Death Is Now My Neighbor

Chapter fifty-eight

Dawn Charles looked nervous when she opened the door of her flat in Woodpecker Way and let the two detectives through into the gray-carpeted lounge, where the elder of the two, the white-haired one, was already complimenting her on such an attractive residence.

“Bit unlucky though, really. I bought it at the top of the property boom for fifty-eight thousand. Only worth thirty-four now.”

“Oh dear!”

The man made her feel uneasy. And her mind went back to the previous summer when on returning from France she’d put the Green Channel sticker on the windscreen — only to be diverted into the Red Channel; where pleasantly, far too pleasantly, she’d been questioned about her time abroad, about the weather, about anything and everything — except those extra thousand cigarettes in the back of the boot. It had been as if they were just stringing her along; knowing the truth all the time.

But these men couldn’t possibly know the truth, that’s what she was telling herself now; and she thought she could handle things. On Radio Oxford just before Christmas she’d heard P.D. James’s advice to criminal suspects: “Keep it short! Keep it simple! Don’t change a single word unless you have to!”

“Please sit down. Coffee? I’ve only got instant, I’m afraid.”

“We both prefer instant, don’t we, Sergeant?”

“Lovely,” said Lewis, who would much have preferred tea.

Two minutes later, Dawn held a jug suspended over the steaming cups.

“Milk?”

“Please,” from Lewis.

“Thank you,” from Morse.

“Sugar?”

“Just the one teaspoonful,” from Lewis.

But a shake of the head from Morse; a slight raising of the eyebrows as she stirred two heaped teaspoonfuls into her own coffee; and an obsequious comment which caused Lewis to squirm inwardly: “How on earth do you manage to keep such a beautiful figure — with all that sugar?”

She colored slightly. “Something to do with the metabolic rate, so they tell me at the clinic.”

“Ah, yes! The clinic. I’d almost forgotten.”

Again he was sounding too much like the Customs man, and Dawn was glad it was the sergeant who now took over the questioning.

A little awkwardly, a little ineptly (certainly as Morse saw things) Lewis asked about her training, her past experience, her present position, her relationships with employers, colleagues, clients...

The scene was almost set.

She knew Storrs (she claimed) only as a patient; she’d known Turnbull (she claimed) only as a consultant; she knew Owens (she claimed) not at all.

Lewis produced the letter stating Julian Storrs’ prognosis.

“Do you think this photocopy was made at the clinic?”

“I didn’t copy it.”

“Someone must have done.”

“I didn’t copy it.”

“Any idea who might have done?”

“I didn’t copy it.”

It was hardly a convincing performance, and she was aware that both men knew she was lying. And quietly — amid a few tears, certainly, but with no hysteria — the truth came out.

Owens she had met when the Press had come along for the clinic’s 25th anniversary — he must have seen something, heard something that night, about Mr. Storrs. After Mr. Turn-bull had died, Owens had telephoned her — they’d met in the Bird and Baby in St. Giles’ — he’d asked her if she could copy a letter for him — yes, that letter — he’d offered her £500 — and she’d agreed — copied the letter — been paid in cash. That was it — that was all — a complete betrayal of trust, she knew that — something she’d never done before — would never have done in the normal course of events. It was just the money — nothing else — she’d desperately needed the money...

Morse had been silent throughout the interrogation, his attention focused, it seemed, on the long, black-stockinged legs.

“Where does that leave me — leave us?” she asked miserably.

“We shall have to ask you to come in to make an official statement,” said Lewis.

“Now, you mean?”

“That’ll be best, yes.”

“Perhaps not,” intervened Morse. “It’s not all that urgent, Miss Charles. We’ll be in touch fairly soon.”

At the door, Morse thanked her for the coffee: “Not the best homecoming, I’m afraid.”

“Only myself to blame,” she said, her voice tight as she looked across at the Visitors’ parking lots, where the Jaguar stood.

“Where did you go?” asked Morse.

“I didn’t go anywhere.”

“You stayed here — in your flat?”

“I didn’t go anywhere.”

“What was that about?” asked Lewis as he drove back along the A34 to Oxford. “About her statement?”

“I want you to be with me when we see Storrs this afternoon.”

“What did you think of her?”

“Not a very good liar.”

“Lovely figure, though. Legs right up to her armpits! She’d have got a job in the chorus line at the Windmill.”

Morse was silent, his eyes gleaming again as Lewis continued:

“I read somewhere that they all had to be the same height and the same build — in the chorus line there.”

“Perhaps I’ll take you along when the case is over.”

“No good, sir. It’s been shut for ages.”

Dawn Charles closed the door behind her and walked thoughtfully back to the lounge, the suspicion of a smile about her lips.

Chapter fifty-nine

Lewis had backed into the first available space on Polstead Road, the tree-lined thoroughfare that leads westward from Woodstock Road into Jericho; and now stood waiting while Morse arose laboriously from the low passenger seat of the Jaguar.

“Seen that before, sir?” Lewis pointed to the circular blue plaque on the wall opposite: “This house was the home of T. E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) from 1896–1921.”

Morse grunted as he straightened up his aching back, mumbling of lumbago.

“What about a plaque for Mr. Storrs, sir? ‘This was the home of Julian Something Storrs, Master of Lonsdale, 1996 to... 1997’?”

Morse shrugged indifferently:

“Perhaps just 1996.”

The two men walked a little way along the short road. The houses here were of a pattern: gabled, redbricked, three-storied properties, with ashlared, mullioned windows, the frames universally painted white; interesting and amply proportioned houses built toward the end of the nineteenth century.

“Wouldn’t mind living here,” volunteered Lewis.

Morse nodded. “Very civilized. Small large houses, these, Lewis, as opposed to large small houses.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Something to do with the number of bathrooms, I think.”

“Not much to do with the number of garages!”

“No.”

Clearly nothing whatever to do with the number of garages, since the reason for the continuum of cars on either side of the road was becoming increasingly obvious: there were no garages here, nor indeed any room for such additions. To compensate for the inconvenience, the front areas of almost all the properties had been cemented, cobbled, graveled, or paved, in order to accommodate the parking of motor cars; including the front of the Storrs’ residence, where on the gravel alongside the front window stood a small, pale gray, D-registration Citroën, a thin pink stripe around its bodywork.

“Someone’s in?” ventured Morse.

“Mrs. Storrs, perhaps — he’s got a BMW. A woman’s car, that, anyway.”

“Really?”

Morse was still peering through the Citroën’s front window (perhaps for some more eloquent token of femininity) when Lewis returned from his ineffectual ringing.

“No one in. No answer, anyway.”

“On another weekend break?”

“I could ring the Porters’ Lodge.”

“You do that small thing, Lewis. I’ll be...” Morse pointed vaguely toward the hostelry at the far end of the road.

It was at the Anchor, a few minutes later, as Morse sat behind a pint of John Smith’s Tadcaster bitter, that Lewis came in to report on the Storrs: away again, for the weekend, the pair of them, this time though their whereabouts not vouchsafed to the Lodge.

Morse received the news without comment, appearing preoccupied; thinking no doubt, supposed Lewis, as he paid for his orange juice. Thinking and drinking... drinking and thinking... the twin activities which in Morse’s view were ever and necessarily concomitant.

Not wholly preoccupied, however.

“I’ll have a refill while you’re at the bar, Lewis. Smith’s please.”

After a period of silence, Morse asked the question:

“If somebody came to you with a letter — a photocopied letter, say — claiming your missus was having a passionate affair with the milkman—”

Lewis grinned. “I’d be dead worried. We’ve got a woman on the milk float.”

“—what would you do?”

“Read it, obviously. See who’d written it.”

“Show it to the missus?”

“Only if it was a joke.”

“How would you know that?”

“Well, you wouldn’t really, would you? Not for a start. You’d try to find out if it was genuine.”

“Exactly. So when Storrs got a copy of that letter, a letter he’d pretty certainly not seen before—”

“Unless Turnbull showed it to him?”

“Doubt it. A death certificate, wasn’t it? He’d want to let Storrs down a bit more gently than that.”

“You mean, if Storrs tried to find out if it was genuine, he’d probably go along to the clinic...”

Morse nodded, like some benevolent schoolmaster encouraging a promising pupil.

“And show it to... Dawn Charles?”

“Who else? She’s the sort of Practice Manager there, if anybody is. And let’s be honest about things. You’re not exactly an expert in the Socratic skills yourself, are you? But how long did it take you to get the truth out of her? Three or four minutes?”

“You think Storrs did it as well?”

“Pretty certainly, I’d say. He’s nobody’s fool; and he’s not going to give in to blackmail just on somebody’s vague say-so. He’s an academic, and if you’re an academic you’re trained to check — check your sources, check your references, check your evidence.”

“So perhaps Storrs has been a few steps in front of us all the time.”

Morse nodded. “He probably rumbled our receptionist straightaway. Not many suspects there at the clinic.”

Slowly Lewis sipped his customary orange juice, his earlier euphoria fading.

“We’re not exactly galloping toward the finishing post, are we?”

Morse looked up, his blue eyes betraying some considerable surprise.

“Why do you say that, Lewis? That’s exactly what we are doing.”

Chapter sixty Saturday, March 9

Somewhat concerned about the adequacy of the Jaguar’s petrol allowance, Morse had requisitioned an unmarked police car, which just before 10 A.M. was heading south along the A34, with Sergeant Lewis at the wheel. As they approached Abingdon, Morse asked Lewis to turn on Classic FM, and almost immediately asked him to turn it off, as he recognized the Brandenburg Concerto No. 2.

“Somebody once said, Lewis, that it was not impossible to get bored even in the presence of a mistress, and I’m sorry to say I sometimes get a little bored even in the company of Johann Sebastian Bach.”

“Really. I thought it was rather nice.”

“Lew-is! He may be terrific; he may be terrible — but he’s never nice. Not Bach!”

Lewis concentrated on the busy road ahead as Morse sank back into his seat and, as was ever his wont in a car, said virtually nothing for the rest of the journey.

And yet Morse had said so many things — things upon which Lewis’s mind intermittently focused again, as far too quickly he drove down to the Chieveley junction with the M4….

Once back from Polstead Road, Friday afternoon had been very busy and, for Lewis, very interesting. It had begun with Morse asking about their present journey.

“If you had a posh car, which way would you go to Bath?”

“A34, M4, A46 — probably the best; the quickest, certainly.”

“What if you had an old banger?”

“Still go the same way, I think.”

“What’s wrong with the Burford-Cirencester way?”

“Nothing at all, if you like a bit of scenery. Or if you don’t like motorway driving.”

Then another question:

“How do we find out which bank the Storrs use?”

“Could be they have different banks, sir. Shouldn’t be too difficult, though: Lloyds, Barclays, NatWest, Midland... Shall I ring around?”

Morse nodded. “And try to find out how they’ve been spending their money recently — if it’s possible.”

“May take a bit of time, but I don’t see why not. Let me find out anyway.”

Lewis turned to go, but Morse had a further request.

“Before you do, bring me the notes you made about the Storrs’ stay in Bath last weekend. I’m assuming you’ve typed ’em up by now?”

“All done. Maybe a few spelling mistakes — a few grammatical lapses — beautifully typed, though.”

It had taken Lewis only ten minutes to discover that Mr. Julian Storrs and Mrs. Angela Storrs both banked at Lloyds. But there had been far greater difficulty in dealing with Morse’s supplementary request.

The Manager of Lloyds (Headington Branch) had been fully cooperative but of only limited assistance. It was very unusual of course, but not in cases such as this unethical, for confidential material concerning clients to be disclosed. But Lewis would have to contact Lloyds Inspection Department in Bristol.

Which Lewis had promptly done, again receiving every cooperation; also, however, receiving the disappointing news that the information required was unlikely as yet to be fully ready. With credit card facilities now almost universally available, the volume of transactions was ever growing; and with receipt items sometimes irregularly forwarded from retail outlets, and with a few inevitable checks and delays in processing and clearance — well, it would take a little time.

“Later this afternoon?” Lewis had queried hopefully.

“No chance of that, I’m afraid.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

Lewis heard a deep sigh at the other end of the line. “We don’t usually... It is very urgent, you say?”

The phone had been ringing in Morse’s office — an office minus Morse — and Lewis had taken the brief call. The postmortem on Shelly Cornford confirmed death from carbon monoxide poisoning, and completely ruled out any suspicion of foul play.

A note on yellow paper was Cellotaped to the desk:

And on the side of the desk, a letter from the Thame and District Diabetic Association addressed to Det. Chief Inspector Morse:

But Lewis read only the first few lines, for never, except in the course of a criminal investigation, had he wittingly read a letter meant for the eyes of another person...

From the passenger seat Morse had still said nothing until Lewis, after turning off the M4 at Junction 18 onto the A46, was within a few miles of Bath.

“Lewis! If you had a mistress—”

“Not the milk-lady, sir. She’s far too fat for me.”

“—and, say, you were having a weekend away together and you told your missus that you were catching the train but in fact this woman was going to pick you up in her car somewhere— The Randolph, say...”

“Yes, sir?” (Was Morse getting lost?)

“Would you still go to the railway station? Would you make sure she picked you up at the railway station — not The Randolph?”

“Dunno, sir. I’ve never—”

“I know you haven’t,” snapped Morse. “Just think, man!”

So Lewis thought. And thought he saw what Morse was getting at.

“You mean it might make you feel a bit better in your own mind — feel a bit less guilty, like — if you did what you said you’d be doing — before you went?” (Was Lewis getting lost?)

“Something like that,” said Morse unenthusiastically as a sign welcomed the two detectives to the Roman City of Bath.

As soon as Lewis had stopped outside the Royal Crescent Hotel, Morse rang through on the mobile phone to the Deputy Manager, as had been agreed. No problem, it appeared. The Storrs had gone off somewhere an hour or so earlier in the BMW. The coast was clear; and Morse got out of the car and walked round to the driver’s window.

“Good luck in Bristol!”

Lewis raised two crossed fingers of his right hand, like the logo of the National Lottery, as Morse continued:

“If you find what I hope you’re going to find, the battle’s half won. And it’s mostly thanks to you.”

“No! It was you who figured it all out.”

“Wouldn’t have done, though, without all those visits of yours to Soho.”

“Pardon, sir?”

“To see the chorus line, Lewis! The chorus line at the Windmill.”

“But I’ve never—”

“ ‘Legs right up to her armpits,’ you said, right? And that was the second time you’d used those words, Lewis. Remember?”

Chapter sixty-one

Morse stood for some while on the huge slabs that form the wide pavement stretching along the whole extent of the great 500-foot curve of cinnamon-colored stone, with its identical facades of double Ionic columns, which comprise Bath’s Royal Crescent. It seemed to him a breathtaking architectural masterpiece, with the four-star hotel exactly at its center: Number 16.

He walked between the black spiked railings, through the white double doors, into the black-and-white floor-tiled, high-ceilinged entrance hall, and then to reception, where he was immediately ushered into the beige-carpeted, pine-furnished office of the Deputy Manager, just beyond.

Sara Hickman was from Leicestershire, a tall, slimly attractive woman in her midthirties, with green eyes (just like Sister McQueen) and dark curly hair. She was dressed in a businesslike suit; she spoke in a businesslike manner; and so very clearly was she part of an extremely businesslike hotel, since manifold awards — RAC Blue Ribbons, AA Rosettes, Egon Ronay Stars — vied with each other for space around the walls.

After hesitating, finally capitulating, over the offer of coffee, Morse soon found himself listening very carefully.

Sara had, she told him, been able to reinterview almost all of the service personnel who had been on duty the previous weekend, most of whom, as it happened, were performing similar duties that present weekend. But there seemed little to add, at least in general terms, to the details earlier communicated by the Manager himself to the Thames Valley Police. One minor correction: The room the Storrs had slept in was a Standard Twin, not a Standard Double; and in fact the couple had asked for the same room again, if it was available. Which, by some strange coincidence, it was: the only Standard Twin still available in the hotel that weekend. Registration? She passed to Morse the card dated the previous Saturday, 3–2–96: Guest’s Name; Address; Telephone No.; Arrival Date; Departure Date; Nationality; Payment Type; Passport No.; Signature; Car Reg. No. — and more. All filled in with a neat, feminine, slightly forward-leaning script, in black Biro; and signed “Angela Storrs.” It would be comparatively easy to check, of course; but Morse had little or no doubt that the signature was genuine.

“The Manager told my sergeant, when he rang about last weekend, that we might be able to see some itemized bills?”

Sara Hickman smiled.

“I thought somehow you might ask for them,” she said, and now read aloud from a small sheaf of bills in front of her.

“Last Saturday night they ate at Table twenty-six, in the far corner of the restaurant. He had the Carpaccio of Beef, Truffled Noodles, and Parmesan, for his starter; for his main course, the Seabass served with Creamed Celeriac and Fennel Liqueur; Passion Fruit Mousse for sweet. She wasn’t quite so adventurous, I’m afraid: Consommé; with Baked Plaice and Green Salad for her main course; and then cream crackers and Edam — the waiter particularly remembers her asking for the Edam.”

“Good low-fat cheese they tell me,” mumbled Morse, recalling his own hard-nosed dietitian’s homily in the Geoffrey Harris Ward. And he was smiling vaguely to himself as the Deputy Manager continued:

“Now, Sunday morning. Mr. Storrs had ordered breakfasts for the two of them over the phone the previous night — at about eleven, half past — can’t be sure. He said he thought he was probably too late with the form, but he obviously had it in front of him — the night porter remembers that. He said he’d have a Full English for himself, no kidney though, with the tomato well grilled, and two fried eggs. Said his wife would go for a Continental: said she’d like cereal, Ricicles, if we’d got some — Chief Inspector, we’ve got a bigger selection of cereals than Sainsbury’s! — some brown toast and honey, the fresh fruit compote, and orange juice. Oh, yes,” Sara checked the form again, “and hot chocolate.”

“The time?” asked Morse.

“It would have been between seven-thirty and eight. We don’t serve Full English until after seven-thirty — and both breakfasts went up together.”

“And last night for dinner?”

“They didn’t eat here.”

“This morning?”

“They had breakfast in their room again. This time they filled in the form early, and left it on the doorknob outside the room. Same as before for Mr. Storrs—”

“How do you know it wasn’t for her?”

“Well, it’s exactly what he ordered before. Here, look for yourself.”

She passed the room service order across the desk; and Morse saw the instructions: “Well grilled” against “Tomato”; no tick against “Kidney”; the figure “2” against “Eggs (fried).”

“I see what you mean,” admitted Morse. “Not even married couples have exactly the same tastes, I suppose.”

“Especially married couples,” said Sara Hickman quietly.

Morse’s eyes continued down the form, to the Continental section, and saw the ticks against “Weetabix” (“semi-skimmed milk” written beside it), “Natural Yogurt,” “Toast (brown),” “Coffee (decaffeinated).” The black-Biro’d writing was the same as that on the registration form. Angela Storrs’ writing. Certainly.

“I shall have to have copies of these forms,” said Morse.

“Of course.” Sara got to her feet. “I’ll see that’s done straightaway. Shall we go over to the bar?”

The day was brightening.

But for Morse the day had already been wonderfully bright; had been for the past hour or so, ever since the Deputy Manager had been speaking with him.

And indeed was very shortly to be brighter still.

Chapter sixty-two

They walked across the splendidly tended garden area behind the main complex to the Dower House, an elegant annex wherein were situated most of the hotel’s suites and bedrooms, as well as the restaurant, the main lounge — and the bar.

Immediately inside the entrance, Morse saw the plaque (virtually a statutory requirement in Bath) commemorating a particularly eminent royal personage:

In the lounge, Morse sat down amid the unashamedly luxurious surroundings of elaborate wall lights, marble busts — and courteously prompt service, for a uniformed waitress was already standing beside them.

“What would you like to drink, sir?”

Lovely question.

As he waited for his beer, Morse looked around him; and in particular at the portrait above the fireplace there: “Lord Ellmore, 1765–1817,” the inscription read, a fat-cheeked, smooth-faced man, with a protruding lower lip, who reminded Morse unhappily of Sir Clixby Bream.

Then he walked through to the Gents in the corridor just off the lounge where the two loos stood side by side, the Men’s and the Ladies’ logos quite unequivocally distinct on their adjacent doors.

It would have been difficult even for the myopic Mrs. Adams to confuse the two, thought Morse, as he smiled and mouthed a few silent words to himself:

“Thank you! Thank you, Mrs. Arabella Adams!”

It wasn’t that she could have been certain — from some little distance? with her failing eyesight? — that the person she had seen was a man or a woman. Certainly not so far as the recognition of any facial features was concerned. Faces were notoriously difficult to distinguish, appearing so different when seen in profile, perhaps, or in the shadows, or wearing glasses. No! It was just that old Mrs. Adams had always known what men looked like, and what women looked like, since habitually the men wore trousers and the women wore skirts. But of course if someone wore trousers, that certainly didn’t prove that the wearer was a man, now did it, Morse? In fact it proved one thing and one thing only: that the person in question was wearing trousers!

Ten minutes later, as he worked his way with diminishing enthusiasm through an over-generous plateful of smoked-salmon sandwiches, Morse saw Sergeant Lewis appear in the doorway — a Lewis looking almost as self-satisfied as the oily Lord Ellmore himself — and raise his right thumb, before being introduced to Sara Hickman.

“Something to drink, Sergeant?”

“Thank you. Orange juice, please.”

“Something to eat?”

“What have you got?”

She smiled happily. “Anything. Anything you like. Our Head Chef is at your command.”

“Can he rustle up some eggs and chips?”

She said she was sure — well, almost sure — that he could, and departed to investigate.

“Lew-is! This is a cordon bleu establishment.”

“Should taste good then, sir.”

The buoyant Lewis passed a note to Morse, simultaneously (and much to Morse’s relief) helping himself to a couple of sandwiches.

“You don’t mind, sir? I’m half starving.”

At 2:30 P.M. Marilyn Hudson, a small, fair-complexioned young woman, was called into Sara’s office. Marilyn had been a chamber-cum-kitchenmaid at the hotel for almost three years; and it was soon clear that she knew as much as anyone was likely to know about the day-to-day — and night-by-night — activities there.

Morse now questioned her closely about the morning of the previous Sunday, March 3.

“You took them breakfast?”

“Yes, sir. About quarter to eight.”

“You knocked on the door?”

“Like I always do, yes. I heard somebody say ‘Come in’ so I—”

“You had a key?”

“I’ve got a master key. So I took the tray in and put it on the dressing table.”

“Were they in bed together?”

“No. Twin beds it is there. She was on the far side. Difficult to miss her, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, it was her pajamas — yellow an’ black an’ green stripes — up an’ down.”

“Vertical stripes, you mean?”

“I’m not sure about that, sir. Just up an’ down, like I said. An’ she’s got the same pair now. I took their breakfast again this morning. Same room — thirty-six.” Marilyn gave a nervous little giggle. “Perhaps it’s time she changed them.”

“She may have got two pairs,” interposed Lewis — not particularly helpfully, judging from the scowl on Morse’s face.

“Do you think it could have been anybody else — except Mrs. Storrs?”

“No, sir. Like I say, she was there in the bed. But...”

“But what?”

“Well, I saw her all right. But I didn’t really see him. He was in the bathroom having a shave — electric razor it was — and the door was open a bit and I saw he was still in his pajamas and he said thank you but...”

“Would you have recognized him if he’d turned his head?”

For the first time Marilyn Hudson seemed unsure of herself.

“Well, I’d seen them earlier in the hotel, but I didn’t notice him as much as her really. She was, you know, ever so dressy and smart — dark glasses she wore — and a white trouser-suit. Same thing as she’s got on today.”

Morse turned to Lewis. “Do you think she’s got two white trouser-suits, Sergeant?”

“Always a possibility, sir.”

“So,” if Morse was experiencing some disappointment, he gave no indication of it, “what you’re telling us is that you’re pretty sure it was her, but not quite so sure it was him?”

Marilyn considered the question a while before replying:

“No. I’m pretty sure it was both of them, sir.”

“Good girl, our Marilyn,” confided Sara, “even if her vocabulary’s a bit limited.”

Morse looked across at her quizzically:

“Vertical and horizontal, you mean? I shouldn’t worry about that. I’ve always had trouble with east and west myself.”

“Lots of people have trouble with right and left,” began Lewis — but Morse was already making a further request:

“You’ve still got the details of who was staying here last Saturday?”

“Of course. Just a minute.”

She returned shortly with a sheaf of registration cards; and Morse was looking through, flicking them over one at a time — when suddenly he stopped, the familiar tingling of excitement across his shoulders.

He handed the card to Lewis.

And Lewis whistled softly, incredulously, as he read the name.

Morse turned again to Sara. “Can you let us have a copy of the bill — account, whatever you call it — for Room fifteen?”

“You were right then, sir!” whispered Lewis excitedly. “You always said it was ‘D.C.’!”

Sarah came back and laid the account in front of Morse.

“Single room — number fifteen. Just the one night. Paid by credit card.”

Morse looked through the items.

“No evening meal?”

“No.”

“No breakfast either?”

“No.”

“Look! Can we use your phone from here?”

“Of course you can. Shall I leave you?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Morse, “if you don’t mind.”

Morse and Lewis emerged from the office some twenty minutes later; and were walking behind reception when one of the guests came through from the entrance hall and asked for the key to Room 36.

Then he saw Morse.

“Good God! What are you doing here?” asked Julian Storrs.

“I was just going to ask you exactly the same question,” replied Morse, with a curiously confident smile.

Chapter sixty-three

“Do you want my wife to be here as well? I dropped her in the city center to do a bit of shopping. But she shouldn’t be long — if that’s what you want?”

“We’d rather talk to you alone, sir.”

“What’s this bloody ‘sir’ got to do with things?”

The three of them — Storrs, Morse, Lewis — were seated in Room 36, a pleasingly spacious room, whose windows over-looked the hotel’s pool and the sodden-looking croquet green.

“What’s all this about anyway?” Storrs’ voice was already sounding a little weary, increasingly tetchy. “Can we get on with it?”

So Morse got on with it, quickly sketching in the background to the two murders under investigation:

Storrs had been having an affair with Rachel James — and Rachel James had been murdered.

Storrs had been blackmailed by Owens — and Owens had been murdered.

The grounds for this blackmail were threefold: his extramarital relationship with Ms. James; his dishonest concealment of his medical prognosis; and his wife’s earlier career as striptease dancer and Soho call girl. For these reasons, it would surely have been very strange had Storrs not figured somewhere near the top of the suspect list.

As far as the first murder was concerned, Storrs — both the Storrs — had an alibi: they had been in bed with each other. How did one break that sort of alibi?

As far as the second murder was concerned, Storrs — again both Storrs — had their alibis: but this time not only were they in the same bedroom together, but also eighty-odd miles away from the scene of the crime. In fact, in the very room where they were now. But alibis could be fabricated; and if so, they could be broken. Sometimes they were broken.

(Storrs was listening in silence.)

Means? Forensic tests had established that both murders had been committed with the same weapon — a pistol known as the Howdah, often used by senior ranks in the armed forces, especially in India, where Storrs had served until returning to Oxford. He had acquired such a pistol; probably still had it, unless he had got rid of it recently — very recently.

The predominant cause — the Prime Mover — for the whole tragic sequence of events had been his obsessive, overweening ambition to gain the ultimate honor during what was left to him of his lifetime — the Mastership of Lonsdale, with the virtually inevitable accolade of a knighthood.

Motive, then? Yes.

Means? Yes.

Opportunity, though?

For the first murder, transport from Polstead Road to Kidlington was easy enough — there were two cars. But the target had not been quite so easy. In fact, it might well have been that Rachel James was murdered mistakenly, because of a mix-up over house numbers and a ponytailed silhouette.

But for the second murder, planning had to be far more complicated — and clever. Perhaps the “in-bed-together” alibi might sound a little thin the second time. But not if he was in a bed in some distant place; not if he was openly observed in that distant place at the time the murder must have been committed. No one had ever been in two places at the same time: that would be an affront to the rules by which the Almighty had established the universe. But the distance from Oxford to Bath was only eighty-odd miles. And in a powerful car, along the motorway, on a Sunday morning, early... An hour, say? Pushing it, perhaps? An hour and a quarter, then — two and a half hours on the road. Then there was a murder to be committed, of course. Round it up to three hours, say.

During the last few minutes of Morse’s exposition, Storrs had walked across to the window, where he stood looking out over the garden. The afternoon had clouded, with the occasional spatter of rain across the panes. Storrs was humming quietly to himself; and Morse recognized the tune of “September,” one of Richard Strauss’s Four Last Songs:

Then, abruptly, Storrs turned round.

“You do realize what you’re saying?” he asked quietly.

“I think I do,” replied Morse.

“Well, let’s get a few things straight, shall we? Last Sunday my wife Angela and I had breakfast here, in this room, at about a quarter to eight. The same young girl brought us breakfast this morning, as it happens. She’ll remember.”

Morse nodded. “She’s not quite sure it was you, though, last Sunday. She says you were shaving at the time, in the bathroom.”

“Who the hell was it then? If it wasn’t me?”

“Perhaps you’d got back by then.”

“Back? Back from Oxford? How did I manage that? Three hours, you say? I must have left at half past four!”

“You had a car—”

“Have you checked all this? You see, my car was in the hotel garage — and God knows where that is. I left it outside when we booked in, and gave the keys to one of the porters. That’s the sort of thing you pay for in places like this — didn’t you know that?”

Again Morse nodded. “You’re right. The garage wasn’t opened up that morning until ten minutes to nine.”

“So?” Storrs looked puzzled.

“You could have driven someone else’s car.”

“Whose, pray?”

“Your wife’s, perhaps?”

Storrs snorted. “Which just happened to be standing outside the hotel — is that it? A helicopter lift from Polstead Road?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Morse.

“All right. Angela’s car’s there waiting for me, yes? How did I get out of the hotel? There’s only the one exit, so I must have slipped unnoticed past a sleeping night porter—” He stopped. “Have you checked up whether the front doors are locked after midnight?”

“Yes, we’ve checked.”

“And are they?”

“They are.”

“So?” Again Storrs appeared puzzled.

“So the only explanation is that you weren’t in the hotel that night at all,” said Morse slowly.

“Really? And who signed the bloody bill on Sunday — what — ten o’clock? Quarter past?”

“Twenty past. We’ve tried to check everything. You signed the bill, sir, using your own Lloyds Visa Card.”

Suddenly Storrs turned his back and stared out of the rainflecked window once more:

“Look! You must forgive me. I’ve been leading you up the garden path, I’m afraid. But it was extremely interesting hearing your story. Outside, just to the left — we can’t quite see it from here — is what the splendid brochure calls its ‘outdoor heated exercise plunge pool.’ I was there that morning. I was there just after breakfast — about half past eight. Not just me, either. There was a rich American couple who were staying in the Beau Nash suite. They came from North Carolina, as I recall, and we must have been there together for twenty minutes or so. Want to know what we were talking about? Bosnia. Bloody Bosnia! Are you satisfied? You say you’ve tried to check everything. Well, just — check — that! And now, if you don’t mind, my dear wife appears to be back. I just hope she’s not spent — Good God! She’s bought herself another coat!”

Lewis, who had himself remained silent throughout the interview, walked across to the rain-flecked window, and saw Mrs. Storrs standing beneath the porchway across the garden, wearing a headscarf, dark glasses, and a long expensive-looking white mackintosh. She appeared to be having some little difficulty unfurling one of the large gaudy umbrellas which the benevolent management left in clumps around the buildings for guests to use when needed — needed as now, for the rain had come on more heavily.

Morse, too, got to his feet and joined Lewis at the window, where Storrs was quietly humming that tune again.

Der Garten trauert...

The garden is mourning...

“Would you and your good lady like to join me for a drink, sir? In the bar downstairs?”

Chapter sixty-four

“What do you think they’re talking about up there, sir?”

“He’s probably telling her what to say.”

Morse and Lewis were seated side-by-side in the Dower House lounge — this time with their backs turned on Lord Ellmore, since two dark-suited men sat drinking coffee in front of the fireplace.

Julian Storrs and a black-tied waiter appeared almost simultaneously.

“Angela’ll be down in a minute. Just changing. Got a bit wet shopping.”

“Before she bought the coat, I hope, sir,” said Lewis.

Storrs gave a wry smile, and the waiter took their order.

“Large Glenfiddich for me,” said Storrs. “Two pieces of ice.”

Morse clearly approved. “Same for me. What’ll you have, Lewis?”

“Does the budget run to an orange juice?”

“And,” Morse turned to Storrs, “what can we get for your wife?”

“Large gin and slim-line tonic. And put ’em all on my bill, waiter. Room thirty-six.”

Morse made no protestation; and Lewis smiled quietly to himself. It was his lucky day.

“Ah! ‘Slim-line tonic,’ ” repeated Morse. “Cuts out the sugar, I believe.”

Storrs made no comment, and Morse continued:

“I know your wife’s diabetic, sir. We checked up. We even checked up on what you both had to eat last weekend.”

“Well done!”

“Only one thing puzzles me really: your wife’s breakfast on Sunday morning.” He gestured to Lewis, the latter now reading from his notebook:

“Ricicles — that’s sort of sugar-frosted toasted rice — my kids used to love ’em, sir — toast and honey, a fruit cocktail, orange juice, and then some hot chocolate.”

“Not, perhaps,” added Morse, “the kind of breakfast a diabetic would normally order, is it? All that sugar? Everything else she ate here was out of the latest diabetic cookbook.”

“Do you know anything about diabetes, Chief Inspector?”

It was a new voice, sharp and rather harsh — for Angela Storrs, dressed in the inevitable trouser-suit (lime green, this time), but most unusually minus the dark glasses, had obviously caught some (most?) of the previous conversation.

“Not much,” admitted Morse as he sought to rise from his deep, low chair. “I’ve only been diagnosed a week.”

“Please don’t get up!” It sounded more an order than a request.

She took a seat next to her husband on the sofa. “I’ve had diabetes for ten years myself. But you’ll learn soon enough. You see, one of the biggest dangers for insulin-dependent diabetics is not, as you might expect, excessively high levels of blood sugar, but excessively low levels: hypoglycemia, it’s called. Are you on insulin yourself?”

“Yes, and they did try to tell me something about—”

“You’re asking about last weekend. Let me tell you. On Saturday evening my blood sugar was low — very low; and when Julian asked me about breakfast I decided to play things safe. I did have some glucose with me; but I was still low on Sunday morning. And if it’s of any interest, I thoroughly enjoyed my sugary breakfast. A rare treat!”

The drinks had arrived.

“Look!” she continued, once the waiter had asked for her husband’s signature on the bill. “Let me be honest with you. Julian has just told me why you’re here. He’d already told me about everything else anyway: about his ridiculous affair with that young Rachel woman; about that slimy specimen Owens.”

“Did you hate him enough to murder him?”

“I did,” interrupted Storrs vehemently. “God rot his soul!”

“And about this Mastership business?” Morse looked from one to the other. “You were in that together?”

It was Julian Storrs who answered. “Yes, we were. I told Angela the truth immediately, about my illness, and we agreed to cover it all up. You see,” suddenly he was looking very tired, “I wanted it so much. I wanted it more than anything — didn’t I, Angela?”

She smiled, and gently laid her own hand over his. “And I did too, Julian.”

Morse drained his whiskey and thirsted for another.

“Mrs. Storrs, I’m going to ask you a very blunt question — and you must forgive me, because that’s my job. What would you say if I told you that you didn’t sleep with your husband last Saturday night — that you slept with another man?”

She smiled again; and for a few moments the angularity of her face had softened into the lineaments of a much younger woman.

“I’d just hope he was a good lover.”

“But you’d deny it?”

“A childish accusation like that? It’s hardly worth denying!”

Morse turned to Storrs. “And you, sir? What would you say if I told you that you didn’t sleep with your wife last Saturday night — that you slept with another woman?”

“I’d just hope she was a good lover, I suppose.”

“But you’d deny it, too?”

“Of course.”

“Anything else you want to check?” asked Angela Storrs.

“Well, just the one thing really, because I’m still not quite sure that I’ve got it right.” Morse took a deep breath, and exhaled rather noisily. “You say you came here with your husband in his BMW, latish last Saturday afternoon — stayed here together overnight — then drove straight back to Oxford together the next morning. Is that right, Mrs. Storrs?”

“Not quite, no. We drove back via Cirencester and Burford. In fact, we had a bite of lunch at a pub in Burford and we had a look in two or three antiques shops there. I nearly bought a silver toast rack, but Julian thought it was grossly overpriced.”

“I see... I see... In that case, it’s about time we told you something else,” said Morse slowly. “Don’t you think so, Sergeant Lewis?”

Chapter sixty-five

Apart from themselves and the two men still drinking coffee, the large lounge was now empty.

“Perhaps we could all do with another drink?” It was Morse’s suggestion.

“Not for me,” said Angela Storrs.

“I’m all right, thank you,” said Julian Storrs.

“Still finishing this one,” said Lewis.

Morse felt for the cellophaned packet and almost fell. He stared for a while out of the windows: heavy rain now, through which a hotel guest occasionally scuttled across to the Dower House, head and face wholly indistinguishable beneath one of the gay umbrellas. How easy it was to hide when it was raining!

Almost reluctantly, it seemed, Morse made the penultimate revelation:

“There was someone else staying here last Saturday night, someone I think both of you know. She was staying — yes, it was a woman! — in the main part of the hotel, across there in Room fifteen. That woman was Dawn Charles, the receptionist at the Harvey Clinic on Banbury Road.”

Storrs turned to his wife. “Good heavens! Did you realize that, darling?”

“Don’t be silly! I don’t even know the woman.”

“It’s an extraordinarily odd coincidence, though,” persisted Morse. “Don’t you think so?”

“Of course it’s odd,” replied Angela Storrs. “All coincidences are odd — by definition! But life’s full of coincidences.”

Lewis smiled inwardly. How often had he heard those self-same words from Morse.

“But this wasn’t a coincidence, Mrs. Storrs.”

It was Julian Storrs who broke the awkward, ominous silence that had fallen on the group.

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. All I’m saying is that I didn’t see her. Perhaps she’s a Fauré fan herself and came for the Abbey concert like we did. You’ll have to ask her, surely?”

“If we do,” said Morse simply, confidently, “it won’t be long before we learn the truth. She’s not such a competent liar as you are, sir — as the pair of you are!”

The atmosphere had become almost dangerously tense as Storrs got to his feet. “I am not going to sit here one minute longer and listen—”

“Sit down!” said his wife, with an authority so assertive that one of the coffee drinkers turned his head briefly in her direction as Morse continued:

“You both deny seeing Miss Charles while she was here?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. Sergeant? Please?”

Lewis reopened his notebook, and addressed Mrs. Storrs directly:

“So it couldn’t possibly have been you, madam, who filled a car with petrol at Burford on that Saturday afternoon?”

“Last Saturday? Certainly not!” She almost spat the words at her new interlocutor.

But Lewis appeared completely unabashed. “Have you lost your credit card recently?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because someone made a good job of signing your name, that’s all. For twelve pounds of Unleaded Premium at the Burford Garage on the A40 at about three o’clock last Saturday.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?” The voice sounded menacingly calm.

“I’m suggesting that you drove here to Bath that day in your own car, madam—”

But she had risen to her feet herself now.

“You were right, Julian. We are not going to sit here a second longer. Come along!”

But she got no further than the exit, where two men stood barring her way: two dark-suited men who had been sitting for so long beneath the portrait of the bland Lord Ellmore.

She turned round, her nostrils flaring, her wide naked eyes now blazing with fury; and perhaps, as Morse saw them, with hatred, too, and despair.

But she said nothing further, as Lewis walked quietly toward her.

“Angela Miriam Storrs, it is my duty as a police officer to arrest you on the charge of murder. The murder of Geoffrey Gordon Owens, on Sunday, the third of March 1996. It is also my duty to warn you that anything you now say may be taken down in writing and used in evidence at any future hearing.”

She stood where she was and still said nothing.

Chief Inspector Morse, too, stood where he was, wondering whether his sergeant had got the wording quite right, as Detective Inspector Briggs and Detective Constable Bott, both of the Avon CID, led Angela Miriam Storrs away.