by Colin Dexter
'And your wife was in the double bed there - yes, we do want you to be precise, sir.'
'Wha—? What makes you think my wife was in bed? This was at lunchtime.’
'Where was she?'
'In the living room? I don't know! I forget. Why don't you ask her? He suddenly sprang to his feet. 'Look! I've got to talk to her! Now! You've no right to hold me here. I know you've got your job to do - I understand that. Some people get held on suspicion - I know! But I must speak to Lucy!'
His voice had become almost a screech of anger and frustration. And Morse was glad of it. So often the loss of self-control was the welcome prelude to a confession - a confession that was usually, in turn, a vast relief to the pent-up pressures of a tortured mind. And already Downes seemed calmer again as he resumed his seat, and Morse resumed his questioning.
'You understood, didn't you, the real point of Dr Kemp's phone call? No one else did - but you knew.' In contrast to the crescendo of fury from Downes, Morse's voice was very quiet indeed, and beside him WPC Wright was not absolutely sure that she'd transcribed his words with total accuracy.
As for Downes, he was leaning across the table. 'Could you please speak up a bit, Inspector? I didn't hear what you said, I'm afraid.'
It is likely, however, that he heard the loud knock on the door which heralded the entry of a rather harassed-looking Lewis.
'Sorry to interrupt, sir, but—'
'Not now, man! Can't you see—?’ 'It's very urgent, sir,' said Lewis, in a voice of hushed authority.
WPC Wright had heard what Sergeant Lewis said all right; and she glanced across at Downes. Had he heard? Something in his face suggested to her that he might well have done, perhaps.
But it was difficult to tell.
46
I do love to note and to observe
(Jonson, Volpone)
'I just don't believe it!' declared Morse.
It had been Lewis himself who a few minutes earlier had taken the call from the Met.
'Trying to cross over the road by King's Cross Station -about five-thirty - hit by a car. From Oxford she is. A Mrs Downes: Mrs Lucy Claire Downes according to her plastics. Lonsdale Road.'
'She - is she dead?' Lewis had asked.
'ICU at St Pancras Hospital. That's all we know.'
'Was she carrying a case?'
'No more details - not yet, Sarge. Seems she just stepped off the pavement to get in front of a row of people and . . .'
Morse sat down and rested his forehead on his right hand. 'Bloody 'ell!'
'Circle Line from King's Cross to Paddington, sir -about twenty minutes, say? She must have been going for the six o'clock train, and she was probably in a dickens of a rush when . . .' Lewis had taken the news badly.
'Yes? Dickens of a rush when she what?
'When she stepped off the pavement—'
'An intelligent woman deliberately stepping out into the London traffic - in the rush hour? Do you really believe that? Or do you think she might have been pushed? Do you hear me, Lewis? Pushed.'
'How can you say that?'
For a few moments Morse sat where he was. Then he rose to his feet, slowly - his eyes glowing savagely. 'He did it, Lewis. He did it!' ‘But he was in OxfordV
'No he wasn't! He wasn't waiting on the Oxford platform at all. He'd just got off the train. And then he saw us. So he turned round the second he did, and made it look as though he was waiting for the woman he'd just tried to kill - when they were walking along together ... He loved her, you see
probably never loved anyone in the world except his Lucy. And when he saw her copulating with Kemp ... He just couldn't get it out of his mind, not for one second. He thought he was never going to be able to get it out of his mind.' Morse shook his head. 'And I'm an idiot, Lewis. That key! The key they found under the floor-mat in the car, or wherever. I'd guessed that Downes wanted to go back to his car to hide something, so I played along with all that hearing-aid rubbish. And when they brought the key, I knew exactly what it was
a left-luggage locker-key. But tell me this, Lewis! How the hell did he get hold of that key if he hadn't met his wife?'
'That's what it is, sir? Left-luggage key? You're sure of it?' Morse nodded. 'And I'll tell you which station, unless you want to tell me.' 'King's Cross.'
'Could be Paddington, I suppose.' 'The bastard’ muttered Lewis, with an unwonted show of emotion. Morse smiled: 'You like her, don't you?' 'Lovely woman!' 'That's what Kemp thought.' 'Perhaps . . . ?' started Lewis.
'Oh, no! We shall waste no sympathy on Kemp. Look! I want you to get someone to drive you up to the hospital to see her. All right? You can get a bit of kip in the car. Then go to King's Cross and see if there's anything in locker sixty-seven. If there is, bring it back. And if you can get anything in the way of a statement - fine. If not, well, just try to see what she's got to say.'
'If she's . . . shall I say we've got him here?’
'Perhaps not ... I dunno, though. Play it by ear!'
'OK, sir.' Lewis stood up and walked over to the door, where he halted. 'Have you ever thought it might have been Mrs Downes who killed Dr Kemp? What if when her husband came home he found Kemp already dead, and then he did all this stuff, you know, to cover up for her?'
'Oh, yes, Lewis. I've thought of every possibility in this case. Including Lucy Downes.'
'You don't think—?'
'I think you will be completely safe in London. I don't think you'll be in the slightest danger of being knifed as you practise your bedside-manner sitting by a semi-conscious young woman in an intensive care unit.'
Lewis grinned weakly, and felt in his pocket to make sure that the brown envelope containing a small red key, number 67, was still there.
Janet Roscoe had finished re-reading A Midsummer Night's Dream, and felt just a little less certain now about her long-held view (she had earlier been an actress) that Mr Shakespeare was sometimes way below his best when it came to the writing of comedy. And she had just turned on the TV, hoping for a late news-programme, when she heard the light knock on her bedroom door. It was Shirley Brown. She had been stung by something, and could Janet help? But of course she knew Janet could help! Invited in, Shirley watched the little woman delving into her capacious handbag (a gentle little joke with the rest of the group) from whose depths had already emerged, in addition to the usual accessories, a scout-knife, an apostle spoon, and a miniature iron. And something else now: two tubes of ointment. A little bit of each (Janet maintained) could do no possible harm, unsure as Shirley was whether the offending insect had been wasp, bee, gnat, flea, or mosquito.
For five minutes after the medication, the two women sat on the bed and talked. Had Janet noticed how quiet
Mr Ashenden had seemed all day? Not his usual self at all, one way or another. Janet had noticed that, yes: and he was the courier, wasn't he? Got paid for it. And Janet added something more. She thought she knew what might have been on his mind, because he'd been writing a letter in the Lounge. And when he'd put the envelope down to put a stamp on it - 'Face upwards, Shurley!' - why, she couldn't help noticing who it was addressed to, now could she?
Suddenly, and perhaps for the first time, Shirley Brown felt a twinge of affection for the lonely little woman who seemed far more aware of what was going on than any of them.
'You seem to notice everything, Janet,' she said, in a not unkindly way.
'I notice most things,' replied Mrs Roscoe, with a quiet little smile of self-congratulation.
47
Some circumstantial evidence is very strong - as when you find a trout in the milk
(Henry Thoreau, unpublished manuscript)
'Are you going to save us an awful lot of time and trouble, sir, or are you determined to burden the taxpayer further?'
Downes licked his dry lips. (I don't know what this is all about - except that I'm going mad.'
'Oh, no! You're very sane—' began Morse. But Downes, at least for the moment, had taken the initiative
.
'And if you're worried about the taxpayer, shouldn't you perhaps be attending to the urgent little matter your sergeant told you about?'
'You heard that?' asked Morse sharply.
'He speaks more clearly than you do.'
'Even when he whispers?' For a few seconds a bemused-looking Morse appeared slightly more concerned with the criticism of his diction than with the prosecution of his case, and it was Downes who continued:
'You were commenting on the degree of my sanity, Inspector.'
WPC Wright glanced at Morse, seated to her left. She had never worked with him before, but the man's name was something of a legend in the Oxfordshire Constabulary, and she was experiencing a sense of some disappointment. Morse was talking again now, though - getting into his swing again, it seemed, and she took down his words in her swift and deftly stroked outlines.
'Yes. Very sane. Sane enough to cover up a murder! Sane enough to arrange for your wife to cart off the incriminating evidence to King's Cross Station and stick it in a left-luggage locker—' 'I can't be hearing you right—'
'No! Not again, sir - please! It's getting threadbare, you know, that particular excuse. You used it when Kemp rang up - rang up from your own house. You used it again when you'd just got off the train from Paddington tonight, when you pretended you were waiting for Mrs Downes—'
In her shorthand book, WPC Wright had ample time to write the word that Downes now shrieked; write it in in long-hand, and in capitals. In fact she would have had plenty of time to shade in the circles in the last two letters.
She wrote 'STOP!'
And Morse stopped, as instructed - for about thirty seconds. No rush. Then he repeated his accusation.
'You got your wife to take Kemp's clothes to London—'
'Got my wife - got Lucy? What? What do you mean?'
'It's all right, sir.' Morse's tone now (thought WPC Wright) was rather more impressive. Quiet, cultured, confident - gende almost, and understanding. 'We've got the key your wife gave you after she'd deposited the clothes and the blood-stained sheets—'
'I've been here all day - here in Oxford!' The voice had veered from exasperation to incredulity. 'I've got a marvellous alibi - did you know that? I had a tutorial this afternoon from—'
But Morse had taken over completely, and he held up his right hand with a confident, magisterial authority. 'I promise you, sir, that we shall interview everyone you saw this afternoon. You have nothing - nothing! - to fear if you're telling me the truth. But listen to me, Mr Downes! Just for a little while listen to me! When my sergeant came in to see me - when you yourself heard him - he'd just learned that on my instructions the locker had been opened in London. And that inside the locker was a case, the case your wife took with her to London today; a case which she told me - told me and Sergeant Lewis - contained some curtains. Curtains! We both saw her take it, in a taxi. And shall I tell you again what it really contained?'
Downes thumped the table with both fists with such ferocity that WPC Wright transferred her shorthand-book to her black-stockinged knee, and failed completely to register the next three words that Downes had thundered.
'No! No! No!'
But Morse appeared wholly unperturbed. 'Please tell me, Mr Downes, how the key came to be in your possession? Under the mat in the driver's seat, was it? Or in the glove compartment? Can you explain that? Are you going to tell me that it was someone who came back on the train from London who gave you the key?'
‘Wha—?'
'Couldn't have been your wife, could it?'
‘What's Lucy got to do with—?’
'The key!' roared Morse. "What about the key}’
'Key? You mean . . . ?' Downes's cheeks were very white, and slowly he started to get up from his chair.
'Sit down!' thundered Morse with immense authority; and simply, silently Downes did as he was bidden.
'Do you remember the number of the key, sir?'
'Of course.'
'Please tell me,' said Morse quietly. 'Number sixty-seven.'
'That's correct. That's correct, Mr Downes.' Morse briefly placed his right hand on WPC Wright's arm, and gave her a scarce-perceptible nod of encouragement. It would be vital, as he knew, for the next few exchanges to be transcribed with unimpeachable certitude. But as Downes spoke, with a helpless little shrug of his shoulders, the newly sharpened pencil of WPC Wright remained poised above the page.
'That's the key to my locker at the North Oxford Golf Club, Inspector.'
Suddenly, Interview Room Two was still and silent as the grave.
48
Darkness is more productive of sublime ideas than light
(Edmund Burke, On the Sublime and Beautiful)
The traffic along Western Avenue had been quiet, and it was only an hour and a quarter after leaving Oxford that Lewis was speaking to the Night Sister on the third floor of the hospital, a neat, competent-looking brunette who appeared rather more concerned about the unprecedented police interest in matters than in the medical condition of her most recent road-casualty, now lying behind a curtained bed in Harley Ward. A casualty not all that badly injured, anyway: broken left humerus, broken left clavicle, some nasty bruising and laceration round the left shoulder - but no broken legs or ribs, and fairly certainly no head injuries, either. Yes, said Sister, Mrs Downes had been remarkably lucky, really; and, yes, Sergeant Lewis could see her for a short while. He would find her under sedation - a bit dopey and drowsy, and still in a state of some disorientation and shock. Quite lucid, though. 'And,' added Sister, 'you'd better have something ready to tell her if she asks you when her husband's coming. We've put her off as best we can.'
Lewis stood by the bed and looked down at her. Her eyes were open, and guardedly she smiled an instant recognition. She spoke softly, lisping slightly, and Lewis immediately noticed (what he had not been told) that two teeth in the upper left of her jaw had been broken off.
'We met this morning, didn't we?'
'Yes, Mrs Downes.'
'Cedric knows I'm all right, doesn't he?' 'Everything's in hand. Don't worry about anything like that.'
'He'll be here soon, though?'
'I've told you,' said Lewis gently, ‘we're looking after everything. No need for you to worry at all.' 'But I want to see him!'
'It's just that the hospital don't want you to have any visitors - not just for the time being. The doctors, you know, they've got to patch you up a bit.'
'I want to thee Thedric,' she moaned quietly, her hps quivering and her eyes now brimming with tears as the good Lewis laid a hand on the pristine-white plaster encasing her upper arm.
'Soon. In good time. As I say—'
'Why can you see me if he can't?'
'It's just routine - you know - accidents. We have to make reports on—'
'But I've seen the police already.'
'And you told them—?'
'I told them it was my fault - it wasn't the driver's fault.' Her eyes looked pleadingly up at Lewis.
'Would you just repeat what you said. Please, Mrs Downes.'
'There was nothing to say. It was my fault, what else do you want me to say?'
'Just how, you know . . .'
'I was walking along there. I was in a hurry to catch the tube - it was the rush hour - I didn't want to miss the train - Cedric ... you see, Cedric was waiting—'
'At Oxford, you mean? He was waiting at Oxford?' 'Of course. I was just trying to get past some people in front of me and I stepped off the pavement and the driver - he didn't have a chance. It was my fault, don't you believe me? He braked and ... It was the case really. If it hadn't been for the case, I think perhaps . . .'
'The car hit the case, you mean? Hit the case first?'
Lucy nodded. 'It sort of, well - cushioned things, and I hit a litter-bin on the kerb and . . .' She lifted her right hand and pointed vaguely across to the left-hand side of her body.
'So you still had the case with you, then? When the car hit you?'
For the first time the hitherto lucid Lucy looked a little bemused, as if she was unable to follow Lewis's last question. 'I don't quite follow . . . I'm sorry.'
'I just wanted to know if you were carrying the case, that's all.'
'Of course I was.'
'Do you - do you know where it is now, Mrs Downes?' 'Isn't it still under the bed, Sergeant?'
Morse took the call just after 11 p.m.
'You'll never guess what's happened, sir!'
'Don't put your bank balance on it, Lewis!'
'She's going to be all right, they think, sir. The Met got it wrong about the ICU.'
Morse said nothing.
'You are - well, pleased about that, aren't you?'
'I take no delight in death, Lewis, and if one thing worries me above all else it is accidents - the random concourse of atoms in the void, as Epicurus used to say.'
'You feeling tired, sir?'
'Yes.'
'You knew it was an accident all the time?' 'No. Not all the time.' 'You're losing me - as usual.'
‘What is this news of yours, Lewis, that I shall never guess?'
'The case, sir! The case we both saw Mrs Downes take up to London.'
‘We both saw her put in the taxi, if we are to be accurate.'
'But she did bring it to London! And you won't guess what was in it.'
'Curtains, Lewis? Any good? Curtains with French pleats? By the way, remind me one day to explain this business of French pleats to you. Mrs Lewis would be glad if you took a bit more interest in household furnishings and interior decoration.'
'What do you want me to do about this left-luggage key, sir?'
'What are you talking about? What makes you think that's a left-luggage key?'
After Lewis had rung off, Morse sat at his desk and smoked three Dunhill International cigarettes one after the other. He'd been shaken, certainly, when Cedric Downes had invited him to go along to the North Oxford Golf Club and knock up the caretaker if necessary. And Lewis's phone call had surely hammered the last coffin-nail into the Cedric-Lucy theory. Yet Morse's mind was never more fertile than when faced with some apparently insuperable obstacle, and even now he found it difficult to abandon his earlier, sweet hypothesis about the murder of Theodore Kemp. He gazed out through the curtainless window on to the well-lit, virtually deserted parking-area: only his own red Jaguar and two white police cars. He could - should! - get off now and go to bed. He would be home in ten minutes. Less, perhaps, at this hour. . . Yes, it was extremely useful to have a car, whatever people said about traffic and pollution and expense . . . yes . . .
