by Colin Dexter
Twice during the early afternoon (Shepstone reported), her behaviour had grown disturbingly aggressive, especially towards one of the young nurses trying to administer med-ication.
But that sort of behaviour--often involving some fairly fundamental personality change--was almost inevita-ble with such a tumour.
"Had you noticed any 'personality change' before?" asked Morse.
Shepstone hesitated. "Yes, perhaps so. I think... let's put it this way. The commonest symptom would be general loss of inhibition, if you know what I mean."
"I don't think I do."
"Well, I mean one obvious thing is she probab[: wouldn't be over-worried about the reactions and opinion, s of other people--other professional colleagues, in her case. Let's say she'd be more willing than usual to speak her mind in a staff-meeting, perhaps. I don't think she was ever too shy a person; but like most of us she'd probably always felt a bit diffident--a bit insecure--about life and... ad things."
"She's an attractive woman, isn't she?"
Shepstone looked across at Morse keenly.
"I know what you're thinking. And the answer's prob: bly 'yes.' I rather think that if over these past few mont! s someone had asked... to go to bed with her..."
"When you say 'someone'--you mean some man?"
"I think I do, yes."
"And you say she's been a bit violent today."
"Aggressive, certainly." Morse nodded.
"It's really," continued Shepstone, "the unexpectedt,.-rather than the nature of behaviour that always sticks out these cases. I remember at the Radcliffe Infirmary, for ample, a very strait-laced old dear with a similar turnover geeing out of her bed one night and dancing naked in fountain out the front there."
"But she isn't a strait-laced old dear," said Morse slo "Oh, no," replied the sad-eyed Consultant. "Oh, no.
For a while, when Julia had regained some measure of senses in the hospital, she knew that she was still at h in her own bed, really. It was just that someone was to confuse her, because the walls of her bedroom wer longer that soothing shade of green, but this harsher, cr ler white.
Everything was white.
Everyone was wearing white....
But Julia felt more relaxed now.
The worry at the beginning had been her complete orientation: about the time of day, the day, the mon--year, even. And then, just as the white-coated girl was lng to talk to her, she'd felt a terrible sense of panic as realised that she was unaware of who she was.
Things were better now, though; one by one, things clicking into place; and some knowledge of herself, of life, was slowly surfacing, with the wonderful bonus the dull, debilitating headache she'd lived with for so months was gone. Completely gone.
She knew the words she wanted to say--about Morse; or at least her mind knew. Yet she was aware those words had homodyned little, if at all, with the she'd actually used: "One thousand and one, one thousand and two..."
But she could write.
How could that be?
If she couldn't speak?
No matter.
She could write.
As he looked down at her, Morse realised that even in terminal illness Julia Stevens would ever be an attracl Woman; and he placed a hand'lightly on her fight arm she lay in her short-sleeved nightdress, and smiled at And she smiled back, but tightly, for she was willing self to make him understand what so desperately she wished to tell him.
At the scene of the terrible murder that had taken place in Brenda's front room, when she, Julia, had stood there, helpless at first, a spectator of a deed already done, she had vowed, if ever need arose, to take all guilt upon herself.
And the words were in her mind: words that were all un-tree, but words that were ready to be spoken. She had only to repeat repeat repeat them to herself: "I murdered him I murdered him I murdered him.... "And now she looked up at Morse and forced her mouth to speak those selfsame words: "One thousand and three, one thousand and four, one thousand and five..."
Aware, it seemed, even as she spoke, of her calamitous shortcomings, she looked around her with frenzied exasper-ation as she sought to find the pencil with which earlier she'd managed to write down "MORSE." Her right arm flailed about her wildly, knocking over a glass of orange juice on the bedside table, and tears of frustration sprang in her eyes.
Suddenly three nurses, all in white, were at her side, two of them seeking to hold her still as the third administered a further sedative. And Morse, who had intended to plant a tender kiss upon the Titian hair, was hurriedly ushered away.
Chapter Sixty-seven
We can prove whatever we want to; the only real difficulty is to know what we want to prove (EMILE CHARTIER, Syst&me des beaux arts)
Events were now moving quickly towards their close. The was much that was wanting to be found--was found-although Lewis was not alone in wondering exactly wk Morse himself wanted to be found. Certainly one or tv minor surprises were still in store; but in essence it w only the corroborative, substantiating detail that remained be gleaned--was gleaned--by the enquiry team from thc painstaking forensic investigations, and from one or t further painful encounters.
Morse was reading a story when just after 3 e.M. C Tuesday, October 4, Lewis returned from the JR2 where t had interviewed a rapidly improving Costyn--to whom, it happened, he had taken an instant dislike, just as earli, in the case Morse had felt an instinctive antipathy towar Ms. Smith.
Lewis had learned nothing of any substance. About ti ram-raid, Costyn had been perkily co-operative, partly r doubt because he had little option in the matter. But abo any (surely most probable?) visit to the Pitt Rivers M seum; about his relations (relationship?) with Mrs. Steven about any (possible?) knowledge of, implication in, c, operation with, the murder of Edward Brooks, Costyn h been cockily dismissive.
He had nothing to say.
How could he have anything to say?
He knew nothing.
If Lewis was ninety-five per cent convinced that Costyn was lying, he had been one hundred per cent convinced that Ashley Davies, whom he'd interviewed the day before, could never have been responsible for the prising open of Cabinet 52. In fact Davies had been in Oxford that after-noon; and for some considerable while, since between 3:45 P.M. and 4:45 P.M. he had been sitting in the chair of Mr. J.
Balaguer-Morris, a distinguished and unimpeachable dental surgeon practising in Summertown.
Quod erat demonstrandum.
Lewis sensed therefore (as he knew Morse did) that the two young men had probably always been peripheral to the crime in any case. But someone had gone along to the Pitt Rivers; someone services could well have been needed for the disposal of the body in the Isis. For although Brooks had not been a heavy man, it would have been quite ex-traordinarily difficult for one woman to have coped alone; rather easier for two, certainly; and perhaps not all that dif-ficult for three of them. Yet the help of a strong young man would have been a godsend, surely?
With the Magistrates finding no objections, the three search warrants had been immediately authorised, and the spotlight was now refocusing, ever more closely, on the three women in the case: Brenda Brooks Julia Stevens Eleanor Smith...
The previous afternoon, great activity at the Brookses' res idence had proved dramatically productive. At the back c,? the house, one of the small keys from Lewis's bunch had provided immediate, unforced access to the garden shed. No transparent plastic bags were found them; nor an! damning snippet of dark green garden-twine like that whic: had secured the bundle of the corpse. Yet something ha been found there: fibres of a brown material which looke: most suspiciously similar--which later proved to b identical--to the carpeting that had covered the body of Edward Brooks.
Brenda Brooks, therefore, had been taken in for questioning the previous evening, on two separate occasions being politely reminded that anything she said might be taken down in writing and used as evidence. But there seemed hardly any valid reason for even one such caution, since from the very
start she had appeared too shocked to say anything at all. Later in the evening she had been released on police bail, having been formally charged with conspir-acy to murder. As Morse saw things the decision to grant bail had been wholly correct. There was surely little merit in pressing for custody, since it was difficult to envisage that gentle little lady, once freed, indulging in any orgy of murder in the area of the Thames Valley Police Authority. In any case, Morse liked Mrs. Brooks.
Just as he liked Mrs. Stevens--in whose garage earlier that same day a forensic team had made an equally dra-matic finding, when they had examined the ancient Volvo, in situ, and discovered, in the boot, fibres of a brown ma-terial which looked most suspiciously similar--which later proved to be identical to the carpeting that had covered the body of Edward Brooks....
Morse had nodded to himself with satisfaction on receiving each of these reports. So careful, so clever, they'd been---the two women! Yet even the cleverest of crimi-nals couldn't think of everything: they all made that one little mistake, sooner or later; and he should be glad of that.
He was glad.
He himself had taken temporary possession of the long~ overdue library book found in the Brookses' bedroom, no-ricing with some self-congratulation that the tops of two pages in the story entitled "The Broken Sword" had been dog-eared. By Brooks? Were the pages worth testing for fingerprints? No. Far too fanciful a notion. But Morse told himself that he would re-read the story once he got the chance; and indeed his eye had already caught some of the lines he remembered so vividly from his youth: Where does a man kick a pebble? On the beach.
Where does a wise man hide a leaf? In the forest...
Yes. Things were progressing well--and quickly.
There was that third search warrant, of course: one that had been granted, though not yet served.
The one to be served on Ms. Smith...
Of whom, as it happened, Morse had dreamed the previous night--most disturbingly. He had watched her closely (how on earth?) as semi-dressed in a plunging Versace cre-ation she had exhibited herself erotically to some lecherous Yuppie in the back of. a BMW. And when Morse had awoken, he had felt bitterly angry with her; and sick; and heartachingty jealous.
He had known better nights; known better dreams.
Yet life is a strange affair; and only ten minutes after Lewis had returned that Tuesday afternoon Morse received a call from Reception which quickened his heart-beat con-siderably.
Chapter Sixty-eight
She turned away, but with the autumn weather Compelled my imagination many days, Many days and many hours (T S. ELIOT, La Figlia Che Piange)
She closed the passenger-seat door, asking the man to wait there, in the slip-road, for ten minutes--no longer; then drive in and pick her up.
She walked quite briskly past the blue sign, with white lettering, "Thames Valley Police HQ"; then up the longish gradient to the brick-and-concrete building.
At Reception she quickly made her errand clear.
"Is he expecting you, Miss?" asked the man seated there. "No."
"Can I ask what it's in connection with?"
"A murder."
The grey-haired man looked up at her with some curios~ ity. He thought he might have sen her before; then decided that he hadn't. And rang Morse.
"Let her in, Bill. I'll be down to collect her in a couple of minutes."
After entering her name neatly in the Visitors' Log, Bill pressed the mechanism that opened the door to the main building. She was carrying a small package, some 5 inches by 3 inches, and he decided to keep a precautionary eye on her. Normally he would not have let her through without some sort of check. But he'd always been encouraged to use his discretion, and in troth she looked more like a po-tential traveller than a potential terrorist. And Chief Inspec-tor Morse had sounded happy enough.
He pointed the way. "If you just go and sit and wait there, Miss...?"
So Ellie Smith walked over the darkly marbled floor to a small, square waiting-area, carpeted in blue, with matching chairs set against the walls. She sat down and looked around her. Many notices were displayed there, of the "Watch Out,"
"Burglars Beware" variety; and photographs of a police car splashing through floods, and a friendly bobby talking to a farmer's wife in a local village; and just opposite her a large map....
But her observations ceased there.
To her left was a flight of white-marbled stairs, down which the white-haired Morse was coming towards her. "Good to see you. Come along up."
"No, I can't stay. I've got a car waiting."
"But we can take you home. I can take you home."
"No. I'm... I'm sorry."
"Why have you come?" asked Morse quietly, seating himself beside her.
"You've had Mum in. She told me all about it. She's on bail, isn't she? And I just wondered where it all leaves her--and me, for that matter?"
Morse spoke gently. "Your mother has been charged in connection with the murder of your step-father. Please un-derstand that for the present--"
"She told. me you might be bringing me in--is that right?"
"Look! We can't really talk here. Please come up--"
She shook her head. "Not unless you're arresting me.
Anyway, I don't trust myself in that office of yours. Re-member?"
"Look, about your mother. You'll have to face the fact--just like we have to--that... that it seems very likely at the minute that your mother was involved in some way in the murder of your step-father." Morse had chosen his hes-itant words carefully.
"All right. If you're not going to tell me, never mind." She stood up; and Morse stood up beside her. She held out the small parcel she had been carrying in her right hand and offered it to him.
"For you," she said simply.
"What is it?"
"Promise me one thing.'?"
"If I can."
"You won't open it till you get home tonight."
"If you say so."
Morse suddenly felt very moved; felt very lost, very helpless, very upset.
"Well--that's it then. That's all I came for... really."
"I'll ring you when I've opened it, I promise."
"Only when you get home."
"Only when I get home."
"You've got a note of my number, haven't you?"
"I have it by heart."
"I have to go. Hope you'll like it." She managed to speak the words; but only just as she picked up St. Anthony and fondled him between the thumb and forefinger of he left hand. And almost, for a moment or two, as they stood there, it was as if they might embrace; but the Assistan!
Chief Constable suddenly came through Reception, raising his hand to Morse in friendly greeting.
She turned away; and left.
As she stepped out of the building, a red BMW was be-side her immediately; and she got in, casting one lingering look behind her as she locked her safety-belt.
"I was rather hoping you'd bring her up, sir. She's getting a bit of a smasher, that one, don't you think?"
But Morse, reclosing the door quietly behind him, made no reply. Suddenly his life seemed joyless and desolate.
"Coffee, sir? asked Lewis in a low voice, perhaps un derstanding many things.
Morse nodded.
After Lewis was gone, he didn't wait.
He couldn't wait.
Inside the bluebell-patterned wrapping-paper was a small, silver, delicately curving hip-flask.
Oh God!
The letter enclosed with it bore no salutation: My mum rung me up and told me everything, but she never killed him. I know that better than anybody because I killed him.
I'm not much cop at writing but I wish we could have gone out for shampers together again. That was the happiest night of my life, because for some cockeyed reason I loved you with all the love I've got. I hope you like the little present. I wish I could finish this letter in the way I'd like to but I can't quite think of the right words, you know I'm trying though. If only you'd
known how much I wanted you to kiss me in the taxi so some few kisses now from me xxxx Ellie xxxx Unmanned with anguish, Morse turned away as Lewis came back with the coffee, folded the letter carefully, and put it in a drawer of his desk.
Neither man spoke.
Then Morse opened the drawer, took out the letter, and passed it over to Lewis.
The silence persisted long after Lewis had read it. Finally Morse got to his feet. "If I ever see her again, Lewis, I shall have to tell her that 'rang' is the more correct form of the past tense of the verb 'to ring,' when used tran-sitively.'
"I don't think she'd mind very much what you told her," said Lewis very quietly.
Morse said nothing.
"Mind if I have a look at the present, sif T'
Morse passed over the hip-flask.
"Remember that crossword clue, Lewis? 'Kick in the pants'?--three-hyphen-five?"
Lewis nodded and smiled sadly. Hip-flask.
Chapter Sixty-nine
Amongst the tribes of Central Australia, every person has, besides a personal name which is in common use, a secret name which was bestowed upon him or her soon after birth, and which is known to none but the fully initiated (Jn! Es FRn ZER, The Golden Bough)
"You must admit what a trusting, stupid brain I've got, Lewis. 'Don't open it till you get home,' she said, and I just thought that..."
"Numquarn animus, sir, as you tell me the ancient Ro-mans used to say."
"We'd better get along there."
"You think she's done a bunk? "Sure she has."
"With Davies?"
"Has Davies got a red BMWT"
"Not unless he's changed his car."
"I wonder if it's that randy so O from Reading. Whea his card?"
"The traffic boys'll be able to tell us in a couple ticks."
"Can't wait that long."
He found the card, the number--and dialled, informi the woman who answered that he was ringing from pol HQ about a stolen car, a red BMW, and he was just che lng to make sure...
Mr. Williamson was out, Morse learned. But there v no need to worry. He did have a red BMW all right, bu hadn't been stolen. In fact, she'd seen him get into it earl that afternoon. Going to Oxford, he'd said.
