Inspector Morse 11 The Daughters of Cain

by Colin Dexter

  "Not all that much to go on," Phillotson had admitted; yet all the same, not without some degree of pride, laying a hand on two green box-files f'dled with reports and statements and notes and documents and a plan showing the full specification of Mc Clure's apartment, with arcs and rulings and arrows and dotted lines and measurements. Morse him-self had never been able to follow such house-plans; and now glanced only cursorily through the stapled sheets supplied by Adkinsons, Surveyors, Valuers, and Estate Agents--as Phillotson came to the end of his briefing.

  "By the way," asked Morse, rising to his feet, "how's the wife? I meant to ask earlier.... "

  "Very poorly, I'm afraid," said Phillotson, miserably.

  "Cheerful sod, isn't he, Lewis?"

  The two men had been back in Morse's office then, Lewis seeking to find a place on the desk for the bulging box-files.

  "Well, he must be pretty worried about his wife if"

  "Pah! He just didn't know where to go next that was his trouble."

  "And we do?"

  "Well, for a start, I wouldn't mind knowing which of those newspapers Mc Clure read first?'

  "If either."

  Morse nodded. "And I wouldn't mind finding out if he made any phone-calls that morning."

  "Can't we get British Telecom to itemise things? "Can we?" asked Morse vaguely. "You'll want to see the body?"

  "Why on earth should I want to do that?"

  "I just thought--"

  "I wouldn't mind seeing that shirt, though. Maroon and blue vertical stripes, didn't Phillotson say?" Morse passed the index finger of his left hand round the inside of his slightly tight, slightly frayed shirt-collar. "I'm thinking of, er, expanding my wardrobe a bit."

  But the intended humour was lost on Lewis, to whom it seemed exceeding strange that Morse should at the same time apparently show more interest in the dead man's shirt than in his colleague's wife. "Apparently" though... that was always the thing about Morse: no one could ever really plot a graph of the thoughts that ran through that extraordi-nary mind.

  "Did we learn anything from Phillotson, sir?"

  "You may have done: I ditha't. I knew just as much about things when I wen*. into 1;]s office as when I came out."

  "Reminds you a bit of Omar Khayyam, doesn't it?" sug-gested Lewis, innocently.

  Chapter Four

  Krook chalked the letter upon the wall in a very curious manner, beginning with the end of the letter, and shaping it backward. It was a capital letter, not a printed one.

  "Can you read it?" he asked me with a keen glance J (CHARLES DICKENS, Bleak House)

  The sitting-cum-dining-room--the murder room--12' x 17' 2" as stated in the Adkinsons' (doubtless accurate) spec-ifications, was very much the kind of room one might ex-pect as the main living-area of a retired Oxford don: an oak table with four chairs around it; a brown leather settee; a matching armchair; TV; CD and cassette player; books al-most everywhere on floor-to-ceiling shelves; busts of Ho-mer, Thucydides, Milton, and Beethoven; not enough space really for the many pictures--including the head, in the Pittura Pompeiana series, of Theseus, Slayer of the Mino-taur.

  Those were the main things. Morse recognised three of the busts readily and easily, though he had to guess at the bronze head of Thucydides. As for Lewis, he recog-nized all four immediately, since his eyesight was now keener than Morse's, and the name of each of those immor-tals was inscribed in tiny capitals upon its plinth.

  For a while Morse stood by the armchair, looking all round him, saying nothing. Through the open door of the kitchen--6' 10" x 9' 6'---he could see the Oxford Almanack hanging from the wall facing him, and finally went through to admire "St. Hilda's College" from a watercolour by Sir Hugh Casson, RA. Pity, perhaps, it was the previous year's, for Morse now read its date, "MDCCCCLXXXXIII"; and for a few moments he found himself considering whether any other year in the twentieth century--in any century--could command any lengthier designation. Fourteen charac-ters required for "1993."

  Still, the Romans never knew much about numbers. "Do you know how many walking-sticks plus umbrellas we've got in the hall-stand here?" shouted Lewis from the tiny entrance area.

  "Fourteen!" shouted Morse in return.

  "How the--how on earth?"

  "For me, Lewis, coincidence in life is wholly unexceptional; the readily predictable norm in life. You know that by now, surely?"

  Lewis said nothing. He knew well where his duties lay in circumstances such as these: to do the donkey-work; to look through everything, without much purpose, and often without much hope. But Morse was a stickler for sifting the evidence; always had been. The only trouble was that he never wanted to waste his own time in helping to sift it, for such work was excessively tedious; and frequently fruitless, to boot.

  So Lewis did it all. And as Morse sat back in the settee and looked through Mc Clure's magnum opus, Lewis started to go through all the drawers and all the letters and all the piles of papers and the detritus of the litter-bins--just as earlier Phillotson and his team had done. Lewis didn't mind, though. Occasionally in the past he'd found some item unusual enough (well, unusual enough to Morse) that had set the great mind scurrying off into some subtly sign-posted avenue, or cul-de-sac; that had set the keenest-nosed hound in the pack on to some previously unsuspected scent.

  Two things only of interest here, Lewis finally informed Morse. And Phillotson himself had pointed out the potential importance of the first of these, anyway: a black plastic W. H. Smith Telephone Index, with eighteen alphabetical divisions, the collocation of the less common letters, such as "WX" and "YZ," counting as one. The brief introduc-tory instructions (under "A") suggested that the user might find it valuable to record therein, for speed of reference, the telephone numbers of such indispensable personages as Dec-orator, Dentist, Doctor, Electrician, Plumber, Police....

  Lewis opened the index at random: at the letter "M." Six names on the card there. Three of the telephone numbers were prefixed with e Inner London code, "071"; the other aee were Oxford numbers, five digits each, all beginning with "5."

  Lewis sighed audibly. Eighteen times six? That was a hundred and eight... Still it might be worthwhile tinging round (had Phillotson thought the same?) provided there were no more than half a dozen or so per page. He pressed the index to a couple of oer letters. "P": eight names and numbers. "C": just four. What about the twinned letters? He pressed "KL": seven, with six of them "L"; and just one "K'--and that (interestingly enough?) entered as 9 single capital letter "K." Who was K when he was at home?

  Or she?

  "What does 'K' stand for, sir?

  Morse, a crossword fanatic from his early teens, knew some of the answers immediately: "'King'; 'Kelvin'--unit of temperature, Lewis; er, 'thousand'; 'kilometer,' of course; 'K'6chel,' the man who catalogued Mozart, as you know; er..."

  "Not much help."

  "Initial of someone's name?"

  "Why just the initial?"

  "Girl's name? Perhaps he's trying to disguise his sim-mering passion for a married woman--what about that? Or perhaps all the girls at the local knocking-shop are known by a letter of the alphabet?"

  "Didn't know you had one up here, sir."

  "Lewis, we have everything in North Oxford. It's just a question of knowing where it is, that's the secret." Lewis mused aloud. "Karen... or Kirsty..."

  "Kylie?"

  "You've heard of her, sir?"

  "Only just."

  "Kathy..."

  "Well, there's one pretty simple way of finding out, isn't there? Can't you just ring the number? Isn't that what you're supposed to be doing? That sort of thing?"

  Lewis picked up the phone and dialled the five-digit number--and was answered immediately.

  "Yeah? Wha' d'ya wan'?" a woman's voice bawled at him.

  "Hullo. Er have I got the right number for 'K'?"

  "Yeah. You 'ave. Bu' she's no'

  'ere, is she.'?"

  "No, obviously not. I'll try again later."

  "You
a dur'y oi' man, or sump'n?'

  Lewis quickly replaced the receiver, the colour rising in his pale cheeks.

  Morse, who had heard the brief exchange clearly, grinned at his discomfited sergeant. "You can't win 'em all."

  "Waste of time, if that's anything to go by."

  "You think so?"

  "Don't you?"

  "Lewis! You were only on the phone for about ten sec-onds but you learned she was a 'she,' probably a she with the name of 'Kay.'"

  "I didn't!"

  "A she of easy virtue who old Felix here spent a few happy hours with. Or, as you'd prefer it, with whom old Felix regularly spent a few felicitous hours."

  "You can't just say that "

  "Furthermore she's a local lass, judging by her curly Ox-fordshire accent and her typical habit of omitting all her 't's."

  "But I didn't even get the woman!"

  Morse was silent for a few seconds; then he looked up, his face more serious. "Am you sure, Lewis? Are you quite sure you haven't just been speaking to the cryptic 'K' her-self?."

  Lewis shook his head, grinned ruefully, and said nothing.

  He knew knew again now--why he'd never rise to any great heights in life himself. Morse had got it wrong, of course. Morse nearly always got things hopelessly, ridicu-lously wrong at the start of every case. But he always seemed to have thoughts that no one else was capable of thinking. Like now.

  "Anyway, what's this other thing you've found?"

  But before Lewis could answer, there was a quiet tap on the door and PC Roberts stuck a reverential, unhelmeted head into the room.

  'Where's a Mrs. Wynne-Wilson here, sir, from one of the other flats. Says she wants a word, like."

  Morse looked up from his Thucydides. "Haven't we al-ready got a statement from her, Lewis?"

  But it was Roberts who answered. "She says she made a statement, sir, but when she heard someone else was in charge--well, she said Inspector Phillotson didn't really want to know, like."

  "Really?"

  "And she's, well, she's a bit deaf, like."

  "Like what?" asked Morse. "Pardon?"

  "Forget it."

  "Shall I show her in, sir?"

  "What? In here? You know what happened here, don't you? She'd probably faint, man."

  "Doubt it, sir. She says she was sort of in charge of nurses at some London hospital."

  "Ah, a matron," said Morse.

  "They don't call them 'matrons' any longer," interposed Lewis.

  "Thank you very much, Lewis! Send her in."

  Chapter Five

  0 quid solutis est beatius curls, Cum mens onus reponit, ac peregrino Labore fessi venimus larem ad nostrum, Desideratoque acquiescimus lecto?

  (What bliss! First spot the house--and then Flop down--on one's old bed again) (CATULLUS, 31)

  Julia Stevens had returned home that same afternoon.

  The flight had been on time (early, in fact); Customs had been swift and uncomplicated; the Gatwick-Heathrow-Oxford coach had been standing them, just waiting for b.' it seemed, welcoming her back to England. From the station at Gloucester Green she had taken a taxi (no queue) out to East Oxford, the driver duly helping her with two heavyweight cases fight up to the front door of her house--a house which, as the taxi turned into the street, she'd immediately observed to he still standing there, un-burned, unvandalised; and, as she could see as she stood inside her own living-room--at long last!--blessedly How glad she was to he back. Almost always, on the first two nights of any holiday away from home, she expe-rienced a weepy nostalgia. But usually this proved to he only a re-adjustment. Usually, too, at least for the last two days of her statutory annwal fortnight abroad, she felt a sim-ilar wrench on leaving her summer surroundings; on bid-31 ding farewell to her newly made holiday friends. One or two friends in particular.

  One or two men, as often as not.

  But such had not been the case this time on her package tour round the Swiss and Italian lakes. She couldn't explain why: the coach~driver had been very competent; the guide good; the scenery spectacular; the fellow-tourists pleasantly friendly. But she'd not enjoyed it at all. My God! What was happening to her?

  (But she knew exactly what was happening to her.) Not that she'd said anything, of course. And Brenda irooks had received a cheerful postcard from a multi-tarred hotel on Lake Lucerne: Wed.

  Having a splendid time here with a nice lot of people.

  My room looks right across the lake. Tomorrow we go over to Triebschen (hope I've spelt that right) where Richard Wagner spent some of his life. There was a firework display last night--tho' nobody told us why. Off to Lugano Friday.

  Love Julia

  P. S. Give St. Giles a big hug for me.

  As Julia walked through her front door that afternoon, her house smelt clean and fragrant; smelt of pine and polish and Windolene. Bless her--bless Brenda Brooks!

  Then, on the kitchen table, there was a note the sort of note that she, Julia, had ever come to expect: Dear Mrs. S, I got your card thankyou & I'm glad you had a good time. St. Giles has been fine, there are two more tins of Whiskas in the fridge. See you Monday. There's something I want to tell you about & perhaps you can help I hope so. Welcome home!!

  Brenda (Brooks)

  Julia smiled to herself. Brenda invariably appended her (bracketed) surname as though the household boasted a whole bevvy of charladies. And always that deferential "Mrs. S." Brenda had worked for her for four years now, and at fifty-two was nearly seven years her senior. Again Julia smiled to herself. Then, as she re-read the penultimate senten, for a moment she found herself frowning slightly.

  It was a pleasant sunny day, with September heralding a golden finale to what had been a hot and humid summer.

  Indeed, the temperature was well above the average for an autumn day. Yet Julia felt herself shivering slightly as she unlocked and unbolted the rear door. And if a few moments earlier she may have looked a little sad, a little strained--behold now a metamorphosis! A ginger cat parted the ground-cover greenery at the bottom of the small garden and peered up at his mistress; and suddenly Julia Stevens looked very happy once again. And very beautiful.

  Chapter Six

  Envy and idleness married together beget curiosity (THOMAS FULLER, Gnomologia)

  Morse decided to interview Laura Wynne-Wilson, should that good lady allow it, in her own ground-floor apartment.

  And the good lady did so allow.

  She was, she admitted, very doubtful about whether that previous policeman had attended to her evidence with suf-ficient seriousness. Indeed, she had formed the distinct im pression that he had listened, albeit politely, in a wholly perfunctory way to what she had to say. Which was? Which was to do with Dr. Mc Clure--a nice gentleman; and a ve good neighbour, who had acted as Secretary of the Residents' Action Committee and written such a splerwlid letter to that cowboy outfit supposedly responsible for the upkeep of the exterior of the properties.

  She spoke primly and quietly, a thin smile upon thin lips. "And what exactly have you got to tell us?" bawled Morse.

  "Please don't shout at me, Inspector! Deaf people do not require excessive volume--they require only clarity of speech and appropriate lip-movement."

  Lewis smiled sweetly to himself as the small, white-haired octogenarian continued: "What I have to tell you is this. Dr. Mc Clure had a fairly regular visitor here. A... a lady-friend."

  "Not all that unusual, is it?" suggested Morse, with what he hoped was adequate clarity and appropriate lip-movement.

  "Oh, no. After all, it might well have been some female relative."

  Morse nodded. Already he knew that Mc Chire had no living relatives apart from a niece in New Zealand; but still he nodded.

  "And then again, Inspector, it might not. You see, he had no living relatives in the United Kingdom."

  "Oh." Morse decided that, unlike Phillotson, he at least would treat the old girl with a modicum of respect.

  "No. It was his 'fancy woman,' as we used to call i
t. By the way, I quite like that tern myself, don't you?"

  "Plenty of worse words, madam," interposed Lewis, though apparently with less than adequate clarity.

  "Pardon?" Laura W-W turned herself in the approximate direction of the man taking notes, as if he were merely some supernumerary presence.

  And now it was Morse's turn to smile sweetly to himself. "As I was saying, this... this woman came to see him several times--certainly three or four times during the last month."

  "What time of day was that?"

  "Always at about half-past seven."

  "And you, er, you actually saw her?"

  "'Actually' is a ridiculous word, isn't it? It's a weasel word, Inspector. It means nothing whatsoever. It's a space-filler.

  Whether I actually saw her, I don't know. What I do know is that I saw her. All right?"

  Touch.

  Morse's eyes wandered over to the wooden-frame casement, where the thin white lace curtains were pulled back in tight arcs at each side, with potted geraniums at either end of the window ledge, and three tasteful pieces of dark-blue and white porcelain positioned between them. But nothing there to clutter the clear view, from where Morse was sitting, over the whole front area of the apartments, es-pecially of the two square, yellow-brick pillars which stood at either side of the entrance drive; and through which, per-force, everyone coming into Daventry Court must surely pass. Everyone except a burglar, perhaps. Or a murderer...

  And this nosey old woman would delight in observing the visitors who called upon her fellow residents, Morse felt confident of that.