Morse had always been more closely attuned to life’s adagios than its allegros; and his home reflected such a melancholic temperament. The pastel-colored walls, haunted by the music of Wagner, Bruckner, and Mahler, were decorated with somber-toned reproductions of Rembrandt, Vermeer, and Atkinson Grimshaw; and lined, in most rooms both upstairs and down, with long shelves of the poets and the novelists.
The whole place now seemed so very still as Lewis picked up two pints of semiskimmed Co-op milk from the porch, picked up four letters from the doormat, and entered.
In the study upstairs there were several signs (as Lewis already knew) of a sunnier temperament: the room was decorated in a sun-bed tan, terra-cotta, and white, with a bright Matisse hanging on the only wall free of the ubiquitous books, CDs, and cassettes. A red angle-lamp stood on the desk with, beside it, a bottle of Glenfiddich, virtually empty, and a cut-glass tumbler, completely empty. Morse had timed his exit fairly satisfactorily.
Lewis sat down and quickly looked through the letters: BT; British Diabetic Association; Lloyds Bank; Oxford Brookes University. Nothing too personal perhaps in any of them, but he left them there unopened. He fully realized there would be quite a few details to be sorted out soon by someone. Not by him though. He had but the single mission there.
In the second drawer down on the right, he found six photographs and took them out. An old black-and-white snap of a middle-aged man and woman, the man showing facial lineaments similar to Morse’s. A studio portrait of a fair-haired young woman, with a written message on the back: “Like you I wish so much that things could have been different — love always — W.” Another smaller photograph, with a brief sentence in Morse’s own hand: “Sue Widdowson before she was arrested.” A holiday shot of a young couple on a beach somewhere, the dark-headed bronzed young woman in a white bikini smiling broadly, the young man’s right arm around her shoulders, and (again) some writing on the back “I only look happy. I miss you like crazy!!! Ellie.” Clipped to a photograph of a smartly attractive woman, in the uniform of a hospital sister, was a brief letter under a Carlisle address and telephone number: “I understand. I just can’t help wondering how we would have been together, that’s all. I’d have had to sacrifice a bit of independence too you know! Always remember my love for you. J.” Only the one other photograph: that of Morse and Lewis standing next to each other beside the Jaguar, with no writing on the back at all.
Lewis tried the Carlisle number; with no success.
On the floor to the right of the desk lay a buff-colored folder, its contents splayed out somewhat, as if perhaps it may have been knocked down accidentally; and he picked it up. On the front was written: “For the attn. of Lewis.”
The top sheet was the printed form d1/d2, issued by the Department of Human Anatomy in South Parks Road, the second section duly signed by the donor; and countersigned by the same man who had witnessed the validity of the second single sheet of A4 to which Lewis now turned his attention:
MY WILL
I expressly forbid the holding of any religious service to mark my death. Nor do I wish any memorial service to be arranged thereafter. If any persons wish to remember me in any way, let it be in their thoughts.
If these handwritten paragraphs have any legal validity, as I am assured they do, my estate may be settled with little difficulty. I no longer have any direct next of kin, and even if I have, it makes no difference.
My worldly goods and chattels comprise: my flat (now clear of mortgage); its contents (including a good many rare first editions); two insurance policies; and the monies in my two accounts with Lloyds Bank. The total assets involved I take to be somewhere in the region of £150,000 at current rates and values.
It is my wish that the said estate, after appropriate charges, be divided (like Gaul) into three parts, in equal amounts (unlike Gaul) with the beneficiaries as follows:
The British Diabetic Association
Sister Janet McQueen (see address book)
Sergeant Lewis, my colleague in the Thames Valley CID.
For several minutes, Lewis sat where he was, unmoving, but deeply moved. Why in heaven Morse should have shown such bitterness toward the Church, he couldn’t know; and wouldn’t know. And why on earth Morse had remembered him with such...
His thoughts still in confusion, Lewis tried the Carlisle number again; again without success.
He washed out the empty tumbler in the bathroom, and returned to the study, where he poured himself the last half-inch of Glenfiddich, sat down again, silently raised his glass, and drained it.
He looked down at the several sheets of paper remaining in the folder, marked on the first page “Notes on the Harrison Case,” and all written in Morse’s hand, that same small upright script that Lewis had found in the Harrison files. He’d go through it all later though. For the moment he placed the other two single sheets on the top, and was preparing to leave, when he opened the second drawer down again, took out the photograph of the Jaguar, and slipped it into the folder — on top of everything else.
And noticed something else there, pushed to the back of the drawer.
A pair of handcuffs.
Chapter seventy-nine
Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
If you‘re guilty, you’ll have to prove it.
Lewis finished reading through the folder early that same evening. Most of it he’d known about already. It was only when he’d come to the last three sheets that he was aware of the wholly new tenor of Morse’s thinking. But herewith I give my final thoughts on the murder of Yvonne Harrison, that crisply uniformed nurse who looked after me in hospital once (but once!) with such tempting, loving care.
From the start of this case, one person stood out high above the others in firmness of purpose, daring, and clarity of mind: Frank Harrison. He was still sexually attracted to Yvonne, but she was no longer attracted to him; indeed one night in hospital she told me that she used to hook her foot over her own side of the mattress to establish a sort of no-man’s-land between them. But she remained a woman obsessively interested in sex, both as practicing participant and addicted voyeur. (She had mentioned to me some Amsterdam videos. But although I looked quite carefully through the scores of videos there, I could find nothing. I suspect they were innocently disguised under such labels as The Jungle Book or Cooking with Herbs.)
Now clearly Frank Harrison was — is — someone with a very strong sexual drive, and doubtless he claimed his marital rights on his spasmodic periods at home. But inevitably, when they were away from each other, Yvonne knew what he was up to, just as he knew what she was up to. And for that reason, I can find no compelling motive for Frank Harrison to have murdered his wife. There might have been the opportunity, for all we know. But his alibi was uncon-tested, since there seemed no reason to suspect the firm and explicit evidence of the man Flynn, who claimed to have picked him up from Oxford Station and driven him out to his home to Lower Swinstead.
It is now my view (I look forward to interviewing Frank H. on the matter) that Flynn was not in fact paid for fixing his taxi times for the purpose of Harrison’s alibi. He was paid for something different.
Until so very recently I thought that Simon must have murdered his mother. He had ample motive if he found his beloved mum in bed with the local builder — God help us! And the other facts fitted that hypothesis neatly: he was known to Repp, the local shady character familiar to everyone around, as well as being a regular at the Maiden’s Arms; known to Barron, of course; and also known to Flynn, because the pair of them had attended lipreading classes together.