'Can we leave it just a
little
while, sir? I don't seem able to cope with two things at once these days, and I've got to get down to Oxford.'
'Let it wait! Just don't forget you'll be filling in the same forms pretty soon.'
Bloxham Drive was still cordoned off, the police presence still pervasively evident. But Adele Beatrice Cecil -alias Ann Berkeley Cox, author of
Topless in Torremolinos
- was waved through by a sentinel PC, just as Geoffrey Owens had been waved through over a fortnight earlier, on the morning that Rachel James had been murdered.
As she let herself into Number
1
, she was immediately aware that the house was (literally) almost freezi
ng. Why hadn't she left the heati
ng on? How good to have been able to jump straight into a hot bath; or into an electric-blanketed bed; or into a lover's arms
...
For several minutes she thought of Morse, and of what he had asked her. What on earth had he suspected? And suddenly, alone again now, in her cold house, she found herself shivering.
To an outsider it may appear that the average Oxbridge don works but twenty-four weeks out of the annual fifty-two. If therefore at any point in the academic year it is difficult to locate the whereabouts of such an individual, most assuredly this circumstance may not constitute any adequate cause for universal alarm
(A
Workload Analysis of University Teachers,
ed.
H
arry
J
udge)
Just after
4
p.m
. that same day, Morse rang the bell beside the red-painted front door of an elegant, ashlared house just across from the Holywell Music Room. It was the right house, he knew that, with the Lonsdale Cres
t fixed halfway between the neatl
y paned windows of the middle and upper storeys.
There was no answer.
There were no answers.
Morse retraced his steps up to Broad Street and crossed the cobbles of Radcliffe Square to the Porters' Lodge at Lonsdale.
'Do you know if Dr
Cornford
's in College?'
The duty porter rang a number; then shook his head.
'Doesn't seem to be in his rooms, sir.' 'Has he been in today?'
'He was in this morning. Called for his mail - what, ten? Quarter past?'
You've no idea where he is?'
The porter shook his head. 'Doesn't come in much of a Wednesday, Dr Cornford. Usually has his Faculty Meeting Wednesdays.'
'Can you try him for me there? It's important'
The porter rang a second number; spoke for a while; put down the phone.
'They've not seen him today, sir. Seems he didn't turn up for the two o'clock meeting.'
'Have you got his home number?'
'He's ex-directory, sir. I can't—'
'So am I
ex-directory. You know who I am, don't you?'
The young porter looked as hopefully as he could into Morse's face.
'No, sir.'
'Forget it!' snapped Morse.
He walked back up to Holywell Street, along to the red door, and rang the bell. There was no answer. There were no answers.
An over-lipsticked middle-aged traffic-warden stood beside the Jaguar.
'Is this your vehicle, sir?'
Yes, madam. I'm just waiting for the Chief Constable. He's' (Morse pointed vaguely towards the Sheldonian)
'nearly finished in there. At any rate, I hope he bloody has! And if he hasn't, put the bill to 'im, love - not to me!' 'Sorry!'
Morse wandered acro
ss to the green-shuttered Black
well's, and browsed awhile; finally purchasing the first volume of Sir Steven Runciman's
History of the Crusades.
He wasn't quite sure why.
Then, for the third time, he walked up to the red door in Holywell Street and rang the bell.
Morse heard the news back in HQ. From Lewis.
A body had been found in a car, in a narrow lane off New Road, in a garage rented under the name of Dr Cornford.
For a while Morse sat silent.
‘I
only met him the once you know, Lewis. Well, the twice, really. He was a go
od man, I think. I liked him.' ‘I
t isn't Dr Cornford though, sir. It's his wife.'
Thursday, 7 March
Is it sin
To rush into the secret house of death Ere death dare come to us?
(Shakespeare,
Antony and Cleopatra)
'Tell me about
it,' said Morse.
Seated opposite him, in the first-floor office in St Aldates Police Station, Detective Chief Inspector Peter Warner told the story sadly and economically.
Mrs Shelly Cornford had been found in the driving-seat of her own car, reclining back, with a hosepipe through the window. The garage had been bolted on the inside. There could be little doubt that
the
immediate cause of death was carbon-monoxide poisoning from exhaust fumes. A brief handwritten note had been left on the passenger seat: 'I'm so sorry, Denis, I can't forgive myself for what I did. I never loved anyone else but you, my darling - S.' No marks of violence;
97
mg blood alcohol - the equivalent (Warner suggested) of two or three stiffish gins. Still a few unanswered questions, of course: about her previous whereabouts that day; about the purchase of the green hosepipe and the connector, both new. But suspicion of foul play? None.
‘I
wonder where she had a drink?' asked Morse.
'Well, if she'd walked up from Holywell Street, there'd be the King's Arms,
the
White Horse, The Randolph
...
But you're the expert.'
Morse asked no more questions; but sat thinking of the questionnaire he had set for
the
Police Gazette
(it seemed so long ago): 'If you could gladden your final days with one of the following
..
.'Yes, without a doubt, if he'd been honest, Morse would have applauded Shelly
Cornford
's choice. And what the hell did it matter
where
she'd had those few last glasses of alcohol - few last 'units' rather -the measurements into which the dietitian had advised him to convert his old familiar gills and pints and quarts.
'Do you want to see her?'
Morse shook his head.
You'd better see
him,
though.'
Morse nodded wearily. 'Is he all right?'
'We-ell. His GP's been in - but he refuses to take any medication. He's in the canteen with one of the sergeants. We've finished with him, really.'
'Tell me about it,' urged Morse.
Denis
Cornford
's voice was flat, almost mechanical, as he replied:
'On Sunday just before I met you in the pub she told me she'd been to bed with another man that morning. I hardly spoke to her after that. I slept in the spare room the last three nights.'
"The note?' asked Morse ge
ntly
. Ts that what she was referring to?' Yes.'
'Nothing to do with anything else?' 'No.'
'She was there, in your rooms, just before Chapel on Sunday, wasn't she?'
Cornford evinced no surprise.
'We'd had a few harsh words. She didn't want to see you.'
'Do you know who the other man was?'
‘
Yes. Clixby Bream.'
'She
told you that, sir?' ‘
Yes.'
'So - so she couldn't have had anything to do with the Owens murder?'
'No. Nor could the Master.'
'Did
you
have anything to do with it?'
'No.'
'Why did you go to see Owens last Thursday?'
‘I
knew Owens a bit through various things I did for his newspaper. That night I had to go to Kidlington - I went on the bus - the Kidlington History Society - held at the school - "Effects of the Enclosure Acts in Oxfordshire" - seven o'clock to eight. He lived fairly near - five minutes' walk away. I'd done a three-part article for him on Mediaeval Oxford - Owens said it needed shortening a bit - we discussed some changes - no problems. I got a bus back to Oxford - about nine.'
'Why didn't you tell me you knew Owens?'
'I didn't want to get involved.'
'What will you do now?'
'I left a note for the Master about the election.' The voice was still monotonous; the mouth dry. 'I've withdrawn my nomination.'
'I'm so sorry about everything,' said Morse very qui
etly
.
Yes, I think you are, aren't you?'
Morse left the pale, bespectacled historian staring vaguely into a cup of cold tea, like a man who is temporarily anaesthetized against some overwhelming pain.
'It's a terrible business - terrible!'
The Master poured himself a single-malt Scotch. 'Drink, Chief Inspector?' Morse shook his head. 'Won't you sit down?'
'No. I've only called to say that Dr
Cornford
has just told me everything - about you and his wife.' 'Mmm.'
'We shall have to get a statement from you.' 'Why is that?'
'The
time
chiefly, I suppose.' 'Is it really necessary?'
'There
was
a murder on that Sunday morning.'
'Mmm. Was she one of your suspects?'
Morse made no direct answer. 'She couldn't have been making love to you and murdering someone else at the same time.'
'No.' The bland features betrayed no emotion; yet
Morse was distastefully aware that the Master was hardly displeased with such a succinct, such an unequivocal assertion of Shelly Cornford's innocence, since by implication it was an assertion of his own.
'I understand that Dr Cornford has written to you, sir.'
'Exited from the lists, poor Denis, yes. That just leaves Julian Storrs. Good man though, Julian!'
Morse slowly walked to the door.
'What do you think about suicide, Sir Clixby?'
'In general?' The Master drained his tumbler, and thoughtfully c
onsidered the question. 'Aristotl
e, you know, thought suicide a form of cowardice - running away from troubles oneself and leaving all
the
heartache to everybody else. What do
you
think?'
Morse was conscious of a deep loathing for this smooth and odious man.
'I don't know what your particular heartache is, sir. You see I never met Mrs
Cornford
myself. But I'd be surprised if she was a coward. In fact, I've got the feeling she was a bit of a gutsy girl.' Morse stood beside the study door, his face drawn, his nostrils distended. 'And I'll tell you something else. She probably had far more guts in her
little
finger than you've ever had in the whole of your body!'
Lewis was waiting in the Jaguar outside the Porters' Lodge; and Morse quickly climbed into the passenger seat His voice was still vicious:
'Get - me - out - of - here, Lewis!'
Friday, 8 March
Those who are absent, by its means become present: correspondence is the consolation of life
(Voltaire,
Philosophical Dictionary)
Sergeant Lewis
had himself only
just entered Morse's office when Jane came through with the post: six official-looking letters, opened, with appropriate previous correspondence paper-clipped behind them; one square white envelope, unopened, marked 'Private', and postmarked Oxford; and an airmail letter, also unopen
ed, marked 'Personal', and postm
arked 'Washington'.
Jane smiled radia
ntly
at her boss.
'Why are you looking so cheerful?' queried Morse.
Just nice to have you back, sir, that's all.'
Inside the white envelope was a card,
the
front showing an auburn-haired woman, in a white dress, reading a book; and Morse read the brief message inside:
Geoffrey Harris Ward Radcliffe Infirmary 7 March 96
We all miss your miserable presence in the ward. If you
haven't
finished smoking, we shall never meet for that G&
T
you promised me. Look after yourself!
Affectionately Janet (McQueen)
P.S. I looked through your old hospital records from
many
years ago. Know something? I found your Christian name!