Colin Dexter - The Way Through The Woods

have been (somewhat?) remiss in not pursuing their enquiries with rather greater perseverance.

What can be gathered from the nature of the verses themselves? Their composer is certainly no Her-rick or Housman, yet in terms of technical prosody the writer is more than competent. Vocabulary ('tegument', 'azured', etc.) is more redolent of the Senior Common Room than the Saloon Bar; and the versification, punctuation, and diction, all point to a literate and well-read man – or woman!

Can anything more specific be said about the writer? For some while, as I read and re-read the verses, I toyed with the idea of their author being a relative of the dead girl. The reason for my thinking was the continued emphasis, throughout the poem, of the 'find me' motif; and I was reminded of the Homeric heroes of the Iliad where death in battle was a fully expected and wholly honourable end – but where the most terrible fate of all was to die unrecognized, unburied, unfound, in some unknown and far-off land. Is the poem then above all a desperate cry for the Christian burial of the body? This would be most understandable. We have seen in recent years so many tragic instances (in the Middle East, for example) where the simple return of a dead body has paved the way for some peace initiative.

But I no longer believe this to be the case. My firm conviction now is that the verses have been sent to the police by a person for whom the period – now a year -between the murder of Karin Eriksson and the present time has become an intolerable Hell. A person who is very near to breaking point. A person who wishes the crime at last to be uncovered, and who is now prepared to pay the penalty. In short, the murderer!

Dare I go any further? I learned two further (hitherto unpublished) facts from Detective Chief Inspector Johnson. First, that the letter-writer was able to spell, correctly, the not very easy or obvious 'Eriksson'; second, that the writer was aware of the previous Chief Constable's surname, but not that of the current incumbent. On the old adage then that one might just as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, I reckon the murderer to be male; to be between thirty and thirty-five years old; to have a degree in English literature; to have lived until about six or nine months ago in Oxfordshire; to have revisited the scene of his crime during the last month, say, whilst staying at one of the more upmarket hostelries in Woodstock, Oxon.

I rest my case, m'lud!

'Hi!' she said. 'Mind if I join you?'

‘Please do,' said Morse, carefully mounting the last segment of his fried egg on the last square of his fried bread.

'You ever read about cholesterol?' Her voice was very cultured, the two 't's of her simple question affectedly exaggerated.

Morse swallowed his latest mouthful and looked at the slim, expensively dressed woman who now sat opposite him, ordering black coffee and a croissant – nothing more.

‘They say we've all got to die of something.' He tried to make it sound reasonably cheerful.

'Ridiculous attitude!' The lips, expertly outlined in, some pale-crimson shade, looked severe, yet the grey eyes in the delicate, oval face might almost have been mocking him.

'I suppose it is,' he said.

'You're overweight anyway, aren't you?'

'I suppose so,' he repeated lamely.

'You'll have high blood pressure in your mid-fifties – unless vou're there now? Then you'll probably have a stroke in your early sixties; and like as not die of a heart attack before you're seventy.' She had already drained her coffee cup, and held up an elegant, imperious hand to the waitress. 'What's your job?'

Morse sighed, and considered the last piece of toast in the rack. ‘I'm a policeman, and I come from Oxford, and I'm on holiday here until about ten o'clock this morning. I'm single and maybe I'm not much of a catch, but if I'd known I was going-'

'-going to meet a beautiful girl like me! Surely you can original than that?' The eyes were mocking him again.

Morse took the toast and started buttering it. 'No, I can't, can't do much better than that.'

'Perhaps you underrate yourself.'

'What about you? What do you do?'

'Why don't you tell me. You're a policeman, you say?'

For half a minute or so Morse looked at her, cocking his head, slightly to the right. Then he gave his judgement: 'You're a beautician, possibly a dietitian too, which you probably spell with a "t" and not a "c"; you're in your late twenties, and you went to school at Cheltenham Ladies'; you're married but you sometimes leave off your wedding ring – like now; you're fond of pets but you tend to think children are something of an exaggerated pastime. And you come for a walk with me along the prom, I'll try to fill in al few more of the details as we go along.'

'That's much better.'

'Well? How did I do?'

She smiled and shook her head. 'Is your name Sherlock Holmes?’

'Morse.'

'Am I that transparent?'

'No. I, er, saw you come in with your husband last night – when you went straight to bed and he-' 'He stayed at the bar!'

'We had one or two drinks together, and I asked him who the beautiful woman was-'

'And he said, "That's not a beautiful woman: that's my wife!"?

'Something like that.'

'And he talked about me?'

'He talked nicely about you.'

'He was drunk.'

'He's sleeping it off?' Morse pointed to the ceiling. She nodded her dark curls. 'So he won't mind much if you take me on that walk, will he, Mr Morse? When you've finished your toast, of course. And wouldn't you spell dietitian with a "t"?'

ON the same morning that Morse was packing his single suitcase (1On the day of their departure guests are respectfully requested ' vacate their rooms by 10.30 a.m.’) Sergeant Lewis knocked on Johnson's door, soon seating himself opposite the chief inspector, and beside Sergeant Wilkins.

‘Good of you to spare a few minutes.'

‘If I can help in any way…’ said Lewis warily.

‘You know Morse better than most.'

Nobody knows him all that well.'

‘You've got a reasonable idea how his mind works though.'

‘He's got a strange sort of mind-'

‘Not many'd disagree with you.’

‘He's good at some things.'

‘Such as?'

‘He's not bad at catching murderers for a start.'

And you do realize the odds are we're trying to catch another murderer now, don't you, Sergeant?'

‘If it is murder.'

‘Did Morse think it was murder?'

‘As I remember, sir, he was only on it with you for a day or so.'

‘Less than that.' (Wilkins had made his first contribution.)

'You're following this – this newspaper business, I presume, Lewis?'

‘Everybody reads The Times before the Sun now.'

'What do you make of this?' Johnson handed a photocopy of Morse's 'half-dozen qq.' across the desk.

Lewis looked down at the list and smiled. 'Bit of a joke – some of this, isn't it?'

‘Take my advice, Lewis, and don't try telling that to the Super’

'I don't know the answer to any of 'em,' admitted Lewis, 'except (e) – well, part of (e). It's a "Morrell's" pub, the Royal Sun. I brought quite a few pints there, I reckon.'

'What, for Morse, you mean?'

'Who else?'

'But has he ever bought you any, Lewis? That's the real question eh, Wilkins?'

The two men sniggered. And suddenly Lewis hated them both

'What about the White Hart?' continued Johnson.

'Lot of "White Harts" about.'