SUMMERTOWN CURTAINING 8th 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 3rd 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.
He felt Lewis's hand on his shoulder and heard his kindly words. 'Don't forget your beer, sir!'
Epilogue
Jericho has altered little since the events described in these chapters, although the curious visitor will no longer find Canal Reach marked upon the street map, for the site of the narrow little lane in which Ms. Scott and Mr. Jackson met their deaths is now straddled by a new block of flats, in which Mrs. Purvis (together with Graymalkin) is happily resettled, and where one of her neighbours is the polymath who once regaled Morse on the history of Jericho and who is now a mature student reading Environmental Studies at London University. Some others, too, who played their brief parts in the case have moved-or died; but many remain in the area. Mrs. Beavers, for example, continues to run the corner post office, and Mr. Grimes to sit amongst his locks and burglar alarms. And the Italianate campanile of St. Barnabas still towers above the terraced streets below.
In the wider confines of Oxford, a few small items of information may be of some interest to the reader. Michael Murdoch, a jauntily set black patch over his right eye, was able to make a late start to his university studies in the Michaelmas Term, whilst Edward Murdoch's German master confidently predicted a grade 'A' in his Advanced level examination. The bridge club flourished pleasingly, and Gwendola Briggs was heard to boast of twenty-two signatures on the wreath purchased for old Mr. Parkes, cremated on the very day that Charles Richards was found guilty at Oxford Crown Court of the murder of George Jackson. Somewhat surprisingly, Detective Constable Walters made up his mind to leave the police and to join the army-a decision which displeased, amongst others, Superintendent Bell, a man who finds his talents now more profitably employed in administration than ever they were in detection. In late November Sergeant Lewis's eldest daughter produced a baby girl, and Mrs. Lewis was so overjoyed that she bought a modestly expensive bottle of red wine to accompany her husband's beloved egg and chips.
And what of Morse? He still walks to his local most evenings, and would appear to take most of his calories in liquid form, for no one has seen him buying cans of food in the Summertown supermarkets. In mid-December he was invited to another party in North Oxford; and as he waited in the buffet queue his eyes caressed the slim and curving bottom of the woman just in front of him as she leant across the table. But he said nothing; and after eating his meal alone, he found an easy excuse to slip away, and walked home.
Colin Dexter
Colin Dexter lives in Oxford. He has won many awards for his novels and in 1997 was presented with the CWA Cartier Diamond Dagger for outstanding services to crime literature.
