by Colin Dexter
She left soon afterwards, happy and relieved, and a nice policeman saw her safely back to her own cosy front parlour, where the short-haired white cat lay indolently upon the sofa, momentarily opening the mysterious, stereoscopic eyes to greet his mistress's return.
Cerise. Morse got up and consulted the OED. 'A light, bright, clear red, like the colour of cherries.' Yes, that was it. For the next five minutes he stared vacantly through the window in the pose of Rodin's Aristotle; and at the end of that time he lifted his eyebrows slightly and nodded slowly to himself. It was time to get moving. He knew a coat like that, although he'd only seen it once — the colour of bright-pink cherries in the summer time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller
Knocking on the moonlit door.
(Walter de la Mare, The Listeners)
WITHIN THE PHILLIPSON family the financial arrangements were a matter of clear demarcation. Mrs. Phillipson herself had a small private income accruing from interest received on her late mother's estate. This account she kept strictly separate from all other monies; and although her husband had known the value of the original capital inheritance, he had no more idea of his wife's annual income than she did of her husband's private means. For Phillipson himself also had a private account, in which he accumulated a not negligible annual sum from his examining duties with one of the national boards, from royalties on a moderately successful textbook, written five years previously, on nineteenth-century Britain, and from various incidental perks associated with his headship. In addition to these incomes there was, of course, Phillipson's monthly salary as a headmaster, and this was administered in a joint account on which both drew cash and wrote cheques for the normal items of household expenditure. The system worked admirably, and since by any standards the family was well-to-do, financial bickering had never blighted the Phillipsons' marriage; in fact financial matters had never caused the slightest concern to either party. Or had not done so until recently.
Phillipson kept his cheque book, his bank statements and all his financial correspondence in the top drawer of the bureau in the lounge, and he kept it locked. And in normal circumstances Mrs. Phillipson would no more have dreamed of looking through this drawer than of opening the private and confidential letters which came through the letter-box week after week from the examination board. It was none of her business, and she was perfectly happy to keep it that way — in normal circumstances. But circumstances had been far from normal these last two weeks, and she had not lived with Donald for over twelve years without coming to know his moods and his anxieties. For she slept beside him every night and he was her husband, and she knew him. She knew with virtual certainty that whatever had lain so heavily upon his mind these last few days was neither the school, nor the inspector whose visit had been so strangely upsetting, nor even the ghost of Valerie Taylor that flitted perpetually across the twilit zone of his subconscious fears. It was a man. A man she had come to think of as wholly evil and wholly malignant. It was Baines.
No specific incident had led her to open her husband's drawer and to examine the papers within; it was more an aggregation of many minor incidents which had driven her lively imagination to the terminus — a terminus which the facts themselves may never have reached, but towards which (as she fearfully foresaw their implications) they seemed inevitably to be heading. Did he know that she had her own key to the drawer? Surely not. For otherwise, if there was something he was anxious to hide, he would have kept the guilty evidence at school and not at home. And she had looked — only last week, and many things were now so frighteningly clear. Assuredly she had heard the warning voices, and yet had looked and now could guess the truth: her husband was being blackmailed. And strangely enough she found that she could face the truth: it mattered less to her than she had dared to hope. But one thing was utterly certain. Never would she tell a living soul — never, never, never! She was his wife and she loved him, and would go on loving him. And if possible she would protect him; to the last ounce of her energy, to the last drop of her blood. She might even be able to do something. Yes, she might even be able to do something. .
She seemed neither surprised nor dismayed to see him, for she had learned a great deal about herself the past few days. Not only was it better to face up to life's problems than to run away from them or desperately to pretend they didn't exist; it seemed far easier, too.
'Can we talk?' asked Morse.
She took his coat and hung it on the hall-stand behind the front door, beside an expensive-looking winter coat, the colour of ripening cherries.
They sat in the lounge, and Morse again noticed the photograph above the heavy mahogany bureau.
'Well, Inspector? How can I help you?'
'Don't you know?' replied Morse quietly.
'I'm afraid not.' She gave a little laugh and the hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. She spoke carefully, almost like a self-conscious teacher of elocution, the 'd' and the 't' articulated separately and distinctly.
'I think you do, Mrs. Phillipson, and it's going to be easier for both of us if you're honest with me from the start because believe me, my love, you're going to be honest with me before we've finished.'
The niceties were gone already, the words direct and challenging, the easy familiarity almost frightening. As if she were looking in on herself from the outside, she wondered what her chances were against him. It depended, of course, on what he knew. But surely there was nothing he could know?
'What am I supposed to be honest about?'
'Can't we keep this between ourselves, Mrs. Phillipson? That's why I've called now, you see, while your husband's still at school.'
He noted the first glint of anxiety in the light-brown eyes; but she remained silent, and he continued. 'If you're in the clear, Mrs. Phillipson—' He had repeated her name with almost every question, and she felt uncomfortable. It was like the repeated blows of a battering ram against a beleaguered city.
'In the clear? What are you talking about?'
'I think you called at Mr. Baines's house on Monday night, Mrs. Phillipson.' The tone of his voice was ominously calm, but she only shook her head in semi-humorous disbelief.
'You can't really be serious, can you, Inspector?'
'I'm always serious when I'm investigating murder.'
You don't think — you can't think that I had anything to do with that? On Monday night? Why, I hardly knew the man.'
'I'm not interested in how well you knew him.' It seemed an odd remark and her eyebrows contracted to a frown.
'What are you interested in?'
'I've told you, Mrs. Phillipson.'
'Look, Inspector. I think it's about time you told me exactly why you're here. If you've got something you want to say to me, please say it. If you haven't. .'
Morse, in a muted way, admired her spirited performance. But he had just reminded Mrs. Phillipson, and now he reminded himself: he was investigating murder.
When he spoke again his words were casual, intimate almost. 'Did you like Mr. Baines?'
Her mouth opened as if to speak and, as suddenly, closed again; and whatever doubts had begun to creep into Morse's mind were now completely removed.
'I didn't know him very well. I just told you that.' It was the best answer she could find, and it wasn't very good.
'Where were you on Monday evening, Mrs. Phillipson?'
'I was here of course. I'm almost always here.'
'What time did you go out?'
'Inspector! I just told—'
'Did you leave the children on their own?'
'Of course I didn't — I mean I wouldn't. I could never—'
'What time did you get back?'
'Back? Back from where?'
'Before your husband?'
'My husband was out — that's what I'm telling you. He went to the theatre, the Playhouse—'
'He sat in row M seat 14.'
'If you say so, all right
. But he wasn't home until about eleven.'
'Ten to, according to him.'
'All right, ten to eleven. What does—'
'You haven't answered my question, Mrs. Phillipson.'
'What question?'
'I asked you what time you got home, not your husband.' His questions were flung at her now with breakneck rapidity.
'You don't think I would go out and leave—'
'Go out? Where to, Mrs. Phillipson? Did you go on the bus?'
'I didn't go anywhere. Can't you understand that? How could I possibly go out and leave—'
Morse interrupted her again. She was beginning to crack, he knew that; her voice was high-pitched now amidst the elocutionary wreckage.
'All right — you didn't leave your children alone — I believe you — you love your children — of course you do — it would be illegal to leave them on their own — how old are they?'
Again she opened her mouth to speak, but he pushed relentlessly, remorselessly on.
'Have you heard of a baby-sitter, Mrs. Phillipson? — somebody who comes in and looks after your children while you go out — do you hear me? — while you go out — do you want me to find out who it was? — or do you want to tell me? — I could soon find out, of course — friends, neighbours — do you want me to find out, Mrs. Phillipson? — do you want me to go and knock next door? — and the door next to that? — of course, you don't, do you? You know, you're not being very sensible about this, are you, Mrs. Phillipson?' (He was speaking more slowly and calmly now.) 'You see, I know what happened on Monday night. Someone saw you, Mrs. Phillipson; someone saw you in Kempis Street. And if you'd like to tell me why you were there and what you did, it would save a lot of time and trouble. But if you won't tell me, then I shall have to—'
Of a sudden she almost shrieked as the incessant flow of words began to overwhelm her. 'I told you! I don't know what you're talking about! You don't seem to understand that, do you? I just don't know what you're talking about?
Morse sat back in the armchair, relaxed and unconcerned. He looked about him, and once more fastened his gaze on the photograph of the headmaster and his wife above the large bureau. And then he looked at his wristwatch.
'What time do the children get home?' His tone was suddenly friendly and quiet, and Mrs. Phillipson felt the panic welling up within her. She looked at her own wristwatch and her voice was shaking as she answered him.
'They'll be home at four o'clock.'
'That gives us an hour, doesn't it, Mrs. Phillipson. I think that's long enough — my car's outside. You'd better put your coat on — the pink one, if you will.'
He rose from the armchair, and fastened the front buttons of his jacket. I'll see that your husband knows if. .' He took a few steps towards the door, but she laid her hand upon him as he moved past her.
'Sit down, please, Inspector,' she said quietly.
She had gone (she said). That was all, really. It was like suddenly deciding to write a letter or to ring the dentist or to buy some restorer for the paint brushes encrusted stiff with last year's gloss. She asked Mrs. Cooper next door to baby-sit, said she'd be no longer than an hour at the very latest, and caught the 9.20 p.m. bus from the stop immediately outside the house. She got off at Cornmarket, walked quickly through Gloucester Green and reached Kempis Street by about quarter to ten. The light was shining in Baines's front window — she had never been there before — and she summoned up all her courage and knocked on the front door. There was no reply. Again she knocked — and again there was no reply. She then walked along to the lighted window and tapped upon it hesitantly and quietly with the back of her hand; but she could hear no sound and could make out no movement behind the cheap yellow curtains. She hurried back to the front door, feeling as guilty as a young schoolgirl caught out of her place in the classroom by the headmistress. But still nothing happened. She had so nearly called the whole thing off there and then; but her resolution had been wrought up to such a pitch that she made one last move. She tried the door — and found it unlocked. She opened it slightly, no more than a foot or so, and called his name.
'Mr. Baines?' And then slightly louder, 'Mr. Baines?' But she received no reply. The house seemed strangely still and the sound of her own voice echoed eerily in the high entrance hall. A cold shiver of fear ran down her spine, and for a few seconds she felt sure that he was there, very near to her, watching and waiting. . And suddenly a panic-stricken terror had seized her and she had rushed back to the lighted, friendly road, crossed over by the railway station and, with her heart pounding in her ribs, tried to get a grip on herself. In St. Giles' she caught a taxi and arrived home just after ten.
That was her story, anyway. She told it in a flat, dejected voice, and she told it well and clearly. To Morse it sounded in no way like the tangled, mazy machinations of a murderer. Indeed a good deal of it he could check fairly easily: the baby-sitter, the bus conductor, the taxi driver. And Morse felt sure that all would verify the outline of her story, and confirm the approximate times she'd given. But there was no chance of checking those fateful moments when she stood outside the door of Baines's house. . Had she gone in? And if she had, what terrible things had then occurred? The pros and cons were counterpoised in Morse's mind, with the balance tilting slightly in Mrs. Phillipson's favour.
'Why did you want to see him?'
'I wanted to talk to him, that's all.'
'Yes. Go on.'
'It's difficult to explain. I don't think I knew myself what I was going to say. He was — oh, I don't know — he was everything that's bad in life. He was mean, he was vindictive, he was — sort of calculating. He just delighted in seeing other people squirm. I'm not thinking of anything in particular, and I don't really know all that much about him. But since Donald has been headmaster he's — how shall I put it? — he's waited, hoping for things to go wrong. He was a cruel man, Inspector.'
'You hated him?'
She nodded hopelessly. 'Yes, I suppose I did.'
'It's as good a motive as any,' said Morse sombrely.
'It might seem so, yes.' But she sounded unperturbed.
'Did your husband hate Baines, too?' He watched her carefully and saw the light flash dangerously in her eyes.
'Don't be silly, Inspector. You can't possibly think that Donald had anything to do with all this. I know I've been a fool, but you can't. . It's impossible. He was at the theatre all night. You know that'
'Your husband would have thought it was impossible for you to be knocking at Baines's door that night, wouldn't he? You were here, at home, with the children, surely?' He leaned forward and spoke more curtly again now. 'Make no mistake, Mrs. Phillipson, it would have been a hell of a sight easier for him to leave the theatre than it was for you to leave here. And don't try to tell me otherwise!'
He sat back impassively in the chair. He sensed an evasion somewhere in her story, a half-truth, a curtain not yet fully drawn back; and at the same time he knew that he was almost there, and all he had to do was sit and wait. And so he sat and waited; and the world of the woman seated opposite him was slowly beginning to fall apart, and suddenly, dramatically, she buried her head in her hands and wept uncontrollably.
Morse fished around in his pockets and finally found a crumpled apology for a paper handkerchief, and pushed it gently into her right hand.
'Don't cry,' he said softly. 'It won't do either of us any good.'
After a few minutes the tears dried up, and soon the snivelling subsided. 'What can do us any good, Inspector?'
'It's very easy, really,' said Morse in a brisk tone. 'You tell me the truth, Mrs. Phillipson. You'll find I probably know it anyway.'
But Morse was wrong — he was terribly wrong. Mrs. Phillipson could do little more than reiterate her strange little story. This time, however, with a startling addition — an addition which caught Morse, as he sat there nodding sceptically, like an uppercut to the jaw. She hadn't wanted to mention it because. . because, well, it seemed so much lik
e trying to get herself out of a mess by pushing someone else into it. But she could only tell the truth, and if that's what Morse was after she thought she'd better tell it. As she had said, she ran along to the main street after leaving Baines's house and crossed over towards the Royal Oxford Hotel; and just before she reached the hotel she saw someone she knew — knew very well — come out of the lounge door and walk across the road to Kempis Street. She hesitated and her tearful eyes looked pleadingly and pathetically at Morse.
