Brother and sister — what an engaging couple they were!
Rich, too — at least their parents were.
Dodo, in particular, made no secret of her parents’ extremely comfortable lifestyle, which Wise himself had once (and only once) experienced at first hand, when Dodo had suggested — on his having to spend a week in Bristol in February 1942 — that he stay with them; had even loaned him a key to the family mansion in case they were out when he arrived. Wise had already known that Dodo’s parents lived in Bristol, since he’d noticed the postmark on the letter (doubtless from Mummy) that lay each week on the undusted mahogany table in the small entrance hall of number 14 — her name in the address, incidentally, always prefixed by the letter “A.” Alice? Angela? Anne? Audrey? — Wise had never been told and, again, had never enquired. But that little fact was something else he’d known earlier, too, since he was with her when, with a practised flourish of those slim and sinewy fingers, she’d signed her membership card at the Record Library. As for the parents, they turned out to be a straight-laced, tight-faced pair who remained frigidly reserved towards their guest throughout his short stay, and who appeared less than effusively appreciative of Dodo — and almost embarrassingly dismissive of Ambrose. Oddly, Wise had not found a single fond memento of their talented offspring in the Whitakers’ gauntly luxurious villa, and not a single family photograph to grace the daily-dusted mantelpieces.
It was three weeks after his return from his ill-starred visit that Dodo left Oxford, her wartime work (something “hush-hush,” it was understood) necessitating a move to Cheltenham. Only about forty miles away — and she’d keep in touch, she said.
But she hadn’t.
“Forty-eight years ago, this was, Inspector. Forty-eight! I was twenty-three myself, and she must have been about the same. Year or two older, perhaps — I’m not sure. You see, I never even asked her how old she was. Pretty spineless specimen, wasn’t I?”
In the darkness, Morse nodded his silent assent, and the Jaguar finally turned into the Residents Only parking area.
Wise contrived to keep talking as the two men dashed through the rain to the entrance hall. “I’d be glad to give you a cup of tea... or something... You see, I haven’t really told you anything yet.”
As they sat opposite each other in the living area, Wise passed across a white, six-page booklet containing details of “A Service of Thanksgiving for the Life of AMBROSE WHITAKER, MA (Cantab.), FRAM 1917–1989,” and Morse glanced cursorily at the contents: music; hymn; lesson; music; address; prayers; hymn; music; blessing; music; more music. Observing only that if he ever had a voice in his own funeral arrangements he would join Whitaker in choosing the “In Paradisum” from the Fauré Requiem, Morse handed the leaflet back.
“The thing is this,” continued Wise. “I saw an obituary in The Times in December, and I was sure it was the same man I’d known in the war. Quite apart from the pretty unusual Christian name, as well as the very unusual spelling of the surname, everything else fitted, too: born in Bristol, prodigy on the piano — everything! And I just couldn’t help thinking back and wondering whether she was still alive — Dodo, that is. Anyway, a fortnight ago I read about this Memorial Service in Holborn, and I decided to go up and pay my last respects to an old friend — and perhaps...”
“Find some plump-bosomed old spinster—”
“Yes!”
“Did you find her?” asked Morse quietly.
Wise shook his head. “There were an awful lot of important people from the musical world — I hadn’t realized what a name Ambrose had made for himself. I got to the church early and stayed outside for a good while watching the people going in, including — pretty obvious who she was — Ambrose’s wife, who drew up in a chauffeur-driven Rolls — registration AW 1! But I didn’t see the woman I was looking for — and she wasn’t in the church, either. I’d have spotted her straightaway if she had been. She was smallish, stockily built — just like her mother. And there was something else. She had a nasty little red scar — well, a nasty big scar really — just across the left-hand side of her jaw: a bicycle accident when she was a youngster, I think. She was awfully conscious of it and always used a lot of face-powder to try to cover it up a bit. But it was still pretty noticeable, I’m afraid. Well, to cut a long story a bit shorter, I went up to Ambrose’s wife after the service and told her I’d known her husband in the war and said how sorry I was and all the rest of it. She was pleasant enough, but she seemed a bit strained, and there were other people waiting to have a word with her. So I didn’t say much more except to mention that I’d known her husband’s sister as well.” Wise paused a second or two before continuing.
“Do you know what happened then, Inspector? Ambrose’s wife pointed to a grey-haired woman in a black dress standing with her back to us, a woman very much the same height and build as Dodo had been. “This gentleman here says he used to know you, Agnes...”
“Agnes!”
“But I didn’t hear any more — I just didn’t know what to do — or say. You see, the woman in black turned round and faced me, and she wasn’t Dodo Whitaker.”
It was Morse who broke the silence which followed. “Ambrose only had the one sister?”
Wise nodded, a wry, defeated smile upon his face. “Yes — Agnes. He never did have a sister named ‘Dodo’!”
Again the two men were silent.
“Well?” asked Wise, finally.
It had always appeared to Morse an undeniable fact that coincidence plays a far greater role in human affairs than is generally acknowledged. And here was yet another instance of it — it must be! Wise’s tale was interesting enough — assuredly so: but it wasn’t much of a problem, surely? Ostentatiously he drained his whisky, gratefully witnessed the replenishment, and then pronounced judgement: “There were two Ambrose Whitakers, both musical men, and both from Bristol, and the one you knew wasn’t the one who died.”
“You think not?” The half-smile on Wise’s face made Morse rather uncomfortably aware that a slightly more intelligent analysis had been expected of him.
“You don’t think,” suggested Morse weakly, “that Agnes might have had some plastic surgery or something?”
“No, no. It’s just that there are far too many coincidences for me to swallow. Everything fitted — down to the last detail. For example, Dodo told me that she and Ambrose once got a bit morbid about the possibility of his being killed in the war and how he’d told her that he’d settle for a couple of bits of music when they buried him: the ‘In Paradisum’—”
“Lovely choice!” interjected Morse. “I saw that in the Service.”
“—and the adagio from the Mozart Clarinet Concerto—”
“Ah yes! K662.”
“K622.”
“Oh!”
Morse knew that he wasn’t scoring many points; knew, too, that Wise was perfectly correct in believing that the coincidences were getting way out of hand. But he had no time at all to develop the quite extraordinary possibility that suddenly leaped into his brain; because Wise himself was clearly most anxious to propound his own equally astonishing conclusions.
“What would you say, Inspector, if I told you that Dodo wasn’t Ambrose Whitaker’s sister at all — she was his wife.”
Morse’s face registered a degree of genuine surprise, but he allowed Wise to continue without interruption.