, returning to the shop and asking if he could please exchange the chain (not the pendan0 for something a little more expen-sive.
The assistant (still smiling at him?) was happily co-operative; and five minutes later Morse started walking once again up towards Carfax. With a different chain. With the most expensive chain there. He was ready for the interview.
When earlier he had rung Eleanor Smith, she had sounded in no way surprised that the police should wish to take her fingerprintsfor "elimination purposes," as Morse had empha.sised. And when he'd explained that it was against the rule-book for anyone who had been at the scene of the river-side discovery (as he had been) to go anywhere near the homes of those who might possibly be involved with the, er, the investigation, she'd agreed to go along to Thames Valley HQ. A car would pick her up. At 11:15 A.M.
Morse just had time to call in at Sainsbury's supermar-ket, on the Kidlington roundabout, where he made his few purchases swiftly, and found himself the only person at the "small-basket" check-out. Just the four items, in fact: two small tins of baked beans; one small brown loaf; and a bottle of Glenfiddich.
Chapter Sixty
When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride, He shouts to scare the monster, who will often mm aside. But the sbe-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
(RODYARD KIPLING, The Female of the Species)
"What line are you going to take with her, sir?"
"I'm not at all sum. All I know is that if any of our three ladies actually murdered Brooks--and pretty certainly one of them did--we can forget the other two, wherever they' re sunning themselves at the minute. It's odds on that one o? them, or both of them, had some part to play in the plot: but I'm sure that neither of them could have murdered Brooks. It's a physical impossibility, knowing what we do about dates and times. But she could have done. Ellie Smith could have done--if only just. She went to Birming-ham that Wednesday--you've checked on
that. But we can't be sure when she came back, can we? You see, it she'd come back an hour, even half an hour earlier..."
"She could have stolen the knife, you mean?"
"Or she could have got someone to steal it for her."
"Ashley Davies."
"Yes. Could well have been. Then he gets his reward: he gets the hand of the increasingly desirable Miss Smith-a young woman he's had his lecherous eyes on even when she was a sleep-around-with-anybody girl."
"What about the a Uendant at the Pitt Rivers, though? He says he probably saw this young fellow Costyn there."
"It's always dodgy though--this identification business. We can't rely on tha L"
Lewis nodded. "He doesn't seem to have any real link with the case, anyway."
"Except with Mrs. Stevens. She taught him, remember. And I suppose if he's on drugs or something--got a regular habit to feed--short of cash--and if she was prepared to pay---"
"You mean she got him to steal the knife--for somebody else? For Ellie Smith, say?"
"Who else?"
"But you've always thought "
"Give it a bloody rest, Lewis, will you?" snarled Morse. "Do you think I get any pleasure from all this? Do you think I want to get Ellie Smith in here this morning and take her prints and tell her that she's a bloody liar and that she knifed her sod of a stepfather?"
He got up and walked to the window.
"No, I don't think that," said the ill-used Lewis quietly.
"It's just that I'm getting confused, that's all."
"And you think I'm not?"
No, Lewis didn't think that. And he wondered whether his next little item of news was likely to clarify or further to befuddle the irascible Chief Inspector's brain.
"While you were shopping, I went down to Wolsey and had another look in Mrs. Ewers's pantry."
"Well, something rang a bit of a bell when we found Bmoks's body: those plastic bags. Do you remember when we first went to the staircase?"
'qhe pile of them there in the pantry, yes."
Lewis sought to hide his disappointment. "You never said anything."
'q'here's no end of those around."