His mother was in the kitchen ironing one of his white shirts.
'What's for tea?' His tone of voice suggested that whatever it was it would be viewed with truculent disfavour.
'I've got a nice bit of stew on, with some-'
'Oh Christ! Not stew again!'
Then something happened which took the boy completely by surprise. He saw his mother put down the iron; saw, simultaneously, her shoulders heave and the backs of her two forefingers go up to her tight mouth; and he saw in her eyes a look that was utterly helpless and hopeless, and then the tears soon streaming down her cheeks. A second later she was sitting at the kitchen table, her breath catching itself in short gasps as she fought to stave off the misery that threatened to swamp her. Edward had never for a second seen his mother like this, and the knowledge that she-she, his own solid and ever-dependable mother-was liable, just like anyone else, to be engulfed by waves of desperation, was a deeply felt shock for him. His own troubles vanished immediately, and he was conscious of a long-forgotten love for her.
'Don't be upset, mum! Please don't! I'm sorry, I really am. I didn't mean…'
Mrs. Murdoch shook her head vigorously, and wiped her handkerchief across her eyes. 'It's not-' But she couldn't go on, and Edward put a hand on her shoulder, and stood there, awkward and silent.
'I've not helped much, have I, mum?' he said quietly.
'It's not that. It's-it's just that I can't cope. I just can't! Everything seems to be falling to bits and I-I-' She shook her head once more, and the tears were rolling freely again. 'I just don't know what to do! I've tried so hard to-' She put her own hand up on to her son's, and tried to steady her quivering voice. 'Don't worry about me. I'm just being silly, that's all.' She stood up and blew her nose noisily into the paper handkerchief. 'You have a good day?'
'It's Michael-isn't it, mum?'
Mrs. Murdoch nodded. 'I went to see him again this afternoon. He's lost one eye completely and-and they don't really know-they don't really know…'
'You don't mean-he'll be blind?'
Mrs. Murdoch picked up the iron again and seemed to hold it in front of her like some puny shield. 'They're doing the best they can but…'
'Don't let's lose hope, mum! I know I'm not much of a one for church and all that, but hope is one of the Christian virtues, isn't it?'
If Mrs. Murdoch had followed her instincts at that moment, she would have thrown her arms around her son and blessed him for the words he'd just spoken. But she didn't. Somehow she'd never felt able to express her feelings with any loving freedom, either with Michael or with Edward, and something restrained her even now. She turned off the iron and put two plates under the grill to warm. Where had she gone wrong? Where? If only her husband hadn't died… If only they'd never decided to… Oh God! Surely, surely, things could never get much worse than this? And yet she knew in her heart that they could; and as she put on the oven-glove to take out the stew-pot, she guiltily clutched her little secret even closer to herself: the knowledge that she would never be able to love Michael as she had always loved the boy who was now setting the table in the dining-room.
Later that evening the senior ophthalmic surgeon lifted, with infinite care, the bandage round Michael Murdoch's head. Then he took off his wristwatch and held it about six inches in front of his patient's left eye.
'How are you, Michael?'
'All right. I feel tired, though-ever so tired.'
'Hungry?'
'No, not really. I've had something to eat.'
'That was a little while ago, though, and you've been asleep since then. Have you any idea of the time now?' He still held the watch steadily in front of the boy's remaining eye.
'Must be about tea time, is it? About five?'
The wristwatch said 8.45, and still the surgeon held it out. But the boy's horridly blood-shot eye stared past the watch, unseeing still, and as the surgeon replaced the bandage he shook his head sadly at the nurse who was standing anxiously beside him.
On his way back from the Friar Bacon at ten minutes to eleven that night, Morse chanced to meet Mrs. Murdoch, her Labrador straining mightily from her; and for the first time he learned of the tragic fate of her elder boy. He listened dutifully and compassionately, but somehow he couldn't seem to find the appropriate words of comfort, mumbling only the occasional 'Oh dear!', the occasional 'I am sorry', as he stood staring blankly at the grass verge. Fortunately the dog came to his rescue, and Morse felt relieved as the sandy-coloured beast finally wrenched his mistress off to pastures new.
As he walked the remaining few hundred yards to his home, he pondered briefly upon the Murdoch family and their links with Anne Scott. But he was tired and over-beered, and nothing was to click in Morse's rather muddled mind that night.
Chapter Thirty
An illiterate candidate gives his thoughts. The spelling, punctuation, and sentence structure are chaotic. Examiners should feel no reluctance about giving no marks for such work.
– Extract from Specimen Essays at 16+
Thursday saw Morse late into his office, where he greeted Lewis with a perfunctory nod. He had slept badly, and silently vowed to give the booze a rest that day. Whilst Lewis amateurishly tapped the keys as he typed up a report, Morse forced his attention back to the blackmail note discovered in Charles Richards' desk. At one reading, it seemed a typically semi-literate specimen of the sort of note so often received by blackmail victims-ill-spelt, ill-punctuated, and ill-expressed. And yet, at another reading, it seemed not to fall into the conventional category at all. He handed the note across to Lewis.
'What do you make of it?'
'His spelling's even worse than mine, isn't it? Still, we knew all along he'd never been to Eton.'
'By "he", you mean Jackson, I suppose?'
Lewis turned from the typewriter and frowned. 'Who else, sir?'
'You think Jackson wrote this?'
'Don't you?'
'No, I don't. In fact, I'm absolutely sure that Jackson himself couldn't have written one line of this-let alone the whole caboodle. You'll find in Jackson's pathetic little pile of possessions a couple of pamphlets about that telly programme On the Move-and that wasn't a programme for your actual semi-complete illiterates, Lewis: it was for your complete illiterates, who've never managed to read or write and who get embarrassed about ever admitting it to anyone. So I reckon Jackson must have got somebody-'
'But it's pretty bad, that letter, sir. Probably get about Grade Five CSE, if you ask me.'
'Really? Well, if you honestly think that, I'm sure the nation is most relieved to know that you're not going to be called up to exercise your ignorant prejudices upon the essays written by most of our sixteen-year-olds! You see, you're quite wrong. Here! Look at it again!' Morse thrust the letter across once more, and sat back in his chair like some smug pedagogue. 'What you want a letter to do, Lewis, is to communicate-got that? Now the spelling there is a bit weak, and the punctuation's infantile. But, Lewis, I'll tell you this: the upshot of that particular letter is so clear, so unequivocal, so clever, that no one who read it could have misunderstood one syllable! Mistakes galore, I agree; but when it comes down to telling Richards exactly where and exactly when and the rest of it-why, the letter's a bloody model of clarity! Look at it! Is your understanding held up by some dyslexic correspondent who spells "receive" the wrong way round? Never!'