by Colin Dexter
It was all a bit like a nightmare I've often had -standing on top of some high building with no rail in front of me and knowing it would be so easy to jump off, and if I did jump off, that would be the end of everything. In the nightmare I was always just about going to jump off when I woke up sweating and terrified. It was the same sort of thing at that window. It was like somebody saying 'Do it!' And I did it. Julian knew what happened but he didn't have anything to do with it.
We planned the second murder together, though. Nothing to lose, was there?
Julian knew someone must have shopped him down at the clinic and he soon found out it was Dawn Charles. So we had the hold on her now and it wasn't difficult to get her to co-operate. She'd got money problems and Julian promised to help if she did what we wanted. Which wasn't much really.
Things went as we planned them. Julian drove down to Bath in the BMW and I followed in my car. He went M4.1 went Burford way. He booked in and left his car in the hotel garage. I left my car in one of
the side-streets behind the hotel. Dawn Charles went by train to Bath changing at Didcot, so Julian told me. She booked into the hotel as herself of course. After we got back from the Abbey, Julian and I had dinner together, and then I left. Julian rang Dawn Charles on the internal phone system and all she had to do was to walk across the garden. I drove back to Oxford and then up to Bicester where I'd got the key to Dawn's flat. It would have been far too risky to go back to Polstead Road.
Unless Julian persuaded her to sleep in the raw Dawn wore my pyjamas, and the hotel-girl took them breakfast in bed the next morning. Mistake about all that sugar, I agree! Dawn Charles is my sort of height and shape, so Julian tells me, and if she wore something that was obviously mine there wouldn't be much of a problem. The whole thing was very neat really. It didn't matter if she was seen round the hotel or if I was, because both of us were staying there officially.
I'd phoned Owens to arrange everything and last Sunday morning I drove round to Bloxham Drive again. Probably he'd have been more wary if I'd been a man instead of a woman but I told him I'd have the money with me. So he said he'd meet me and have a signed letter ready promising he wouldn't try any more blackmail. I went down the slope at the back like before and knocked on the right door this time. It was about a quarter past seven when he let me in and we went through to his front room. I don't think either of us spoke. He was standing there in
front of the settee and I took the pistol out of my shopping bag and shot him twice and left him there for dead.
Angela Storrs 11.3.1996
(As it happened, Lewis was not to read this final version. Had he done so, he might have felt rather surprised -and a little superior? - to notice that his own 'burnt sienna' had been amended to 'burnt Siena', since he had taken the trouble to look up that colour in Chambers, and had spelt it accordingly.)
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Belbroughton Road is bonny, and pinkly burst the spray Of prunus and forsythia across the public way, For a full spring-tide of blossom seethed and departed hence, Leaving land-locked pools of jonquils by a sunny garden fence (John Betjeman, May-Day Song for North Oxford)
SPRING WAS particularly beautiful, if late, in North Oxford that year, and even Morse, whose only potential for floral exhibitionism was a small window-box, much enjoyed the full-belled daffodils and the short-lived violets, though not the crocuses.
Sir Clixby Bream received a letter from Julian Storrs on Tuesday, 12 March. Both contestants had now withdrawn from the Mastership Stakes. At an Extraordinary General Meeting held the next day in the Stamper Room, the Fellows of Lonsdale had little option but to extend yet again the term of the incumbent Master; and by a majority vote to call hi the 'Visitor', that splendidly tided dignitary (usually an archbishop) whose right and duty it was, and is, periodically to inspect and to report on
College matters, and to advise and to intervene in any such disputatious circumstances as Lonsdale, omnium consensu, now found itself. An outside appointment seemed a certainty. But Sir Clixby accepted the situation philosophically, as was his wont ... and the College lawns were beginning to look immaculate again. Life had to go on, even if Denis Cornford was now a broken man, with Julian Storrs awaiting new developments - and death.
Adele Beatrice Cecil had recently learned that the membership of the Young Conservatives had fallen from 500,000 twenty years earlier to 5,000 hi January 1996; and anyway she had for several weeks been contemplating a change in her lifestyle. Morse may have been right in one way, she thought - only one way, though - in suggesting that it was the personnel rather than the policies which were letting the Party down. Yes, it might be time for a change; and on Wednesday, 13 March, she posted off her resignation to Conservative Central Office. She did so with deep regret, yet she knew she was never destined to be idle. She could write English competently, she knew that; as indeed did Morse; as did also her publishers, Erotica Press, who had recently requested an equally sexy sequel to Topless in Torremolinos. And already a nice little idea was burgeoning in her brain almost as vigorously as the wall-flowers she'd planted the previous autumn: an idea about an older man - well, say a whitish-haired man who wasn't quite so old as he looked - and a woman who was considerably younger, about her own
age, say. Age difference, in heterosexual encounters, was ever a guaranteed 'turn-on', so her editor confided.
One man was to continue his officially unemployed status for the remainder of the spring; and probably indefinitely thereafter, although he was a little troubled by die rumour that the Social Security system was likely to be less sympathetic in the future. For the moment, however, he appeared to be adequately funded, judging from his virtually permanent presence in die local pubs and betting-shops. It was always going to be difficult for any official down in the Job Centre to refute his claim that the remuneration offered for some of their 'employment opportunities' could never compensate for his customary lifestyle: he was a recognized artist; and if anyone doubted his word, diere was a man living in North Oxford who would always be willing to give him a reference...
On the mantelpiece in his bedroom, die little ormolu clock ticked on, keeping excellent time.
In die immediate aftermath of Mrs Storrs' arrest, Sergeant Lewis found himself extremely busy, happily i/c die team of companionable DCs assigned to him. So many enquiries remained to be made; so many statements to be taken down and duly typed; so many places to be visited and revisited: Soho, Bloxham Drive, the newspaper offices, die Harvey Clinic, Polstead Road, Lonsdale College, Woodpecker Way, The Randolph, die
Royal Crescent Hotel ... He had met Morse for lunch on the Wednesday and had listened patiently as a rather self-congratulatory Chief Inspector remembered a few of the more crucial moments in the case: when, for example, he had associated that photograph of the young Soho stripper with that of the don's wife at Lonsdale; when the elegantly leggy Banbury Road receptionist had so easily slipped alongside that same don's wife in a chorus line at the Windmill. That lunchtime, however, Lewis's own crucial contributions to such dramatic developments were never even mentioned, let alone singled out for special praise.
Late on Thursday evening, Morse was walking home from the Cotswold House after a generous measure of Irish whiskey (with an 'e', as the proprietor ever insisted) when a car slowed down beside him, the front passenger window electronically lowered.
'Can I give you a lift anywhere?'
'Hello! No, thank you. I only live ...' Morse gestured vaguely up towards the A4O roundabout.
'Everything OK with you?'
'Will be - if you'd like to come along and inspect my penthouse suite.'
'I thought you said it was a flat'
Though clearly surprised to find Morse in his office over the Friday lunch-period, Strange refrained from his usual raillery.
'Can you nip in to see me a bit later this afternoon about these retirement forms?'
'Let's do it now, sir.'
'What's the rush?'
'I'
m off this afternoon.'
'Official, is that?'
Yes, sir.'
Strange eyed Morse shrewdly. 'Why are you looking so bloody cheerful?'
'Well, another case solved ... ?'
'Mm. Where's Lewis, by the way?'
'There's still an awful lot of work to do.'
'Why aren't you helping him then?'
'Like I say, sir, I'm off for the weekend.'
You're lucky, matey. The wife's booked me for the lawn-mower.'
'I've just got the window-box myself.'
'Anything in it?"
Morse shook his head, perhaps a little sadly.
You, er, going anywhere special?' asked Chief Superintendent Strange.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you (Philip Larkin, This Be the Verse')
FOR SEVERAL SECONDS after she opened her eyes, Janet McQueen had no idea whatsoever about where she was or what she'd been doing. Then, as she lay there in the green sheets, gradually it flooded back ...
'Ah! Can I perhaps begin to guess our destination?' she'd asked, as the car turned left at Junction 18 and headed south along the A46. 'B&B in Bath - is that what it's going to be?'
Tou'll see.'
As she had seen, for soon the Jaguar turned into the Circus, into Brock Street, and finally straight across a cobbled road, where it stopped beside a large magnolia tree. She looked at the hotel, and her green eyes
widened as she brought her ringless, manicured fingers together in a semblance of prayer.
'Beautiful!'
Morse had turned towards her then, as she sat beside him in her navy pin-striped suit; sat beside him in her V-necked emerald-silk blouse.
You're beautiful, too, Janet,' he said simply, and quietly.
'You've booked rooms for us here?
Morse nodded. 'Bit over the top, I know - but, yes, I've booked the Sarah Siddons suite for myself.'
'What have you booked for me?'
"That's also called the Sarah Siddons suite.'
She was smiling contentedly as the Concierge opened the passenger-seat door.
'Welcome to the Royal Crescent Hotel, madam!'
She'd felt important then.
And she'd loved it
Morse was already up - dressed, washed, shaved - and sitting only a few feet from her, reading The Times.
'Hello!' she said, softly.
He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the mouth. 'Headache?'
'Bit of one!'
"You know your trouble? You drink too much champagne.'
She smiled (she would always be smiling that weekend) as she recalled the happiness of their night together. And throwing back the duvet, she got out of
bed and stood beside him for several seconds, her cheek resting on the top of his head.
'Shan't be long. Must have a shower.'
'No rush.'
'Why don't you see if you can finish the crossword before I'm dressed? Let's make it a race!'
But Morse said nothing - for he had already finished the crossword, and was thinking of the Philip Larkin line that for so many years had been a kind of mantra for him:
Waiting for breakfast while she brushed her hair.
It was late morning, as they were walking arm-in-arm down to the city centre, following the signs to the Roman Baths, that she asked him the question:
'Shall I just keep calling you "Morse"?'.
'I'd prefer that, yes.'
'Whatever you say, sir!'
"You sound like Lewis. He always calls me "sir".'
'What do you call him?'
'"Lewis".'
'Does he know your Christian name?'
'No.'
'How come you got lumbered with it?'
Morse was silent awhile before answering:
'They both had to leave school early, my parents - and they never had much of a chance in life themselves. That's partly the reason, I suppose. They used to keep
on to me all the time about trying as hard as I could in life. They wanted me to do that They expected me to do that. Sort of emotional blackmail, really - when you come to think of it'
'Did you love them?"
Morse nodded. 'Especially my father. He drank and gambled far too much ... but I loved him, yes. He knew nothing really - except two things: he could recite all of Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome by heart; and he'd read everything ever written about his greatest hero in life, Captain Cook - "Captain James Cook, 1728 to 1779", as he always used to call him.'
'And your mother?'
'She was a gentle soul. She was a Quaker.'
'It all adds up then, really?' said Janet slowly.
'I suppose so,' said Morse.
'Do you want to go straight to the Roman Baths?'
'What are you thinking of?'
'Would you like a pint of beer first?'
'I'm a diabetic, you know.'
'I'll give you your injection,' she promised. 'But only if you do me one big favour... I shan't be a minute.'
Morse watched her as she disappeared into a souvenir shop alongside; watched die shapely straight legs above the high-heeled shoes, and the dark, wavy hair piled high at the back of her head. He thought he could grant her almost any favour that was asked of him.
She produced the postcard as Morse returned from the bar.
'What's that for?'he asked.
'Who's that for, you mean. That's for Sergeant Lewis ... He means a lot to you, doesn't he?'
'What? Lewis? Nonsense!'
'He means a lot to you, doesn't he?' she repeated.
Morse averted his eyes from her penetrating, knowing gaze; looked down at the frothy head on his beer; and nodded.
'Christ knows why!'
'I want you to send him this card.'
'What for? We're back at work together on Monday!'
'I want you to send him this card,' she repeated. 'You can send it to his home address. You see, I think he deserves to know your Christian name. Don't you?'
ENVOI
Monday, 18 March
This list is not for every Tom, Dick, and Harry. It's been compiled by Everett Williams, director of the Florida Bureau of Vital Statistics, and on it are the 150 most unusual names he's encountered in 34 years with the bureau. Examples are: Tootsie Roll, Curlee Bush, Emancipation Proclamation Cogshell, Candy Box, Starlight Cauliflower Shaw, and Determination Davenport. But he never encountered a fourth quadruplet called Mo! Williams figures that some parents have a sense of humor - or else a grudge against their offspring
(Gainesville Gazette, 16 February 1971)
ON THE FOLLOWING Monday evening, Mrs Lewis handed the card to her husband:
"This is for you - from Inspector Morse.'
"You mean, you've read it?'
'Course I'ave, boy!'
Smelling the chips, Lewis made no protestation as he looked at the front of the card: an aerial view of Bath, showing the Royal Crescent and the Circus. Then, turning over the card, he read Morse's small, neat handwriting on the back. What he read moved him
deeply; and when Mrs Lewis shouted through from the kitchen that the eggs were ready, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and pretended he was wiping his nose. The card read as follows:
For philistines like you, Lewis, as well as for classical scholars like me, this city with its baths, and temples must rank as one of the finest in Europe. You ought to bring the missus here some time.
Did I ever get the chance to thank you for the few(!) contributions you made to our last case together? If I didn't, let me thank you now - let me thank you for everything, my dear old friend. Yours aye,
Endeavour (Morse)
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Document creation date: 16.3.2011
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Document authors :
Colin Dexter
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