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In Cambridge she turned into the Huntingdon Road and drove out to Girton village, where her sister lived.

When Betty brought a glass of sherry into the lounge, she found her sister in tears-a series of jerky sobs that stretched her full and pretty mouth to its furthest extent.

'You can tell me about it later, Celia, if you want to. But I shan't mind if you don't. A drop of booze'll do you good. Your bed's aired, and I've got a couple of tickets for the theatre tonight. Please stay!'

Dry-eyed at last, Celia Richards looked sadly at her sister and smiled bleakly. 'Be kind to me, Betty! You see-you see-I can't tell you about it, but I've done something terribly wrong.'

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The time is out of joint.

– Hamlet Act I, scene v

Although Morse insisted (that lunch-time) that a liquid diet without blotting-paper was an exceedingly fine nutrient for the brain cells, Lewis opted for his beloved chips-with sausages and egg-to accompany the beer. 'Are we making progress?' he asked, between mouthfuls.

'Progress? Progress, Lewis, is the law of life. You and I would be making progress even if we were going backwards. And, as it happens, my old friend, we are actually going forward at this particular stage of our joint investigations.'

'We are?'

'Indeed! I think you'll agree that the main facts hang pretty well together now. Anne Scott goes to a bridge evening the night before she kills herself, and I'm certain she learns something there that's the final straw to a long and cumulative emotional strain. She writes a note to Edward Murdoch, telling him she can't see him for a lesson the next afternoon, and from that point the die is cast. She gets home about 3 a.m. or thereabouts, and we shall never know how she spends the next few hours. But whatever doubt or hesitation she may have felt is finally settled by the Wednesday morning post, when a letter arrives from the birth clinic. She burns the letter and she-hangs herself.'

'Now Jackson has been doing some brickwork for her, and he goes over to have a final look at things-and to pick up his trowel. He lets himself in, pushes the kitchen door open, and in the process knocks over the stool on which Anne Scott has stood to hang herself-and finds her swaying there behind the door after he's picked up the stool and put it by the table. Now, just think a minute, Lewis. Anyone, virtually anyone, in those circumstances would have rung up the police immediately. So why not Jackson? He's got nothing to worry about. He does lots of odd jobs in the neighbourhood and it must be common knowledge that he's patching up the wall at number 9. So why doesn't he ring the police at that point!-because I'm sure it was Jackson who rang up later. It's because he finds something, Lewis-apart from the body: something which proves too tempting for his cheap and greedy little soul.'

'I thought for a start it may have been money, but I doubt it now. I think she'd written some sort of letter or note and left it on the kitchen table-a letter which Jackson takes. He's anxious to get out of the house quickly, and he forgets to lock the door behind him. Hence all our troubles, Lewis! You see, since Jackson has been coming over regularly-sometimes when she was still in bed-she's got in the habit of locking her front door, then taking the key out, and leaving it on the sideboard, so that he can put his own key in.'

'Surely she wouldn't have done that if she'd already decided to kill herself?'

But Morse ignored the objection and continued. 'Then Jackson goes over to his own home and reads the letter-'

'But you told me he couldn't read!'

'It's addressed, Lewis, to one of two people; either to the police; or to the man who's been her lover-the man she's recently written to, and the man who's probably been the only real passion in her life-Charles Richards. And there's something in that letter that gives Jackson some immediate prospect of personal gain-a situation he's decided to take full advantage of. But let's get back to the sequence of events that day. Someone else goes into number 9 during the afternoon-Celia Richards. Pretty certainly Jackson sees her going in-as he later sees me, Lewis-but he can't have the faintest idea that she's the wife of the man he's going to blackmail. He realises one thing, though-that he's forgotten to lock the door; and so when everything's quiet he goes over and puts his key through the letter box. That's the way it happened, Lewis-you can be sure of that.'

'Perhaps,' mumbled Lewis, wiping up the last of the egg yolk with a final, solitary chip.

'You don't sound very impressed?'

'Well, to be honest, I'd thought very much the same myself, sir, and I'm pretty sure Bell and his boys-'

'Really?' Morse drained his beer and pushed the glass in front of Lewis's plate. 'Bags of time for another.'

'I got the last one, sir. Just a half for me, if you don't mind.'

'Now,' resumed Morse (glasses replenished), 'we've got to link the death of Anne Scott with the murder of Jackson, agreed? Well, I reckon the connection is fairly obvious, and from what you've just said I presume that your own nimble mind has already jumped to a similar conclusion, right?'

Lewis nodded. 'Jackson tried to blackmail Charles Richards because of what he learned from the letter, and it seems he succeeded because he took £250 to the Post Office the day before he was murdered. I reckon he'd written to Richards, or rung him up, and that Richards decided to cough up to keep him quiet. He could have arranged to meet Jackson to give him the money and then just followed him home. And once he knew who he was, and where he lived-well, that was that. Perhaps he didn't really mean to kill him at all-just scare him out of his wits and get the letter, or whatever it was.'

Morse shook his head. It might have happened the way Lewis had just outlined things; but it hadn't. 'You may be right most of the way, Lewis, but you can be absolutely certain about one thing: it wasn't Charles Richards who murdered Jackson. And until somebody proves to us that the earth is round or a triangle hasn't got three sides, we'd better bloody face it! He was giving a lecture-with me in the audience!'

'Don't you think, perhaps-?'

'Nonsense! Jackson was in the pub at gone eight and the police found his body while Richards was still talking. And he didn't leave that platform for one second, Lewis!'