'No, sir.'
The hump-backed surgeon was the only other witness to be called, and he (as ever) delighted all those anxious to get away from the court by racing through the technical jargon of his medical report with the exhilarating rapidity of an Ashkenazy laying into Liszt. To those with acute hearing and micro-chip mentalities it was further revealed that the woman had probably died between 7 and 9.30 a.m. on the day she was found-that is, she had been dead for approximately eleven hours before being cut down; that her frame was well nourished and that her bodily organs were all perfectly sound; that she was 8-10 weeks pregnant at the time of death. The word 'pregnant' lingered for a while on the air of the still courtroom as if it had been acoustically italicised. But then it was gone, and Bell as he stared down at the wooden flooring silently moved his feet a centimetre or two towards him.
Only one question from the Coroner this time.
'Is there any doubt in your own mind that this woman met her death by her own hand?'
'That is for the jury to decide, sir.'
At this point Bell permitted himself a saddened smile. The surgeon had answered the same question in the same courtroom in the same way for the last twenty years. Only once, when the present Coroner had just begun his term of office, had this guarded comment been queried, and on that occasion the surgeon had deigned to add an equally guarded gloss, at a somewhat decelerated tempo: 'My job, sir, is to certify death where it has occurred and to ascertain, where possible, the physical causes of that death.' That was all. Bell was sometimes surprised that the old boy ever had the temerity to certify death in the first place; and, to be fair, the surgeon himself had grown increasingly reluctant to do so over the past few years. But, at least, that was his province, and he refused to trespass into territory beyond it. As a scientist, he had a profound distrust of all such intangible notions as 'responsibility', 'motive', and 'guilt'; and as a man he had little or no respect for the work of the police force. There was only one policeman he'd ever met for whom he had a slight degree of admiration, and that was Morse. And the only reason for such minimal approbation was that Morse had once told him over a few pints of beer that he in turn had a most profound contempt for the timid twaddle produced by pathologists.
The jury duly recorded a verdict of 'death by suicide', and the small band of variously interested parties filed out of the courtroom. Officially, the case of Ms. Anne Scott was filed and finished with.
On the evening of the day of the inquest, Morse telephoned the hump-backed surgeon.
'You fancy a drink in an hour or so, Max?'
'No.'
'What's up? You stopped boozing or something?'
'I've started boozing at home. Far cheaper.'
'No licensing hours, either.'
'That's another reason.'
'When do you start?'
'Same time as you, Morse-just before breakfast.'
'Did this Scott woman commit suicide, Max?'
'Oh God! Not you as well!'
'Did she commit suicide?'
'I look at the injuries, Morse-you know that, and in this case the injuries were firm and fatal. All right? Who it is who commits the injuries is no concern of mine.'
'Did she commit suicide, Max? It's important for me to have your opinion.'
There was a long hesitation on the other end of the line, and the answer obviously cost the surgeon dearly. The answer was 'yes'.
A little later that evening, Detective Constable Walters, in the course of his variegated duties, was seated by the bedside of a young girl in the Intensive Care Unit of the John Radcliffe Two. She had swallowed two bottles of pills without quite succeeding in cutting the thread-sometimes so fragile, sometimes so tough-that holds us all to life.
'It's getting dreadful, all this drugs business,' said the sister as Walters was leaving. 'I don't know! We're getting them in all the time. Another one besides her today.' She pointed to a closed white door a little further down the corridor, and Walters nodded with a surface understanding but with no real sympathy: he had quite enough to cope with as it was. In fact, as he walked along the polished corridor he passed within two feet of the door that the sister had pointed out to him. And, if Walters had only known, he was at that very second within those same two feet of finding out the truth of what was later to be called The Case of the Jericho Killings.
BOOK TWO
Chapter Ten
There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.
– Much Ado about Nothing Act II, scene iii
On Saturday, 13th October, four days following the inquest on Anne Scott, a man knocked on the door of 2 Canal Reach, and told the heavily pregnant, nervous-looking young woman who answered the door that he was writing an article for the Bodleian archives on the socio-economic development of Jericho during the latter half of the nineteenth century. Not surprisingly, he elicited little information likely to further his researches, and was soon knocking at number 4: this time with no answer. At number 6 he was brusquely told to 'bugger off' by a middle-aged giant of a man, heavily tattooed from wrists to muscular shoulders, who supposed the caller to be some peripatetic proselytiser. But at number 8, the slim, pale-faced, bespectacled young man who opened the door proved a gushing fount of information on the history of the area, and very soon the researcher was filling his amateurish-looking, red-covered Cash Book with rapid notes and dates: 'Key decade 1821-31-see monograph Eliza M. Hawtrey (? 1954) Bodleian-if they'd ever let me in-variable roof lines, brick built, sash-windowed-I went down to Jericho and fell among thieves-artisan dwellings-there was a young fellow from Spain-Lucy's Iron Works 1825-who enjoyed a tart-OUP to its pres. site 1826-now and again-Canaclass="underline" Oxford-Banbury-Coventry-Midlands, compl. 1790-not just now and again but-St. Paul's begun 1835-now and again and-St. Barnabas 1869-again and again and again.'
'Marvellous, marvellous!' said the researcher as the young man at last showed the first welcome signs of flagging. 'Most interesting and-and so valuable. You're a local historian, I suppose?'
'Not really, no. I work on the line up at Cowley.'
With further profuse expressions of gratitude for a lengthy addendum on the construction of the railway, the researcher finally saw the door to number 8 close-and he breathed a sigh of relief. Most of the other residents in the Reach would now have seen him, and his purpose was progressing nicely. No answer from number 10; no bicycle there, either. Over the narrow-ridiculously narrow-street, and no answer from number 9, either, in spite of three fairly rigorous bouts of knocking, during the third of which he had surreptitiously tried the doorknob. Locked. At number 7 he introduced himself with a most ingratiating smile, and Mrs. Purvis, on hearing of his projected monograph for the Royal Architectural Society on the layout of the two-up, two-down, dwellings of the mid-Victorian era, duly invited him into her home. Ten minutes later he was seated in the little scullery at the back of the house drinking a cup of tea and (as Mrs. Purvis was to tell her married daughter the next day) proving to be 'such a charming, well-educated sort of person'.
'I see you grow your own vegetables,' said Morse, getting to his feet and looking out onto the narrow garden plot beyond the dark-green doors of what looked like an outside lavatory-cum-coal-shed. 'Very sensible, too! Do you know, I bought a caulie up in Summertown the other day and it cost me…'
Willingly, it appeared, Mrs. Purvis would have spent the rest of the day discussing the price of vegetables, and Morse had no difficulty in pressing home his advantage.