‘Mr Smith? Mr Smith?’
He heard her, and rose to pay the bill. Sometimes (as well he knew) his brain could play him false; but this particular contingency he had anticipated, and he paid his dues with ready cash, in notes of high denomination.
He left the Station Hotel (as Westerby had done before him) and walked to the ticket-office. Then, for many minutes, he stood in front of the high departures-board. But he could read nothing. His eyes no sooner focused on the times of trains for Oxford than the letters (white) upon their background (black) had leap-frogged astigmatically across his retina, leaving him in dizzied indecision.
He stepped to the nearest ticket-barrier. ‘Can you tell me my best bet for Oxford, please?’
‘Platform 9. Half-past ten. But you’ll have to-’
‘Thank you.’
The train was already in the platform and he pulled himself up into an empty first-class compartment, putting his ticket carefully into his wallet and leaning back against the head-rest…
Half an hour later he jerked forward as the train halted with something less than silken braking-power, and he looked out of the window: Reading. Still the solitary occupant of the compartment, he leant back again and closed his wearied eyes. Not long… and he’d be there!
Thirty-five minutes later he was jerked to a second awakening.
‘Tickets, please!’
He was gratified that he could find his ticket so easily,but his head was throbbing wildly.
‘This your ticket, sir?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I’m afraid you’ve missed your connection. We’ve just gone past Didcot. You’re on your way to Swindon.’
‘What? I don’t understand-’
‘You should have changed at Didcot for the Oxford train. You must have nodded off.’
‘But I’ve got to get to Oxford. I’ve – I’ve just got to get there.’
‘Nothing we can do, sir. You’ll have to get the next train back from Swindon-’
‘But it’s urgent!’
‘As I say, you’ll just have to wait till we get to Swindon.’ The collector punched the ticket and handed it back. ‘We won’t worry about any excess fare, sir. Genuine mistake, I’m sure.”
The next few minutes registered themselves in his mind as at aeon of frenzied agony. Sitting forward in his seat, he bit deep into the nails of his little fingers, fighting with all his power to keep control of a brain that stood unsurely on a precipice.
Then the train stopped-more gently this time.
He was glad to find his legs steady as he got to his feet, and he felt much calmer now. He put the sweat-soaked handkerchief away inside his trouser pocket, took his case from the luggage rack, opened the left-hand door of the carriage-and stepped down into nothing. He fell on to the sharp stones of a slight embankment on the south side of the line, and lay there hurt and wholly puzzled. Yet, strangely, he felt profoundly comfortable there: it seemed so easy now to sleep. The sun was blazing down from the clear-blue sky, and his head-at last! -was free from pain.
‘You all right, sir?’
The ticket collector was crouching beside him, and he heard some faintly sounding voices from afar.
‘I’m sorry…I’m sorry…’
‘Let me just help you up, sir. You’ll be all right.’
‘No! Please don’t bother. I’m just sorry, that’s all…’
He closed his eyes. But the sun was blazing still beneath his eyelids, glowing like some fiery orange, whirring and -ever larger-spinning down towards him.
But still there was no pain.
‘I’ll go and get some help, sir. Shan’t be a minute.’
The ticket collector vaulted nimbly up the shallow embankment, but already it was too late.
‘Before you do that, please do one thing for me. I want to get a message to a Chief Inspector Morse-at the Thames Valley Police Headquarters. Please tell him I was-I was on my way to see him. Please tell him that I did it-do you understand me? Please tell him… that…’
But the man beside the track was speaking to himself; and even the curious heads that poked through nearby carriage-windows could make no sense of all the mumbled words.
Suddenly the sun exploded in a yellow flash and a jagged, agonizing pain careered across his skull. With a supreme effort of will he opened his eyes once more; but all was dark now, and the sweat was pouring down his face and seeping inside his gaping mouth. He had a handkerchief, he knew: it was in his trouser pocket. But he wanted a clean one. Yes, he had plenty clean ones. Why, he’d only bought a box of Irish linen ones very recently… from the shop in the Tun… only hundred yards away from Lonsdale College…
Another man now knelt beside the body-a young neuro-surgeon who was travelling up to Swindon General Hospital But he could do nothing; and after a little while he looked up at the ticket collector – then slowly shook his head.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Whose was the body found in the Thrupp canal? It becomes increasingly clear now that there are very few contenders remaining.
In recent years Lewis had seldom spent two nights away from Oxford, and he didn’t care much for London. But it had been a busy and a fruitful time.
Late the previous Wednesday afternoon, Morse had insisted that it was to be he, Lewis, who should drive up the next morning. There was much to do (Morse had said): many loose ends to tie up; statements to be taken; and, not least, some ireful explanations to be made. So Lewis had taken his instructions, had performed them more than adequately, and now (indulging his one real weakness in life) was driving far too fast along the M40 back to Oxford. It was mid-morning.
His London colleagues had been a friendly bunch, most of them – speaking in a careless, aitchless Cockney-yet all of them them shrewd and competent men. They could forgive Morse readily, of course, but none of them seemed to understand his actions very well. And Lewis, himself being only semi-enlightened, was unable to throw much further light. But certain things were now clear. The man found murdered in the top-storey flat in Cambridge Way was Alfred Gilbert, Esq., estate agent, and late bachelor of some parish or other in central London. The murder weapon so plain for all to see!) had been the screwdriver so conveniently found at the scene of the crime, upon whose handle were some smudgy prints that might or (as Lewis hoped} might not be soon identifiable. For the present there were few other clues. Of “Mr Hoskins” the police could find no trace, nor expected to do so, since the residents of Cambridge Way had always had a woman as their part-time concierge. But the police had been mildly mollified when Lewis had been able to produce Morse’s description of the man – from his age to his height, from chest-measurement to weight, from the colour of eyes to the size of his shoes.
After that, Lewis had done exactly as Morse had instructed. There had been three visits, three interviews, and three statements (slowly transcribed). First, the statement from the manager of the Flamenco Topless Bar; second, that from Miss Winifred Stewart, hostess at the Sauna Select; third, that from Mrs Emily Gilbert at her home in Berrywood Court. All three, in their various ways, had seemed to Lewis to be nervously defensive, and more than once he had found himself seriously doubting whether any of the trio was over-anxious to come completely clean. But Morse had blandly told him that any further investigations were not only futile but also quite unnecessary; and so he had ignored some obvious evasions, and merely written down what each had been prepared to tell him. Then, without much difficulty, he’d been able to discover at least something about the Gilbert brothers. Albert and the late Alfred had been public partners in a property-cum-removals firm, and private partners in a company christened Soho Enterprises-the latter owning, in addition to the topless bar, two dubious bookshops and a small (and strictly members-only) pornographic cinema. The London police knew a good deal about these activities anyway and inquiries were still proceeding, but already it seemed perfectly clear that even sex was suffering from the general recession. Of which fact Lewis him-self was glad, for he found the Soho area crude and sordid; and had the tempter looked along those streets, he could have entertained only the most desperate hope of pushing that broad and solid back through any of the doorways there. Finally, Lewis had been instructed to discover, if it were at all possible, the whereabouts of Albert Gilbert, Esq., although Morse had held out little prospect on that score – and Morse (as usual) had been right.