No one.
It was then, at the last minute (quite literally so), that the idea occurred to him.
A young-looking ticket-collector was leaning out of one of the rear windows
whilst a clinking refreshment-t
rolley was being lifted awkwardly aboard. Lewis showed him his ID; showed him
the
photograph.
'Have you ever seen either of these two on the Paddington train? Or any other train?'
The acne-faced youth examined the ID card as if suspecting, perchance, that
it
might be a faulty ticket;
then
, equally carefully, looked down at the photograph before looking up at Lewis.
Someone blew a whistl
e.
"Yes, I have. Seen
him,
anyway. Do you want to know his name, Sergeant? I remember it from his Railcard.'
A well-tied tie is the first serious step in life (Oscar Wilde)
Morse caught
a No. 2A bus into the centre of Oxford, alighting at Carfax, thence walking down the High and entering Shepherd and Woodward's, where he descended the stairs to Gerrard's hairdressing saloon. 'The usual, sir?'
Morse was glad that he was being attended to by Gerrard himself. It was not that the proprietor was gifted with trichological skills significantly superior to those of his attractive female assistants; it was just that Gerrard had always been an ardent admirer of Thomas Hardy, and during his life had acquired an encyclopaedic knowledge of the great man's works.
‘Yes, please,' answered Morse, looking morosely into the mirror at hair that had thinly drifted these last few years from ironish-grey to purish-white.
As Morse stood up to wipe the snippets of hair from his face with a hand-towel, he took out the photograph and showed it to Gerrard.
'Has he ever been in here?' 'Don't think so. Shall
I
ask the girls?' Morse considered. 'No. Leave
it
for the present.' 'Remember the Hardy poem, Mr Morse? "The Photograph"?'
Morse did. Yet only vaguely. 'Remind me.'
‘I
used to have it by heart but 'We all get older,' admitted Morse. Gerrard now scanned the pages of his extraordinary memory.
‘Y
ou remember Hardy'd just burnt a photo of one of his old flames - he didn't know if she was alive or not - she was someone from the back of beyond of his life -but he felt awfully moved - as if he was putting her to death somehow - when he burned the photo
..
. Just a minute
..
.just a minute,
I
think
I
've got it:
Well — she knew nothing th
ereof did she survive,
And suffered nothing if numbered among the dead;
Yet —yet — if on earth alive
Did sh
e feel a smart, and with vague strange anguish strive?
If in heaven, did sh
e smile at me sadly and shake her head?'
Morse felt saddened as he walked out into
the
High. Hardy always managed to make him feel sad. And particularly so now, since only a few days earlier he'd consigned a precious photograph to the flames: a photograph hitherto pressed between pages 88-89
of hi
s
Collected Poems of A. E. Housman -
the photograph of a dark-haired young woman seated on a broken classical column somewhere in Crete. A woman named Ellie Smith; a woman whom he'd loved - and lost
Morse pondered the probabilities. Had other photographs been burned or torn to
little
pieces since the murder of Rachel James - photographs hitherto kept in books or secret drawers?
Perhaps Lewis was right. Why not publish the photo in the
Oxford Mail}
Assuredly, there'd be hundreds of incoming calls: so many of them wrong, of course - but some few of diem probably right
...
Morse turned left into Alfred Street, and walked down the narrow cobbled lane to
the
junction with Blue Boar Street, where he tr
ied the saloon-bar door of the Bear Inn.
Locked - with
the
opening hour displayed disappointingly as midday. It was now
11.20
a.m., and Morse felt thirsty. Perhaps he was always thirsty. That morning, though, he felt preternaturally thirsty. In fact he would gladly have swallowed a pint or two of ice-cold lager - a drink which at almost any other time w
ould have been considered a betr
ayal by a real-ale addict like Morse.
He tapped li
ghtly
on the glass of the door. Tapped again. The door was opened.
A few minutes later, after offering identification, after a brief explanation of his purpose, Morse was seated with the landlord, Steven Lowbridge, at a table in the front bar.
'Would you like a coff
ee or someth
ing?' asked Sonya, his wife.
Morse turned round and looked towards the bar, where a row of beers paraded their pedigrees on the hand-pumps.
'Is the Burton in good nick?'
The landlord (Morse learned) had been at the Bear Inn for five years, gready enjoying his
time
there. A drinking-house had been on the site since 1242, and undergraduates and undergraduettes were
still
coming in to crowd the comparatively small pub: from Oriel and Christ Church mo
stly
; from Lincoln and Univ, too.
And
the
ties?
The Bear Inn was nationally - internationally -renowned for its ties: about five thousand of them at the last count Showcases of ties covered the walls, covered the ceilings, in each of the bars: ties from Army regiments, sports clubs, schools and OB associations; ties from anywhere and everywhere. The collection started (Morse learned) in 1954, when the incumbent landlord had invited any customer with an interesting-looking tie to have the last three or four inches of its back-end cut off - in exchange for a couple of pints of beer. Thereafter, the snipped-off portions were put on display in cabinets,
with
a small square of white card affixed to each giving provenance and description.
Morse nodded encouragingly as the landlord told his well-rehearsed tale, occasionally casting a glance at the cabinet on the wall immediately opposite: Yale University Fencing Club; Kenya Police; Welsh Schoolboys' Hockey Association; Women's Land Army
...
Ye gods!
What a multitude of ties!
Morse's glass was empty; and the landlady tentatively suggested that the Chief Inspector would perhaps enjoy a further pint?
Morse had no objection; and made his way to the Gents where, as he washed his hands, he wondered whither all the washbasin plugs in the world could have disappeared - plugs from every pub, from every hotel, from every public convenience in the land. Somewhere (Morse mused) there must surely be a prodigious pile of basin-plugs, as high as some Egyptian pyramid.
Back in the bar, Morse produced his photograph and pointed to the
little
patch of tie.
'Do you think there's anyth
ing like that here?'
Lowbridge looked down at the slimly striped maroon tie, shaking his head dubiously.
'Don't
think
so
...
But make yourself at home - please have a look round - for as long as you like.'
Morse experienced disappointment.
If only Lewis were there! Lewis - so wonderfully competent with this sort of diing: checking, checking, checking, the contents of the cabinets.
Help, Lewis!
But Lewis was elsewhere. And for twenty-five minutes or so, Morse moved round the two bars, with increasing fecklessness and irritation.
Nothing was matching
..
.
Nothing.
'Find what you're after?' It was the darkly attractive Sonya, just returned from a shopping expedition to the Westgate Centre.
'No, sadly no,' admitted Morse. 'It's a bit like a farmer looking for a lost contact lens in a ploughed field.' "That what you're looking for?'
Sonya Lowbridge pointed to the ti
e in the photograph that
still
lay on the table there.
Morse nodded. "That's it.'
'But I can tell you where you can find that'
'You can?' Morse's eyes were suddenly wide, his mouth suddenly dry.
‘
Yep! I was looking for a tie for Steve's birthday. And you'll find one just like
that
on the tie-rack in Marks and Spencer's.'
A Slave has but one Master; yet ambitious folk have as many masters as there are people who may be useful in bettering their position
(La Bruyere,
Characters)
'Well?'
Julian Storrs closed the front door behind
him, hung up his dripping plasti
c mac, and took his wife into his arms.
'No external candidates - just the two of us.'
'That's wonderful news!' Angela Storrs moved away from her husband's brief, perfunctory embrace, and led the way into the lounge of the splendidly furnished property in Polstead Road, a thoroughfare linking
the Woodstock Road with Aristotl
e Lane (the latter, incidentally, Morse's favourite Oxford street-name).
'Certainly not bad news, is it? If the gods just smile on us a
little
...'
'Drink?'
'I think I may have earned a small bra
nd
y
.' She poured his drink; poured herself a large Dry Martini; lit a cigarette; and sat beside him on the brown
-
leather settee. She clinked her glass with his, and momentarily her eyes gleamed with potential triumph. 'To
you,
Sir Julian!'
'Just a minute! We've got to win the bloody thing first. No pushover, old Denis, you know: good College man -fine scholar - first-class brain—'
'Married to a second-class tart!'
Storrs shook his head with an uneasy smile.
You're being a bit cruel, love.'
'Don't call me "love" - as if you come from Rother-ham, or somewhere.'
'What's wrong with Rotherham?' He put his left arm around her shoulders, and forced an affectionate smile to his lips as he contemplated the woman he'd married just over twenty years previously - then pencil-slim, fresh-faced, and wrinkle-free.
Truth to tell, she was aging rather more quickly than most women of her years. Networks of varicose veins marred the long, still-shapely legs; and her stomach was a
little
distended around the waistband of the elegant trouser-suits which rece
ntly
she almost invariably wore. The neck had grown rather gaunt, and there were lines and creases round her eyes. Yet the face itself was firmly featured still; and to many a man she remained an attractive woman - as she had appeared to Julian Storrs when first he had encountered her
...
in those extraordinary circumstances. And few there were who even now could easily resist the invitation of those almond eyes when after some dinner party or drinks reception she removed the dark glasses she had begun to wear so regularly.
Having swiftly swallowed her Martini, Angela Storrs got to her feet and poured herself another - her husband making no demur. In fact, he was quite happy when she decided to indulge her more than occasional craving for alcohol, since then she would usually go to bed, go to sleep, and reawaken in a far more pleasant frame of mind.
'What are your chances - hone
stly
?' 'Hope is a Christian virtue, you know
that
.' 'Christ! Can't you think of anything better to say than that?'
He was silent awhile. 'It means a lot to you, Angela, doesn't it?'
'It means a lot to you, too,' she replied, allowing her slow words to take their full effect. 'It
does,
doesn't it?'
Yes,' he replied so
ftly
, 'it means almost everything to me.'
Angela got up and poured herself another Martini.
'I'm glad you said that You know why? Because it doesn't just mean
almost
everything to me - it means
literally
everything. I want to be the Master's Wife, Julian. I want to be Lady Storrs! Do you understand how much I want that?'
Yes .
..
yes, I think I do.'
'So
...
so if we have to engage in any "dirty-tricks" business
...'
'What d'you mean?'