Inspector Morse 11 - The Daughters of Cain

by Colin Dexter

  Morse had taken the sensible (almost unprecedented) precaution of refraining from a few pints of beer on a Sunday lunchtime; and at 3:15 p,.m. he and Lewis stood in the path lab beside the prone body of Edward Brooks, the plastic bags in which he had been inserted lying folded neatly at his feet, like the linen wraps at the Resurrection. Apart from Dr. Hobson herself, two further forensic assistants and a fingerprint expert stood quite cheerfully around the body, in which the handle of a broad knife stood up straight.

  Yet it was not the handle itself, so carefully dusted now with fingerprint-powder, which had riveted Morse's attention. It was the label attached to the side of the handle; a label whose lettering, though washed and smudged by the waters of the Thames, was still partially legible on its right-hand side:

  'I just do not believe this,' whispered Morse slowly.

  'Pardon, sir?'

  But Morse was not listening. He touched Laura Hobson lightly on the shoulder of her starched white coat, and for the second time that day asked for the quickest way to the nearest Gents.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Karl Popper teaches that knowledge is advanced by the positing and testing of hypotheses. Countless hypotheses, I believe, are being tested at once in the unconscious mind; only the winning shortlist is handed to our consciousness

  (MATTHEW PARRIS, The Times, March 7, 1994)

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, Monday, September 26, both Morse and Lewis arrived fairly early, just after 7 a.m., at Thames Valley HQ.

  Morse himself had slept poorly, his eyeballs ceaselessly circling in their sockets throughout the night as the dramatic new development in the case had gradually established itself into the pattern of his thinking; for in truth he had been astonished at the discovery that Brooks had been murdered after the theft of the Rhodesian knife; murdered in fact by the Rhodesian knife.

  As he had hitherto analysed the case, assessing motive and opportunity and means, Morse had succeeded in convincing himself that two or perhaps three persons, acting to some degree in concert, had probably been responsible for Brooks's murder. Each of the three (as Morse saw things) would have regarded the death of Brooks, though for slightly different reasons, as of considerable benefit to the human race.

  Three suspects.

  Three women: the superficially gentle Brenda Brooks, who had suffered sorely in the role of the neglected and maltreated wife; the enigmatic Mrs. Stevens, who had developed a strangely strong bond between herself and her cleaning-lady; and the step-daughter, Eleanor Smith, who had left home in her mid-teens, abused (how could Morse know?) mentally, or verbally, or physically, or sexually even . . .

  Women set apart from the rest of their kind by the sign of the murderer—by the mark of Cain.

  A confusing figuration of 'if's' had permutated itself in Morse's restless brain that previous night, filtering down to exactly the same shortlist as before, since the Final Arbiter had handed to Morse the same three envelopes. In the first, as indeed in the second, the brief verdict was typed out in black letters: 'Not Guilty'; but in the third, Morse had read the even briefer verdict, typed out here in red capitals: 'GUILTY.' And the name on the front of the third envelope was—Eleanor Smith.

  For almost an hour, Morse and Lewis had spoken together that morning: spoken of thoughts, ideas, hypotheses. And when he returned from the canteen with two cups of coffee at 8 a.m., Lewis stated, starkly and incontrovertibly, the simple truth they both had to face:

  'You know, I just don't see—I just can't see—how Brenda Brooks, or this Mrs. Stevens—how either of them could have done it. We've not exactly had a video-camera on them since the knife was stolen—but not far off. All right, they'd got enough motive. But I just don't see when they had the opportunity.'

  'Nor do I,' said Morse quietly. And Lewis was encouraged to continue.

  'I know what you mean about Mrs. Stevens, sir. And I agree. There's somebody pretty clever behind all this, and she's the only one of the three who's got the brains to have thought it all out. But as I say . . .'

  Morse appeared a little pained as Lewis continued:

  '. . . she couldn't have done it. And Mrs. Brooks couldn't have done it either, could she? She's got the best motive of any of them, and she'd probably have the nerve as well. But she couldn't have planned it all, surely, even if somehow she had the opportunity—that night, say, after she got back from Stratford. I just don't see it.'

  'Nor do I,' repeated Morse, grimacing as he sipped another mouthful of weak, luke-warm coffee.

  'So unless we're looking in completely the wrong direction, sir, that only leaves . . .'

  But Morse was only half listening. 'Unless,' Lewis had just said . . . the same word the Warden had used the previous day when he'd been talking of the red-and-white striped barrier. In Morse's mind there'd earlier been a logical barrier to his hypothesis that Brooks's body must have been taken to the Thames in some sort of vehicle—as well as that literal barrier. But the Warden had merely lifted that second barrier, hadn't he? Just physically lifted it out of the way.

  So what if he, Morse, were now to lift that earlier barrier, too?

  'Lewis! Get the car, and nip along and have a word with the headmaster of the Proctor Memorial. Tell him we'd like to see Mrs. Stevens again. We can either go round to her house or, if she prefers, she can come here.'

  'Important, is it, sir?'

  'Oh, yes,' said Morse. 'And while you're at it, you can drop me off at the path lab. I want another quick word with the lovely Laura.'

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen

  (Hebrews, ch .11, v.1)

  COMING OUT OF her lab to greet Morse, Dr. Laura Hobson appeared incongruously contented with her work. She pointed to the door behind her.

  'You'd better not go in there, Chief Inspector. Not for the minute. We've nearly finished, though—the main bit anyway.'

  'Anything interesting?'

  'Do you call stomach contents interesting?'

  'No.'

  'Looks as if they've got some vague prints all right, though—on the knife. I'll keep my fingers crossed for you. We're all hoping, you know that.'

  'Thank you.' Morse hesitated. 'It may sound a bit far-fetched I know, but . . .'

  'Yes?'

  'The knife—I'm doing a little bit of hoping myself—the knife used to murder McClure was very similar to'—Morse nodded towards the main lab—'to the knife that was stolen from the Pitt Rivers.'

  'Yes, I knew that.'

  'What I was wondering is this. Is there any possibility—any possibility at all—that Brooks was murdered with another knife—one of the same type, one with the same sort of blade—then for the knife you've got in there—the one with the possible prints on it—to be stuck in him . . . afterwards?'

  Laura Hobson looked at him curiously.

  'Have two knives, you mean? Stick one in him, take it out, then stick the other in?'

  Morse looked uneasy, yet there was still some flicker of hope in his face. 'When I said "afterwards", I meant, well, a few hours later—a day even?'

  With a sad smile, she shook her head. 'No chance. Unless your murderer's got the luck of the devil and the skill of a brain-surgeon—'

  'Or a boy with a model-aeroplane kit?'

  '—you'd have some clear external evidence of the two incisions—and don't forget he was stabbed through his clothes.'

  'And there aren't . . .?'

  'No. No signs at all. Besides that, though, you'd have all the internal evidence: the two separate termini of the knife points; two distinct sets of lacerations on either side of—'

  'I see, yes,' mumbled Morse.

  'I don't know whether you do, though. Look! Let me explain. Whenever you have a knife-wound—'

  'Please, not!' said Morse. 'I believe all you say. It's just that I've never been able to follow all these physiological labellings. They didn't teach us any of that stuff at school.'

  'I know
,' said Laura quietly. 'You did Greek instead. You told me once, remember, in our . . . in our earlier days, Chief Inspector?'

  Feeling more than a little embarrassed, Morse avoided her eyes.

  'How would it have helped, anyway?' continued Laura, in a more business-like tone.

  'Well, I've been assuming all along that the theft of the knife from the Pitt Rivers was a blind: a blind to establish an alibi, or alibis; to try to establish the fact that Brooks wasn't murdered until after the knife was stolen.'

  She nodded, appreciating the point immediately. 'You mean, if he'd been murdered on a particular day with one knife, and then, the day after, a second knife was stolen; and if the first knife was subsequently removed from the body, and the second knife inserted into the wound—people like the police, like you, could well have been misled about the time of death.'

  'That's a splendidly constructed sentence,' said Morse.

  'Waste of breath, though, really. I wouldn't have been misled.'

  'You're sure?'

  'Ninety-nine per cent sure.'

  'Could you just rule out the other one per cent—for me? Please?'

  'Waste of time. But I will, yes, if that's what you want.'

  'I'm very grateful.'

  'Don't you want to see the contents of his pockets? His clothes?'

  'I suppose I ought to, yes.'

  Again she looked at him curiously. 'It's as if yot been putting your . . . well, your faith in something, isn't it? And I feel I've let you down.'

  'I lost all my faith a long time ago, I'm afraid.'

  'Much better to have evidence, in our job.'

  Morse nodded; and followed Laura Hobson's legs into a side-room, where she gestured to a table by window.

  'I'll leave you to it, Chief Inspector.'

  Morse sat down and first looked through the official 'In Possession Property' form, listing the items found on Brooks's person.

  The wallet which had been removed at the river-side establish identity (and which Morse had already looked through, anyway) was among the items, and he quickly examined its few (now dry) contents once more: one £10 note; one £5 note; a Lloyds Bank plastic card; an ID card for the Pitt Rivers Museum; a card showing official membership of the East Oxford Conservative Club. Noth else. No photographs; no letters.

  Nor were the other items listed and laid out there small transparent bags of any obvious interest: a comb; a white handkerchief; £2.74 in assorted coinage; what had once been a half-packet of now melted indigestion tablets; and a bunch of seven keys. It was this latter item only which appeared to Morse worthy of some brief consideration.

  The biggest key, some 3 inches in length, was grimy dark-brown in colour, and looked like a door-key; as perhaps did the two Yale keys, one a khaki colour, the other shinily metallic. The other four keys were (possibly?) for things like a garden shed or a bicycle-lock or a briefcase or a box or . . . But Morse's brain was suddenly engaged now: the fourth small key, a sturdy, silvery key, had the number 'X10' stamped upon it; and Morse gazed through the window, and wondered. Was it one of a set of keys? A key to what? A key to where? Would it help to spend a few hours sorting out these seven keys and matching them to their locks? Probably not. Probably a waste of time. But he ought to do it, he knew that. So he would do it. Or rather he'd get Lewis to do it.

  From the dead man's clothing Morse quickly decided that nothing could be gleaned which could further the investigation one whit; and he was standing up now, preparing to leave, when Laura came back into the small room.

  Phone-call for Morse. Sergeant Lewis. In her office.

  Lewis was ringing from the Head's office of the Proctor Memorial School. Mrs. Julia Stevens had been granted temporary leave from her duties. Well, indefinite leave really—but the terminological inexactitude had avoided any difficult embarrassment all round. She would not be returning to school, ever; she had only a few months to live; and a supply teacher had already taken over her classes. Soon everyone would have to know, of course; but not yet. She wasn't at home, though; she'd gone away on a brief holiday, abroad—the Head had known that, too. Gone off with a friend, destination unknown.

  'Do we know who the friend is?' asked Morse.

  'Well, you do, don't you?'

  'I could make a guess.'

  'Makes you wonder if they're guilty after all, doesn't it?'

  'Or innocent,' suggested Morse slowly.

  The condition of Kevin Costyn was markedly improved. With no surgery now deemed necessary, he had been removed from the ICU the previous lunchtime; and already the police had been given permission to interview him—at least about the accident.

  Very soon he would be interviewed about other matters, too. But although he was reluctantly willing to talk about ram-raiding and stolen vehicles, he would say nothing whatsoever about the murder of Edward Brooks. He may have lied and cheated his way through life, but there was one promise, now, that he was never going to break.

  Seated in the sunshine outside a small but fairly expensive hotel overlooking La Place de la Concorde, Julia reached out and clinked her friend's glass with her own; and both women smiled.

  'How would you like to live here, Brenda?'

  'Lordy me! Lovely. Lovely, isn't it, Mrs. Stevens?'

  'Anywhere you'd rather be?'

  'Oh no. This is the very best place in the whole world—apart from Oxford, of course.'

  Since she'd arrived, Julia had felt so very tired; but so very happy, too.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  St. Anthony of Egypt (c. 251-356 AD): hermit and founder of Christian monasticism. An ascetic who freely admitted to being sorely beset by virtually every temptation, and most especially by sexual temptation. Tradition has it that he frequently invited a nightly succession of naked women to parade themselves in front of him as he lay, hands manacled behind his back, in appropriately transparent yet not wholly claustrophobic sacking

  (SIMON SMALL, An Irreverent Survey of the Saints)

  AT 9:30 A.M. ON TUESDAY, September 27, Morse walked down the High from Carfax. There were several esteemed jewellers' shops there, he knew that; and he looked in their windows. He was somewhat uncertain, however, of what exactly to purchase—and wholly uncertain about whether his present errand was being made easier, or more difficult, by his strong suspicion now that it had been Eleanor Smith who had murdered her step-father (the same Eleanor who had formally identified the body the previous day). Perhaps in a sense it was going to be easier, though, since in probability he wasn't looking for a wedding present any longer, the prospect of an imminent marriage now seeming increasingly remote. Yet for some reason he still wanted buy the girl a present: a personal present.

  Something like Lewis had suggested.

  'How much is that?' he asked a young female assistant in the shop just across from the Covered Market.

  'Nice little pendant, isn't it, sir? Delicate, tasteful, and quite inexpensive, really.'

  'How much is it?' repeated Morse.

  'Only £35, sir.'

  Only!

  Morse looked down at the representation on the tiny oval pendant of—of somebody? 'St. Christopher, is it?'

  'St. Anthony, sir. A well-known Christian saint.'

  'I thought he was the patron saint of Lost Property.'

  'Perhaps you're thinking of a later St. Anthony?'

  But Morse wasn't. He thought there'd only been one St. Anthony.

  'If . . . if I bought this, I'd need a chain as well, wouldn't I?'

  'It would be difficult to wear without a chain, yes.'

  She was laughing at him, Morse knew that; but it hadn't been a very bright question. And very soon he was surveying a large selection of chains: chains with varied silver- or gold-content; chains of slightly larger or slightly smaller links; chains of different lengths; chains of differing prices.

  So Morse made his purchase: pendant plus chain (the cheapest).

  Then, after only a few steps outside the jeweller's up towards Carfax Towe
r, he performed a sudden U-turn, returning to the shop and asking if he could please exchange the chain (not the pendant) for something a little more expensive. The assistant (still smiling at him?) was happily co-operative; and five minutes later Morse started walking once again up towards Carfax. With a different chain.

  With the most expensive chain there.

  He was ready for the interview.

  When earlier he had rung Eleanor Smith, she had sounded in no way surprised that the police should wish to take her fingerprints—for 'elimination purposes,' as Morse had emphasised. And when he'd explained that it was against the rule-book for anyone who had been at the scene of the river-side discovery (as he had been) to go anywhere near the homes of those who might possibly be involved with the, er, the investigation, she'd agreed to go along to Thames Valley HQ. A car would pick her up. At 11:15 a.m.

  Morse just had time to call in at Sainsbury's supermarket, on the Kidlington roundabout, where he made his few purchases swiftly, and found himself the only person at the 'small-basket' check-out. Just the four items, in fact: two small tins of baked beans; one small brown loaf; and a bottle of Glenfiddich.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear

  in his pride,

  He shouts to scare the monster, who will often

  turn aside.

  But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant

  tooth and nail.

  For the female of the species is more deadly than

  the male.