Inspector Morse 11 The Daughters of Cain
Page 28
The Black Prince is situated half-way down a broad side-street to the left as one is journeying north. Amidst the Woodstock peerage it can claim no ancient pedigree, and it seems highly improbable, alas, that the warrior son of King Edward Ill had ever laughed or cried or tippled or wenched in any of its precincts. Truth to tell, a director of the London com-pany which bought the old house, stable-yards and all, some ten years since, had noticed in some dubiously authenticated guidebook that somewhere thereabouts the Prince was born. The director had been warmly congratulated by his Board for this felicitous piece of research, and not less for his sub-sequent discovery that the noble Prince did not as yet figure in the Woodstock telephone directory. The Black Prince it was then. The gifted daughter of the first manager had copied out from a children's encyclopaedia, in suitably antique script, a brief, if somewhat romantic, biography of the warrior Prince, and put the finished opus into her mother's oven for half an hour at 450°. The resultant manuscript, reverently brown with age, was neatly, if cheaply, framed and now occupied a suitable position of honour on the wall of the cocktail lounge. Together with the shields of the Oxford cot-leges nailed neatly along the low stained beams, it added tone and class.
For the last two and a half years Gaye had been the resident "hostess" of the Black Prince--"barmaid", thought the manager, was a trifle bfra dignitatem. And he had a point. "A pint of your best bitter, luv," was a request Gaye seldom had to meet and she new associated it with the prole-tariat; here it was more often vodka and lime for the bright young things, Manhattan cocktails for the American tourists, and gin and French--with a splash of Italian--for the Oxford dons. Such admixtures she dispensed with practised confidence from the silvery glitter and sparkle of bottles ranged invitingly behind the bar.
The lounge itsel L deeply carpeted, with chairs and wall-seats cov-ered in a pleasing orange shade, was gently bathed in a half light, giving a chiaroscuro effect reminiscent, it was hoped, of a Rembrandt nativity scene.
Gaye herself was an attractive, anbum-haired girl and tonight, Wednesday, she was immaculately dressed in a black trouser-suit and white-frilled blouse.
A flash of gems on the second and third fingers of her left hand, betokened gentle warning to the mawkish amateur playboy, and perhaps--as some maintained--a calculated invitation to the wealthy professional philanderer.
She was, in fact, married and divorced, and now lived with one young son and a mother who was not unduly chagrined at the mildly promiscuous habits of a precious daughter who had been unfortunate enough to marry such "a lousy swine." Gaye enjoyed her divorced status as much as she enjoyed her job, and she meant to keep them both.
Wednesday, as usual, had been a fairly busy evening, and it was with some relief when, at 10:257.M., she politely, but firmly, called for last drinks.
A young man, seated on a high stool at the inner comer of the bar, pushed his whisky glass forward.
"Same again."
Gaye glanced quizzically into unsteady eyes, but said nothing. She pushed her customer's glass under a priority whisky bottle and placed it on the counter, holding out her right hand and mechanically registering the tariff with her left. The young man was obviously drunk. He fumbled slowly and ineffectually through his pockets before finding the correct money, and after one mouthful of his drink he eased himself gingerly off his seat, measured the door with an uncertain eye, and made a line as decently straight as could in the circumstances be expected.
The old courtyard where once the horses had clattered over the cobbled stones had access from the street through a narrow archway, and had proved an invaluable asset to the Black Prince. A rash of fines for tres~ passing on the single and double yellow lines which bordered even the most inhospitable and inaccessible stretches of road was breeding a reluctant respect for the law; and any establishment offering "PATRONS ONLY, cars left at OWners' risk" was quite definitely in business. Tonight, as usual, the court-yard was tightly packed with the inevitable Votvos and Rovers. A light over the archway threw a patch of inadequate illumination over the entrance to the yard; the rest lay in dark shadow. It was to the far comer of this courtyard that the young man stumbled his way; and almost there he dimly saw something behind the furthest car. He looked and groped silently. Then horror crept up to the nape of his neck and against a padlocked stable door he was suddenly and violently sick. n Wednesday, September 29 The manager of the Black Prince, Mr. Stephen Westbrook. contacted the police immediately after the body was found, and his call was acted upon with commendable promptitude. Sergeant Lewis of the Thames Valley Police gave him quick and clear instructions. A police car would be at the Black Prince within ten minutes; Westbrook was to ensure that no one left the premises and that no one entered the courtyard; if anyone insisted on leaving, he was to take the full name and address of the person concerned; he should be honest if asked what all the trouble was about.
The evening's merriness wilted like a sad balloon and voices grad-ually hushed as the whispered rumour spread: there had been a murder.
None seemed anxious to leave; two or three asked if they could phone.
All felt suddenly sober, including a pale4aced young man who stood in the manager's office and whose scarcely touched whisky still stood on the counter of the cocktail lounge.
With the arrival of Sergeant Lewis and two uniformed constables, a small knot of people gathered curiously on the pavement opposite.
It did not escape their notice that the police car had parked immediately across the access to the courtyard, effectively sealing the exit. Five minutes later a second police car avcived, and eyes turned to the lightly built, dark-haired man who alighted. He conversed briefly with the constable who stood guard outside, nodded his head approvingly several times and walked into the Black Prince.
He knew Sergeant Lewis only slightly, but soon found himself pleasurably impressed by the man's level-headed competence. The two men conferred in brisk tones and very quickly a preliminary procedure was agreed upon. Lewis, with the help of the second constable, was to list the names, home addresses and car registrations of all persons on the premises, and to take brief statements of their evening's whereabouts, and immediate destinations. There were over fifty people to see, and Morse realised that it would rake some time.
"Shall I try to get you some more help, Sergeant?' "I think the two of us can manage, sir:' "Good. Let's get started."
A door, forming the side entrance to the Black Prince, led out into the courtyard and from here Morse stepped gingerly out and looked around. He counted thirteen cars jammed tight into the limited space, but he could have missed one or two, for the cars furthest away were little more than dark hulks against the high back wall, and he wondered by what feats of advanced-motoring skill and precision their inebriated owners could ever negotiate the vehicles unscathed through the narrow exit from the yard. Carefully he shone his torch around and slowly perambulated the yard. The driver of the last car parked on the left-hand side of the yard had presciently backed into the narrow lot and left himself a yard or so of room between his nearside and the wall; and stretched along this space was the sprawling figure of a young girl. She lay on her fight side, her head almost up against the omer of the walls, her long blonde hair now cruelly streaked with blood. It was immediately clear that she had been killed by a heavy blow across the back of the skull, and behind the lady lay a fiat heavy tyro-spanner, about one and a half inches across and some eighteen inches in length--the type of spanner with its undulating ends so common in the days before the inauguration of instant tyre repairs. Morse stood for a few min-utes, gazing down at the ugly scene at his feet. The murdered girl wore a minimum of clothing--a pair of wedge-heeled shoes, a very brief dark-blue mini-skirt and a white blouse. Nothing else. Morse shone his torch on the upper part of the body. The left-hand side of the blouse was ripped across; the top two buttons were unfastened and the third had bn wrenched away, leaving the full breasts almost totally exposed. Morse flashed his torch around and immedia
tely spotted the missing button--a small, white, mother-of-pearl disc winking up at him from the cobbled ground. How he hated sex murders! He shouted to the constable standing at the entrance to the yard.
"Yes, sir?"
"We need some arc-lamps."
"It would help, I suppose, sir."
"Get some."
"Me, sir?
"Yes, you!"
"Where shall I get... T'
"How the hell do I know," bellowed Morse.
By a quarter to midnight Lewis had finished his task and he reported to Morse, who was sitting with The Tmes in the manager's office, drinking what looked very much like whisky.
"Ah, Lewis." He thrust the paper across. "Have a look at 14 down.
Appropriate, eh?" Lewis looked at 14 down: Take itt bachelor? It cou M do (3). He saw what Morse had written into the completed diagram: BRA.
What was he supposed to say? He had never worked with Morse before.
"Good clue, don't you think?"
Lewis, who had occasionally managed the Daily Mirror coffee-time crossword, was out of his depth, and felt much puzzled.
"I'm afraid I'm not very hot on crosswords, sir."
'"Bachelor'--that's BA and 'take' is the letter 'r'; recipe in Latin.
Did you never do any Latin?"
"No, sir."
"Do you think I'm wasting your time, Lewis?"
Lewis was nobody's fool and was a man of some honesty and integrity. "yes, sir."
An engaging smile crept across Morse's mouth. He thought they would get on well together.
"Lewis, 1 want you to work with me on this case." The sergeant looked straight at Morse and into the hard, grey eyes. He heard himself say he would be delighted.
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