'I see.' Morse had noticed the hesitation, and a wayward fancy crossed his mind. 'Did you like her?' he asked simply.
'Yes, I did.' The voice, like the eyes, was firm-and oddly gentle.
Morse was tempted to pursue the theme, but switched instead to something different.
'A-levels this year?'
The boy nodded. 'German, French, and Latin.'
'You confident?'
'Not really.'
'Shouldn't worry too much about that,' said Morse in an objectionably avuncular tone. 'Overrated quality confidence is.' (Weren't those the words of Mrs. Murdoch, though? Yes, the memories of the night were stronger now.) 'Hard work-that's the secret. Put your foot through the telly, or something.' Morse heard himself drooling on tediously, and saw the boy looking at him with a hint of contempt in those honest eyes.
'I was working when you called, actually, Inspector.'
'Jolly good! Well, I er I mustn't interrupt you any longer, must I?' He turned to leave. 'By the way, did Ms. Scott ever say anything to you about her-well, her private life?'
'Is that what you wanted to see mum about?'
'Partly, yes.'
'She never said anything to me about it.' The boy's words were almost aggressive, and Morse felt puzzled.
'What about your brother? Did he ever say anything?'
'Say anything about what?'
'Forget it, lad! Just tell your mother I called, will you? And that I'll be calling again, all right?' For a few seconds his harsh blue eyes fixed Edward's, and then he turned around and walked away.
It says little for Morse's thoroughness that Miss Catharine Edgeley (next on his list and living so close to the Murdochs) was to be the last of the bridge party destined to be interviewed. Yes, she realised now, there was something that might be valuable for him to know: Anne had asked her to drop a note through the Murdochs' letter box, a note in a white, sealed envelope, addressed to Edward Murdoch.
'Why didn't you give it to Mrs. Murdoch?'
'I’m not sure, really. I think, yes, I think she left just a bit before the others. Perhaps her table had finished and if she wasn't in line for any of the prizes… I forget. Anyway, Anne wrote-'
'She wrote it there!'
'Yes, she wrote it on the sideboard. I remember that. She had a silver Parker-'
'Did she seem worried?'
'I don't think so, no. A bit flushed, perhaps-but we'd all had a few drinks and-'
'What were you all talking about? Try to remember, please!'
Catharine shook her pretty head. 'I can't. I'm sorry, Inspector, but-'
'Think!' pleaded Morse.
And so she tried to think: think what people normally spoke about-the weather, work, inflation, gossip, children… And slowly she began to form a hazy recollection about an interlude. It was about children, surely… Yes, they were talking at one stage about children: something to do with the Oxfam appeal for the Cambodian refugees, was it? Or Korean? Somewhere in that part of the world, anyway.
Morse groaned inwardly as she tried to give some sort of coherence to thoughts so inchoate and so confused, but she'd told him about the note, and that was something.
Unfortunately, the item of far greater importance she'd just imparted was completely lost on Morse. At least for the moment.
Chapter Fifteen
Well, time cures hearts of tenderness, and now I can let her go.
– Thomas Hardy, Wessex Heights
Over breakfast on Tuesday morning, Morse read his one item of mail with mild; half-engaged interest. It was the Oxford Book Association's monthly newsletter, giving a full account of Dame Helen's memorable speech, discussing the possibility of a Christmas Book Fair, reporting the latest deliberations of the committee, and then-Morse stopped and stared very hard. It was with deep regret that we heard of the death of Anne Scott. Anne had served on the committee only since the beginning of this year, but her good humour, constructive suggestions, and invariable willingness to help even in the most routine and humdrum chores-all these will be sadly missed. The chairman represented the Association at Anne's funeral. Well, that was news to Morse. Perhaps-no, almost certainly-he would have seen Anne at that last meeting if things had turned out differently. And if only he'd been a regular member, he would have seen her often. If only! He sighed and knew that life was full of 'if only' for everyone. Then he turned the page and the capital letters of the corrigendum jumped out at him. 'The next meeting NOTE THE CHANGE PLEASE will be on Friday, 19th October, when the speaker (this as previously advertised) will be MR. CHARLES RICHARDS. His subject Triumphs and Tribulations of the Small Publisher will be of particular interest to many of our members and we look forward to a large attendance. Mr. Richards apologises for the late notification of the change which is necessitated because of business commitments.' Morse made a brief note in his diary: there was nothing else doing that evening. He might go. On the whole, he thought not, though.
When the phone rang at 10.30 a.m. the same morning, Charles Richards was in his office. Normally the call would have filtered from the outer office through his secretary, but she was now sitting opposite him taking down shorthand (interspersed, Richards noticed, with rather too many pieces of longhand to give him much real confidence in her stenographic skills). He picked up the phone himself.
'Richards here. Can I help you?'
A rather faint, working-class voice replied that he (it was a 'he', surely?) was sure as 'ow Mister Charles Richards could 'elp: and at the first mention of his wife, Richards clamped his hand over the mouthpiece, told his secretary to leave him for a few minutes, waited for the door to close, and then spoke slowly and firmly into the phone.
'I don't know who you are and I don't want to know, you blackmailing rat! But I believe what you said in your letter and I've made arrangements to get the money-exactly one quarter of what you asked for, do you understand me?'
There was no reply.
'There's no chance of my agreeing to the arrangements you made-absolutely none. So listen carefully. Tomorrow night-got that?-tomorrow night I shall be driving slowly down the Woodstock Road-from the roundabout at the top-at half past eight. Exactly half past eight. I shall be driving a light blue Rolls Royce, and I shall stop just inside a road called Field House Drive-two words: "Field House". It's just above Squitchey Lane. I shall get out there and I shall be carrying a brown carrier bag. Then I shall walk up to the telephone kiosk about fifty yards north of Field House Drive, go into the kiosk, and then come out again and put the carrier bag behind the kiosk, just inside the ivy there. Behind the kiosk-got that?-not inside it. It will be absolutely safe, you can take my word on that. I shall then walk straight back to the car and drive back up the Woodstock Road. Do you understand all that?' Still no reply.
'There'll be no funny business on my part, and there'd better be none on yours! You can pick up your money-it's yours. But there'll not be a penny more-you can take that as final. Absolutely final. And if you do try anything else like this again, I'll kill you, do you hear that? I'll kill you with my own hands, you snivelling swine!'
Throughout this monologue, Richards had been continuously aware of the harsh, wheezy breathing of the man on the other end of the line, and now he waited for whatever reply might be forthcoming. But there was none. 'Have you got it all straight?'
Finally, he heard the tight voice again. 'You'll be glad you done this, Mister Richards. So will Missis Richards.' With that, the line was dead.
Charles Richards put away the sheet of paper from which he had been reading, and immediately called in his secretary once more.