Read Morse's Greatest Mystery and Other Stories Online
Authors: Colin Dexter
“Where to now, sir?”
“We’re going to try to trace Peter Sherwood’s mistress.”
“But—but haven’t we cleared things up?”
“What? You didn’t believe all that stuff we got from Mrs. Sherwood, did you?”
“You mean—you mean
you
didn’t?”
“Lewis! Lewis! Why do you think she refused to tell us anything about her husband’s latest conquest?”
Lewis had no idea, and mercifully Morse continued.
“Because our dusky maiden is the only one who knows the truth in this case. And Mrs. Sherwood doesn’t
want
us to know the truth, does she?”
“Perhaps not,” mumbled Lewis, uncomprehendingly.
“So you ask me where were going? Well, it’s a longish shot, but not a hopeless one. The initials on the back of the photo were ‘JB’; she looked deeply tanned—”
“Perhaps she’s just back from a topless two weeks in Torremolinos.”
“You know, Lewis, you don’t often come out with such a splendid sentence as that.”
Lewis felt better. “You mean she might belong to a local health centre?”
“Lying on a sun-bed, yes. And if Mrs. Sherwood was able to find out a few things about her—”
“—she might not live a million miles from Leominster Drive.”
“Exactly so.”
“Sounds like my sort of job, sir.”
“Just what I was thinking, Lewis. So, if you’ll just drop me off at the nearest pub?”
Late that same afternoon, in a luxury flat rather less than a mile from the Sherwood residence, a dark-haired, totally and fatally attractive young woman, wearing thinly rimmed, schoolma’amish spectacles, was still in an agitated frame of mind.
For she knew that she had killed her lover.
Had it been foolish to ring the manager of The Randolph? Certainly the questions he’d asked were disturbingly shrewd; yet her conscience had compelled her to do something. Yes, even she had a conscience …
It had been five minutes to six when she’d finally managed to park the car—up in Norham Gardens, rather further out than she’d anticipated. But at least a telephone booth had stood near by, and (as arranged) she’d dialled the hotel and been put through without delay. And virtually verbatim could she recall that brief—that
fatal
—conversation:
“Peter?”
“Jane!”
“Everything OK?”
“Will be once you get here. Room 231.”
“Is it nice?”
“Lovely double bed!”
“I can hardly wait.”
“I’ll leave the door ajar.”
“Peter?”
“Yes?”
“I’m wanting you like crazy.”
“Jane! Please don’t say things like that!”
“Why on earth not?”
“You make me—you make me so
excited—”
That was when she’d heard a great crash, although the terrible truth had not immediately dawned upon her consciousness …
Who the two men were she now saw walking up to the block of flats, she hadn’t the faintest notion. But they looked a well enough heeled pair, and the posh car parked at the kerbside hardly suggested a
couple of double-glazing double-dealers. And when she answered the door-bell (yes, they had called to see
her)
she acknowledged to herself that she could really rather fancy one of the two men, the one whose hair looked somewhat prematurely grey. For in spite of her anxieties, she was already casting round (as Mrs. Sherwood had suspected) for some replacement demerara daddy.
“Jane Ballantyre?”
She smiled invitingly. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
“You know, I rather think you can,” said the man whose hair looked somewhat prematurely grey.
Announcing a new Inspector Morse mystery:
DEATH IS NOW MY NEIGHBOR
by Colin Dexter
Available soon in hardcover from Crown Books.
For a glimpse of this riveting new novel, please read on …
Painstakingly, in block capitals, the Chief Inspector wrote his name,
E. MORSE
; and was beginning to write his address when Lewis came into the office at 8:35
A.M.
on Monday, 19 February.
“What’s that, sir?”
Morse looked down at a full page torn from one of the previous day’s colour supplements.
“Special offer: two free CDs, when you apply to join the Music Club Library.”
Lewis looked dubious. “Don’t forget you have to buy a book every month with that sort of thing. Life’s not all freebies, you know.”
“Well, it is in this case. You’ve just got to have a look at the first thing they send you, that’s all—then send it back if you don’t like it. I think they even refund the postage.”
Lewis watched as Morse completed and snipped out the application form.
“Wouldn’t it be fairer if you agreed to have
some
of the books?”
“You think so?”
“At least
one
of them.”
Intense blue eyes, slightly pained, looked innocently across the desk at Sergeant Lewis.
“But I’ve already got this month’s book—I bought it for myself for Christmas.”
He inserted the form into an envelope, on which he now wrote the club’s address. Then he took from his wallet a sheaf of plastic cards: Bodleian Library ticket; Lloyds payment card; RAC Breakdown Service; blood donor card; Blackwell’s Bookshops; Oxford City Library ticket; phonecard … but there appeared to be no booklet of first-class stamps there. Or of second-class.
“You don’t, by any chance, happen to have a stamp on you, Lewis?”
“What CDs are you going for?”
“I’ve ordered Janáček, the
Glagolitic Mass
—you may not know it. Splendid work—beautifully recorded by Simon Rattle. And Richard Strauss,
Four Last Songs
—Jessye Norman. I’ve got several recordings by other sopranos, of course.”
Of course …
Lewis nodded, and looked for a stamp.
It was not infrequent for Lewis to be reminded of what he had lost in life; or rather, what he’d never had in the first place. The one Strauss he knew was the ‘Blue Danube’ man. And he’d only recently learned there were two of
those
, as well—Senior and Junior; and which was which he’d no idea.
“Perhaps you’ll be in for a bit of a let-down, sir. Some of these offers—they’re not exactly up to what they promise.”
“You’re an expert on these things?”
“No … but … take Sergeant—” Lewis stopped himself in time. Just as well to leave a colleague’s weakness cloaked in anonymity. “Take this chap I know. He read this advert in one of the tabloids about a free video—sex
video—sent in a brown envelope with no address to say where it had come from. You know, in case the wife …”
“No, I don’t know, Lewis. But please continue.”
“Well, he sent for one of the choices—”
“Copenhagen Red-Hot Sex?”
“No.
Housewives on the Job
—that was the title; and he expected, you know …”
Morse nodded. “Housewives On the job’ with the milkman, the postman, the itinerant button-salesman …”
Lewis grinned. “But it wasn’t, no. It just showed all those fully dressed Swedish housewives washing up the plates and peeling the potatoes.”
“Serves Sergeant Dixon right.”
“You won’t mention it, sir!”
“Of course I won’t. And you’re probably right. You never really get something for nothing in this life. I never seem to, anyway.”
“Really, sir?”
Morse licked the flap of the white envelope. Then licked the back of the first-class stamp that Lewis had just given him.
The phone had been ringing for several seconds, and Lewis now took the call, listening briefly but carefully, before putting his hand over the mouthpiece:
“There’s been a murder, sir. On the doorstep, really—up in Bloxham Drive.”
DEATH IS NOW MY NEIGHBOR
by Colin Dexter
Available soon in hardcover from Crown Books.