by Colin Dexter
The phone rang whilst Lewis was gone. It was Max.
‘Spending most of your time in Soho, I hear, Morse.’
‘I’ll let you into a secret, Max. My sexual appetite grows stronger year by year. What about yours?’
‘About that leg. Lewis tell you about it?’
‘He did.’
‘Remember that piece you put in the paper? You got the colour of your socks wrong.’
‘What do you expect. I hadn’t got a leg to go on, had I?”
‘They were purple!’
‘Nice colour-purple.’
‘With green suede shoes?’
‘You don’t dress all that well yourself sometimes.’
‘You said they were blue!’
‘Just sucking the blinker out in the middle of a blizzard.’
‘What? What?’
‘I’ve not had your report yet.’
‘Will it help?’
‘Probably.’
‘You know who it is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Want to tell me?’
So Morse told him; and for once the humpbacked man was lost for words.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Monday, 4th August
We near the end, with two miles and four furlongs of the long and winding road now completed.
‘We found the body,’ resumed Morse, ‘on Wednesday the 23rd, and the odds are that it had been in the water about three days. So the man must have been murdered either the previous Saturday or Sunday.’
‘He could have been murdered a few days before that, surely?’
‘No chance. He was watching the telly on the Friday night!’
Lewis let it go. If Morse was determined to mystify him, so be it. He’d not interfere again unless he could help it. But one plea he did make. ‘Why don’t you simply tell me what you think happened-even if you’re not quite sure about it here and there?’
‘All right. A third man goes to London on Saturday the 19th, taking up an offer which nobody in this case seems able to refuse. This time, though, all the initial palaver is probably dispensed with, and there’s no intermediary stop at the topless bar. This third man is murdered-by Browne-Smith. And if both the Gilberts were there, we’ve got four men on the scene with a body on their hands-a body they’ve got to get rid of. Of the four men, Westerby is wetting his pants with panic; and after a few tentative arrangements are made with him, he goes off- not, as we know, back to Oxford, but to a cheap hotel near Paddington. The other three-I think that Bert had probably kept out of the way while Westerby was still there-now confer about what can and what must be done. The body can’t just be dumped anyhow and anywhere-for reasons that’ll soon be clear, Lewis. It’s going to be necessary, it’s agreed, to sever the head, and to sever the hands. That gruesome task is performed, in London, by one of the Gilberts-I should think by Bert, the cruder of the pair-who promises Browne-Smith that the comparatively uncumbrous items he’s just detached can be I disposed of safely and without difficulty. Then two of the three, Browne-Smith and Ben Gilbert, drive off to Oxford in Westerby’s Metro-and with Westerby’s prior consent. It’s probably the only car immediately available anyway; but it’s got one incalculable asset, as you know, Lewis.
‘Once in Oxford-this is late Sunday evening now-Browne-Smith lets himself into Lonsdale via the back door in The High and goes into his rooms and takes one item only-a suit. I’m pretty sure, by the way, that it must have been on a second trip to his rooms, later-after Westerby decided he’d little option but to cancel his Greek holiday-that he took the Lonsdale College stamp and one of his Macedonian postcards. Anyway, the two men drive out to Thrupp-the only likely stretch of water either of ‘em can think of-where they stop, without any suspicion being roused, in Westerby’s car, outside Westerby’s cottage, to which Bert Gilbert has the key. Once inside with the body, Gilbert is willing (what he was paid for all this we shall never know!) to perform the final grisly task-of taking off the dead man’s clothes and re-dressing him in Browne-Smith’s suit. Then, long after the Boat Inn is closed, the two men carry the body the hundred yards or so along to the one point where no boats are moored or can be moored: the bend in the canal by Aubrey’s Bridge. The job’s done. It must have been in the early hours when the two of them get back to London, where the faithless Bert returns to his faithful Emily, and Browne-Smith to his room in the Station Hotel at Paddington. All right so far?’
‘Are you making some of it up, sir?’
‘Of course I bloody am! But it fits the clues, doesn’t it? And what the hell else can I do? They’re all dead, these johnnies. I’m just using what we know to fill in what we don’t know. You don’t object, do you? I’m just trying, Lewis, to match up the facts with the psychology of the four men involved. What do you think happened?’
Morse always got cross (as Lewis knew) when he wasn’t sure of himself, especially when ‘psychology’ was involved-a subject Morse affected to despise; and Lewis regretted his interruption. But one thing worried him sorely: ‘Do you really think Browne-Smith would have had the belly for all that business?’
‘He wasn’t a congenital murderer, if that’s what you mean. But the one real mystery in this case is that one man-Browne-Smith-actually did so many inexplicable things. And there’s more to come! What we’ve got to do, Lewis, is not to explain behaviour but to consider facts. And there’s a very sad but also a very simple factual explanation of all this, as you know. I rang up a fellow in the Medical Library to learn something about brain-tumours, and he was telling me about the completely irrational behaviour that can sometimes result… Yes… I wonder just what Olive Mainwearing of Manchester actually did…’
‘Pardon, sir?’
‘You see, Lewis, we’re not worried about his belly-we’re worried about his mind. Because he acted with such a weird combination of envy, cunning, remorse, and just plain ambivalence, that I can’t begin to fathom his motives.’ Morse shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Lewis. I’m just beginning to realize what a fine thing it is to have a mind like mine that’s mainly motivated by thoughts of booze and sex- infinitely healthier! But let’s go on. Just one more point about the body. Murderers aren’t usually quite as subtle as people think; and you were absolutely right, as you know, when you mentioned that pleasure-cruiser off the Bahamas or somewhere. In Max’s first report he said the legs were sheared off far more neatly than the other bits-and it’s now clear that a boat propeller hit the body and lopped the legs off. Well done!’
Lewis remained silent, deciding not to raise the subject of the corpse’s socks.
‘Back to Browne-Smith. His actions that next week are even stranger in some ways. Abyssus humanae conscientiael’
Again, even more praiseworthily, Lewis remained silent.
‘On the Monday his conscience was crucifying him, and he writes me-me-a long letter. I just don’t know why we had the devious delivery through the bank… unless he thought he’d be giving himself a few days’ grace in which he could cancel his confession. Because that’s what it was. But it was something else, too. If you read the letter carefully, it contains a much more subtle message: in spite of vilifying Westerby throughout, it completely and deliberately exonerates him! And make no mistake; it was certainly Browne-Smith himself who wrote that letter. I knew him, and no one else could have caught that dry, exact, pernickity style. It’s almost as though with one half of his fevered brain he wanted us – wanted me, one of his old pupils – to find out the whole truth; and yet at the same time the other half of his brain was trying to stop us all the time with those messages and cards… I dunno, Lewis.’
‘I think the psychologists have a word for that sort of thing,’ ventured Lewis.
‘Well we won’t bother about that, will we!’
The phone rang in the ensuing silence.
‘That’s good… Well done!’ said Morse.
‘Can you describe them a bit?’ asked Morse.
‘Yes, I thought so,’ said Morse.
‘No. Not the nicest job in the world, I agree. It’ll be all right if I send my sergeant?’ asked Morse.
‘Fine. Tomorrow, then. And I’m grateful to you for ringing. It’ll put a sort of finishing touch to things,’ said Morse.
‘Who was that, sir?’
‘Do you know, there’ve been some thousands of occasions in my life when I’ve looked forward to a third pint of beer, but I can’t ever recollect looking forward to a third cup of coffee before!’
He held out the plastic cup, and once more Lewis walked away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Monday, 4th August
Morse almost completes his narrative of the main events – with a little help from his imaginative faculties.
Only recently had Morse encountered the use of the word; “faction” in the sense of a combination of fact and fiction. Yet such a combination was all he could claim in any convincing reconstruction of the final events of the present case. While Lewis was away, therefore, he reminded himself of the few awkward facts remaining that had to be fitted somehow into the puzzle: the fact that he had been forcibly (significantly?) detained for an extra half-hour after his interrogation of the manager of the topless bar; that the door of Number 29, Cambridge Way had (for what reason?) been finally opened to him; that the head of Gerardus Mercator had been prominently (accusingly?) displayed on the mantelpiece of Westerby’s living-room; that an affluent Arab, doubtless a resident in the property, had looked round at him with such puzzlement (and suspicion?); and that somehow (via Browne-Smith?) Bert Gilbert had discovered Westerby’s address in London, and (via the fire-escape?) managed to enter Westerby’s room. Thus it was that when Lewis returned Morse was ready with his eschatology.
‘The manager of the Flamenco, Lewis, has a wife, called “Racquet”. When I got there, he tipped her the wink that something was seriously askew, and she made an urgent phone-call to’ ‘Mr Sullivan” – alias Alfred Gilbert – who in turn told her that whatever happened they’d got to keep me in the place for a while. Why? Clearly because there was something that had to be done quickly, something that could be done quickly, before I turned up in Cambridge Way. The Gilberts, you see, were already collecting their pickings from Browne-Smith, but not as yet from Westerby. And so to remind Westerby that he was still up to his neck in hot water, too, they’d decided on a most appropriate niche for a corpse’s head-that space in one of Westerby’s crates where another head had originally nestled. It was imperative, therefore, that one of the Gilberts – Alfred, as it turned out-should go and clear away the damning evidence waiting in Westerby’s flat. But late that same morning Westerby himself decided that it was reasonably safe now for him to return to his flat, and the first thing he saw there was the head of Mercator on the mantelpiece, and he suspected the grim truth immediately. Which is more than I did, Lewis! When Alfred
Gilbert let himself in, Westerby was probably just opening the fateful crate; and somehow Westerby killed him-’
‘Sir! That’s not good enough. How did he do it? And why should he need to do it? They were both accomplices, surely?’
Morse nodded. ‘Yes, they were. But just think a minute, Lewis, and try to picture things. Alfred Gilbert is in a frenetic rush to reach Cambridge Way. He doesn’t know why the police have got on to Cambridge Way, but he does know what they’ll find if they visit Westerby’s flat. They’ll find what he himself and his brother have left there, almost certainly with the intention of some future blackmail. And, as I say, that evidence has got to be removed with the utmost urgency. So he lets himself into the flat, never expecting to find Westerby there, and never, I suspect, actually seeing him anyway. Westerby’s got his hearing-aid plugged in, although, as your own notes say, Lewis, he’s only slightly deaf; and when he hears the scrape of the key in the lock, he beats a panic-stricken retreat into the bathroom, where he watches the intruder through the hinged gap of the partially open door.
‘Now Westerby himself hasn’t the faintest idea that the police are on their way, has he? What he suspects-what he’s been strongly suspecting even before opening the crate-is that it’s been Gilbert – who else? – who’s misled him so wickedly. Instead of Gilbert getting rid of the murdered man’s head, that same head is resting even now in one of his own crates! He’s just found it! I think he sees in a flash how crude, how indescribably callous, his so-called accomplice has been. He sees something else, too, Lewis. He sees Gilbert walking straight over to the crate, and at that point he knows who it is who’s been plotting to implicate him further-doubtless for even more money-in this tragic and increasingly hopeless mess. He feels in his soul a savage compulsion to rid himself of that fiend who’s kneeling over the crate, and he creeps back into the room and with all the force he can muster he stabs his screwdriver between those shoulder-blades.
‘Then? Well, I can only guess that Westerby must have dragged him into the bathroom straightway: because while there were no blood-stains on the carpet, the bathroom floor had only just been cleaned. Yes, I saw that, Lewis!
‘Next, using the bunch of keys he found in Gilbert’s pocket, Westerby took the body up in the lift to the top-floor flat – a flat be knew was still vacant-a flat he’d probably looked over himself when he was deciding on his future home. He locked away the body in a cupboard there, then went down again, cleaned up his own flat in his apron, and heard – at last!-someone ringing the main doorbell-me!-and answered it. Why, Lewis? Surely that’s utter folly for him! Unless-unless he’d previously arranged to meet someone in Cambridge Way. And the only man he’d have been anxious to meet at that point is the one man he’s been avoiding like the plague for the last five years of his life-Browne-Smith! But instead-he finds me! And he now gives the performance of his life-impersonating a concierge called “Hoskins”. You knew, Lewis, he was a Londoner? Yes. It’s in your admirable notes on the man. I ought to have seen through the deception earlier, though; certainly I ought to have read the signs more intelligently when one of the tenants turned round and stared so curiously at me. But it wasn’t just me: he was staring at two strangers!
‘During that same lunch-time there were other things afoot. Alfred Gilbert had left a message for his brother, and now it was Bert Gilbert who got round to Cambridge Way as quickly as he could. There-I’m almost sure of it! -he met Browne-Smith; and Browne-Smith told Bert Gilbert that he’d seen me go in, admitted by Westerby. At that moment, Bert must have seen the emergency signals flashing at full beam. He had no key- Alfred had taken the bunch-either to the front door or the back; so the two of them agreed to split up, with Browne-Smith watching the front and Bert Gilbert the back. What happened then? Gilbert saw Westerby leave! So he went round to tell Browne-Smith; and both of them were very puzzled, and very frightened. I was still in there, and so was Alfred Gilbert! Probably it was at that point that Bert Gilbert got to know from Browne-Smith where Westerby was staying, because it’s clear that later on he did know. For the moment, however, they observed from a discreet distance-only to find that I didn’t come out before the police went in. So they knew something had gone terribly wrong. Later, of course, they both learned of the murder of Alfred Gilbert, and they both drew their own conclusion-the same conclusion.
‘In the days that followed Gilbert must have watched and waited, because he knew that it would now be imperative for Westerby to return to the flat to find out, one way or the other, whether the police had discovered those objects hidden in a relidded crate- objects, Lewis, which must have been a cause of recurrent nightmares to him. When Westerby finally risked his expedition, Gilbert made no attempt to abort the mission, because it was just as valuable for himself as for Westerby. He followed his quarry back from the flat to Paddington-for all I know he might even have followed him into the gents where the London lads found the corpse’s hands. By the way, Lewis, you’d better tell the missus you’ve got another trip tomorrow.
‘But then Gilbert stopped tailing Westerby, and went along to that nearby hotel, where
he found an easy access to Westerby’s room-either by the fire-escape or by the seldom-tenanted reception desk… But let’s leave those details to our metropolitan colleagues, shall we? They’re going to find one or two people who saw something surely? It’s not our job. After Westerby got his to his room? Well, I dunno. But I’d like to bet that Westerby almost jumped out of his wilting wits when he found himself confronted by the man be thought he’d killed! You see, I doubt if a any stage Westerby was aware that there were two Gilberts that they were still extraordinarily alike in physical appearance. Whatever the truth of that may be, Westerby was strangled in his room, and the long and tragic sequence of cvents has almost ran its Aeschylean course.
‘Not quite though. Browne-Smith had now decided that things had gone far too far, and I vaguely suspect that he was on his way to see me last Saturday. At least, we’ve got the evidence of the ticket-collector that Browne-Smith had some very urgent business here in Oxford. Pity… but, perhaps it was for the best, Lewis. Then, the same Saturday, Bert Gilbert went home and found-as the police found-a note from his wife, Emily, saying that she couldn’t stand any more of it, and that she’d left him. And Bert Gilbert-without any doubt the bravest of the three brothers-now faced both the fear of discovery and the knowledge of failure. So he opened his seventh-floor window – and he jumped… Poor sod! Perhaps you think it’s a bit out of character, Lewis, for Bert Gilbert to do something as cowardly as that? But it was in the family, if you remember…’
During this account, Morse had forgotten his coffee, and he now looked down with distaste at the dark brown skin that had formed on its surface.
‘Are the pubs open yet?’ he asked.
‘As always, sir, I think you know the answers to your own questions better than I do.’
