The Dead of Jericho

'I'm always glad to be alive.'

'Really?' Morse vaguely looked along the stuccoed fronts of the terraced houses and then, as Lewis waited to turn into Walton Street, he suddenly caught sight of the Jericho Tackle Shop, and a beautiful new idea jumped across the threshold of his mind.

'Jackson was buying his new rod from there, wasn't he?' Morse asked casually.

'That's right.'

Lewis parked the police car by the bollards at Canal Reach. 'Which key do you want first, sir?'

'Perhaps we shan't need either of them.'

The two men walked up the narrow little street, where Morse led the way through to the boatyard before turning right and climbing over the fence into the back garden which the late George Jackson had fitfully tended. The shed door was still secured only by the rickety latch that Morse had opened once before, and now again he looked inside and surveyed the vast assortment of Jackson's fishing tackle.

'Is that the new rod?' he asked.

'Looks like it, sir.'

Morse carefully disconnected the jointed sections and examined them. 'You see, Lewis? They're hollow inside. Just the place to hide a letter, wouldn't you say? Just roll the letter up into a cylinder and then…' Morse was busily peering and feeling inside the sections, but for the moment, as Lewis stood idly by, he could find nothing.

'It's here, Lewis! It's here somewhere. I know it is.'

But a quarter of an hour later he had still found nothing. And however Morse twisted and pulled and cursed the collection of rods, it soon became clear that no letter was concealed in any of them.

'You've not been much bloody help!' he said finally.

'Never mind, sir-it was a good idea,' said Lewis cheerfully. 'Why don't we nip over the way and have a noggin? What do you say?'

Morse looked at his sergeant in a peculiar way. 'You feeling all right, Lewis?'

'Well, we've solved another case, haven't we? It’ll be a little celebration, sort of thing.'

'I don't like these loose ends, though.'

'Forget it, sir!' Lewis led the way through the back yard and out once more into Canal Reach, where Morse stopped and looked up at the bedroom window of number 9. Still no curtains.

'I wonder…' said Morse slowly.

'Pardon, sir?'

'You got the key, you say?' Lewis fiddled in his pocket and found it. 'I was just wondering,' said Morse, 'if she had an alarm clock in her bedroom. Can you remember?'

'Not off hand, sir. Let's go and have a look.'

Morse opened the door and suddenly stopped. Déjà vu. There, on the inside door-mat, was another brown envelope, and he picked it up and looked at it: 'Southern Gas Board' was printed along the bottom of the cover.

'Just nip upstairs then, Lewis, and bring the alarm clock down-if there is one.' When Lewis had left him, Morse put his hand inside his breast pocket and pulled out the envelope he had previously found-and until this moment forgotten about. Slitting open the top in a ragged tear he took out a single typed sheet of paper:

SUMMERTOWN CURTAINING 8^th Oct

Dear Ms. Scott,

I am sorry that we were unable to contact you earlier about your esteemed order for curtaining and pelmeting. Unfortunately it proved impossible for our fitters to come as agreed on the 3^rd inst., since our suppliers let us down over the yellow material for the study and the front bedroom, and we thought it more sensible to do the whole house in one day rather than doing the jobs in two bits. We regret the inconvenience caused.

I am now able to inform you that all materials are ready and we look forward to hearing from you as soon as possible about a convenient time. We confidently expect, as before, that all the work can be completed in a single day and we shall be happy to begin work at about 9 a.m. If this is again suitable to you.

Yours faithfully, J. Burkitt (Manager)

As Morse finished reading Lewis was standing beside him, a small, square, black alarm-clock in his hand. 'Anything interesting?'

Morse pondered the letter once more, then pointed to the clock. 'I think we've probably got another loose end tied up, yes-if that thing's set for about half-past seven.'

'Quarter to eight, actually, sir.'

'Mm.' Morse stood still just inside the door, his mind reconstructing the scene that must have taken place in that very room. He seemed sadly satisfied.

'You know that letter from Charles Richards, sir? Don't you think she probably burnt it with the one from the clinic? Perhaps if we get the path boys to have a look at those ashes in the grate-'

Morse shook his head. 'No. I buggered that up when I started poking around, Lewis. It's no good now.'

'You think he did write a letter to her, sir?'

'Well, not in direct answer to hers, no. Celia Richards intercepted that, as we know. But I think she must have got in touch with him somehow, after she'd heard nothing; and I think he wrote to her-yes, I do.'

'He says he didn't, though.'

'Pretty understandable, isn't it?'

'You mean he's got one death on his conscience already?'

Morse nodded. 'Not the one you're thinking of, though, Lewis. I don't believe he gives a sod about what he did to Jackson: it's the death of Anne Scott that he'll have on his conscience for ever.'

***

'I'll get them, sir,' said Lewis as they walked into the Printer's Devil. 'You just sit down and read that.' He handed Morse an envelope which had quite clearly been rolled into a tight cylindrical shape. 'I came here this morning, and I found it inside the new rod, sir. I hope you'll forgive me for not telling you before, but it's not the letter you were looking for.'

Lewis walked over to the bar, and Morse sat down and immediately saw the name on the grimy envelope: it was his own.

For Chief Inspector (?) Morse

Thames Valley Police

Absolutley Private and for the

Attention of no one else

Inside the envelope was a single sheet of writing together with a further envelope, itself already addressed 'Charles Richards'. Morse took the single sheet and slowly read it:

Dear Inspector Morse,

Perhaps you will have forgotten me. We met once at a party when you had too much to drink and were very nice to me. I'd hoped you'd get in touch with me-but you didn't. Please, I beg you, be kind to me again and deliver the enclosed letter personally and in the strictest confidence. And please, please don't read it. What I am going to do is cowardly and selfish, but somehow I just can't go on any more-and I don't want to go on any more.

Anne Scott

Lewis had brought the beer over and was sitting quietly opposite.

'Have you read this, Lewis?'

'No, sir. It wasn't addressed to me.'

'But you saw who it was addressed to?'

Lewis nodded, and Morse passed it over. 'You didn't read this one, either?' asked Morse, taking out the envelope addressed to Charles Richards.

'No, sir. But I should think we know roughly what's in it, don't we?'

'Yes,' said Morse slowly. 'And I think-I think I ought to do what she asked me, don't you?' He passed the envelope across. 'Seal it up, Lewis-and see that he gets it straight away, please.'

Was he doing the right thing? Charles Richards would find the letter terribly hurtful to read-there could be little doubt of that. But, then, life was hurtful. Morse had just been deeply hurt himself… 'I'd hoped you'd get in touch with me', she'd said, 'but you didn't.' Oh! If she'd known… if only she'd known.