by Colin Dexter
'The time?' asked Morse.
‘It would have been between seven-thirty and eight. We don't serve Full English until after seven-thirty - and both breakfasts went up together.'
'And last night for dinner?'
'They didn't eat here.'
'This morning?'
'They had breakfast in their room again. This time they filled in the form early, and left it on the door-knob outside the room. Same as before for Mr Storrs—'
'How do you know it wasn't for her?’
'Well, it's exactly what he ordered before. Here, look for yourself.'
She passed the room-service order across the desk; and Morse saw the instructions: 'Well grilled' against 'Tomato'; no tick against 'Kidney'; the figure '2' against 'Eggs (fried)’.
‘I see what you mean,' admitted Morse. 'Not even married couples have exactly the same tastes, I suppose.'
'Especially married couples,' said Sara Hickman quietly.
Morse's eyes continued down the form, to the Continental section, and saw the ticks against 'Weetabix' ('semi-skimmed milk' written beside it), 'Natural Yoghurt', 'Toast (brown)', 'Coffee (decaffeinated)'. The black-Biro'd writing was the same as that on the registration form. Angela Storrs' writing. Certainly.
'I shall have to have copies of these forms,' said Morse.
'Of course.' Sara got to her feet. 'I'll see that's done straightaway. Shall we go over to the bar?'
The day was brightening.
But for Morse the day had already been wonderfully bright; had been for the past hour or so, ever since the Deputy Manager had been speaking with him.
And indeed was very shortly to be brighter still.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Queen Elizabeth the First Slept Here (Notice which according to the British Tourist Board is to be observed in approximately 2400 residences in the United Kingdom)
THEY WALKED ACROSS the splendidly tended garden area behind the main complex to the Dower House, an elegant annexe wherein were situated most of the hotel's suites and bedrooms, as well as the restaurant, the main lounge - and the bar.
Immediately inside the entrance, Morse saw the plaque (virtually a statutory requirement in Bath) commemorating a particularly eminent royal personage:
George IV 1820-1830 Resided here 1799 as Prince of Wales
In the lounge, Morse sat down amid the unashamedly luxurious surroundings of elaborate wall-lights, marble busts - and courteously prompt service, for a uniformed waitress was already standing beside them.
'What would you like to drink, sir?'
Lovely question.
As he waited for his beer, Morse looked around him; and in particular at the portrait above the fireplace there: 'Lord Ellmore, 1765-1817', the inscription read, a fat-cheeked, smooth-faced man, with a protruding lower lip, who reminded Morse unhappily of Sir Clixby Bream.
Then he walked through to the Gents in the corridor just off the lounge where the two loos stood side by side, the Men's and the Ladies' logos quite unequivocally distinct on their adjacent doors.
It would have been difficult even for the myopic Mrs Adams to confuse the two, thought Morse, as he smiled and mouthed a few silent words to himself:
'Thank you! Thank you, Mrs Arabella Adams!'
It wasn't that she could have been certain - from some little distance? with her failing eyesight? - that the person she had seen was a man or a woman. Certainly not so far as the recognition of any facial features was concerned. Faces were notoriously difficult to distinguish, appearing so different when seen in profile, perhaps, or in the shadows, or wearing glasses. No! It was just that old Mrs Adams had always known what men looked like, and what women looked like, since habitually the men wore trousers and the women wore skirts. But of course if someone wore trousers, that certainly didn't prove that the wearer was a man, now did it, Morse? In fact it proved one thing and one thing only: that the person in question was wearing trousers!
Ten minutes later, as he worked his way with diminishing enthusiasm through an over-generous plateful of smoked-salmon sandwiches, Morse saw Sergeant Lewis appear in the doorway - a Lewis looking almost as self-satisfied as the oily Lord Ellmore himself - and raise his right thumb, before being introduced to Sara Hickman.
'Something to drink, Sergeant?'
'Thank you. Orange juice, please.'
'Something to eat?'
'What have you got?'
She smiled happily. 'Anything. Anything you like. Our Head Chef is at your command.'
'Can he rustle up some eggs and chips?'
She said she was sure - well, almost sure - that he could, and departed to investigate.
'Lew-is! This is a cordon bleu establishment.'
'Should taste good then, sir.'
The buoyant Lewis passed a note to Morse, simultaneously (and much to Morse's relief) helping himself to a couple of sandwiches.
You don't mind, sir? I'm half starving.'
*
At 2.30 p.m. Marilyn Hudson, a small, fair-complexioned young woman, was called into Sara's office. Marilyn had been a chamber-cum-kitchenmaid at the hotel for almost three years; and it was soon clear that she knew as much as anyone was likely to know about the day-to-day - and night-by-night - activities there.
Morse now questioned her closely about the morning of the previous Sunday, 3 March.
You took them breakfast?'
Yes, sir. About quarter to eight.'
You knocked on the door?'
'Like I always do, yes. I heard somebody say "Come in" so I—'
You had a key?'
'I've got a master-key. So I took the tray in and put it on the dressing-table.'
'Were they in bed together?'
'No. Twin beds it is there. She was on the far side. Difficult to miss her, though.' 'Why do you say that?'
'Well, it was her pyjamas - yellow an' black an' green stripes - up an' down.'
'Vertical stripes, you mean?'
'I'm not sure about that, sir. Just up an' down, like I said. An' she's got the same pair now. I took their breakfast again this morning. Same room - thirty-six.' Marilyn gave a nervous little giggle. 'Perhaps it's time she changed them.'
'She may have got two pairs,' interposed Lewis — not particularly helpfully, judging from the scowl on Morse's face.
'Do you think it could have been anybody else - except Mrs Storrs?'
'No, sir. Like I say, she was there in the bed. But...' 'But what?'
'Well, I saw her all right. But I didn't really see him. He was in the bathroom having a shave - electric razor it was - and the door was open a bit and I saw he was still in his pyjamas and he said thank you but...'
'Would you have recognized him if he'd turned his head?'
For the first time Marilyn Hudson seemed unsure of herself.
'Well, I'd seen them earlier in the hotel, but I didn't notice him as much as her really. She was, you know, ever so dressy and smart - dark glasses she wore - and a white trouser-suit. Same thing as she's got on today.'
Morse turned to Lewis. 'Do you think she's got two white trouser-suits, Sergeant?'
'Always a possibility, sir.'
'So' (if Morse was experiencing some disappointment, he gave no indication of it) 'what you're telling us is that you're pretty sure it was her, but not quite so sure it was him?'
Marilyn considered the question a while before replying:
'No. I'm pretty sure it was both of them, sir.'
Good girl, our Marilyn,' confided Sara, 'even if her vocabulary's a bit limited.'
Morse looked across at her quizzically:
'Vertical and horizontal, you mean? I shouldn't worry about that. I've always had trouble with east and west myself.'
'Lots of people have trouble with right and left,' began Lewis - but Morse was already making a further request:
'You've still got the details of who was staying here last Saturday?'
'Of course. Just a minute.'
She returned shortly with
a sheaf of registration cards; and Morse was looking through, flicking them over one at a time - when suddenly he stopped, the familiar tingling of excitement across his shoulders.
He handed the card to Lewis.
And Lewis whistled softly, incredulously, as he read the name.
Morse turned again to Sara. 'Can you let us have a copy of the bill - account, whatever you call it - for Room fifteen?'
You were right then, sir!' whispered Lewis excitedly. You always said it was "DC"!'
Sarah came back and laid the account in front of Morse.
'Single room - number fifteen. Just the one night. Paid by credit card.'
Morse looked through the items.
'No evening meal?'
'No.'
'No breakfast either?' 'No.'
'Look! Can we use your phone from here?'
'Of course you can. Shall I leave you?'
"Yes, I think so,' said Morse, 'if you don't mind.'
Morse and Lewis emerged from the office some twenty minutes later; and were walking behind reception when one of the guests came through from the entrance hall and asked for the key to Room 36. Then he saw Morse.
'Good God! What are you doing here?' asked Julian Storrs.
'I was just going to ask you exactly the same question,' replied Morse, with a curiously confident smile.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
'Why did you murder those workmen in 1893?' 'It wasn't in 1893. It was in '92.'
(Quoted by H. H. Asquith)
'Do YOU WANT my wife to be here as well? I dropped her in the city centre to do a bit of shopping. But she shouldn't be long - if that's what you want?'
'We'd rather talk to you alone, sir.'
'What's this bloody "sir" got to do with things?'
The three of them - Storrs, Morse, Lewis - were seated in Room 36, a pleasingly spacious room, whose windows overlooked the hotel's pool and the sodden-looking croquet-green.
'What's all this about anyway?' Storrs' voice was already sounding a little weary, increasingly tetchy. 'Can we get on with it?'
So Morse got on with it, quickly sketching in the background to the two murders under investigation:
Storrs had been having an affair with Rachel James -and Rachel James had been murdered.
Storrs had been blackmailed by Owens - and Owens had been murdered.
The grounds for this blackmail were three-fold: his extramarital relationship with Ms James; his dishonest concealment of his medical prognosis; and his wife's earlier career as striptease dancer and Soho call-girl. For these reasons, it would surely have been very strange had Storrs not figured somewhere near the top of the suspect list.
As far as the first murder was concerned, Storrs - both the Storrs - had an alibi: they had been in bed with each other. How did one break that sort of alibi?
As far as the second murder was concerned, Storrs — again both Storrs - had their alibis: but this time not only were they in the same bedroom together, but also eighty-odd miles away from the scene of the crime. In fact, in the very room where they were now. But alibis could be fabricated; and if so, they could be broken. Sometimes they were broken.
(Storrs was listening in silence.)
Means? Forensic tests had established that both murders had been committed with the same weapon - a pistol known as the Howdah, often used by senior ranks in the armed forces, especially in India, where Storrs had served until returning to Oxford. He had acquired such a pistol; probably still had it, unless he had got rid of it recently - very recently.
The predominant cause - the Prime Mover - for the whole tragic sequence of events had been his obsessive, overweening ambition to gain the ultimate honour during what was left to him of his lifetime - the Mastership of Lonsdale, with the virtually inevitable accolade of a knighthood.
Motive, then? Yes. Means? Yes. Opportunity, though?
For the first murder, transport from Polstead Road to Kidlington was easy enough - there were two cars. But the target had not been quite so easy. In fact, it might well have been that Rachel James was murdered mistakenly, because of a mix-up over house-numbers and a pony-tailed silhouette.
But for the second murder, planning had to be far more complicated - and clever. Perhaps the 'in-bed-together' alibi might sound a little thin the second time. But not if he was in a bed in some distant place; not if he was openly observed in that distant place at the time the murder must have been committed. No one had ever been in two places at the same time: that would be an affront to the rules by which the Almighty had established the universe. But the distance from Oxford to Bath was only eighty-odd miles. And in a powerful car, along the motorway, on a Sunday morning, early ... An hour, say? Pushing it, perhaps? An hour and a quarter, then - two and a half hours on the road. Then there was a murder to be committed, of course. Round it up to three hours, say.
During the last few minutes of Morse's exposition, Storrs had walked across to the window, where he stood looking out over the garden. The afternoon had clouded, with the occasional spatter of rain across the panes. Storrs was humming quietly to himself; and Morse recognized the tune of 'September', one of Richard Strauss's Four Last Songs:
Der Garten trauert
Kuhl sinkt in the Blumen der Regen . . .
Then, abruptly, Storrs turned round.
You do realize what you're saying?' he asked quietly.
‘I think I do,' replied Morse.
'Well, let's get a few things straight, shall we? Last Sunday my wife Angela and I had breakfast here, in this room, at about a quarter to eight. The same young girl brought us breakfast this morning, as it happens. She'll remember.'
Morse nodded. 'She's not quite sure it was you, though, last Sunday. She says you were shaving at the time, in the bathroom.'
'Who the hell was it then? If it wasn't me?'
'Perhaps you'd got back by then.'
'Back? Back from Oxford? How did I manage that? Three hours, you say? I must have left at half past four!'
You had a car—'
'Have you checked all this? You see, my car was in the hotel garage - and God knows where that is. I left it outside when we booked in, and gave the keys to one of the porters. That's the sort of thing you pay for in places like this - didn't you know that?'
Again Morse nodded. You're right. The garage wasn't opened up that morning until ten minutes to nine.'
'So?' Storrs looked puzzled.
You could have driven someone else's car.'
'Whose, pray?'
"Your wife's, perhaps?'
Storrs snorted. 'Which just happened to be standing outside the hotel - is that it? A helicopter-lift from Polstead Road?'
‘I don't know,' admitted Morse.
'All right. Angela's car's there waiting for me, yes? How did I get out of the hotel? There's only the one exit, so I must have slipped unnoticed past a sleeping night-porter—' He stopped. 'Have you checked up whether the front doors are locked after midnight?'
‘Yes, we've checked.'
'And are they?'
'They are.'
'So?' Again Storrs appeared puzzled.
'So the only explanation is that you weren't in the hotel that night at all,' said Morse slowly.
'Really? And who signed the bloody bill on Sunday -what - ten o'clock? Quarter past?'
'Twenty past. We've tried to check everything. You signed the bill, sir, using your own Lloyds Visa Card.'
Suddenly Storrs turned his back and stared out of the rain-flecked window once more:
'Look! You must forgive me. I've been leading you up the garden path, I'm afraid. But it was extremely interesting hearing your story. Outside, just to the left - we can't quite see it from here - is what the splendid brochure calls its "outdoor heated exercise plunge pool". I was there that morning. I was there just after breakfast -about half past eight. Not just me, either. There was a rich American couple who were staying in the Beau Nash suite. They came from North Carolina, as I recall, and we must have
been there together for twenty minutes or so. Want to know what we were talking about? Bosnia. Bloody Bosnia! Are you satisfied? You say you've tried to check everything. Well, just - check - that! And now, if you don't mind, my dear wife appears to be back. I just hope she's not spent— Good God! She's bought herself another coat!'
Lewis, who had himself remained silent throughout the interview, walked across to the rain-flecked window, and saw Mrs Storrs standing beneath the porchway across the garden, wearing a headscarf, dark glasses, and a long expensive-looking white mackintosh. She appeared to be having some little difficulty unfurling one of the large gaudy umbrellas which the benevolent management left in clumps around the buildings for guests to use when needed - needed as now, for the rain had come on more heavily.
Morse, too, got to his feet and joined Lewis at the window, where Storrs was quietly humming that tune again.
Der Garten trauert. . .
The garden is mourning...
'Would you and your good lady like to join me for a drink, sir? In the bar downstairs?'
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Hypoglycaemia (n): abnormal reduction of sugar content of the blood — for Diabetes sufferers a condition more difficult to spell than to spot
(Small's Enlarged English Dictionary, 17th Edition)
'WHAT DO YOU think they're talking about up there, sir?'
'He's probably telling her what to say.'
Morse and Lewis were seated side-by-side in the Dower House lounge - this time with their backs turned on Lord Ellmore, since two dark-suited men sat drinking coffee in front of the fireplace.
Julian Storrs and a black-tied waiter appeared almost simultaneously.
'Angela'll be down in a minute. Just changing. Got a bit wet shopping.'
'Before she bought the coat, I hope, sir,' said Lewis.
Storrs gave a wry smile, and the waiter took their order.
'Large Glenfiddich for me,' said Storrs. 'Two pieces of ice.'
Morse clearly approved. 'Same for me. What'll you have, Lewis?'
'Does the budget run to an orange juice?'
'And' (Morse turned to Storrs) 'what can we get for your wife?'
'Large gin and slim-line tonic. And put 'em all on my bill, waiter. Room thirty-six.'
