Part three
They flee from me, that sometime did me seek With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
(Sir Thomas Wyatt, Remembrance)
Lewis came into Morse’s office just before four o’clock that afternoon.
“Not much to report, sir. There’s a card on the notice-board there — looks as if it might be from a boyfriend.”
“I saw it.”
“And there’s this — I reckon it’s probably in the same handwriting.”
Lewis handed over a postcard showing a caparisoned camel standing in front of a Tashkent mosque. On the back Morse read the brief message: “Travelling C 250 K E.”
“What’s that all about, do you think, sir?”
Morse shook his head: “Dunno. Probably the number of the aeroplane or the flight number or... something. Where did you find it, anyway?”
“There was an atlas there and I was looking up that place — you know, Erzincan. The postcard was stuck in there. You know, like a sort of marker.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t you want to know where Erzincan is?”
“No. I looked it up when I got back here.”
“Oh.”
With a glint of triumph in his eyes, Morse now picked up the pink folder containing the Sheila Poster story and quickly explained its provenance.
“I want you to read this.”
“What, now, sir?”
“Did you think I meant on your summer holidays?”
“I’m a slow reader, you know that.”
“So am I.”
“You want me to read it here?”
“No. I’ve got things to be getting on with here. Go and have a sandwich. And take your time. Enough clues there to fill a crossword puzzle.”
After Lewis had gone, Morse looked at his watch and started on The Times crossword.
When, eleven minutes later, he filled in the four blanks left, in — E-S-I-, he knew he should have been quicker in solving that final clue: “Gerry-built semi is beginning to collapse in such an upheaval” (7).
Not bad, though.
A further hour passed before Lewis returned from the canteen and sat down opposite his chief.
“Lot’s o’ clues, you’re right, sir. Probably made everything up, though, didn’t she?”
“Not everything, not by a long chalk — not according to Diogenes Small.”
“According to who, sir?”
“To whom, Lewis — please!”
“Sorry, sir. I’m getting better about spelling, though. She made one mistake herself, didn’t she?”
“Don’t you start making things up!” Morse passed a handwritten list across the desk. “You just rope in Dixon and Palmer — and, well, we can get through this little lot in no time at all.”
Lewis nodded: “Have the case sewn up before the pubs close.”
For the first time that day there appeared a genuine smile on Morse’s face. “And these are only the obvious clues. You’ll probably yourself have noticed a good many clues that’ve escaped my notice.”
“Temporarily escaped,” muttered Lewis, as he looked down at Morse’s notes:
— Names (road, house, people): all phoney, like as not?
— Gazette: same ad you found? check
— Mr. X (potential father): an academic surely? lecture tour of USA?
— Boswelclass="underline" owners of this strange orange-eyed breed? check with the Cat Society
— Publishers (OUP etc): any recent work known/ commissioned on Sir T W?
— Ante-natal clinics: check — esp. JR2
— Bird and Baby: check, with photograph
“We should come up with something, I agree, sir. But it’s going to take quite a while.”
“You think so?”
“Well, I mean, for a start, is there such a thing as the Cat Society?”
“That’s what you’re going to check up on, Lewis!”
“Seven lots of things to check up on, though.”
“Six!” Morse rose from his armchair, smiling happily once again. “I’ll check up on that last bit myself.”
“But where are you going to get a photo from?”
“Good point,” conceded Morse, allowing, in his mind, that occasionally it was perfectly acceptable to end a sentence with a preposition.
At 10:15 P.M. Lewis rang Morse’s home number, but received no reply. Was the great man still immersed in his self-imposed assignment — with or without a photograph?
In fact Morse was at that moment still sitting in the murder-room at 14 Jowett Place.
His mind had earlier informed him that he had missed something there; and at 8:15 P.M. he had re-entered the property, assuring the PC guarding the front door that he wouldn’t be all that long.
But nothing had clicked in that sad room. And the over-beered Morse had sat in the sole armchair there and fallen asleep — finally awakening half an hour after midnight, and feeling as rough (as they say) as a bear’s backside.
The following morning Lewis reported on his failures, Dixon’s failures, Palmer’s failures; and Morse reported on his own failures.
“You know this house business?” volunteered a rather subdued Lewis. “She’s very specific about it, isn’t she? Listed building, thatched, timbered, conservatory at the back — couldn’t we try the Council, some of the upmarket estate-agents...”
“Waste o’ time, I reckon.”
“So? What do we do next?”
“Perhaps we ought to look at things from the, er, the motivation angle.”
“Doesn’t sound much like you, sir.”
No, it wasn’t much like him — Morse knew that. He loved to have some juicy facts in front of him; and he’d never cared to peer too deeply down into the abyss of human consciousness. Yet there now seemed no alternative but to erect some sort of psychological scaffolding around Sheila Poster’s hopes and fears, her motives and mistakes... And only then to look in turn once more through each of the windows; once more to ask what the murdered woman was trying to tell everyone — trying to tell herself — in the story she had written.
Morse sought to put his inchoate thoughts into words whilst Sergeant Lewis sat opposite and listened. Dubiously.
“Let’s assume she’s had a fairly permanent job in the past — well, we know she has — but she’s been made redundant — she’s got hardly any money — everything she owns is just that bit cheap — she meets some fellow — falls for him — he’s married — but he promises to take her where the lemon trees bloom — she believes him — she carelessly gets herself pregnant — by chance she finds an advert his wife has put in the local rag — she goes to work there — she’s curious about the wife — jealous about her — she wants the whole situation out in the open — things turn sour though — lover-boy has second thoughts — he jilts her — the wife gives her the sack into the bargain — and our girl is soon nourishing a hatred for both of them — she wants to destroy both of them — but she can’t really bring herself to destroy the father of her child — so in her story she changes things a bit — and sticks the wife in bed with a lover of her own — because then her own lover, Sheila’s lover, will still be around, still alive — so there’ll always be the chance of her winning him back — but he’s bored with her — there’s some academic preferment in the offing perhaps — he wants to get rid of her for good — he’s prepared to play the faithful husband again — but Sheila won’t play ball — she threatens to expose him — and when he goes to see her she becomes hysterical — he sees red — he sees all the colours of the rainbow — including orange, Lewis — because he knows she can ruin everything — will ruin everything — and then he knifes her...”