by Colin Dexter
‘Yes we might be able to help in some way. You’re Thames Valley Police you say?’
‘That’s right’
‘Why are you asking for information about this man?’
‘It’s in connection with a with a murder, sir.’
‘I see what’s your number? Can’t be too careful in these things -you’ll know all about that.’ He spoke with the bark of a machine-gun.
So Lewis gave him his number and was rung back inside thirty seconds, and was given an extraordinary piece of information. Private John Gilbert of the Royal Wiltshires had not been killed in the El Alamein campaign. He had played no part in it. The night before the offensive, he had taken his army rifle, placed the muzzle inside his mouth, and shot himself through the brain. The incident had been hushed up on the highest orders; and that for obvious reasons. A few had known, of course – had to know. But “officially” John Gilbert died on active service in the desert, and that is how his family and his friends had been informed.
‘This is all in the strictest confidence, you understand that?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Never good for morale, that sort of thing, eh?’
Morse was having a far less fruitful day. He realized that with the first of his self-imposed assignments he could for the present make little headway, since that would necessitate some far from disagreeable investigations in Soho-a journey he had planned for the morrow. Which only left him with the same old tantalizing problem that had monopolized his mind from the beginning: the identity of the corpse. From the embarrassment of clues contained in Browne-Smith’s letter, the shortest odds must now be surely on the man whom Browne-Smith had finally encountered in London. But who was that man? Had it been Gilbert, as the letter so obviously suggested? Or was the body Westerby’s? If Browne-Smith had killed anyone, then Westerby was surely the most likely of candidates. Or was the body that of someone who had not yet featured in the investigations? Some outsider? Someone as yet unknown who would make a dramatic entry only towards the finale of Act Five? A sort of deus ex machinal Morse doubted this last possibility-and amidst his doubts, quite suddenly the astonishing thought flashed through his mind that there might just be a fourth possibility. And the more Morse pondered the idea, the more he convinced himself that there was: the possibility that the puffed and sodden salt-white corpse was that of Dr Browne-Smith.
On the way home that evening, Lewis decided to risk his w &’s wrath, to face the prospect of almost certainly reheated daps- and to call on Simon Rowbotham in Botley.
Simon Rowbotham invited him into the small terraced bouse in which he lived with his mother. But Lewis declined, learning over the doorstep that Simon had been one of three anglers who had spotted the body, and that it was he, Simon, who had readily volunteered to dial the police in lieu of looking further upon the horror just emerging from the waters. He often fished out along the banks at Thrupp, a good place for specialists such as himself. As it happened, they were just about to form a new angling club there, for which he had volunteered his services as secretary. In fact (just as Lewis had called) he had been checking a proof of the new association’s letter-head for the printer. They had managed to persuade a few well-known people to support them; and clearly, for Simon Rowbotham, the world was entering an exciting phase.
Lewis waited until 8.30 p.m. before ringing Morse (who had been strangely absent somewhere since lunch-time). He found him at his flat and promptly reported on his day’s work.
When he had finished, Morse could hardly keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘Just go over that bit about John Gilbert again, will you, Lewis?’
So Lewis repeated, as accurately as he could recall it, the news he had gleaned from the War Office archivist; and he felt very happy as he did so, for he knew that the news was pleasing to his master-a master, incidentally, who now had guessed the whole truth about the desert episode.
‘You’ve done a marvellous day’s work, old friend. Well done!’
‘Did you find out anything new, sir?’
‘Well, yes and no, really. I’ve-I’ve been thinking about the case for most of the day. But nothing startling.’
‘Anyway, have a good day in London tomorrow, sir!’
‘What Ah yes-tomorrow. I’ll-er-give you a ring if I find out anything exciting.’ -‘Perhaps you’ll do that, sir.’
‘What? Ah yes-perhaps I will.’
A rather sad footnote to the events described in this chapter is that if Lewis had been slightly more interested in the formation of a new angling association and if he had asked to see the proof of the proposed letter-heading (but why should he?), he would have found that one of the two honorary vice-presidents listed at the top left-hand corner of the page was a man with a name which was now very familiar to him: Mr G. Westerby (Lonsdale College, Oxford).
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tuesday, 29th July
Morse appears to have a powerful effect on two women, one of whom he has never met.
For Lewis, a 10 a.m. visit to Lonsdale was pleasantly productive, since the college secretary (she liked Lewis) had brought him a cup of coffee, and been quite willing to talk openly about Westerby as a person. So Lewis made his notes. Then he found out something about cars, since – in spite of Morse’s apparent indifference to the problem – it seemed to him of great importance to discover exactly how the corpse had been transported from London to Thrupp, and he learned that Browne-Smith – doubtless on doctor’s orders – had sold his Daimler a month or so ago, whilst Westerby still ran a red Metro, occasionally to be seen in the college forecourt.
‘Why would Westerby want a car, though?’ asked Lewis. ‘He lived in college.’
‘I don’t know. He’s a bit secretive – doesn’t tell anyone much about what he does.’ ‘He must go somewhere?’
‘I suppose so,’ she nodded vaguely.
‘Nice little car, the Metro. Economical!’
‘Roomy in the back, too. You can take the seats out, you know -get no end of stuff in there.’
‘So they tell me, yes.’
‘You’ve got a car, Sergeant?’
‘I’ve got an old Mini, but I don’t use it much. Usually go to work on the bus and then use a police car.’
The college secretary looked down at her desk. ‘Has Inspector Morse got a car?’
Lewis found it an odd question. ‘He’s got a Lancia, He’s had a Lancia ever since I’ve known him.’
‘You’ve known him long?’
‘Long enough.’
‘Is he a nice man?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly call him “nice”.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘I don’t think you “like” Morse. He’s not that sort of person, really.’
‘But you get on well with him?’
‘Usually. You see-well, he’s the most remarkable man I’ve ever met, that’s all.’
‘He must think you’re a remarkable man-if he works with you all the time, I mean.’
‘No! I’m just, well…’ Lewis didn’t quite know how to finish, but he felt more than a little pride in the shadow of the compliment. ‘Do you know him, then, miss?’
She shook her pretty head. ‘He spoke to me over the phone once, that’s all.’
‘Oh he’s terrible over the phone-always sounds so, I don’t know, so cocky and nasty, somehow.’
‘You mean… he’s not really like that?’
‘Not really,’ said Lewis quietly. Then he noticed that the gentle eyes of the college secretary had suddenly drifted away from himself, and out towards a man she had never known or even seen. Momentarily he felt a twinge of jealousy.
Morse!
Down the dingy red-carpeted stairs, through the dingy red curtains, Morse, at 11 a.m., followed the same path that Browne-Smith had trodden eighteen days before him. He sat at a table in the Flamenco Topless Bar, and transacted his business with a milky white maiden. It didn’t take him long; and, after that Browne-Smith’s spunky
antagonist behind the bar had proved no match for him, since for some reason she could not conceive of suggesting to this man, with the blue-grey eyes and the thinning, grey-black hair, that he could go across the way to the Sauna if he wanted any further sexual gratification. He seemed to her coldly detached; and when he looked at her with eyes intensely still, she found herself answering his questions almost hypnotically. Thus it was that Morse, in a short space of time had penetrated the door marked “Private” at the rear of the drinking lounge.
At 1 p.m. he was riding in a taxi to an address he had known anyway -the address already pencilled firmly in his mind when that same morning he had left the Number One platform at Oxford on the 9.12 train. Perhaps he should have short-circuited the whole process; but on the whole he thought not, even though he had felt not the vaguest stir of virility as one of the girls had sat opposite him, sipping her exotic juice. So far so good; and comparatively easy. The outlines of the pattern had been confirmed at every stage: Gilbert (one of twins, as Lewis had told him-interesting!) had quite fortuitously found a client in Oxford; and opposite his client’s room he’d seen, in Gothic script, a name that for some reason was indelibly printed on his mind; with (doubtless) considerable ingenuity, had lured this man to London-lured him to the address which Morse had just given to his taxi-driver, the same address that Morse had memorized from the wooden crates in the rooms Westerby on Staircase T: 29 Cambridge Way, London, WC1. But what had happened after the suspicious and resourceful Browne-Smith had faced his second test of personal courage? What exactly had occurred when “Yvonne” had left… and someone else had entered?
Such thoughts occupied Morse’s mind as the taxi made its way (by an extremely circuitous route, it seemed to Morse) to Cambridge Way. Yet there were other thoughts, too: he could, of course, claim full expenses for his train fare (first class, although he usually travelled second), tube fare, taxi fare, subsistence… Yes, he might just make enough on the day to settle down happily in the buffet car on his return and enjoy a couple of Scotches at someone else’s expense. But would he be justified in sticking down on his claims-form such a ludicrous-looking item as “Flamenco Revenge-£6”? On the whole, he thought, probably not. He alighted, and stood alone in front of Number 29.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tuesday, 29th July
Lewis retraces some of his steps, and makes some startling new discoveries.
Lewis was back at Police HQ by 11.30 a.m., sensing that without further directions from on high he had gone as far as he was likely to go. But just for the moment he felt a little resentful about taking too many orders; and by noon he had taken the firm decision to revisit the scene of the crime. He didn’t quite know why.
After drinking half a pint of bitter in the Boat Inn, he walked out along the road by the canal and up to Aubrey’s Bridge. But there were no fishermen there this morning, and he turned his attention to his left as he walked slowly along, noting once more the authoritative notices posted regularly along the low, neat terrace: ‘No mooring opposite these cottages.’ The people here here obviously jealous of their acquired territories-doubtless rich enough, too, to own boats of their own and to regard it as some divine right that they should moor such craft immediately opposite their neatly painted porches.
Then something stirred in Lewis’s mind__If all these people were so anxious to preserve their rights and their privacy; if all those sharp eyes there were jealously watching the waterfront for the first signs of any territorial trespass-then,
in this quiet cul-de-sac that led to nowhere, where there was hardly room enough to execute a six-point turn in a car… yes! Surely, someone must have seen something? For the body must quite certainly have been pushed into the canal from the back of a car. How else? And yet Lewis, who had himself earlier questioned the tenants, had learned nothing of any strange car. Understandably, not every cottage had been inhabited at the time; the owners of some had been away -boating, or shopping in Oxford, or waiting in high places in large cities to motor down for a weekend of rural relaxation in their quiet country cottages.
Lewis had now reached the end of his walk, looking down as he did so at the water wherein the hideous body had been found. From this perusal he learned nothing. As he made his way back, however, he saw that the third cottage from the far end was “For Sale”, and he began to wonder whether such a property might not perhaps make a nice little investment for himself and the missus when he retired. Retired… And suddenly an exciting thought occurred to him. He knocked loudly on the door of the house for sale. No answer. Then he knocked at the house next door, which was opened by a freckle-faced lad of about twelve years of age.
‘Is your mum in-or your dad?’
‘No.’
‘I was just trying to find out something about the house here.’ Lewis pointed to the empty property.
‘They want twenny thousand forrit-and it’s got a leaky roof.’
‘Lot of money,’ said Lewis.
‘Not worth it. It’s been on the market a couple of months.’
Lewis nodded, sizing up this embryo property-evaluator. ‘You live here?’
The boy nodded.
‘Did you know the people next door-before it was for sale?’
‘Not “people”.’
‘No?’
The young lad looked vaguely suspicious, but he blinked and agreed: ‘No.’
‘Look!’ said Lewis. ‘I’m a policeman and-’
‘I know. I saw you when you was here before.’
‘Shouldn’t you have been at school?’
‘I had the measles, didn’t I? I was watching from the bedroom.”
‘You didn’t see anything sort of suspicious-before that, I mean?’
The boy shook his head.
‘You say it wasn’t “people” next door?’
‘He’s not in any trouble, is he?’ The freckled face looked up at Lewis anxiously, as if it were a matter of deep concern to him that any trouble might have befallen the previous owner of the house next door.
‘Not so far as I know.’
The boy looked down at the threshold and spoke quietly: ‘He was good to me. Took me out in his Metro to King’s Weir, once. Super fisherman he was-Mr Westerby.’
A Jaguar’s horn blared imperiously as Lewis turned left on to the main road down to Kidlington, and he knew his mind was full of other things. He had just discovered a quite extraordinarily significant link between Westerby and the waterfront at Thrupp. And if someone had taken a body from London to Thrupp in a car (as someone must have done), there would have been no suspicions aroused by the familiar sight of a red Metro. No trouble at all. Not if that someone who had brought the body had lived there himself. What was more, this was the only car that had cropped up in the case so far, for Dr Browne-Smith had sold his large, black Daimler…
Lewis turned into HQ and sat down at Morse’s desk, giving his bubbling thoughts the chance to simmer down. The green box-file containing the few documents on the case was lying open before him, and he riffled through the sheets – most of them his own reports. In fact (he told himself) there were only two real clues, anyway, whatever anyone might say: the suit, and the torn letter. Yes… and that torn letter was here, in his hands now – together with Morse’s neatly written reconstruction of the whole. He looked down at the torn half once more, and the final “G” in line 7 and the final “J” in line 15 suddenly shot out at him from the page. Could it be?
He parked the police car half on the pavement outside the Examination Schools and felt like a nervous punter in a betting-shop who can hardly bear to read the latest 1,2,3 The lists were still posted around the entrance hall, and quickly he found the board announcing the final honours list for Geography and read through the names. Whew! It not only could be-it was. “Jennifer Bennet”. There she perched at the top of the list – that wonderful girl beginning with “J” whom he had found on a board beginning with “G”. And the college-Lonsdale. Lewis could hardly believe his eyes,
or his luck. And there was more to come, for the bottom name of the examining sextet was none other than Westerby’s!
It was an excited Lewis who drove back to Kidlington; but, even as he drove, the conflicting nature of his morning’s findings was slowly becoming apparent to him. Most of what he had discovered was pointing with an insistent regularity in one direction-in the direction of George Westerby. And with Browne-Smith as the body and Westerby as the murderer, almost everything fitted the facts beautifully. Except… except that last bit. Because if the letter had been written to Westerby and not to Browne-Smith… oh dear! Lewis was beginning to feel a little lost. He wondered if Morse had spent such a successful morning in London. He doubted it-doubted it genuinely. But how he longed to talk to Morse!
Back in the office, Lewis typed up his findings and although spelling had never been Lewis’s strong suit, yet he felt rather pleased with his present reports, particularly with his little vignette of Westerby:
Londoner. Little dapper bumshious fellow -slightly deaf- pretty secretive. Tends to squint a bit, but this may be the usual cigarette at the corner of his mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Tuesday, 29th July
Unable to get any answer from the house in Cambridge Way, Morse now reflects upon his meeting with the manager of the Flamenco Topless Bar.
Like Browne-Smith before him, Morse walked slowly up the shallow steps of Number 29 and rang the bell. But he, too, heard no sound of ringing on the other side of the great black door. He rang again, noticing as he did so the same board that Browne-Smith must have seen, with its invitation to apply to “Brooks & Gilbert (Sole Agents)”. Almost imperceptibly he nodded; almost imperceptibly he smiled. But there was still no sign of any movement in the house, and he bent down to look through the highly polished brass letter-box. He could make out the light-olive carpeting on the wide staircase that faced him; but the place seemed ominously silent. He walked across the street lad looked up at the four-storied building, admiring the clean-cut architecture, and the progressively foreshortened oblongs of the window-frames, behind which – as far as he could see – there was not the slightest tell-tale twitching of the curtainings. So he walked away along the street, entered a small park, and sat down on a bench, where he communed for many minutes with the pigeons, and with his thoughts. On the taxi-journey he had sought in his mind to minimize the risks he had already run that moring; and yet, as he now began to realize, those risks had been decidedly dangerous, especially after he had walked through the door marked “Private”… He’d started off in the quiet monotone of a man whose authority was beyond that of other men: ‘It matters to me not a single fart in the cosmos, lad, whether you tell me about it here and now, or in one of the cells of Her Majesty’s nearest nick.’
