“Ye gods!” I said. “I couldn’t write more than a couple of relevant sentences on any of them. Could you?”
“One or two of them, I suppose.”
“Which one did you choose?”
“County Boundaries.”
“Honestly? What do you know about them?”
“Nothing. I wrote about cricket.”
“You must know a lot about cricket!”
“Very very little,” Morse said, with a grin.
I knew at that point that some of us have been given a fifth gear in life, and that some others of us haven’t. And it was no surprise to me to learn later on that Morse had been awarded a Major Scholarship in Classics at Lonsdale College – where we met each other again at the Michaelmas Term Freshers’ party in October 1968, discovering that we had been allocated digs together in leafy North Oxford.
The childless Mr & Mrs Lloyd, with whom Morse and I spent our first year, lived at The Firs, a largish detached house in Daventry Road, off the Banbury Road, and just below the A40 Ring Road. Truth to tell, the property seemed not so well furbished and furnished as most of its neighbours, but it had plenty of space both inside and out; and Pagan and I each had a fair-sized bed-sit at the rear of the house, with a shared loo-cum-bathroom. Why “Pagan”? Well, it was the soubriquet by which he was known to his fellow undergrads, since it had leaked out that in the “Religion?” section of his University Application form he had written “High-church atheist”. If we had rooms in College (which Morse, as an open scholar, would have for the next three years) we would have prof ted from the services of a “scout”; but things were quite satisfactory. Mrs Lloyd did virtually everything herself – cleaning, cooking, washing, ironing – and although the loo was not exactly given regular five-star treatment, we agreed not to complain. Mr Lloyd was a rather superior car-salesman at a Banbury Road garage, but his real pride and joy were the lawns at the back and front of the house which he treated (well, so I thought) with rather more affection than he did his wife; and most weekends saw him marching up and down with the lawn-mower. How did we all get on together? Pretty well, really. I took the majority of my lunches and dinners in the College Hall; Pagan, just dinners, preferring a liquid lunch in one of the city-centre hostelries. On Sundays, however, we had a regular lunch with the Lloyds, and one such occasion I recall with unusual clarity.
There were just the three of us, since Mr Lloyd was away in London at some jumbo second-hand car sale: just Pagan, myself, and Mrs Lloyd – she looking particularly attractive; and I swear I noticed Pagan glancing appreciatively more than once at the décolletage of her skimpy white blouse, its top button (by accident or design, I know not) left rather provocatively unfastened. When after the main course she had returned to the kitchen, Pagan asked:
“What’s your favourite present-participle in the English language, Philip?”
For once, I was ready for him: “I’d go for ‘bird-hatching’”, I think. Remember when Tess sets off for the Vale of the Great Dairies? ‘On a thyme-scented, bird-hatching morning in May . . .’ Lovely sentence.”
Morse nodded. “Chapter sixteen, isn’t it?”
But I was not prepared to congratulate my friend on his knowledge of Hardy’s novels. Instead, I asked him what his own choice would be.
“I’ll go for ‘unbuttoning’,” he said quietly, as Mrs Lloyd came in with the stewed plums and custard.
I mention this incident for a reason the reader may soon appreciate. Each week in term-time, either on the Monday or the Tuesday, Morse would receive a pale-blue envelope, its flap always firmly sellotaped, from someone in Lincolnshire. Morse never mentioned her – for of course it was a “her”! – not even her Christian name, although I did eventually learn it. Oh, yes!
During our first few weeks as co-lodgers, only one thing was a matter of initial discord. Morse had an ancient portable gramophone, on which continually, and sometimes continuously, he played highlights from Wagner’s Ring Cycle. I would myself have preferred the Beatles to Brünnhilde; but after Morse had one day given me a tutorial on the story and structure of that extraordinary work, fairly soon I began to appreciate, and later to love it. As Morse had explained: Wagner’s music was never half as bad as it sounded.
We were both reading Classics, a four-year course, requiring success in two major public examinations: “Mods” after two years; “Greats” after a further two. Mods involved, mainly, translation from Greek and Latin, and composition into those languages. In these particular skills, Morse was paramount, having the facility to read each language with the fluency and speed of an average English ten-year-old following the fortunes of his favourite football team. On the other hand, Greats was centred more generally upon the history and philosophy of Greece and Rome, neither of which areas kindled much interest in Morse’s mind. What fascinated him was the study of the manuscripts of the classical authors, frequently corrupted in their transmission to future generations. He fervently believed that if only he was given the chance of considering many of the puzzling problems in these fields, he would usually make some better sense of virtually anything, like his great hero in life, A. E. Housman. It was so often a bit like making sense of a story where many of the key facts have been misreported and muddled up.
Like this one.
I had not seen much of Morse during the Michaelmas Term of our second year in Oxford. Although I was myself still with the Lloyds, he now had rooms in College; and in any case his former accommodation was in the slow process of some refurbishment. He had, I suspect, attended no more than two or three lectures in the latter half of that term; and although we occasionally sat together in Hall, we now appeared to be going very much our separate ways. Yet we did meet one morning in mid-December at the Gardenia Café in Cornmarket, quite unexpectedly, since coffee was hardly his favourite a.m. beverage. We chatted briefly, expressing mutual surprise that neither of us would be spending Christmas at home. I explained that my parents were on a Saga cruise in the Med, and that in any case I really ought to catch up on some much needed study.
Morse had nodded. He had helped me considerably during our first year together, and was clearly aware of my limitations.
“And you’re staying with Helen?” he’d asked.
It seemed to me surprising that he’d referred to Mrs Lloyd by her first name – something I myself had never dared to do.
“Yes,” I said. “But I’m going to Coventry for a couple of days just before Christmas. What about you?”
He had ever been reticent about his home, his parents, his siblings (if any), although I knew his father was a taxi-driver. And now, too, he was as vague as usual:
“Staying in college or burying my head in the Bodley,” he said, tapping the two books beside his empty coffee-cup: The Oxford Text of Homer, and Autenrieth’s Homeric Dictionary.
“I thought the College was closed over Christmas.”
“Only the 22nd to the 26th. I’ve booked in at The Randolph those nights.”
“Well, well. Not many of us could afford that.”
He got to his feet and picked up his books.
“Dad’s had a win on the gee-gees, Philip. And,” he spoke very quietly, “if I can be of any help again . . .”
“Thank you,” I said, equally quietly, feeling strangely moved by his offer, perhaps because I’d noticed a certain sadness in his eyes as he turned to leave.
I’d noticed something else, too – no doubt about it! Acting presumably as a book-mark in the Oxford Text, there was an envelope, a pale-blue envelope. And I knew who that was from. Or, as he would have said, “from whom that was”.
I was to see no more of Morse until much nearer Christmas.
On December 22 I left Oxford by rail for Coventry, where one of my best pals had arranged a party that evening – girls included, me included – and had invited me to stay overnight at his home. I was anticipating the outing with relish; but as I returned to Oxford earlyish the following morning, I was feeling sorely disappo
inted. The girl I was looking forward to seeing again . . . Augh! Forget it! I could only recall Jane Austen’s observation that often it was the expectation of happiness which turned out to be better than the thing itself. Anyway, I’d soon be seeing Mrs Lloyd again, although my expectations in that quarter were sadly very low.
I took a taxi from the railway station, and as I stood outside The Firs taking out my wallet, I saw immediately that something was terribly wrong. Twenty or so feet of the recently creosoted fence which ran along the front of the wide property were down, lying flat, smashed and splintered across the lawn. And clearly the stout left-hand gatepost had received a hefty bash from something, and was now leaning drunkenly a good many degrees from the vertical. As for the precious front lawn itself? Oh dear! It was churned up with sundry indentations, and criss-crossed with tyre-marks, reminiscent of an aerial photograph of the railway-tracks at Crewe station.
“What on earth . . .?” I began, turning to the driver.
“Dunno, mate. Some drunken sod, I s’pose.”
“You hadn’t noticed it before?”
“Wasn’t out yesterday, was I? Shoppin’ with the missus for Christmas.”
For a few seconds after he had gone I stood staring at the mutilated lawn, but noticed that Mrs Lloyd’s red Mini was standing in its usual place, apparently undamaged, in front of the equally undamaged doors of the double garage. Of Mr Lloyd’s old Rolls Royce, which was normally parked alongside, there was no sign. I slowly walked halfway up the drive, and stopped. Pretty obviously the intruder had driven in, managed to stop, and promptly reversed out again. QED. I turned back towards the house, and there, framed in the doorway, stood the slim figure of Mrs Lloyd.
Five minutes later, we were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, and as she passed over my coffee, for a few seconds her delicate fingers rested upon my wrist – magical moments! – before looking at me steadily with sad, sad eyes, and told me the story.
On the previous evening she had been alone in the house. Jeff had been picked up at about 7 p.m. to go to a Christmas party in Linton Road. His own car was in for something to do with the gaskets, she thought – whatever they were. She had been watching a sit-com on TV; and, yes, she had heard some sort of bang or crash at about 9.30 p.m. But it hadn’t worried her much – probably the temperamental central-heating, or a firework perhaps. Anyway, she’d kept watching the rather good programme until the news at 10 p.m. Jeff had promised (almost!) to be home by just after 11 p.m., and she decided to go upstairs to bed. But before doing so, she’d put the light on in the front porch (for Jeff to find the keyhole!) and stepped outside to make sure she’d locked the Mini. “And you’ve seen, Philip, what’s happened! Some – drunken – irresponsible – vandal – has . . .”
Twin tears, like a pair of synchronized Olympic divers, were slowly sliding down her cheeks.
I reached forward and put my hand over her wrist – knowing immediately that I had overstepped the mark, for she withdrew her hand, got to her feet, dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose noisily as she reached for the kettle again.
“Did you ring the police?” I asked.
She shook her head: “Not then, no. The duty bobbies would all be out breathalizing the boozers.”
“Let’s just hope they breathalized that wretched man—”
“Or woman, perhaps.”
“I wish you had rung the police immediately, though,” said a new voice – that of Jeff Lloyd, who now stood at the kitchen door, unshaven, with slightly bloodshot eyes, wearing a pair of grubby beige trousers, and a new-looking flat cap, appearing more like a council road-sweeper than his usual smart-suited self, and carrying a pair of gardening gloves. He poured himself a coffee and came to stand behind his wife. “I mustn’t blame the old girl, though, and I don’t blame her. My fault, Philip,” he said, “not Helen’s. It’s shock, you know, at the time. It disorientates you. If only I’d got in earlier . . .”
“Anyway,” Helen said as she turned round to look up at his tall figure, “we did ring this morning, didn’t we?” Then she turned to me: “Said they’d be round asap.”
Jeff Lloyd grinned weakly: “Probably early in the New Year!” He swallowed his coffee quickly and kissed his wife on the top of her head. “I’m just going to nip down to the garage. Tom’s promised to try to fix the Rolls, bless him, so I’ll need your car, darling.” Helen dipped into her handbag for the keys, and he was gone.
I wondered, yet again, what she saw in that man. I’d read recently that seventy-five per cent of American women would willingly marry just for money, and perhaps it was the same with English women. And in this case, what if she had the money? That would make things even worse. But a few kindly words can go a long way; and a minute later he put his head round the door:
“Hope you’ll still be joining us for Christmas dinner, Philip?”
I waited until I heard the front door slam, and the Mini spurt into life.
“Won’t he be back to talk to the police?” I asked.
“They couldn’t say when they’d come, and in any case he couldn’t tell them anything. He wasn’t here. Forget it, Philip! But if he’s not here when the boys in blue decide to arrive, will you be prepared to stand by and give me a bit of moral support?”
I nodded happily.
It was half an hour later when the boy (singular) in blue appeared on the semi-tidied gravel drive, and when Mrs Lloyd called me through to the lounge, where for a few moments we watched the single policeman, in a black-and-white checkered hat, standing importantly beside what had formally been a splendidly carved gate, writing something with a stubby pencil on a clip-boarded sheet of paper. And a minute or so later, the three of us were standing on the front-doorstep, where our investigating officer introduced himself as Constable Watson – not exactly the best of omens! Perhaps subconsciously I had envisaged someone named “Holmes”, carrying a bucket full of plaster of Paris, duly to be poured into the (admittedly) adulterated indentations of the tyre-marks. But Watson had no bucket. For myself, I could still imagine Holmes, after the merest glance, announcing to an astonished Watson the manufacturer of the tyres, their approximate mileage, and, in all likelihood, the make of the vehicle responsible.
Fanciful foolishness, of course, because Constable Watson, after a cursory look at the lawn, seemed to have reached an investigative conclusion:
“Made a bit of a mess of your lawn, hasn’t it, Mrs Lloyd?”
“Not done much good to the fence, either!”
“Hope you’re insured on that, madam?”
“Yes.” She proceeded to recount her story, and one or two notes were added on the clipboard.
“Would the neighbours have seen or heard anything?”
Mrs Lloyd shrugged. “We’ve not asked, I’m afraid. You have to be in North Oxford for about ten years before you speak much to your neighbours.”
Watson had clearly finished with his clipboard, and now held it by his side in his right hand whilst he removed his cap and scratched his head with the other. “Look, I ought to come clean with you, madam, and tell you that I very much doubt we shall ever have the faintest idea who was responsible for all this.”
“Really, Constable? But you’d be quite wrong, you know. You see, I know exactly who was responsible for this wanton vandalism.”
These were just about the most surprising words I’d ever expected to hear.
She re-opened the front door, reached behind the coat-stand, and picked up an object which she now held in front of her. “This, officer, is a whopping great clue for you. It’s the number-plate, without a shadow of a doubt, which was knocked off the front of the vehicle whose owner decided to visit me last night – and who had not called in for a pre-Christmas sherry!”
Watson at last found his voice. “Thank you very much, madam. That may well be of some considerable value in our enquiries.” He reached forward, but Mrs Lloyd drew it back from his intended grasp.
“No! My husband is in the car-busines
s himself, and he’s advised me to keep it here. He knows a great deal about car accidents, and any physical evidence required by insurance companies. Make a note of it by all means, of course, but I’m keeping it here, understood? I’m certain that you’ll have little difficulty in finding the matching miscreant . . . And a happy Christmas to you, officer!”
I confess to feeling sympathy with Constable Watson as for the last time he reached for his stubby pencil, and slowly and with great care, transcribed the number on to his clip-boarded sheet:
54LLY D
Was it just a coincidence that the four letters on the plate virtually spelled out the surname of the troubled householders?
“Well?” said Mrs Lloyd after the door had closed on our detective. “Hardly the brightest wattage bulb in the Thames Valley Force . . . I just wish your pal, Pagan, was here – be good to have him around, and he’d probably invent some weird and wonderful tale for us . . . Perhaps I should ring him, Philip? He is in Oxford, you told me.”
“Yep. Not in College, though – that’s virtually closed down completely from the 22nd to the 26th. Just a single porter in the Lodge, and I believe he’s booked in at The Randolph, is Pagan.”
“Alongside booze and books in the bar, like as not!”
“I suppose so.”
“Funny, isn’t it? Never seems to have much effect on him, booze. Not like me! Couple of glasses of red plonk, and I’m a tipsy little girl again. He once told me that too many double Scotches usually gave him single vision.”
I let it go. Truth to tell, I was a bit miffed she hadn’t told me earlier about the number-plate; and when she asked me if baked beans would be OK for a spot of lunch, I decided to leave her to it. But not before asking her one question:
The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 7 Page 2
