The Riddle Of The Third Mile

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Like some latter-day Pilgrim, one of the protagonists in this macabre case is determined to rid himself of his burden.

Two days after the events described in the previous chapter, a man looked about him with extreme circumspection before inserting one of his keys into the door at the rear entrance of the luxury fiats in Cambridge Way. The coast was clear. Apart from the uniformed police constable standing outside the front entrance, he guessed (and guessed correctly) that at last he was alone. He moved silently up the carpeted staircase and let himself into the room that faced the first landing; there was just one thing he had to do. Once inside the flat he fixed his rather ancient hearing-aid into his right ear (exactly as he’d done three days before), nicked over the lock on the Yale (a precaution he’d earlier omitted to take), and took from his pocket a newly purchased screwdriver-a larger, shinier, more effective instrument than the one which had bored its way through Gilbert’s spine. He’d known the truth, of course, on that previous visit; known it immediately he’d entered the main sitting-room. For, although the crates seemed all (quite properly) still unopened, from the mantelpiece Mercator’s head had stared at him accusingly…

After performing his grisly task-it took him only a few minutes-he retraced his steps to the rear entrance and let himself out into the bright afternoon sunlight, where he promptly hailed a taxi. He saw the driver’s eyes flick to the mirror as his hearing-aid began to oscillate; so he turned off the volume and took it out. It had served its purpose well today, and he put it away and sought to relax as the taxi threaded its way through the heavy traffic. But his mind could give him little rest… If only on that terrifying day… But no! Awaiting Gilbert had been an almost certain early retribution. Money! That was all that Gilbert had demanded – then more money. An odd compulsion (as it appeared to the man in the taxi); certainly when compared with the motivations that dominated his own life – the harbouring of inveterate hatreds, and the almost manic ambition, sometimes so carefully concealed, for some degree of worldly fame.

‘Here we are, sir: Paddington.’

Why Paddington? Why not Euston, or Victoria, or Liverpool Street? Why any railway station? Perhaps it was the anonymity of such a place-a place at which he could deposit the burden of his sin that lay so heavily in the supermarket carrier-bag he tightly clutched as he walked through the swing doors of the Station Hotel and turned right to the gentlemen’s toilet. No one else was there, and he closed the door behind him in the furthest of the cubicles that faced the open pissoir. Here, he lifted the plastic ring of the lavatory seat, climbed on to the circular fixture and lifted the covering of the porcelain cistern. But the water-filled cavity was far too narrow-and suddenly he was jerked into a frozen stillness, for he heard the door-catch click in a nearby cubicle. Something had to be done quickly. He felt inside the carrier-bag and took out a flat package wrapped round with a copy of The Times-a package which, judging from its shape, might have held two sandwiches, and which now plopped into the water and sank immediately to the bottom of the cistern.

Still carrying the bulk of his burden, he walked out of the hotel into the main-line station, where he drifted aimlessly about until he saw the planks and scaffolding at the furthest end of Platform One. He made his way slowly along this platform, intermittently turning his eyes upwards to take in Brunei’s magnificent wrought-iron roof that arched above him. He had already seen the skip-half-full of building rubble and general rubbish… Apart from a solitary orange-coated workman a few yards up the line, he was alone. Suddenly turning, he dropped his bag into the skip and sauntered back towards the unmanned ticket-barrier. He would have enjoyed a pot of searing hot tea and a buttered scone in the cool lounge of the Station Hotel, but he dared not trust himself. He was shaking visibly and the sweat was cold upon his forehead. It was time to return to base, to lie down awhile, to tell himself that the task he’d so much dreaded was now accomplished-if not accomplished well.

Crossing over Praed Street, he walked down to the bottom of Spring Street and entered a small hotel just off to the left. No one was on duty at the reception-desk, and he lifted the hinged board, took his key (Number 16) off its wall-hook, and climbed the stairs. Although he had now been in the same hotel for many days, he still felt some hesitation about which way up the key went in; and again, now, he fiddled and scraped a bit before opening the door and admitting himself to the small but neatly furnished room. He took off his jacket, placed it at the bottom of the single bed, wiped his forehead with a clean white handkerchief from the antique wardrobe-and experienced a vast relief at finding himself safely back in this temporary home. The Gideon Bible, in its plum-coloured boards, still lay on the table beside the pillow; the window, as he had left it, was still half-open, providing easy access (he was glad of it!) to the fire-escape that zigzagged down the narrow side of the hotel to the mean-looking courtyard below. Turning round, he saw that the door to the wash-room was open, too, and he promised himself (but in a little while) a cool and guilt-effacing shower.

For the moment he lay down on top of the coverlet, with that curious amalgam of elation that springs from defiance of danger and knowledge of accomplishment. As a boy, he’d known it when climbing Snowdon with a Scout troup: for all the other boys, the route alongside one precipitous face had seemed a commonplace occurrence-yet for himself a source of great and secret pride… It was strange that he should only have experienced that marvellous elation again so very late in life, and then so often in such a short period of time… He closed his eyes, and almost moved his mind towards some neutral gear, untroubled, disengaged…

But only a minute later his body was jarred into panic-stricken dread. Someone was standing over him; someone who said ‘Good afternoon’-and nothing more.

‘You! You!’

His eyeballs bulged in fear and incredulous surprise, and if either of these emotions could be said to have been in the ascendant, perhaps it was that of surprise. But even as he cowered upon the coverlet, the packing twine was cutting deep into his neck; and soon his frantic spluttering and croaking grew quieter and quieter-until it was completely stilled. So died George Westerby, late Scholar and Senior Fellow of Lonsdale College in the University of Oxford.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

It is a characteristic of the British people that they complain about their railways. In this case, however, there appears little justification for such complaint,

It was 9.50 a.m. the following morning when the winsome receptionist looked up from her desk and took the room-key.

‘Nice morning again, Mr Smith?’

He nodded and smiled-that distinctively lop-sided smile of his. Since he’d been there, she’d almost always been on duty in the mornings; often, too, in the evenings, when she’d taken his order for an early-morning pot of tea-and also for The Times.

‘I’ve got to leave this morning; so if you’ll make out my bill, please?^’

He sat down in one of the armchairs just opposite the reception desk, and breathed in very deeply. He’d spent another deeply troubled night, fitfully falling into semi-slumber, then waking up to find his blue pyjamas soaked in chilling sweat. Throughout these hours his head had thumped away as though some alien fiend were hammering inside his skull; and it was only after early tea that finally he’d slept a little while. He woke just after 9a.m., his head still aching, yet now with a dulled and

torrable pain. For a few minutes he had lain there almost happily, upon the creased and tumbled pillow. But soon the same old host of thoughts was streaming through the portals of his brain, his eyeballs rolling round beneath the shuttered lids. And one thought fought a leading way through all the crowd- and one decision was made.

‘Mr Smith? Mr Smith?’

He heard her, and rose to pay the bill. Sometimes (as well he knew) his brain could play him false; but this particular contingency he had anticipated, and he paid his dues with ready cash, in notes of high denomination.

He left the Station Hotel (as Westerby had done before him) and walked to the ticket-office. Then, for many minutes, he stood in front of the high departures-board. But he could read nothing. His eyes no sooner focused on the times of trains for Oxford than the letters (white) upon their background (black) had leap-frogged astigmatically across his retina, leaving him in dizzied indecision.

He stepped to the nearest ticket-barrier. ‘Can you tell me my best bet for Oxford, please?’

‘Platform 9. Half-past ten. But you’ll have to-’

‘Thank you.’

The train was already in the platform and he pulled himself up into an empty first-class compartment, putting his ticket carefully into his wallet and leaning back against the head-rest…

Half an hour later he jerked forward as the train halted with something less than silken braking-power, and he looked out of the window: Reading. Still the solitary occupant of the compartment, he leant back again and closed his wearied eyes. Not long… and he’d be there!

Thirty-five minutes later he was jerked to a second awakening.

‘Tickets, please!’

He was gratified that he could find his ticket so easily,but his head was throbbing wildly.

‘This your ticket, sir?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I’m afraid you’ve missed your connection. We’ve just gone past Didcot. You’re on your way to Swindon.’

‘What? I don’t understand-’

‘You should have changed at Didcot for the Oxford train. You must have nodded off.’

‘But I’ve got to get to Oxford. I’ve – I’ve just got to get there.’

‘Nothing we can do, sir. You’ll have to get the next train back from Swindon-’

‘But it’s urgent!’

‘As I say, you’ll just have to wait till we get to Swindon.’ The collector punched the ticket and handed it back. ‘We won’t worry about any excess fare, sir. Genuine mistake, I’m sure.”

The next few minutes registered themselves in his mind as at aeon of frenzied agony. Sitting forward in his seat, he bit deep into the nails of his little fingers, fighting with all his power to keep control of a brain that stood unsurely on a precipice.

Then the train stopped-more gently this time.

He was glad to find his legs steady as he got to his feet, and he felt much calmer now. He put the sweat-soaked handkerchief away inside his trouser pocket, took his case from the luggage rack, opened the left-hand door of the carriage-and stepped down into nothing. He fell on to the sharp stones of a slight embankment on the south side of the line, and lay there hurt and wholly puzzled. Yet, strangely, he felt profoundly comfortable there: it seemed so easy now to sleep. The sun was blazing down from the clear-blue sky, and his head-at last! -was free from pain.

‘You all right, sir?’

The ticket collector was crouching beside him, and he heard some faintly sounding voices from afar.

‘I’m sorry…I’m sorry…’

‘Let me just help you up, sir. You’ll be all right.’

‘No! Please don’t bother. I’m just sorry, that’s all…’

He closed his eyes. But the sun was blazing still beneath his eyelids, glowing like some fiery orange, whirring and -ever larger-spinning down towards him.

But still there was no pain.

‘I’ll go and get some help, sir. Shan’t be a minute.’

The ticket collector vaulted nimbly up the shallow embankment, but already it was too late.

‘Before you do that, please do one thing for me. I want to get a message to a Chief Inspector Morse-at the Thames Valley Police Headquarters. Please tell him I was-I was on my way to see him. Please tell him that I did it-do you understand me? Please tell him… that…’

But the man beside the track was speaking to himself; and even the curious heads that poked through nearby carriage-windows could make no sense of all the mumbled words.

Suddenly the sun exploded in a yellow flash and a jagged, agonizing pain careered across his skull. With a supreme effort of will he opened his eyes once more; but all was dark now, and the sweat was pouring down his face and seeping inside his gaping mouth. He had a handkerchief, he knew: it was in his trouser pocket. But he wanted a clean one. Yes, he had plenty clean ones. Why, he’d only bought a box of Irish linen ones very recently… from the shop in the Tun… only hundred yards away from Lonsdale College…

Another man now knelt beside the body-a young neuro-surgeon who was travelling up to Swindon General Hospital But he could do nothing; and after a little while he looked up at the ticket collector – then slowly shook his head.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Whose was the body found in the Thrupp canal? It becomes increasingly clear now that there are very few contenders remaining.

In recent years Lewis had seldom spent two nights away from Oxford, and he didn’t care much for London. But it had been a busy and a fruitful time.

Late the previous Wednesday afternoon, Morse had insisted that it was to be he, Lewis, who should drive up the next morning. There was much to do (Morse had said): many loose ends to tie up; statements to be taken; and, not least, some ireful explanations to be made. So Lewis had taken his instructions, had performed them more than adequately, and now (indulging his one real weakness in life) was driving far too fast along the M40 back to Oxford. It was mid-morning.

His London colleagues had been a friendly bunch, most of them – speaking in a careless, aitchless Cockney-yet all of them them shrewd and competent men. They could forgive Morse readily, of course, but none of them seemed to understand his actions very well. And Lewis, himself being only semi-enlightened, was unable to throw much further light. But certain things were now clear. The man found murdered in the top-storey flat in Cambridge Way was Alfred Gilbert, Esq., estate agent, and late bachelor of some parish or other in central London. The murder weapon so plain for all to see!) had been the screwdriver so conveniently found at the scene of the crime, upon whose handle were some smudgy prints that might or (as Lewis hoped} might not be soon identifiable. For the present there were few other clues. Of “Mr Hoskins” the police could find no trace, nor expected to do so, since the residents of Cambridge Way had always had a woman as their part-time concierge. But the police had been mildly mollified when Lewis had been able to produce Morse’s description of the man – from his age to his height, from chest-measurement to weight, from the colour of eyes to the size of his shoes.

After that, Lewis had done exactly as Morse had instructed. There had been three visits, three interviews, and three statements (slowly transcribed). First, the statement from the manager of the Flamenco Topless Bar; second, that from Miss Winifred Stewart, hostess at the Sauna Select; third, that from Mrs Emily Gilbert at her home in Berrywood Court. All three, in their various ways, had seemed to Lewis to be nervously defensive, and more than once he had found himself seriously doubting whether any of the trio was over-anxious to come completely clean. But Morse had blandly told him that any further investigations were not only futile but also quite unnecessary; and so he had ignored some obvious evasions, and merely written down what each had been prepared to tell him. Then, without much difficulty, he’d been able to discover at least something about the Gilbert brothers. Albert and the late Alfred had been public partners in a property-cum-removals firm, and private partners in a company christened Soho Enterprises-the latter owning, in addition to the topless bar, two dubious bookshops and a small (and strictly members-only) pornographic cinema. The London police knew a good deal about these activities anyway and inquiries were still proceeding, but already it seemed perfectly clear that even sex was suffering from the general recession. Of which fact Lewis him-self was glad, for he found the Soho area crude and sordid; and had the tempter looked along those streets, he could have entertained only the most desperate hope of pushing that broad and solid back through any of the doorways there. Finally, Lewis had been instructed to discover, if it were at all possible, the whereabouts of Albert Gilbert, Esq., although Morse had held out little prospect on that score – and Morse (as usual) had been right.

At the Headington roundabout Lewis was debating whether to call in for a few minutes and tell the missus he was safely home. But he didn’t. He knew the chief would be waiting.

During the previous two days Morse had hardly over-exerted himself, fully recognizing his own incompetence in such matters as mounting a man-hunt or supervising the search (yes -yet another one!) of the waters out at Thrupp. But he had done two things, in each case retracing the ground that Lewis had trodden before him. First, he had visited the Blood Transfusion Centre at the Churchill Hospital, where he asked to look through the current records; where after only a couple of minutes he nodded briefly; where he then asked to see the records for the previous five years, in this second instance spending rather longer before nodding again, pushing the drawers of the filing-cabinet to, thanking the clerk, and departing. Second, he’d driven down to the Examination Schools, where he spent more than an hour with the Curator, finally thanking him, too, and leaving with the contented look of a man who has found what he sought. Now, again, as he sat at his desk that Saturday morning, he looked contented -and with even better reason, for the call had come through at 9.30. He’d known there must be something in the waters of the Thrupp canal…

The sight of Lewis gladdened him even more. ‘Get some egg and chips while you were away?’

Lewis grinned. ‘Once or twice.’

‘Well, let’s hear from you. By the way, I hope you’ve noticed hardly any swelling at all now, is there?’

Twenty minutes later the phone rang. ‘Morse here. Can I help you?’ Lewis observed that the Chief Inspector’s pale, ill-shaven face was tautening as he listened. Listened only; till finally he said, ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ and with a look of unwonted agitation slowly put the receiver down.

‘What was all that about, sir?’

‘That was London on the line- Westerby’s just been found -he’s been murdered-they found him this morning-in a bedroom near Paddington-strangled with packing-twine.’

It was Lewis’s turn now to reflect with puzzlement on this troublous news. From what Morse had told him earlier, the case was almost over-with just a few arrests to come. So what on earth did this mean? But already Morse was on his feet and looking in his wallet.

‘Look, Lewis! You just get those reports of yours sorted out and typed up -then get off home and see the missus. Nothing more for you today.’

‘You sure there’s nothing I can do?’

‘Not got a couple of fivers to spare, have you?’

After Morse had left, Lewis rang his wife to say that he’d be in for a latish lunch. Then, beginning to get his documents in order, he reached for Chambers’! Dictionary: Morse was a fanatic about spelling.

The phone rang ten minutes later: it was the police surgeon.

‘Not there? Where the ‘ell’s he got to, then?’

‘One or two complications in the case, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, just tell the old bugger, will you, that the leg he’s found would make the height about 5 foot 10 inches – 5 foot 11 inches. All right? Doesn’t help all that much, perhaps, but it might cut out a few of the little ‘uns.’

‘What leg?’ Lewis felt utterly confused.

‘Didn’t he tell you? Huh! Secretive sod, isn’t he’? He’s had half a dozen divers out this last couple of days… Still, he was right, I suppose. Lucky, though! Just tell him anyway-if he comes back.’

‘Perhaps he knew all the time,’ said Lewis quietly.

The phone was going all the time now. A woman’s voice was put through from the operator: but, no, she would speak to no one but Morse, Then Strange (himself, this time), who slammed down the receiver after learning that Morse had gone to London.

Then another woman’s voice-one Lewis thought he almost recognized: but she, too, refused to deal with any underling. Finally, a call came through from Dickson, on reception; a call that caused Lewis to jolt in amazement.

‘You sure!’

‘Yep. Swindon police, it was. Said he was dead when the ambulance got there.’

‘But they’re sure it’s him?’

‘That’s what they said, Sarge-sure as eggs is eggs.’ Lewis put down the phone. It would be impossible to contact Morse in transit: he never drove anything other than his privately owned Lancia. Would Morse be surprised? He’d certainly looked surprised about an hour ago on learning of the death of Westerby. So what about this? What about Dickson’s latest information? That the body just recovered from a shallow embankment on the Didcot-Swindon railway-line was certainly that of Oliver Browne-Smith, late fellow of Lonsdale College, Oxford.

About the time that Lewis received his last call that morning, Morse was turning left at Hanger Lane on to the North Circular. He’d still (he knew) a further half-hour’s driving in front of him, and with a fairly clear road he drove in a manner that verged occasionally upon the dangerous. But already he was too late. It had been a quarter of an hour earlier that the ambulance had taken away the broken body that lay directly beneath a seventh-storey window in Berrywood Court, just along the Seven Sisters Road.

Later the same afternoon, a business executive, immaculately dressed in a pin-striped suit, walked into the farthest cubicle of the gentlemen’s toilet at the Station Hotel, Paddington. When he pulled the chain, the cistern seemed to be working perfectly, as though the presence of a pair of human hands as yet was causing little problem to the flushing mechanism.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

In which Morse and Lewis retrace their journey as far as the terminus of the first milestone.

It was with growing impatience that Lewis waited from 8.15 a.m. onwards. Morse had arrived back in Oxford late the previous evening and had called in to see him, readily accepting Mrs Lewis’s offer to cook him something, and thereafter settling down to watch television with the joyous dedication of a child. He had refused to answer Lewis’s questions, affirming only that the sun would almost certainly rise on the morrow, and that he would be in the office-early.

At 9 a.m. there was still no sign of him, and for the umpteenth time Lewis found himself thinking about the astonishing fact that, of the four dubiously associated and oddly assorted men who had played their parts in the case, not one of them could now lay the slightest claim to be mistaken for the corpse that still lay in Max’s deep-refrigeration unit: Browne-Smith had died of a brain haemorrhage beside a railway-track; Westerby had been strangled to death in a cheap hotel near Paddington; Alfred Gilbert had been found murdered in a room a couple of floors above Westerby’s flat in Cambridge Way; and Albert Gilbert had thrown himself from a seventh-storey window in Berry-wood Court. So the same old question still remained unanswered, and the simple truth was that they were running out of bodies.

But there were one or two items that Lewis had discovered for himself, and at 9.30 a.m. he browsed through his neatly typed reports once more. He’d learned, for example-from the manager of the topless bar-that Browne-Smith seemed to have been unaccountably slow in identifying himself by the agreed words: ‘It’s exactly twelve o’clock, I see.’ Then (after applying a good deal of pressure) he’d learned from the same source that the “cine” equipment had definitely not been returned to the bar the next day; in fact, it had been nearer a week before any of the bar-clients could indulge their voyeuristic fantasies again. There was a third fact, too: that neither the manager nor any of his hostesses had previously set eyes upon the man with the brownish beard who had sat beside the bar that fateful Friday when Browne-Smith had been tempted down from Oxford…

Morse finally arrived just before 9.45 a.m., his lower lip caked with blood.

‘Sorry to be late. Just had her out. No trouble. Hardly felt a thing. “Decayed beyond redemption”-that’s what the little fellow said.’ He sat down expansively in his chair. ‘Well, where do you want me to start?’

‘At the beginning, perhaps?”

‘No. Let’s start before then, and get a bit of the background clear. While you were off gallivanting in London, Lewis, I called in to see your pal at the Examination Schools, and I asked him just one thing: I asked him what he thought were the potential areas for any crooked dealings in this whole business of the final lists. And he made some interesting suggestions. First, of course, there’s the possibility of someone getting results ahead of the proper time. Now this isn’t perhaps one of the major sins; but, as you told me yourself, all that waiting can become a matter of great anxiety: sometimes perhaps enough anxiety to make one or two people willing to pay-pay in some way-for learning results early. That’s only the start of it, though. You see if there’s some undergraduate who’s nearly up to the first-class honours bracket, he’s put forward for a viva-voce examination, but he’s never told which particular part of his work he’s going to be re-examined in. Now, if he did know, he’d be able to swot up on that side of things and get ready to catch all the hand-grenades they lobbed at him. Agreed? But let’s go on a stage further. Our budding “first” would be an even shorter-odds favourite if he knew the name of the man who was going to viva him: he could soon find out this fellow’s hobby-horses, read his books, and generally tune himself in to the right wavelength. Which leads on to the final consideration. If he did know exactly who it was who was going to settle his future, there’d always be the potential for a bit of bribery, the offer of money in return for that glowing recommendation for a “first”. You see, Lewis? The whole process is full of loop-holes! I’m not saying anyone wriggles through ‘em: I’m just telling you they’re there. And, depending on what the rewards are, there might be a few susceptible dons who could feel tempted to go along with one or two suggestions, don’t you think?’

Lewis nodded. ‘Perhaps a few might, I suppose.’

‘No “perhaps”, Lewis- just a few did!’

Again Lewis nodded-rather sadly-and Morse continued.

‘Then we found a corpse with a great big question-mark on the label round its neck.’

‘It hadn’t got a neck, sir.’

‘That’s true.’

‘And there isn’t a question-mark any longer?’

‘Patience, Lewis!’

‘But we had the letter to go on.’

‘Even that, though. If we hadn’t had a line on things to start with, the whole thing would have been a load of gobbledygook. Would you have made much of it without-’

‘I wouldn’t have made anything of it, anyway.’

‘Don’t underestimate yourself, Lewis-let me do it for you!’

‘What about that blood-donor business?’

‘Ah! Now if you’ve been a donor for a good many years you get a lot of little tiny marks-’

‘As a matter of fact I got my gold badge last year-for fifty times, that is-in case you didn’t know.’

‘Oh!’

‘So I don’t really need you to tell me much about that.’

‘But you do. Do you know when you have to pack up giving blood? What age, I mean?^’

‘No.’

‘Well, you bloody should! Don’t you read any of the literature? It’s sixty-five.’

Lewis let the information sink in. ‘You mean that Browne-Smith wouldn’t have been on the current records…’

‘Nor Westerby. They were both over sixty-five.”

‘Ye-es. I should have looked in the old records.’

‘It’s all right. I’ve already checked. Browne-Smith was a donor until a couple of years ago. Westerby never: he’d had jaundice and that put him out of court, as I’m sure you’ll know!’

‘But the body wasn’t Browne-Smith’s.’

‘No?’ Morse smiled and wiped the blood gently from his mouth. ‘Whose was it then?’

But Lewis shook his head. ‘I’m just here to listen, sir.’

‘All right. Let’s start at the beginning. George Westerby is iust finishing his stint at Lonsdale. He’s looking for a place in London, and he finds one, and buys it. The estate agent tells him that all the removals from Oxford can easily be arranged, and that suits Westerby fine. He’s got two places: his rooms at Lonsdale, and his little weekend cottage out at Thrupp. So Removals Anywhere come on to the scene-and the supremely important moment in the case arrives: Bert Gilbert notices the name opposite Westerby’s rooms on T Staircase-the name of Dr O. M. A. Browne-Smith-the name of a man he’d always ranked among the legion of the damned – the man who’d been responsible for his younger brother’s death.

‘Now, very soon after this point-I’m sure of it! -we get a switch of brothers. Bert reports his extraordinary finding to his brother, and it’s Alfred-by general consent the abler of the two – who now takes over. He finds out as much as he can about Browne-Smith, and devises a plan that makes it ridiculously easy for Browne-Smith to go along with things. He writes a letter on Westerby’s typewriter -he’s in Westerby’s rooms whenever he likes now, remember -inviting Browne-Smith to do him a very small favour, and one that would entail no real compromise to Browne-Smith’s academic integrity. This offer, as we know, was taken up, and off Browne-Smith goes to London. But we also know-because he told us-that_; Browne-Smith played his own cards with equal cunning. And in the end Gilbert’s plan misfired-whatever that plan had been originally.

‘Gilbert came into the room to find that Browne-Smith wasn’t unconscious, as he’d expected. So they talked together straight away; and it wasn’t long before Gilbert discovered that the military records of young brother John were hardly a striking example of dedication to duty. In fact, far from being killed in action, he’d shot himself the night before El Alamein-and one of the few people who knew all this was Browne-Smith, John Gilbert’s platoon officer. So when the whole story was out at last, there couldn’t have been much wind left in the Gilberts sails, because it was quite clear to them that Browne-Smith hadn’t the slightest responsibility, direct or indirect, for the brother’s death! Now, at that point everything could have been over, Lewis. And if it had been, certainly four of the five people who’ve died in this case would still be alive. But…’

Yes, Lewis understood all this. It seemed simpler,though, that now that Morse had put it into words. ‘But then,’ he said quietly, ‘Browne-Smith saw the chance to duplicate-’

‘ “Replicate”-that’s the word I’d use, Lewis.’

‘-to replicate the process with Westerby.’

That’s it. That’s the end of the first mile, and we’re going to start on the second.’ ‘Off we go then, sir!’

‘Do you fancy a cup of coffee?’

Lewis got to his feet. ‘Any sugar?’

‘Just a little, perhaps. You know it’s a funny thing, were no end of tins of coffee in

Alfred Gilbert’s flat, and not single drop of alcohol!’

‘Not everybody drinks, sir.’

‘Course they do! He was just an oddball – that’s for certain. And I’ll tell you something else. When I was a lad I heard of a Methodist minister who was a bit embarrassed about being seen reading the Bible all the time-you know, on trains and buses. So he had a special cover made-a sort of cowboy cover with a gun-slinger on his horse; and he had this stuck round his Bible when he was reading Ezekiel or something. Well, I found a book in Gilbert’s flat that was exactly the opposite. It had a cover on it called Know Your Kochel Numbers-’

‘Pardon, sir?’

‘ “Kochel”. He was the chap who put all Mozart’s works into some sort of chronological order and gave ‘em all numbers.’

‘Oh.’

‘I had a look in this book-and do you know what I found? It was a load of the lewdest pornography I’ve ever seen. I-er-I brought it with me, if you want to borrow it?’

‘No, sir. You read it yourself. I-’

‘I have read it.’ The numbed lips were smiling almost guiltily: read it twice, actually.’

‘Did you find anything else in the flat?’

‘Found a beard-a brownish beard. Sort of theatrical thing, stuck with Elastoplast.’

‘That all?’

‘Found a scarf, Lewis. Not quite so long as mine, but a nice scarf. Still, that was hardly a surprise, was it?’

‘Just a little sugar, you say?’

‘Well, perhaps a bit more than that.’

Lewis stood at the door. ‘I wonder whether Gilbert had his tooth out.’

‘Didn’t need to, Lewis. He had false teeth – top and bottom.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Gently we journey along the second mile, which appears to Morse to be adequately posted.

During the few minutes that Lewis was away, Morse was acutely conscious of the truth of the proposition that the wider the circle of knowledge the greater the circumference of ignorance. He was (he thought) like some tree-feller in the midst of the deepest forest who has effected a clearing large enough for his immediate purposes; but one, too, who sees around him the widening ring of undiscovered darkness wherein the wickedness of other men would never wholly be revealed. On his recent visit to London he had felled a few more trees; and doubtless he and Lewis (before the case was closed) would fell a few more still. But the men who might have directed his steps through the trackless forest were now all dead, leaving him with an odd collection of ugly, jagged stumps; ugly, jagged, awkward clues that could only tell a stark, truncated version of the truth. But that was all he had and-almost-it was enough, perhaps.

‘Tell me more about the Gilberts,’ said Lewis, handing across a paper cup of tepid coffee.

‘Well, you know as much about their background as I do. Just remember one thing, though. We learned they were identical twins, so closely alike that even their friends got them muddled up occasionally. But when you get to your sixties, Lewis, you’re bound to differ a bit: general signs of ageing, spots on the chin, gaps in the teeth, hair-style, scars, whether you’re fatter or thinner, the way you dress-almost everything is going to mark some ever-widening difference as the years go by. Now, I never saw Bert Gilbert alive-and I didn’t go and look at him when he was dead. You see, it was Alfred Gilbert I met in Westerby’s rooms that day-with a scarf wrapped round the bottom half of his face and a phoney tale about an abscessed tooth.’

‘He was frightened Browne-Smith would recognize him.’

‘Not just that, though. As it happened, Browne-Smith had already recognized his brother-although Alfred Gilbert wasn’t to know that. Like all visitors, Bert had already reported to the Porters’ Lodge a couple of times, and Alfred was anxious that no one should know that he and his brother had switched roles. He carefully selected a young assistant who’d only just joined the firm and who wouldn’t know and wouldn’t care which brother did what anyway-’

‘But why all the bother, sir? Seems so unnecessary.’

‘Ah! But you’re missing the point. The plan they’d concocted demanded far more shrewdness-and, yes, far more knowledge -than poor Bert could ever have coped with. Just think! It involved a close knowledge of Browne-Smith’s position and duties in the College -and in the University. It involved an equally close knowledge of how final examinations work, and all the complicated procedures of results and so on. It’s not easy to find all that stuff out. Not unless-’

‘Unless what, sir?’

‘When I went to London I found out quite a lot about Alfred Gilbert. He wasn’t a bachelor. In fact, he was divorced about ten years ago, and his ex-wife-’

‘I suppose you went to see her.’

‘No. She’s living in Salisbury-but I rang her up. They had one child, a son. Know what they christened him, Lewis?’

‘John?’

Morse nodded. ‘After the younger brother. He was a bright lad, it seems, won a place at Oxford to read Music, and got a very good “second”. In fact,’ Morse continued with great deliberation, ‘he had viva for a “first”.’

Lewis sat back in his chair. All the pieces seemed to be falling neatly into place- or almost all of them.

‘Back to the main sequence of events, though. Browne-Smith went to London on Friday the 11th of July, and that doesn’t leave much time before most of the class-lists are due to be posted up. So if he decides – as he does – that he’s going to repeat the broad outlines of the plan, he’s got to get a move on. The Gilbert brothers had to be in on it, too, of course, and no doubt Browne-Smith agrees to pay them handsomely. There’s no time for any chancy postal delay, so Browne-Smith drafts a careful letter to Westerby, and that letter, too, was probably written on Westerby’s typewriter the next day, Saturday the 12th, when Alfred Gilbert went up to Oxford again, and when Westerby was out clearing up his odds and ends at Thrupp. The letter -“By Hand” it must have been-was left on Westerby’s desk, I should think-’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘I don’t really. But what I know for sure is that Westerby turned up at an address in London at 2 p.m. on Tuesday the 15th.’

‘Not Cambridge Way, though, surely? That was his own address.’

‘No- but Alfred Gilbert wasn’t short of a few vacant properties, was he? And in fact it wasn’t all that far from Westerby’s flat, a little place-’

‘Yes, all right, sir. Go on!’

‘Now we come to the most fateful moment in the case. Westerby was given the same treatment as Browne-Smith: same pattern all through, same woman, same bottles of booze, with a few drops of chloral hydrate or something slipped in. But Westerby’s not so canny as Browne-Smith was, and very soon he’s lying there dead to the world on a creaking bed. But what exactly happened then? That’s the key to the case, Lewis. Messrs. W and S are waiting outside-’

‘Who Sir?’

‘They’re in your statement, Lewis -the men who made the arrangements at the topless bar. Haven’t you heard of W. S. Gilbert?’

‘Yes, but-’

‘You know what “W. S.” stands for, don’t you? William Schwenck!’

‘Oh.’

‘You know, there’s something to be said in the Gilberts’ favour: at least they had a warped sense of humour. You remember the name Soho Enterprises is registered under?’

Lewis remembered: Sullivan! He shook his head and then nodded. He knew he wasn’t being very bright.

‘Anyway,’ continued Morse, ‘Browne-Smith and Westerby are left alone. And when Westerby gradually comes round -with a splitting headache, I should think-he finds his age-long antagonist sitting on the bed beside him. And they talk-and no doubt soon they have a blazing row… and please remember that Browne-Smith’s got his old army revolver with him! And yet… and yet, Lewis…’

‘He doesn’t use it,’ added Lewis in a very quiet voice.

‘No. Instead they stay there talking together for a long, long time; and finally they bring one of the Gilbert Brothers in-and at that point the road is twisting again to take us forward on the third and final mile.’

Morse finished his coffee, and held out the plastic cop. ‘I enjoyed that, Lewis. Little more sugar this time, perhaps?’

The phone rang whilst Lewis was gone. It was Max.

‘Spending most of your time in Soho, I hear, Morse.’

‘I’ll let you into a secret, Max. My sexual appetite grows stronger year by year. What about yours?’

‘About that leg. Lewis tell you about it?’

‘He did.’

‘Remember that piece you put in the paper? You got the colour of your socks wrong.’

‘What do you expect. I hadn’t got a leg to go on, had I?”

‘They were purple!’

‘Nice colour-purple.’

‘With green suede shoes?’

‘You don’t dress all that well yourself sometimes.’

‘You said they were blue!’

‘Just sucking the blinker out in the middle of a blizzard.’

‘What? What?’

‘I’ve not had your report yet.’

‘Will it help?’

‘Probably.’

‘You know who it is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Want to tell me?^’

So Morse told him; and for once the humpbacked man was lost for words.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

We near the end, with two miles and four furlongs of the long and winding road now completed.

‘We found the body,’ resumed Morse, ‘on Wednesday the 23rd, and the odds are that it had been in the water about three days. So the man must have been murdered either the previous Saturday or Sunday.’

‘He could have been murdered a few days before that, surely?’

‘No chance. He was watching the telly on the Friday night!’

Lewis let it go. If Morse was determined to mystify him, so be it. He’d not interfere again unless he could help it. But one plea he did make. ‘Why don’t you simply tell me what you think happened-even if you’re not quite sure about it here and there?’

‘All right. A third man goes to London on Saturday the 19th, taking up an offer which nobody in this case seems able to refuse. This time, though, all the initial palaver is probably dispensed with, and there’s no intermediary stop at the topless bar. This third man is murdered-by Browne-Smith. And if both the Gilberts were there, we’ve got four men on the scene with a body on their hands-a body they’ve got to get rid of. Of the four men, Westerby is wetting his pants with panic; and after a few tentative arrangements are made with him, he goes off- not, as we know, back to Oxford, but to a cheap hotel near Paddington. The other three-I think that Bert had probably kept out of the way while Westerby was still there-now confer about what can and what must be done. The body can’t just be dumped anyhow and anywhere-for reasons that’ll soon be clear, Lewis. It’s going to be necessary, it’s agreed, to sever the head, and to sever the hands. That gruesome task is performed, in London, by one of the Gilberts-I should think by Bert, the cruder of the pair-who promises Browne-Smith that the comparatively uncumbrous items he’s just detached can be I disposed of safely and without difficulty. Then two of the three, Browne-Smith and Ben Gilbert, drive off to Oxford in Westerby’s Metro-and with Westerby’s prior consent. It’s probably the only car immediately available anyway; but it’s got one incalculable asset, as you know, Lewis.

‘Once in Oxford-this is late Sunday evening now-Browne-Smith lets himself into Lonsdale via the back door in The High and goes into his rooms and takes one item only-a suit. I’m pretty sure, by the way, that it must have been on a second trip to his rooms, later-after Westerby decided he’d little option but to cancel his Greek holiday-that he took the Lonsdale College stamp and one of his Macedonian postcards. Anyway, the two men drive out to Thrupp-the only likely stretch of water either of ‘em can think of-where they stop, without any suspicion being roused, in Westerby’s car, outside Westerby’s cottage, to which Bert Gilbert has the key. Once inside with the body, Gilbert is willing (what he was paid for all this we shall never know!) to perform the final grisly task-of taking off the dead man’s clothes and re-dressing him in Browne-Smith’s suit. Then, long after the Boat Inn is closed, the two men carry the body the hundred yards or so along to the one point where no boats are moored or can be moored: the bend in the canal by Aubrey’s Bridge. The job’s done. It must have been in the early hours when the two of them get back to London, where the faithless Bert returns to his faithful Emily, and Browne-Smith to his room in the Station Hotel at Paddington. All right so far?’

‘Are you making some of it up, sir?’

‘Of course I bloody am! But it fits the clues, doesn’t it? And what the hell else can I do? They’re all dead, these johnnies. I’m just using what we know to fill in what we don’t know. You don’t object, do you? I’m just trying, Lewis, to match up the facts with the psychology of the four men involved. What do you think happened?’

Morse always got cross (as Lewis knew) when he wasn’t sure of himself, especially when ‘psychology’ was involved-a subject Morse affected to despise; and Lewis regretted his interruption. But one thing worried him sorely: ‘Do you really think Browne-Smith would have had the belly for all that business?’

‘He wasn’t a congenital murderer, if that’s what you mean. But the one real mystery in this case is that one man-Browne-Smith-actually did so many inexplicable things. And there’s more to come! What we’ve got to do, Lewis, is not to explain behaviour but to consider facts. And there’s a very sad but also a very simple factual explanation of all this, as you know. I rang up a fellow in the Medical Library to learn something about brain-tumours, and he was telling me about the completely irrational behaviour that can sometimes result… Yes… I wonder just what Olive Mainwearing of Manchester actually did…’

‘Pardon, sir?’

‘You see, Lewis, we’re not worried about his belly-we’re worried about his mind. Because he acted with such a weird combination of envy, cunning, remorse, and just plain ambivalence, that I can’t begin to fathom his motives.’ Morse shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Lewis. I’m just beginning to realize what a fine thing it is to have a mind like mine that’s mainly motivated by thoughts of booze and sex- infinitely healthier! But let’s go on. Just one more point about the body. Murderers aren’t usually quite as subtle as people think; and you were absolutely right, as you know, when you mentioned that pleasure-cruiser off the Bahamas or somewhere. In Max’s first report he said the legs were sheared off far more neatly than the other bits-and it’s now clear that a boat propeller hit the body and lopped the legs off. Well done!’

Lewis remained silent, deciding not to raise the subject of the corpse’s socks.

‘Back to Browne-Smith. His actions that next week are even stranger in some ways. Abyssus humanae conscientiael’

Again, even more praiseworthily, Lewis remained silent.

‘On the Monday his conscience was crucifying him, and he writes me-me-a long letter. I just don’t know why we had the devious delivery through the bank… unless he thought he’d be giving himself a few days’ grace in which he could cancel his confession. Because that’s what it was. But it was something else, too. If you read the letter carefully, it contains a much more subtle message: in spite of vilifying Westerby throughout, it completely and deliberately exonerates him! And make no mistake; it was certainly Browne-Smith himself who wrote that letter. I knew him, and no one else could have caught that dry, exact, pernickity style. It’s almost as though with one half of his fevered brain he wanted us – wanted me, one of his old pupils – to find out the whole truth; and yet at the same time the other half of his brain was trying to stop us all the time with those messages and cards… I dunno, Lewis.’

‘I think the psychologists have a word for that sort of thing,’ ventured Lewis.

‘Well we won’t bother about that, will we!’

The phone rang in the ensuing silence.

‘That’s good… Well done!’ said Morse.

‘Can you describe them a bit?’ asked Morse.

‘Yes, I thought so,’ said Morse.

‘No. Not the nicest job in the world, I agree. It’ll be all right if I send my sergeant?’ asked Morse.

‘Fine. Tomorrow, then. And I’m grateful to you for ringing. It’ll put a sort of finishing touch to things,’ said Morse.

‘Who was that, sir?’

‘Do you know, there’ve been some thousands of occasions in my life when I’ve looked forward to a third pint of beer, but I can’t ever recollect looking forward to a third cup of coffee before!’

He held out the plastic cup, and once more Lewis walked away.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Morse almost completes his narrative of the main events – with a little help from his imaginative faculties.

Only recently had Morse encountered the use of the word; “faction” in the sense of a combination of fact and fiction. Yet such a combination was all he could claim in any convincing reconstruction of the final events of the present case. While Lewis was away, therefore, he reminded himself of the few awkward facts remaining that had to be fitted somehow into the puzzle: the fact that he had been forcibly (significantly?) detained for an extra half-hour after his interrogation of the manager of the topless bar; that the door of Number 29, Cambridge Way had (for what reason?) been finally opened to him; that the head of Gerardus Mercator had been prominently (accusingly?) displayed on the mantelpiece of Westerby’s living-room; that an affluent Arab, doubtless a resident in the property, had looked round at him with such puzzlement (and suspicion?); and that somehow (via Browne-Smith?) Bert Gilbert had discovered Westerby’s address in London, and (via the fire-escape?) managed to enter Westerby’s room. Thus it was that when Lewis returned Morse was ready with his eschatology.

‘The manager of the Flamenco, Lewis, has a wife, called “Racquet”. When I got there, he tipped her the wink that something was seriously askew, and she made an urgent phone-call to’ ‘Mr Sullivan” – alias Alfred Gilbert – who in turn told her that whatever happened they’d got to keep me in the place for a while. Why? Clearly because there was something that had to be done quickly, something that could be done quickly, before I turned up in Cambridge Way. The Gilberts, you see, were already collecting their pickings from Browne-Smith, but not as yet from Westerby. And so to remind Westerby that he was still up to his neck in hot water, too, they’d decided on a most appropriate niche for a corpse’s head-that space in one of Westerby’s crates where another head had originally nestled. It was imperative, therefore, that one of the Gilberts – Alfred, as it turned out-should go and clear away the damning evidence waiting in Westerby’s flat. But late that same morning Westerby himself decided that it was reasonably safe now for him to return to his flat, and the first thing he saw there was the head of Mercator on the mantelpiece, and he suspected the grim truth immediately. Which is more than I did, Lewis! When Alfred

Gilbert let himself in, Westerby was probably just opening the fateful crate; and somehow Westerby killed him-’

‘Sir! That’s not good enough. How did he do it? And why should he need to do it? They were both accomplices, surely?’

Morse nodded. ‘Yes, they were. But just think a minute, Lewis, and try to picture things. Alfred Gilbert is in a frenetic rush to reach Cambridge Way. He doesn’t know why the police have got on to Cambridge Way, but he does know what they’ll find if they visit Westerby’s flat. They’ll find what he himself and his brother have left there, almost certainly with the intention of some future blackmail. And, as I say, that evidence has got to be removed with the utmost urgency. So he lets himself into the flat, never expecting to find Westerby there, and never, I suspect, actually seeing him anyway. Westerby’s got his hearing-aid plugged in, although, as your own notes say, Lewis, he’s only slightly deaf; and when he hears the scrape of the key in the lock, he beats a panic-stricken retreat into the bathroom, where he watches the intruder through the hinged gap of the partially open door.

‘Now Westerby himself hasn’t the faintest idea that the police are on their way, has he? What he suspects-what he’s been strongly suspecting even before opening the crate-is that it’s been Gilbert – who else? – who’s misled him so wickedly. Instead of Gilbert getting rid of the murdered man’s head, that same head is resting even now in one of his own crates! He’s just found it! I think he sees in a flash how crude, how indescribably callous, his so-called accomplice has been. He sees something else, too, Lewis. He sees Gilbert walking straight over to the crate, and at that point he knows who it is who’s been plotting to implicate him further-doubtless for even more money-in this tragic and increasingly hopeless mess. He feels in his soul a savage compulsion to rid himself of that fiend who’s kneeling over the crate, and he creeps back into the room and with all the force he can muster he stabs his screwdriver between those shoulder-blades.

‘Then? Well, I can only guess that Westerby must have dragged him into the bathroom straightway: because while there were no blood-stains on the carpet, the bathroom floor had only just been cleaned. Yes, I saw that, Lewis!

‘Next, using the bunch of keys he found in Gilbert’s pocket, Westerby took the body up in the lift to the top-floor flat – a flat be knew was still vacant-a flat he’d probably looked over himself when he was deciding on his future home. He locked away the body in a cupboard there, then went down again, cleaned up his own flat in his apron, and heard – at last!-someone ringing the main doorbell-me!-and answered it. Why, Lewis? Surely that’s utter folly for him! Unless-unless he’d previously arranged to meet someone in Cambridge Way. And the only man he’d have been anxious to meet at that point is the one man he’s been avoiding like the plague for the last five years of his life-Browne-Smith! But instead-he finds me! And he now gives the performance of his life-impersonating a concierge called “Hoskins”. You knew, Lewis, he was a Londoner? Yes. It’s in your admirable notes on the man. I ought to have seen through the deception earlier, though; certainly I ought to have read the signs more intelligently when one of the tenants turned round and stared so curiously at me. But it wasn’t just me: he was staring at two strangers!

‘During that same lunch-time there were other things afoot. Alfred Gilbert had left a message for his brother, and now it was Bert Gilbert who got round to Cambridge Way as quickly as he could. There-I’m almost sure of it! -he met Browne-Smith; and Browne-Smith told Bert Gilbert that he’d seen me go in, admitted by Westerby. At that moment, Bert must have seen the emergency signals flashing at full beam. He had no key- Alfred had taken the bunch-either to the front door or the back; so the two of them agreed to split up, with Browne-Smith watching the front and Bert Gilbert the back. What happened then? Gilbert saw Westerby leave! So he went round to tell Browne-Smith; and both of them were very puzzled, and very frightened. I was still in there, and so was Alfred Gilbert! Probably it was at that point that Bert Gilbert got to know from Browne-Smith where Westerby was staying, because it’s clear that later on he did know. For the moment, however, they observed from a discreet distance-only to find that I didn’t come out before the police went in. So they knew something had gone terribly wrong. Later, of course, they both learned of the murder of Alfred Gilbert, and they both drew their own conclusion-the same conclusion.

‘In the days that followed Gilbert must have watched and waited, because he knew that it would now be imperative for Westerby to return to the flat to find out, one way or the other, whether the police had discovered those objects hidden in a relidded crate- objects, Lewis, which must have been a cause of recurrent nightmares to him. When Westerby finally risked his expedition, Gilbert made no attempt to abort the mission, because it was just as valuable for himself as for Westerby. He followed his quarry back from the flat to Paddington-for all I know he might even have followed him into the gents where the London lads found the corpse’s hands. By the way, Lewis, you’d better tell the missus you’ve got another trip tomorrow.

‘But then Gilbert stopped tailing Westerby, and went along to that nearby hotel, where he found an easy access to Westerby’s room-either by the fire-escape or by the seldom-tenanted reception desk… But let’s leave those details to our metropolitan colleagues, shall we? They’re going to find one or two people who saw something surely? It’s not our job. After Westerby got his to his room? Well, I dunno. But I’d like to bet that Westerby almost jumped out of his wilting wits when he found himself confronted by the man be thought he’d killed! You see, I doubt if a any stage Westerby was aware that there were two Gilberts that they were still extraordinarily alike in physical appearance. Whatever the truth of that may be, Westerby was strangled in his room, and the long and tragic sequence of cvents has almost ran its Aeschylean course.

‘Not quite though. Browne-Smith had now decided that things had gone far too far, and I vaguely suspect that he was on his way to see me last Saturday. At least, we’ve got the evidence of the ticket-collector that Browne-Smith had some very urgent business here in Oxford. Pity… but, perhaps it was for the best, Lewis. Then, the same Saturday, Bert Gilbert went home and found-as the police found-a note from his wife, Emily, saying that she couldn’t stand any more of it, and that she’d left him. And Bert Gilbert-without any doubt the bravest of the three brothers-now faced both the fear of discovery and the knowledge of failure. So he opened his seventh-floor window – and he jumped… Poor sod! Perhaps you think it’s a bit out of character, Lewis, for Bert Gilbert to do something as cowardly as that? But it was in the family, if you remember…’

During this account, Morse had forgotten his coffee, and he now looked down with distaste at the dark brown skin that had formed on its surface.

‘Are the pubs open yet?’ he asked.

‘As always, sir, I think you know the answers to your own questions better than I do.’

‘Well, they will be, I should think, by the time we get to Thrupp. Yes, we’re going to have a quiet little drink together, my old friend, at the end of yet another case.’

‘But you haven’t told me yet -’

‘You’re quite right. There’s one big central jigsaw-piece that’s missing, isn’t there?’

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The Third Milestone

In normal circumstances, thought Lewis, Morse would have looked a good deal happier as he mumbled ‘Cheers’ before burying his nose in the froth; but there was a sombre expression in the chief’s face as he spoke quietly across a small table in the lounge-bar of the Boat Inn.

‘If this case ever comes to court, Lewis, there’ll be several crucial witnesses – but the most important of all of them will be the man who tries to tell the judge about the power of hatred that can spring from thwarted ambition; and there were two men in Lonsdale College who had exemplified that terrible hatred for many years.

‘The particular reason for their hatred was an unusual one, perhaps-but also an extremely simple one. Each of them had failed to be elected to the Mastership of Lonsdale, the position they’d both craved. Now, as we found out, the College rules require a minimum of six of the eight votes available to be cast in favour of any candidate, and not a single vote against. So a man would be elected with six votes in his favour and two abstentions-but not with one abstention, and one against. Which, in Browne-Smith’s case, is exactly what happened! Again, in Westerby’s case, it’s exactly what happened! So you hardly need to be a roaring genius to come up with the explanation that Westerby had probably voted against Browne-Smith, and Browne-Smith against Westerby. Hence the mutual, simmering hatred of those two senior fellows.

‘But let me tell you a very strange thing, Lewis. In fact, you do need to be a genius to understand it! Not so much now, of course – but certainly at any earlier point in the case. Let’s recap. The first man who went to London was confronted with a ghost from his past – the ghost of cowardice in war. But it was the wrong ghost that the Gilbert brothers conjured up that day, because Browne-Smith had nothing whatsoever to do with the death of their younger brother. Then a second man went to London, and you know what I’m going to say, don’t you, Lewis? He, too was confronted with the wrong ghost from his own past. Westerby had not voted against Browne-Smith-he’d abstained. And, in turn, Westerby learned that Browne-Smith had not cast the solitary vote against his own election: he, too, had abstained. Yet someone had voted against each of them; and as they spoke together that night in London the blindingly obvious fact must have occurred to them – that it could well have been the same man in each case! And if it was, then they knew beyond any reasonable doubt exactly who that man must be!

‘So we find a third man going to London to face his own particular ghost-this time the right ghost. And soon a man is found in the canal here: a man minus a very distinguished-looking head that was framed with a luxuriant crop of grey hair; a man minus the hands-particularly minus the little finger of his left hand on which he wore the large, onyx dress-ring that he never took off, and which his murderers couldn’t remove from his fleshy finger; a man minus one of those flamboyant suits of his that were famed throughout the University; a man, Lewis, who had voted against two of his colleagues in the last election for the Mastership; a man – the man – who by his own machinations had finally been adopted as a compromise, third-choice candidate, and duly elected nem. con.; the man whose own ambition was even greater than that of his other colleagues, and his practical cunning infinitely more so; the same man who at the beginning of the case invited me to try to find out what had happened to Browne-Smith- not because he was worried, but because it was his duty - as Head of House! Yes, Lewis! The man we found in the water here was the Master of Lonsdale.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

At the end of the Michaelmas term that followed the events recorded in these chapters, it was no great surprise for Morse (or ‘ indeed for anyone) to hear that the man whom Dr Browne-Smith had once described as ‘quite a good young man’ had been elected to the Mastership of Lonsdale. More of a surprise for Morse was subsequently to receive an invitation to a buffet supper in Lonsdale to celebrate Andrews’ election. And, without enthusiasm, he went.

Little was said that night about the tragic past, and Morse mingled amiably enough with the college members and then-guests. The food was excellent, the wine plentiful; and Morse was just on his way out, feeling that after all it hadn’t been so bad, when an extraordinarily attractive woman came up to him -a woman with vivacious eyes and blonde hair piled up on her head.

‘You’re Chief Inspector Morse, I think.’

He nodded, and she smiled.

‘You don’t know me, but we spoke on the phone once -only once! I, well, I just thought I’d like to say “hello”, that’s all. I’m the college secretary here.’ Her left hand went up to her hair to re-align a straying strand-a hand that wore no ring.

‘I’m awfully sorry about that! I sometimes get a bit cross, I’m afraid.’

‘I did notice, yes.’

‘You’ve forgiven me?’

‘Of course! You’re a bit of a genius, aren’t you? Your sergeant thinks so, anyway. And some geniuses are a bit-well, sort of unusual, so they tell me.”

‘I wish I’d spoken to you nicely.’

She smiled once again – a little sadly: ‘I’m glad I’ve seen you.’ Then, brightly: ‘You enjoying yourself?’

‘I am now.’

For a few seconds their eyes met, and Morse was reminded of some of the great lost days and a face that shone beyond all other faces.

‘Would you like some coffee, Inspector?’

‘Er, no. No thanks.’

A tall, gangling, bespectacled man in his mid-thirties had joined them.

‘Ah, Anthony! Let me introduce you to Chief Inspector Morse!’

Morse shook the man’s limp hand, and looked upon him briefly with distaste.

‘Anthony’s one of the Research Fellows here, and – and we’re going to be married next term, aren’t we, darling?’

Morse mumbled his congratulations, and after a few minutes announced that he must go. It was still only ten o’clock, and he could spend half an hour with himself in the Mitre. Red wine always made him a little sentimental-and more than a little thirsty.

CHAPTER FORTY

The head of Gerardus Mercator (as indeed the whole of Westerby’s estate) was bequeathed to the Fellows of Lonsdale, and that fine head is still to be seen in an arched recess on the east side of High Table.

And what of that other fine head? It was finally found in the early March of the following year by two twelve-year-old boys playing on a Gravesend rubbish-tip. How the head ever reached such a distant and unlikely site remains a minor mystery; but it posed no other problems. The notes of the pathologist who first examined the skull recorded signs of a massive haemorrhage in the chambers of the upper brain, doubtless caused by the bullet still embedded there. Later forensic tests were to show that this bullet had been fired from a.38 Webley pistol-the make of pistol issued to officers of the Royal Wiltshire Regiment serving in the desert in 1942.