Inspector Morse 11 - The Daughters of Cain

by Colin Dexter

  Especially Morse.

  Yet it was the latter who finally broke the silence.

  'What did you make of her, there? Our Mrs. Wynne-Wilson?'

  ' ''Mrs.", sir?' asked Lewis slowly.

  Morse threw an interested, inquisitive look at his sergeant. 'Go on!'

  'Well, I'd noticed from the start she wasn't wearing a wedding ring. As you did, of course.'

  'Of course.'

  'But I couldn't see any, you know, any mark of any ring like you'd normally have, wouldn't you? A sort of, you know, pale ring of skin, sort of thing, where the ring had been—before she took it off.'

  'Not a particularly fluent sentence that, Lewis, if I may say so.'

  'But you noticed that, too?'

  'Me? Your eyesight's far better than mine.'

  'Makes you wonder, though.'

  'You reckon she was making it up—about her marriage?'

  'Wouldn't surprise me, sir.'

  'And apart from that?'

  'She seemed a pretty good witness. Her mind's pretty sharp. She got you weighed up all right.'

  'Ye-es . . . So you don't think she was making anything else up?'

  'No. Do you?'

  'Lew-is! When will you learn. She's a phoney. She's a phoney from A to Z.'

  Lewis's look now was one of semi-exasperation. 'There you go again! I think you're far too quick—'

  'Let me tell you something. She just about takes the biscuit, that woman—give or take one or two congenitally compulsive liars we've had in the past.'

  Lewis shook his head sadly as Morse continued:

  'Wedding ring? You're right. Odds strongly against her having worn one recently. Not necessarily the same as not being married though, is it? Suggestive, though, yes. Suggestive that she might be telling a few other fibs as well.'

  'Such as?'

  'Well, it was obvious she wasn't deaf at all. She heard everything I said. Easy. Kein Problem.'

  'She didn't hear me.'

  'She didn't want to hear you, Lewis.'

  'If you say so, sir.'

  'What about her eyesight? Kept telling us, didn't she, that she couldn't see half as well as she used to? But that didn't stop her giving us a detailed description of the woman who came to visit McClure. She knew she'd got a ring in one of her nostrils—at twenty-odd yards, Lewis! And the only reason she couldn't tell us if she'd got two rings in her nose was because she saw her in profile—like she sees everyone in profile coming in through that entrance.'

  'Why don't you think she was making all that up, too, sir—that description she gave?'

  'Good point.' Morse looked down at the carpet briefly. 'But I don't think so; that bit rang Irue to me. In fact, I reckon it was the only thing of any value she did come up with.'

  'What about—?'

  'Lewis! She's a phoney. She's not even been a nurse— let alone a matron or whatever you call 'em.'

  'How can you say that?'

  'You heard her—we both heard her. Mini-skirt up to mid-tibia—remember me saying that? Mid-tibia? Your tibia's below your knee, Lewis. You know that. But she doesn't.'

  'Unless she's deaf, and misheard—'

  'She's not deaf, I told you that. She just doesn't know her tibia from her fibula, that's all. Never been near a nursing manual in her life.'

  'And you deliberately tricked her about that?'

  'And, Lewis—most important of all—she claims she's an Archers addict, but she doesn't even know when the omnibus edition comes on on a Sunday morning. Huh!'

  'I wouldn't know—'

  'She's a Walter Mitty sort of woman. She lives in a world of fantasy. She tells herself things so many times— tells other people things so many times—at she thinks they're true. And for her they are true.'

  'But not for us.'

  'Not for us, no.'

  'Not even the time she was in the bath?'

  'If she was in the bath.'

  'Oh.'

  'Anyway, I don't somehow think it's going to be of much importance to us, what time the murderer made his entrance . . .'

  Morse was whining on a little wearily now; and like Miss (or Mrs.) W-W he seemed to be running out of steam. Both men became silent again.

  And soon Lewis was feeling pleased with himself, for he was beginning to realise that the 'second thing' he'd found for Morse was looking far more promising.

  And Morse himself, with melancholy mien, sat ever motionless, his eyes staring intently at the page before him: that selfsame page in the book of Latin poetry.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Caeli, Lesbia nostra, Lesbia illa,

  Illa Lesbia, quam Catullus unam

  Plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes,

  Nunc in quadriviis et angiportis

  Glubit magnanimi Remi nepotes

  (CATULLUS, Poems LVIII)

  WHEN HE WAS a boy—well, when he was fifteen—Morse had fallen deeply in love with a girl, a year his junior, who like him had won a scholarship to one of the two local grammar schools: one for boys, one for girls. The long relationship between the pair of them had been so formative, so crucial, so wonderful overall, that when, three years later, he had been called up for National Service in the Army, he had written (for the first twelve weeks) a daily letter to his girl; only to learn on his first weekend furlough, to learn quite accidentally, that one of his friends (friends!) had been openly boasting about the sensually responsive lips of his beloved.

  Morse told himself that he had finally grown up that weekend: and that was good. But he'd realised, too, at the same time, that his capacity for jealousy was pretty nearly boundless.

  It was only many years later that he'd seen those deeply wise words, embroidered in multi-coloured silks, in a B&B establishmt in Maidstone:

  —If you love her, set her free

  —If she loves you, she will gladly return to you

  —If she doesn't she never really loved you anyway

  Such thoughts monopolised Morse's mind now as he looked again at Poem LVIII—a poem which his Classics master at school had exhorted the class to ignore, as being totally devoid of artistic merit. Such condemnation was almost invariably in direct proportion to the sexual content of the poem in question; and immediately after the lesson was over, Morse and his classmates had sought to find the meaning of that extraordinary word which Catullus had stuck at the beginning of the last line.

  Glubit.

  In the smaller Latin dictionary, glubo, -ere was given only as 'libidinously to excite emotions.' But in the larger dictionary there was a more cryptic, potentially more interesting definition . . . And here, in the margin of the book he was holding, McClure had translated the same poem.

  To totters and toffs—in a levelish ratio—

  My darling K offers her five-quid fellatio.

  Near Carfax, perhaps, or at Cowley-Road Palais,

  Or just by the Turf, up any old alley:

  Preferring (just slightly) some kerb-crawling gent

  High in the ranks of Her Majesty's Government.

  Morse gave a mental tick to 'Carfax' for quadriviis; but thought 'Palais' a bit adolescent perhaps. Had his own translation been as good? Better? He couldn't remember. He doubted it. And it didn't matter anyway.

  Or did it?

  In the actual text of the poem, McClure had underlined in red Biro the words Lesbia nostra, Lesbia illa, llla Lesbia: my Lesbia, that Lesbia of mine, that selfsame Lesbia.

  Jealousy.

  That most corrosive of all the emotions, gnawing away at the heart with a greater pain than failure or hatred—or even despair. But it seemed that McClure, like Catullus, had known his full share of it, with an ever-flirting, ever-hurting woman with whom he'd fallen in love; a woman who appeared willing to prostitute, at the appropriate price, whatever she possessed.

  And suddenly, unexpectedly, Morse found himself thinking he'd rather like to meet the mysterious 'K.' Then, just as suddenly, he knew he wouldn't; unless, of course, that ambivalent lady held the key to t
he murder of Felix McClure—a circumstance which (at the time) he suspected was extremely improbable.

  CHAPTER NINE

  And like a skylit water stood

  The bluebells in the azured wood

  (A. E. HOUSMAN, A Shropshire Lad, XLI)

  MORSE SNAPPED CATULLUS TO.

  'You didn't hear what I just said, did you, sir?'

  'Pardon? Sorry. Just pondering—just pondering.'

  'Is it leading us anywhere, this, er, pondering?'

  'We're learning quite a bit about this girl of his, aren't we? Building up quite an interesting—'

  'The answer's "no" then, is it?'

  Morse smiled weakly. 'Probably.'

  'Not like you, that, sir—giving up so quickly.'

  'No. You're right. We shall have to check up on her.'

  'Find out where she lives.'

  'What? Not much of a problem there,' said Morse. 'Really?'

  'She came on foot, we know that. From the Banbury Road side.'

  'I thought you said. Mrs. Thingummy was making everything up?'

  But Morse ignored the interjection. 'Where do you think she lives?'

  'Just round the corner, perhaps?'

  'Doubt it. Doubt he'd meet any local girl locally, if you see what! mean.'

  'Well, if she did have a car, she couldn't park it in the Banbury Road, that's for certain.'

  'So she hasn't got a car?'

  'Well, if she has she doesn't use it.'

  'She probably came by bus then.'

  'If you say so, sir.'

  'Number twenty-something: down the Cowley Road, through the High to Carfax, along Cornmarket and St. Giles's, then up the Banbury Road.'

  'Has she got a season-ticket, sir?'

  'Such flippancy ill becomes you, Lewis.'

  'I'm not being flippant. I'm just confused. You'll be telling me next what colour her eyes are.'

  'Give me a chance.'

  'Which street she lives in . . .'

  'Oh, I think I know that.'

  Lewis grinned and shook his head. 'Come on, sir, tell me!'

  'Pater Street, Lewis—that's where she lives. Named after Walter Pater, you know, the fellow who described the Mona Lisa as a woman who'd learned the secrets of the grave.'

  'Pater Street? That's out in Cowley, isn't it?'

  Morse nodded. 'McClure mentions Cowley in something he wrote here.' Morse tapped Catullus. 'And then there's this.'

  He handed across the postcard he'd found marking the relevant page of notes at the back of the volume—notes including a chicken-hearted comment on Glubit: 'sensus obscenus.'

  Lewis took the card; and after glancing at the coloured photograph, 'Bluebells in Wytham Woods,' turned to the back where, to the left of McClure's address, he read the brief message, written boldly in black Biro:

  P St. out this Sat—

  either DC or wherever

  K

  The unsmudged postmark gave the date as August 10, 1994.

  'Ye-es. I see what you mean, sir. They'd arranged to meet at her place, perhaps, P-something Street, on the Saturday; then on the Wednesday something cropped up . . .'

  'She may have had the decorators in.'

  '. . . so it had to be "DC", Daventry Court, or "wherever".''

  'Probably some hotel room.'

  'Cost him, though. Double room'd be—what?—£70, £80, £90?'

  'Or a B&B.'

  'Even so. Still about £40, £50.

  'Then he's got to pay her for her services, don't forget that.'

  'How much do you think, sir?'

  'How the hell should I know?'

  'Maybe she was worth every penny of it,' Lewis suggested quietly.

  'Do you know, I very much doubt that,' asserted Morse with surprising vehemence, now walking over to the phone, consulting the black index, and dialling a number.

  'Could be Princess Street, sir? That's just off the Cowley Road.'

  Morse put his palm over the receiver and shook his head. 'No, Lewis. It's Pater Street. Hullo?'

  'Yeah? Wha' d'ya wan'?'

  'Have I got the right number for "K", please?'

  'You 'ave. Bu' she ain't 'ere, is she?'

  'That's what I hoped you'd be able to tell me.'

  'You another dur'y ol' man or somethin'?'

  'If I am, I'm a dirty old police inspector,' replied Morse, in what he trusted was a cultured, authoritative tone.

  'Oh, sorry.'

  'You say she's not there?'

  'She's bin away for a week in Spain. Sent me a topless photo of 'erself from Torremolinos, didn't she? Only this mornin'.'

  'A week, you say?'

  'Yeah. Went las' Sa'dy—back this Sa'dy.'

  'Does she have a . . . a client in North Oxford?'

  'An' if she does?'

  'You know his name?'

  'Nah.'

  'What about her name?'

  'She in some sort of trouble?' Suddenly the voice sounded anxious, softer now—with a final 't' voiced upon that 'sort.'

  'I could get all this information from Kidlington Police HQ—you know that, surely? I just thought it would save a bit of time and trouble if you answered me over the phone. Then when we've finished I can thank you for your kind cooperation with the police in their enquiries.'

  Hesitation now at the other end of the line.

  Then an answer: 'Kay Blaxendale. That's "Kay", K-A-Y. She jus' signs herself "K"—the letter "K".'

  'Is that her real name? It sounds a bit posh?'

  'It's her professional name. Her real name's Ellie Smith.'

  'What about your name?'

  'Do you have to know?'

  'Yes.'

  'Friday Banks—that's me.'

  'Have you got another name?'

  'No.'

  'You've got another accent though, haven't you?'

  'Pardon?'

  'When you want to, you can speak very nicely. You've got a pleasant voice. I just wonder why you try to sound so cheap and common, that's all.'

  'Heh! Come off it. I may be common, mista, but I ain't cheap—I can tell yer tha'.'

  'All right.'

  'Tha' all?'

  'Er, do you like bluebells, Miss Banks?'

  'Bluebells, you say? Bloody bluebells?' She snorted her derision. 'She does, though—Kay does. But me, I'm a red-rose girl, Inspector—if you're thinkin' of sendin' me a bunch of flowers.'

  'You never know,' said Morse, as he winked across at Lewis..

  'Tha' all?' she repeated.

  'Just your address, please.'

  'Do you have to know?' (An aspirated 'have.')

  'Yes.'

  'It's 35 Princess Street.'

  And now it was Lewis's turn, as he winked across at Morse.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A long time passed—minutes or years—while the two of us sat there in silence. Then I said something, asked something, but he didn't respond. I looked up and I saw the moisture running down his face

  (EDUARDO GALEANO, The Book of Embraces)

  MORSE'S FACE, AFTER he had cradled the phone, betrayed a suggestion of satisfaction; but after a short while a stronger suggestion of dissatisfaction.

  'Ever heard of a girl called Friday, Lewis?'

  'I've heard of that story—The Man Who Was Thursday.'

  'It's a diminutive of Frideswide.'

  'Right. Yes. We learnt about her at school—St. Frideswide. Patron saint of Oxford. She cured somebody who was blind, I think.'

  'Somebody, Lewis, she'd already herself struck blind in the first place.'

  'Not a very nice girl, then.'

  'Just like our girl.'

  'Anyway, you can cross her off the list of suspects.'

  'How do you make that out, Lewis?'

  'Unless you still think that girl on the phone's a phoney, too.'

  'No. I don't think that. Not now.'

  'Well, she said McClure's girlfriend was in Spain when he was murdered, didn't she?'

  'It's impolite to eavesdr
op on telephone conversations.'

  Lewis nodded. 'Interesting, too. I felt sure you were going to ask her to send you the photo—you know, the topless photo from Torremolinos.'

  'Do you know,' said Morse quietly, 'I think, looking back on it, I should have done exactly that. I must be getting senile.'

  'You can still cross her off your list,' maintained an sympathetic Lewis.

  'Perhaps she was never on it in the first place. You see, I don't think it was a woman who murdered McClure.'

  'We shall still have to see her, though.'

  'Oh yes. But the big thing we've got to do is learn more about McClure. The more we learn about the murdered man, the more we learn about the murderer.'

  Music to Lewis's ears. 'But no firm ideas yet, sir?'

  'What?' Morse walked over to the front window, but his eyes seemed not so much to be looking out as looking in. 'I once went to hear a panel of writers, Lewis, and I remember they had to answer an interesting question about titles—you know, how important a title is for a book.'

  'The Wind in the Willows—that's my favourite.'

  'Anyway, the other panellists said it was the most difficult thing of the lot, finding a good title. Then this last woman, she said it was no problem for her at all. Said she'd got half a dozen absolutely dazzling titles—but she just hadn't got any books to go with them. And it's the same with me, Lewis, that's all. I've got plenty of ideas already, but nothing to pin 'em to.'

  'Not yet.'

  'Not yet,' echoed Morse.

  'Do you think Phillotson had any ideas—ideas he didn't tell us about?'

  'For Christ's sake, forget Phillotson! He wouldn't know what to do if some fellow walked into his nearest nick with a knife dripping with blood and said he'd just murdered his missus.'