by Colin Dexter
profoundly grateful to Morse.
Most usually (Lewis knew it well) a murder investigation revolved around
corroborated suspicion, A clue was pursued; a suspect targeted; an alibi
checked; a motive weighed in the balances; a response to questioning
interpreted as surly, cocky, devious, frightened . It was all cumulative
that was the word! - a series of pieces in the jigsaw that seemed to form a
coherent pattern sufficiently convincing for a formal charge to 57
be
brought; for a dossier to be sent to the DPP; for a period of remand, further
questioning, sometimes further evidence, with nothing cropping up in the
interim to vitiate the central police hypothesis: that in all probability the
arrested suspect was guilty as hell.
That was the usual pattern.
Not with Morse though.
For some reason Morse often shunned the standard heap- of-evidence approach.
In fact Lewis had seldom if ever observed him, through distaste or idleness
perhaps, riffle through any heap of dutifully transcribed statements,
claiming (as Morse did) that since he could seldom remember what he'd been
doing himself the previous evening, he found it difficult to give much
credence to people who claimed to recall anything from a week last Wednesday
unless, of course, it was watching Coronation Street or listening to The
Archers, or some similar regularly time tabled ritual.
No, Morse seldom worked that way.
The opposite, more often than not.
With most prime suspects, if female, youngish, and even moderately
attractive. Morse normally managed to fall in love, sometimes only for a
brief term, yet sometimes throughout Michaelmas and Hilary and Trinity.
Towards some other prime suspects, if men. Morse occasionally appeared
surprisingly sympathetic, especially if he suspected that the quality of
their lives had hardly been enhanced by getting hitched to some potential
tart who had temporarily managed to camouflage her basic bitchiness . . .
Lewis had a quick look at the Mirror, drained his coffee, and looked at his
watch: 8. 25 a. m. Time he got moving.
As he walked out of the canteen, he (literally) bumped into the stout figure
of Sergeant Dixon "Dixon-delighting-in- doughnuts' as Homer would have dubbed
him.
"You see the thing on the Lower Swinstead thing?" (Variety was not a feature
of Dixon's vocabulary. )
Lewis nodded, and Dixon continued: "I was with him on that for a while. Poor
of' Strange. He thought he knew who done it, but he couldn't prove it, could
he? Poor of' Strange. Like I say, I was with him on that thing."
Lewis nodded again; then climbed the stairs, wondering how that Monday
morning would turn out knowing how Morse hated holidays; how little he
normally enjoyed the company of others; how very much he enjoyed a very
regular allotment of alcohol; how he avoided almost all forms of physical
exercise. And knowing such things, Lewis realized that in all probability he
would fairly soon be driving Morse out to the Muzac-free pub at Thrupp where
a couple of pints of real ale would leave the Chief marginally mellower and
where a couple of orange juices would leave the chauffeur (him! )
un excitedly unintoxicated.
59
chapter fourteen The man who says to one, go, and he goeth, and to
another, come, and he come th has, in most cases, more sense of restraint and
difficulty than the man who obeys him (John Ruskin, The Stones of Venice)
lewis knocked deferentially on Morse's door before entering.
"Welcome home, sir! Nice break?"
No! "
"You don't sound very ' Sh!"
So Lewis sat down obediently in the chair opposite, as his chief contemplated
the last clue: "Stiff examination (7)' A T P Y; then immediately wrote in the
answer, and consulted his wristwatch.
"Not bad, Lewis. Ten and a half minutes. Still it's usually a bit easier on
Mondays."
"Well done."
"Have you done it, by the way?"
"Pardon?"
"That is a copy of today's Times you've got with you?"
"They showed it to me in the canteen ' " Does Mrs Lewis know that the first
place you head for after breakfast is the canteen? "
"Only for a coffee."
"Not a crime, I suppose."
"It's this article, sir- about the Harrison case."
"So?"
"So you're not interested?"
"No!"
"But we're supposed to be re-opening the case, sir you and me."
"You and I, Lewis. And we are not."
"But the Super said you'd agreed."
' When am I supposed to have agreed? "
"Last week Tuesday."
"Last week Wednesday! He came to see me on Wednesday."
"You mean ... he hadn't seen you before he saw me?"
"You're bright as a button this morning, Lewis."
"But you must have agreed, surely?"
"In a way."
"So what's biting you?"
Morse's blue eyes flashed across the desk.
"I'd had too much Scotch, that's what! I'd been trying to enjoy myself. I
was on a week's furlough, remember?"
"But why start the week off in such a foul mood?"
"Why not, pray?"
"I don't know. It's just that, you know another case for us to solve
perhaps? Gives you a good feeling, that."
Morse nodded reluctantly.
"So why agree to it, if you've no stomach for it?"
Morse looked down at the threadbare carpet a carpet stop- ping regularly six
inches from the skirting boards.
"I'll tell you why.
Strange's carpet goes right up to the wall you've noticed that? So if you
ever get up to Super status, which I very much doubt, you just make sure you
get a carpet that covers the whole floor and a personal parking space while
you're at it! "
"At least you've got your name on the door."
"Remember that fellow in Holy Writ, Lewis?
"I also am a man set under authority." I'm just like him under authority.
Strange doesn't ask me to do something: he tells me. "
61
"You could always have said no."
"Stop sermonizing me! That case stinks of duplicity and corruption: the
family, the locals, the police shifty and thrifty with the truth, the whole
bloody lot of them."
"You sound as if you know quite a bit about it already."
"Why shouldn't I? About a local murder like that? I do occasionally pick up
a few things from my fellow officers, all right? And if you remember I was
on the case right at the beginning, if only for a very short while. And why
was that? Because we were on another case. Were we not?"
Lewis nodded.
"Another murder case."
"Murder's always been our business."
"So why ?"
"Because the case is old and tired, that's why."
"Who'll take it on if we don't?"
"They'll find another pair of idiots."
"So you're going to tell the Super . . .?"
"I've already told you. Give it a rest!"
"Why are you so sharp about it all?"
"Because I'm like the case, Lewis. I'm old and tired myself."
The ringing of the telephone on Morse's desk cut across the tetchy
stichomythia.
"Morse?"
"Sir?"
"You ready?"
"Half-past nine, you said."
"So what?"
"It's only ' " So what? "
"Shall I bring Sergeant Lewis along?"
"Please yourself."
The phone was dead.
"That was Strange."
"I could hear."
"I'd like you to come along. All right with you?"
Lewis nodded.
"I'm a man under authority too."
'. Ltw-is! Quote it accurately: "a man set under authority"
"
"Sorry!"
But Morse was continuing with the text, as if the well- remembered words
brought some momentary respite to his peevishness: "Having under me soldiers,
and I say unto one, Go and he goeth; and to another. Come and he come th "
"Lewis come th said Lewis quietly.
63
FR1;FR2;chapter fifteen I have received no more than one or two letters
in my life that were worth the postage (Henry Thoreau)
"C'M IN! C'M IN!"
It was 8. 45 a. m. "Ah! Morse. Lewis."
Perhaps, in all good faith. Strange had intended to sound brisk rather than
brusque; yet, judging from Morse's silence as he sat down, the Chief
Superintendent had not effected a particularly good start. He contrived to
beam expansively at his two subordinates, and especially at Morse.
"What does
"The Ringer" mean to you? "
"Story by Edgar Wallace. I read it in my youth."
Morse had spoken in clipped, formal tones; and Lewis, with a millimetre rise
of the eyebrows, glanced quickly at his impassive face.
Something was wrong.
"What about you, Sergeant? You ever read Edgar Wallace?"
The? " Lewis grinned weakly.
"No, sir. I was a Beano-boy myself."
"Anything else. Morse?"
"A campanologist?"
"Could be."
Morse sat silently on.
"Anything else?"
"It's a horse that's raced under the name of a different horse a practice, so
they tell me, occasionally employed by unscrupulous owners."
"How does it work?"
Morse shook his head.
"I've seldom donated any money to the bookmakers."
"Or anyone else for that matter."
Morse sat silently on.
"Anything else?"
"I can think of nothing else."
"Well, let me tell you something. In Oz, it's what you call the quickest
fellow in a sheep-shearing competition. What about that?"
"Useful thing to know, sir."
"What about a " dead ringer"?"
"Somebody almost identical with somebody else."
"Good! You're coming on nicely. Morse."
"No, I'm not. I've stopped."
Strange shook his massive head and smiled bleakly.
"You're an odd sod. You never seem to see anything that's staring you in the
face.
You have to look round half a dozen corners first, when all you've really got
to do is to look straight up the bloody street in front of you! "
Lewis, as he sat beside his chief, knew that such a criticism was marginally
undeserved; and he would have wished to set the record aright. But he
didn't, or couldn't. As for Morse, he seemed quietly unconcerned about the
situation: in fact (or was Lewis misunderstanding things? ) even a little
pleased.
"What about this, then?" Suddenly, confidently, Strange thrust the letter
across the desk; and after what seemed to both the other men an unnecessarily
prolonged perusal, the slow-reading Morse handed it back. Without comment.
"Well?"
'"The Ringer" , you mean? You think it's the fellow who decided to ring
you--' 65
"Ring me twiceV " It's a possibility. "
"Where do you think it was posted?"
"Dunno. You'll have to show me the envelope."
"Guess!"
"You're expecting me to say Lower Swinstead."
"No. Just waiting for your answer."
"Lower Swinstead."
"Explain that, then!" Strange produced a white envelope on which, above the
lurid red capitals, the pewter-gold first-class stamp was cancelled with a
circular franking: "All right," conceded Morse.
"I'll try another guess. What about Oxford?"
"Hm! What about the writing on the envelope?"
"Probably an A-level examiner using up one of his red pens. His scripts were
sending him bananas and he happened to see your invitation in one of the
newspapers. He just wondered why it was only the candidates who were allowed
to make things up, so he decided to have a go for himself. He's a nutter,
sir. A harmless nutter. We always get them you know that."
"Oh, thank you, Morse!"
"No fingerprints, sir?" asked Lewis diffidently.
"Ah, no. No fingerprints. Good question, though!"
"Best forget it, then," counselled Morse.
"Really Strange allowed the disyllabic to linger ominously. " When I was a
lad, Morse, I once wrote off an entry for a Walt
Disney competition and I drew a picture of Mickey Mouse on the front of the
envelope. "
"Did you win?"
"No, I didn't. But let me just tell you one thing, matey: I'd like to bet
you that somebody noticed it! That's the whole point, isn't it?"
"You've lost me, sir."
Strange leaned back expansively.
"When I asked Sergeant Dixon where he thought the letter was posted, he
agreed with you: Lower Swinstead. And when I showed him the postmark he said
it might still have been posted there, because he knew that some of the
letters from that part of the Cotswolds were brought to Oxford for franking.
So he went out and did a bit of leg-work, and he traced the fellow who did
the collections last week; and the postman remembered the envelope!
There'd only been three letters that day in the box, and he'd noticed one of
'em in particular. Not surprising, eh? So Dixon decided to test things,
just for his own satisfaction. He addressed an envelope to himself and
posted it at Lower Swinstead. "
Strange now produced a white unopened envelope and passed it across the desk.
It was addressed in red Biro to Sergeant Dixon at Police HQ Kidlington, the
pewter-gold first- class stamp cancelled with the same circular franking:
Strange paused for effect.
"Perhaps you ought to start eating doughnuts. Morse."
"They won't let me have any sugar these days, sir."
67
"There's no sugar in beer, you're saying?"
Lewis was expecting some semi-flippant, semi-prepared answer from his chief
something about balancing his intake of alcohol with his intake of insulin.
But Morse said nothing; just sat there staring at the intricate design upon
the carpet.
"One of these days, perhaps," persisted Strange quietly, 'you might revise
your opinion of Dixon
"Why not put him in charge of the case? If you're still determined ' "
Steady on, Morse! That's enough of that. Just remember who you're talking
to. And I'll tell you exactly why I'm not putting that idiot Dixon in
charge. Because I've already put somebody else in charge you and Lewis!
Remember? "
"Lewis maybe, sir, but I can't do it."
Feel
ing most uncomfortable during these exchanges, Lewis watched the colour
rise in Strange's cheeks as several times his mouth opened and closed like
that of a stranded goldfish.
"You do realize you've got little say in this matter. Chief Inspector? I am
