by Colin Dexter
(RODYARD KIPLING, The Female of the Species)
'WHAT LINE ARE you going to take with her, sir?'
'I'm not at all sure. All I know is that if any of our three ladies actually murdered Brooks—and pretty certainly one of them did—we can forget the other two, wherever they're sunning themselves at the minute. It's odds on that one of them, or both of them, had some part to play in the plot: but I'm sure that neither of them could have murdered Brooks. It's a physical impossibility, knowing what we do about dates and times. But she could have done. Ellie Smith could have done—if only just. She went to Birmingham that Wednesday—you've checked on that. But we can't be sure when she came back, can we? You see, it she'd come back an hour, even half an hour earlier . . .'
'She could have stolen the knife, you mean?'
'Or she could have got someone to steal it for her.'
'Ashley Davies.'
'Yes. Could well have been. Then he gets his reward: he gets the hand of the increasingly desirable Miss Smith—a young woman he's had his lecherous eyes on even when she was a sleep-around-with-anybody girl.'
'What about the a attendant at the Pitt Rivers, though? He says he probably saw this young fellow Costyn there.'
'It's always dodgy though—this identification business. We can't rely on that.'
Lewis nodded. 'He doesn't seem to have any real link with the case, anyway.'
'Except with Mrs. Stevens. She taught him, remember. And I suppose if he's on drugs or something—got a regular habit to feed—short of cash—and if she was prepared to pay—'
'You mean she got him to steal the knife—for somebody else? For Ellie Smith, say?'
'Who else?'
'But you've always thought—'
'Give it a bloody rest, Lewis, will you?' snarled Morse. 'Do you think I get any pleasure from all this? Do you think I want to get Ellie Smith in here this morning and take her prints and tell her that she's a bloody liar and that she knifed her sod of a stepfather?'
He got up and walked to the window.
'No, I don't think that,' said the ill-used Lewis quietly. 'It's just that I'm getting confused, that's all.'
'And you think I'm not?'
No, Lewis didn't think that. And he wondered whether his next little item of news was likely to clarify or further to befuddle the irascible Chief Inspector's brain.
'While you were shopping, I went down to Wolsey and had another look in Mrs. Ewers' pantry.'
'And?'
'Well, something rang a bit of a bell when we found Brooks's body: those plastic bags. Do you remember when we first went to the staircase?'
'The pile of them there in the pantry, yes.'
Lewis sought to hide his disappointment. 'You never said anything.'
'There's no end of those around.'
'I just thought that if Brooks used to take a few things home occasionally, unofficially—toilet-rolls, cartons of detergent, that sort of thing . . .'
'We could have a look in Brooks's place, yes. Where do you reckon he'd keep them?
'Garden shed?'
'We'd need a search warrant . . . unless, Lewis—'
'Oh no! I'm not forcing any more locks, sir. Look what a mess I made of the box in his bedroom.'
'Perhaps you won't need to.' Morse opened a drawer of his desk and took out the bunch of keys. 'I'd like to bet one of thee fits the garden shed; but I doubt we're going to find any bags there. They'll have been too careful for that'
'What are you thinking of exactly?'
'Well, you'd have expected a few prints on the plastic bags, don't you think? But there aren't any, it seems. The water wouldn't have washed them off completely, I'm told. So they wore gloves all the time. And then they took good care to make sure the body wouldn't float, agreed? There's a gash in the bags, through all three layers—I don't think that was caused accidentally in the river. I think it was made deliberately, to let the air out, and get the body to sink . . . at least, temporarily. That's what the Warden thought, too.'
Yes, Lewis remembered. Holmes had claimed that unless any body was weighted down it would almost certainly have come up towards the surface sooner or later because of the body's natural gases.
'Why do you think they—somebody—went to all that trouble with the bags, sir? It's almost as if . . .'
'Go on, Lewis!'
'As if somebody wanted the body to be found.'
'Ye-es.' Morse was gazing across the yard once more. 'You know what's buggering us up the whole time, don't you? It's simply that we're going to have one helluva job making out a case against anybody. If somebody like Helena Kennedy, QC, was hired for the defence, she'd make mincemeat of us: we've got all the motive in the world; and all the means—but we just can't find any bloody opportunity . . . except at about teatime on that Wednesday afternoon. They've been too clever for us. But it's not just cleverness: it's ruthlessness, too. Not a blatant ruthlessness, but certainly a latent ruthlessness—latent in all three of them. Something that suddenly hardened into a cold-blooded resolve to get rid of Brooks—not just because they knew, must have known, that he was a murderer himself, but for an even better reason. Hatred.'
There was a knock at the door, and a WPC announced that Ms. Smith was now seated in Reception.
'Bring her up, please,' said Morse, quickly opening a small, square black box, lined with white satin, and passing it across to Lewis.
'What d'you think?'
Lewis, like Dr. Hobson the previous day, looked across at Morse most curiously.
'But if what you say's fight, sir, she's going to have to postpone the happy day indefinitely—for quite a few years, perhaps.'
'She can still sit in a cell and twiddle it in her fingers. No law against that, is there?'
But before Lewis could remind Morse of the very strict and very sensible prison regulations regarding necklaces and the like, there was another knock at the door, and Morse swiftly took back the pendant of St. Anthony—plus his golden chain.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
The total amount of undesired sex endured by women is probably greater in marriage than in prostitution
(BERTRAND RUSSELL, Marriage and Morals)
AFTER ROLLING THE little finger of her left hand across the pad, after pressing it firmly on to the fingerprint-form, Eleanor Smith had finished; and Lewis now asked her to add her signature to the form.
'That didn't take very long, did it?' said Morse patronisingly.
'Does all this mean you've found some fingerprints on the knife? she asked.
Morse was slightly hesitant. 'We think so, yes. Unidentified prints—unidentified as yet. As I explained, though, it's just a matter of elimination.'
She looked rather weary; gone was the sparkle that had characterised the latter part of that champagne evening at the Old Parsonage.
'You think they could be mine?'
Rather weary, too, was Morse's smile.
'We've got to have some suspects, haven't we? In fact my sergeant here's got a long list of 'em.'
She turned to Lewis. 'Whereabouts am I on the list?'
'We always try to put the most attractive at the top, don't we, sir?'
Morse nodded his agreement, wishing only that he'd thought of such a splendid rejoinder himself.
'And when exactly am I supposed to have murdered that shithouse?'
She looked from one to the other, and Morse in turn looked to Lewis the Interlocutor.
'Perhaps,' said the latter slowly, 'when you got back from Birmingham that Wednesday?'
'I see . . . And did I pinch the knife as well?'
'I—we don't think you could have done that because, as you told us, you didn't get back into Oxford until after the museum had closed. We checked up on the train time: it got into Oxford Station at 16:35—just three minutes late.'
'You still don't sound as if you believe me.'
'We don't think you took the knife,' said Morse.
The slight but perceptible stress on the 'you' was clearly not lost on
Suspect Number One.
'You suggestin' somebody else pinched it—then slipped it to me on the way home from the railway station? Then I just called in to have a chat with him and decided to murder the old bugger there and then—is that what you're thinking?'
'There are more unlikely scenarios than that,' said Morse quietly.
'Oh, not you! How I hate that bloody word "scenario''.'
She had touched a raw spot, for Morse hated the word, too. Yet he'd not been able to come up with anything better; and he made no protest as Ellie Smith continued, changing down now into her lower-gear register of speech.
'And what am I s'posed to 'ave done with 'im then?'
'Well, we were hoping you could give us a few ideas yourself.'
'Is this turnin' into a bleedin' interview or something?'
'No,' said Morse simply. 'You're under no obligation to answer anything. But sooner or later we're going to have to ask all sorts of questions. Ask you, ask your mother . . . Where is your mother, by the way?'
'Abroad somewhere.'
'How do you know that?'
'She sent me a postcard.'
'Where from?'
'The postmark was smudged—I couldn't read it.'
'Must have had a stamp on it?'
'Yeah. I'm no good at them names of foreign countries, though.'
'Some of them aren't very difficult, you know. "France", for instance?'
She made no reply.
'Have you still got the postcard?'
'No. Threw it away, didn't I?'
'What was the picture on it?'
'A river, I think.'
'Not the Thames?'
'Not the Thames.'
'You're not being much help, you know.'
'That's where you're wrong, though.'
She produced a small pasteboard business card and handed it to Morse.
'You were asking me about that Wednesday, weren't you? Well, I met a fellow on the train, and he got a bit, you know, a bit friendly and flirty, like; said if I ever wanted any, you know, work or anything . . .'
Morse looked at the white card: 'Mike Williamson, Modelling and Photographic Agency,' with a Reading address and telephone number.
'He'll remember me—for sure, Inspector. I can promise you that.'
She smiled, her eyes momentarily recapturing the sparkle that Morse could recall so well.
'Better check, Lewis.'
But as Lewis got up and moved towards the phone, Morse held up his hand: 'Office next door, please.'
'Why did you want him out of the way?'
Morse ignored the question, feeling quite irrationally jealous, 'What did this fellow offer you?'
'Oh, Christ, come off it!' Her eyes flashed angrily now. 'What the 'ell d'you think? He just thought I was an intelligent, ill-educated, expensive prostitute—which I am.'
'Which you were.'
'Which I am, Morse. By the way, you don't mind me calling you "Morse", do you? I did ask you—remember?—if I could call you something more pally and civilised but . . .'
'What about Mr. Davies? When you're married—'
'To Ashley? That's all off. He came last night and stayed up till God knows when, talking about it—going round and round in the same old circles. But I just can't go through with it. I like him—he's nice. But I just . . . I don't fancy him, that's all; and I could never love him—never. So it's not fair, is it? Not fair on him. Not fair me, either, really.'
'So you won't be needing me any more—for the wedding,' said Morse slowly.
' 'Fraid not, no, There wouldn't have been a wedding anyway, though, would there—not if you're going to arrest me?'
For a brief while the two looked at each other across the desk, their eyes locked together with a curiously disturbing intimacy.
The phone rang.
It was Strange; and Ellie got to her feet.
'Please, stay!' whispered Morse, his hand over the mouthpiece. 'Yes, sir. Yes . . . Can you just give me five minutes . . .? I'll be straight along.'
'Why d'you want me to stay?' she asked, after Morse had put down the receiver.
He took the little black box from the drawer and handed it to her.
'It's not wrapped up, I'm afraid. I'm not much good at that sort of thing.'
'Wha—?' She held the box in her left hand and opened it with her right, taking hold of the gold chain lovingly and gently, and slowly lifting up St. Anthony.
'Wha's this for?'
'I bought it for you.'
'But like I say—'
'I want you to have it, that's all. I've never bought anything like that for anybody—and, as I say, I just want you to have it.'
Ellie had been looking down at the pendant and suddenly the tears began. 'Oh god!' she whispered.
'Do you like it?'
'It's . . . it's the most wonderful . . .' But she could get no further. She stood up and walked round the desk, and kissed Morse fully and softly on the mouth; and Morse felt the wetness of her cheek against his own.
'I must go,' said Morse. 'My boss'll be getting impatient.'
She nodded. 'You know what I just said—about Ashley? That I couldn't marry him because I didn't love him? Well, that wasn't really the reason why I broke it off.'
In his brain Morse had become convinced that Eleanor Smith must be guilty of her step-father's murder; but in his heart he felt grieved as he awaited her words, for he knew exactly what they would be.
Yet he was wrong.
Spectacularly wrong.
'The real reason is I've . . . I've fallen in love with somebody else.'
Morse wondered if he'd heard correctly. 'What?'
'You gettin' deaf or something?'
'Not—not with that charlatan from the modelling agency, surely?'
She shook her head crossly, like some unhappy, exasperated little girl who will stamp her foot until she can get her own way, her own selfish way. Now.
'Are you going to listen to me, or not? Can't you guess? Can't you see? Can't you see?' She was standing beside the door, her head held high, her sludgy-green eyes closed, trying so hard to hold back the brimming tears. 'I've fallen in love with you, you stupid sod!'
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Dactyloscopy (n): the examination of fingerprinting
(Early Twentieth Century)
(The New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary)
ALWAYS HAD MORSE been a reluctant dactyloscopist, and throughout his police career all the arches and whorls and loops, all the peaks and the troughs and the ridges, had ever remained a deep mystery to him—like electricity, and the Wheatstone Bridge. He was therefore perfectly happy, on Friday, September 30, to delegate the fingerprinting of Mesdames Brooks and Stevens to Sergeant Lewis—for the two overseas travellers had returned to Oxford early that afternoon. Immigration officials at Heathrow, Gatwick, and Stansted airports had been alerted about them; and the phone-call from Heathrow had been received at Thames Valley HQ just after midday: the two had boarded the Oxford City Link coach, scheduled to arrive at its Gloucester Green terminus in Oxford at 2:30 p.m.
Neither had appeared to show any undue surprise or discomfiture when Lewis, accompanied by a fingerprint officer, had taken them into the manager's office there, and trotted out the 'purely for elimination' line.
After his colleague had left for the fingerprint bureau at St. Aldate's (where there was now a computerised search facility) Lewis had returned to Kidlington HQ, to find Morse dispiritedly scanning some of the documents in the case.
But the Chief Inspector perked up with the return of his sergeant.
'No problems?'
'No problems, sir.'
'You're a betting man, Lewis?'
'Only very occasionally: Derby, Grand National . . .'
'Will you have a bet with me?'
'50p?'
'Can't we be devils, and make it a quid?'
'All right. I've got to be careful with the money, though—we've got the decorators in.'
&
nbsp; Morse appeared surprised. 'I thought you did all that sort of stuff yourself?'
'I used to, sir, when I had the time and the energy. Before I started working for you.'
'Well, take your pick!'
'Pardon?'
'The fingerprints. Brenda Brooks or Julia Stevens—who do you go for?'
Lewis frowned. 'I can't really see his wife doing it, you know that. I just don't think she'd have the strength for one thing.'
'Really?' Morse seemed almost to be enjoying himself.
'Mrs. Stevens, though . . . Well, she's a much stronger person, a much stronger character, isn't she? And she's got the brains—'
'And she's got nothing to lose,' added Morse more sombrely.
'Not much, no.'
'So your money's on her, is it?'
Lewis hesitated. 'You know, sir, in detective stories there are only two roles really, aren't there? It's never the butler; and it's never the person you think it is. So—so I'll go for Mrs. Brooks.'
'Leaving me with Mrs. Stevens.'
'You'd have gone for her anyway, sir.'
'You think so?'
But Lewis didn't know what he was thinking, and changed the subject.
'Did you have any lunch earlier, sir?'
'Not even a pint,' complained Morse, lighting a cigarette.
'You're not hungry?'
'A bit.'
'What about coming back and having a bite with us? The missus'd be only too glad to knock something up for you.'
Morse considered the proposition. 'What do you normally have on Fridays? Fish?'
'No. It's egg and chips on Fridays.'
'I thought that was on Wednesdays.'
Lewis nodded. 'And Mondays.'
'You're on,' decided Morse. 'Give her a ring and tell her to peel another few spuds.'
'Only one thing, sir—as I said. We're in a bit of a pickle at home, I'm afraid—with the decorators in.'
'Have you got the beer in, though? That's more to the point, surely.'
It was Lewis himself who took the call from the fingerprint bureau half an hour later. No match. No match anywhere. Whoever it was who had left some fingerprints on the Rhodesian knife, it had not been Mrs. Brenda Brooks or Mrs. Julia Stevens; nor, as they'd already learned, Ms. Eleanor Smith. One other piece of information. Classifying and identifying fingerprints was an immensely complicated job and they couldn't be absolutely sure yet; but it was looking almost certain now that the fingerprints on the knife-handle didn't match those of any known criminals either—well over two million of them in the Scotland Yard library.
