by Colin Dexter
(PUBLILIUS SYRUS)
‘LET ME EXPLAIN one thing from the start. I just said we’ve been looking at things from the wrong end and I mean just that. Max gave us a big enough margin for the time of death, and instead of listening to him I kept trying to pin him down. Even now it’s taken a woman’s pack of lies to put me on the right track, because the most important thing about Mrs Bowman is that she was forced to show us the letter, supposedly from her husband, to give herself a reasonable alibi. It was the last shot in her locker; and she had no option but to use it, because we were getting – we are getting! – dangerously close to the truth. And I just said “supposedly from her husband” – but that’s not the case: it was from her husband, you can be certain of that. Everything fits, you see, once you turn the pattern upside down. The man in Annexe 3 wasn’t murdered after the party: he was murdered before the party. Let’s just assume that Margaret Bowman has been unfaithful, and let’s assume that she gets deeply involved with this lover of hers, and that he threatens to blackmail her in some way if she doesn’t agree to see him again – threatens to tell her husband – to cut his own throat – to cut her throat – anything you like. Let’s say, too, that the husband, Tom Bowman, deliverer of Her Majesty’s mail at Chipping Norton, finds out about all this – let’s say that he intercepts a letter; or, more likely, I think, she’s desperate enough to tell him all about it – because there must have been some sort of reconciliation between them. Together, they decide that something has got to be done to get rid of the threat that now affects both of them; and at that point, as I see it, the plot was hatched. They book a double room for a New Year break at a hotel, using a non-existent accommodation address so that later on no one will be able to trace them; and Tom Bowman is exactly the person to cope with that problem – none better. So things really start moving. Margaret Bowman tells this dangerous and persistent lover of hers – let’s call him Mr X – that she can spend the New Year with him. He’s a single man; he’s head over heels about her; and now he’s over the moon, too! He thought she’d ditched him. But here she is offering to spend a couple of whole days with him. She’s taken the initiative; she’s fixed it all up; she’s booked the hotel; she wants him! She’s even told him – and she must have expected he’d agree – that she’ll provide the fancy-dress costumes they’re going to wear at the New Year party. She tells him to be ready, let’s say, from four o’clock on the 31st. She herself probably books in under her false name and a false address an hour or so earlier, but a bit later than most of the other guests. She wants to be seen by as few of the others as possible, but she’s still got to give herself plenty of time. She finds herself alone at the reception desk, she turns up her coat and pulls her scarf around her face, she signs the form, she takes the room key, she takes her suitcase over to Annexe 3 – and all is ready. She rings up X from the public phone-box just outside the hotel, tells him what their room number is, and he’s on his way like a shot. And while the rest of the guests are playing Cluedo, he’s spending the rest of that late afternoon and early evening with his bottom on the top sheet, as they say. Then, when most of the passion’s spent itself, she tells him that they’d better start dressing up for the party; she shows him what she’s brought for the pair of them to wear; and about 7 p.m. the pair of them are ready: she rubs a final bit of stage-black on his hands – makes some excuse about leaving her purse or her umbrella at Reception – says she’ll be back in a minute – takes the key with her – pulls her mackintosh over her costume – and goes out bang on the stroke of seven. Tom Bowman, himself dressed in exactly the same sort of outfit as X, has been waiting for her, somewhere in the immediate vicinity of the hotel; and while Margaret Bowman spends the most nerve-racking few minutes of her life, probably in the bus shelter just across from the hotel, Tom Bowman lets himself into Annexe 3.
‘Exactly what happened then, we don’t know – and we may never know. But very soon the Bowmans are playing out the rest of the evening as best they can – pretending to eat, pretending to be lovey-dovey with each other, pretending to enjoy the festivities. There’s little enough chance of them being recognized, anyway: she’s hiding behind her yashmak, and he’s hiding behind a coat of dark greasepaint. But they both want to be seen going into the annexe after the party’s over, and in fact Tom Bowman performs his role with a bit of panache. He waits for the two other women he knows are lodged in the annexe, throws an arm across their shoulders – incidentally ruining their coats with his greasy hands – and gives the impression to all and sundry that he’s about to hit the hay. As it happens, Binyon was bringing up the rear – pretty close behind them. But the lock on the side door is only a Yale; and after Binyon had made sure all was well, the Bowmans slipped out quietly into the winter’s night. They went down and got their car from the Westgate – or wherever it was parked – and Tom Bowman dropped Margaret back to Charlbury Drive, where she’d left the lights on anyway so that the neighbours would assume she was celebrating the New Year. And then Bowman himself took off into the night somewhere so that if ever the need arose he could establish an alibi for himself up in Inverness or wherever he found himself the next morning, leaving Margaret the pre-planned note about his fictitious girlfriend. And that’s about it, Lewis! That’s about what happened, as far as I can make out.’
Lewis himself had listened with great interest, and without interruption, to what Morse had said. And although, apart from the time of the murder, it wasn’t a particularly startling analysis, it was just the sort of self-consistent hypothesis that Lewis had come to expect from the chief inspector, bringing together, as it did, into one coherent scheme all the apparently inconsistent clues and puzzling testimony. But there were one or two weaknesses in Morse’s argument: at least as Lewis saw things.
‘You said they spent the afternoon in bed, sir. But we didn’t, to be honest, find much sign of anything like that, did we?’
‘Perhaps they performed on the floor – I don’t know. I was just telling you what probably happened.’
‘What about the maid, sir – Mandy, wasn’t it? Doesn’t someone usually come along about seven o’clock or so and turn down the counterpane—’
‘Counterpane? Lewis! You’re still living in the nineteenth century. And this wasn’t the Waldorf Astoria, you know.’
‘Bit of a risk, though, sir – somebody coming in and finding—’
‘They were short-staffed, Lewis – you know that.’
‘But the Bowmans didn’t know that!’
Morse nodded. ‘No-o. But they could have hung one of those “Do Not Disturb” signs on the door. In fact, they did.’
‘Bit risky, though, hanging out a sign like that if you’re supposed to be at a party.’
‘Lewis! Don’t you understand? They were taking risks the whole bloody time.’
As always when Morse blustered on in such fashion, Lewis knew that it was best not to push things overmuch. Obviously, what Morse had said was true; but Lewis felt that some of the explanations he was receiving were far from satisfactory.
‘If, as you say, sir, Bowman was dressed up, all ready to go, in exactly the same sort of clothes as the other fellow, where was he—?’
‘Where? I dunno. But I’m sure all he had to do was put a few finishing touches to things.’
‘Do you think he did that in Annexe 3?’
‘Possibly. Or he could have used the Gents’ just off Reception.’
‘Wouldn’t Miss Jonstone have seen him?’
‘How am I supposed to know? Shall we ask her, Lewis? Shall I ask her? Or what about you asking her – you’re asking me enough bloody questions.’
‘It’s only because I can’t quite understand things, that’s all, sir.’
‘You think I’ve got it all wrong, don’t you?’ said Morse quietly.
‘No! I’m pretty sure you’re on the right lines, sir, but it doesn’t all quite hang together, does it?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Monday, January 6th:
a.m.
What is the use of running when we are not on the right road?
(GERMAN PROVERB)
THERE WAS A knock on the door and Judith, the slimly attractive personal assistant to the Secretary, entered with a tray of coffee and biscuits.
‘Miss Gibson thought you might like some refreshment.’ She put the tray on the desk. ‘If you want her, she’s with the Deputy – the internal number’s 208.’
‘We don’t get such VIP treatment up at HQ,’ commented Lewis after she’d left.
‘Well, they’re a more civilized lot here, aren’t they? Nice sort of people. Wouldn’t harm a fly, most of them.’
‘Perhaps one of them would!’
‘I see what you mean,’ said Morse, munching a ginger biscuit.
‘Don’t you think,’ said Lewis, as they drank their coffee, ‘that we’re getting a bit too complex, sir?’
‘Complex? Life is complex, Lewis. Not for you, perhaps. But for most of us it’s a struggle to get through from breakfast to coffee-time, and then from coffee-time—’
There was a knock on the door and Miss Gibson herself re-entered. ‘I saw Mrs Webster just now and she said that Mrs Bowman hadn’t got back to her work yet. I thought perhaps she might be back here . . .’
The two detectives looked at each other.
‘She’s not in the canteen?’ asked Morse.
‘No.’
‘She’s not in the Ladies’?’
‘No.’
‘How many exits are there here, Miss Gibson?’
‘Just the one. We’ve all been so worried about security recently—’
But Morse was already pulling on his greatcoat. He thanked the Secretary and with Lewis in his wake walked quickly along the wooden-floored corridor towards the exit. At the reception desk sat the Security Officer. Mr Prior, a thick-set, former prison officer, whose broad, intelligent face looked up from the Court Circular of the Daily Telegraph as Morse fired a salvo of questions at him.
‘You know Mrs Bowman?’
‘Yessir.’
‘How long ago did she leave?’
‘Three – four minutes.’
‘By car?’
‘Yessir. Maroon Metro – 1300 – A reg.’
‘You don’t know the number?’
‘Not offhand.’
‘Did she turn left or right at the Banbury Road?’
‘Can’t see from here.’
‘She was wearing a coat?’
‘Yessir. Black, fur-collared coat. But she hadn’t changed her shoes.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Most of ’em come in boots this weather – and then change into something lighter when they’re here. She still had a pair of high heels on – black; black leather, I should think.’
Morse was impressed by Prior’s powers of observation, said as much, and asked if he’d noticed anything else that was at all odd.
‘Don’t think so. Except perhaps when she said “Goodbye!”’
‘Don’t most people say “Goodbye” when they leave?’
Prior thought for a second before replying: ‘No, they don’t! They usually say “See you!” or “Cheers!” or something like that.’
Morse walked from the Locals, his eyes downcast, a deep frown on his forehead. The snow had been brushed away from the shallow steps that led down to the car park, and a watery-looking sun had almost dried the concrete. The forecast was for continued improvement in the weather, although in places there were still patches of hazardous ice.
‘Where to?’ asked Lewis as Morse got into the passenger seat of the police car.
‘I’m – not – quite – sure,’ replied Morse as they drove up to the black-and-yellow striped barrier that regulated the progress of unauthorized vehicles into Ewert Place, the narrow street that led down to the Delegacy’s private car park. Bob King, the courteous, blue-uniformed attendant, touched his peaked cap to them as he pressed the button to raise the barrier; but before going through, Morse beckoned him round to his window and asked him if he remembered a maroon Metro leaving a few minutes earlier; and if so whether it had turned left or right into the Banbury Road. But whilst the answer to the first question had been ‘yes’, the answer to the second question had been ‘no’. And for the minute Morse asked Lewis to stop the car where it was: the Straw Hat Bakery (‘Everything baked on the Premises’) on the left; and, to the right (its immediate neighbour across the narrow road), the giant Allied Carpets shop, whose vast areas of glass frontage were perpetually plastered over with notices informing the inhabitants of Summertown that the current sale must undoubtedly rank as the biggest bargain in the annals of carpetry. Betwixt and between – there the car stood: left, down into Oxford; right, up and out of the city and, if need be, thence to Chipping Norton.
‘Chipping Norton,’ said Morse suddenly – ‘quick as you can!’
Blue rooflight flashing, siren wailing, the white Ford raced up to the Banbury Road roundabout then across to the Woodstock Road roundabout, and was soon out on the A34, a happy-looking Lewis behind the wheel.
‘Think she’ll go back home straight away?’
‘My God, I hope so!’ said Morse with unwonted vehemence.
It was when the car had passed the Black Prince and was climbing the hill out of Woodstock that Morse spoke again. ‘Going back to what you were saying about Annexe 3, Lewis, you did have a look at the bed-linen, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sir. In both beds.’
‘You don’t think you missed anything?’
‘Don’t think so. Wouldn’t matter much if I did, though. We’ve still got all the bedclothes – I sent everything along to the path lab.’
‘You did?’
Lewis nodded. ‘But if you want my opinion, nobody’d been sleeping in either of those two beds, sir.’
‘Well, you couldn’t tell with the one, could you? It was all soaked in blood.’
‘No, it wasn’t, sir. The blood had seeped through the counterpane or whatever you call it, and a bit through the blankets; but the sheets weren’t marked at all.’
‘And you don’t think that they’d been having sex that afternoon or evening – in either of the beds.’
Lewis was an old hand in murder investigations, and some of the things he’d found in rooms, in cupboards, in wardrobes, in beds, under beds – he’d have been more than happy to be able to forget. But he knew what Morse was referring to, and he was more than confident of his answer. ‘No. There were no marks of sexual emissions or anything like that.’
‘You have an admirably delicate turn of phrase,’ said Morse, as Lewis sped past an obligingly docile convoy of Long Vehicles. ‘But it’s a good point you made earlier, you know. If the old charpoy wasn’t creaking all that afternoon . . .’
‘As you said, though, sir – they might have made love on the carpet.’
‘Have you ever made love on the carpet in midwinter?’
‘Well, no. But—’
‘Central heating’s one thing. But you get things like draughts under doors, don’t you?’
‘I haven’t got much experience of that sort of thing myself.’
The car turned off left at the Chipping Norton/Moreton-in-Marsh/Evesham sign; and a few minutes later Lewis brought it to a gentle stop outside 6 Charlbury Drive. He noticed the twitch of a lace curtain in the front window of number 5; but no one seemed to be about at all, and the little road lay quiet and still. No maroon Metro stood outside number 6, or in the steep drive that led down to the white-painted doors of the single garage.
‘Go and have a look!’ said Morse.
But there was no car in the garage, either; and the front-door bell seemed to Lewis to re-echo through a house that sounded ominously empty.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Monday, January 6th: a.m.
The last pleasure in life is the sense of discharging our duty.
(WILLIAM HAZLITT)
WHERE MORSE DECIDED to turn right past Allied Carpets, Margaret Bowman, s
ome five minutes earlier, had decided to turn left past the Straw Hat, and had thence proceeded south towards the centre of the city. In St Giles’, the stiff penalty recently introduced for any motorists outstaying their two-hour maximum (even by a minute or so) had resulted in the unprecedented sight of a few free rectangles of parking space almost invariably being available at any one time; and Margaret pulled into the one she spotted just in front of the Eagle and Child, and walked slowly across to the ticket machine, some twenty-odd yards away. For the whole of the time from when she had sat down in the Secretary’s office until now, her mind had been numbed to the reality of her underlying situation, and far-distanced, in some strange way, from what (she knew) would be the disastrous inevitability of her fate. Her voice and her manner, as she had answered the policemen, had been much more controlled than she could have dared to hope. Not quite all the time; but anyone, even someone who was wholly innocent, would always be nervous in those circumstances. Had they believed her? But she knew now that the answer even to such a crucial question was perhaps no longer of any great importance. (She prodded her fingers into the corner of her handbag for the necessary change.) But to say that at that very moment Margaret Bowman had finally come to any conclusion about ending her life would be untrue. Such a possibility had certainly occurred to her – oh, so many times! – over the past few days of despair and the past few nights of hell. Academically, she had not been a successful pupil at the Chipping Norton Comprehensive School, and in O-level Greek Literature in Translation (Margaret had not been considered for the high fliers’ Latin course) she had been ‘Unclassified’. Yet she remembered something (in one of the books they were supposed to read) about Socrates, just before he took the hemlock: when he’d said that he would positively welcome death if it turned out to be just one long and dreamless sleep. And that’s what Margaret longed for now – a long, a wakeless and a dreamless sleep. (She could not find the exact number of coins which the notice on the ticket machine so inexorably demanded.) And then she remembered her mother, dying of cancer in her early forties, when Margaret was only fourteen: and before dying saying how desperately tired she was and how she just wanted to be free from pain and never wake again . . .
