Colin Dexter - The Daughters of Cain

‘Why don’t you think she was making all that up too, sir — that description she gave?’

‘Good point.’ Morse looked down at the carpet briefly. ‘But I don’t think so; that bit rang true to me. In fact, I reckon it was the only thing of any value she did come up with.’

‘What about—?’

‘Lewis! She’s a phoney. She’s not even been a nurse — let alone a matron or whatever you call ’em.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘You heard her — we both heard her. Mini-skirt up to mid-tibia — remember me saying that? Mid- tibia ? Your tibia’s below your knee, Lewis. You know that. But she doesn’t.’

‘Unless she’s deaf, and misheard—’

‘She’s not deaf, I told you that. She just doesn’t know her tibia from her fibula, that’s all. Never been near a nursing manual in her life.’

‘And you deliberately tricked her about that?’

‘ And , Lewis — most important of all — she claims she’s an Archers addict, but she doesn’t even know when the omnibus edition comes on on a Sunday morning. Huh!’

‘I wouldn’t know—’

‘She’s a Walter Mitty sort of woman. She lives in a world of fantasy. She tells herself things so many times — tells other people things so many times — that she thinks they’re true. And for her they are true.’

‘But not for us.’

‘Not for us, no.’

‘Not even the time she was in the bath?’

‘If she was in the bath.’

‘Oh.’

‘Anyway, I don’t somehow think it’s going to be of much importance to us, what time the murderer made his entrance…’

Morse was whining on a little wearily now; and like Miss (or Mrs) W-W he seemed to be running out of steam.

Both men became silent again.

And soon Lewis was feeling pleased with himself, for he was beginning to realize that the ‘second thing’ he’d found for Morse was looking far more promising.

And Morse himself, with melancholy mien, sat ever motionless, his eyes staring intently at the page before him: that selfsame page in the book of Latin poetry.

When he was a boy — well, when he was fifteen — Morse had fallen deeply in love with a girl, a year his junior, who like him had won a scholarship to one of the two local grammar schools: one for boys, one for girls. The long relationship between the pair of them had been so formative, so crucial, so wonderful overall, that when, three years later, he had been called up for National Service in the Army, he had written (for the first twelve weeks) a daily letter to his girl; only to learn on his first weekend furlough, to learn quite accidentally, that one of his friends (friends!) had been openly boasting about the sensually responsive lips of his beloved.

Morse told himself that he had finally grown up that weekend: and that was good. But he’d realized too, at the same time, that his capacity for jealousy was pretty nearly boundless.

It was only many years later that he’d seen those deeply wise words, embroidered in multi-coloured silks, in a B&B establishment in Maidstone:

— If you love her, set her free

— If she loves you, she will gladly return to you

— If she doesn’t she never really loved you anyway

Such thoughts monopolized Morse’s mind now as he looked again at Poem LVIII — a poem which his Classics master at school had exhorted the class to ignore, as being totally devoid of artistic merit. Such condemnation was almost invariably in direct proportion to the sexual content of the poem in question; and immediately after the lesson was over, Morse and his classmates had sought to find the meaning of that extraordinary word which Catullus had stuck at the beginning of the last line.

Glubit.

In the smaller Latin dictionary, glubo, — ere was given only as ‘libidinously to excite emotions’. But in the larger dictionary there was a more cryptic, potentially more interesting definition… And here, in the margin of the book he was holding, McClure had translated the same poem.

Morse gave a mental tick to ‘Carfax’ for quadriviis ; but thought ‘Palais’ a bit adolescent perhaps. Had his own translation been as good? Better? He couldn’t remember. He doubted it. And it didn’t matter anyway.

Or did it?

In the actual text of the poem, McClure had underlined in red Biro the words Lesbia nostra, Lesbia illa, Illa Lesbia : my Lesbia, that Lesbia of mine, that selfsame Lesbia.

Jealousy.

That most corrosive of all the emotions, gnawing away at the heart with a greater pain than failure or hatred — or even despair. But it seemed that McClure, like Catullus, had known his full share of it, with an ever-flirting, ever-hurting woman with whom he’d fallen in love; a woman who appeared willing to prostitute, at the appropriate price, whatever she possessed.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, Morse found himself thinking he’d rather like to meet the mysterious ‘K’. Then, just as suddenly, he knew he wouldn’t; unless, of course, that ambivalent lady held the key to the murder of Felix McClure — a circumstance which (at the time) he suspected was extremely improbable.

Morse snapped Catullus to.

‘You didn’t hear what I just said, did you, sir?’

‘Pardon? Sorry. Just pondering — just pondering.’

‘Is it leading us anywhere, this, er, pondering?’

‘We’re learning quite a bit about this girl of his, aren’t we? Building up quite an interesting—’

‘The answer’s “no” then, is it?’

Morse smiled weakly. ‘Probably.’

‘Not like you, that, sir — giving up so quickly.’

‘No. You’re right. We shall have to check up on her.’

‘Find out where she lives.’

‘What? Not much of a problem there,’ said Morse.

‘Really?’

‘She came on foot, we know that. From the Banbury Road side.’

‘I thought you said Mrs Thingummy was making everything up?’

But Morse ignored the interjection. ‘Where do you think she lives?’

‘Just round the corner, perhaps?’

‘Doubt it. Doubt he’d meet any local girl locally, if you see what I mean.’

‘Well, if she did have a car, she couldn’t park it in the Banbury Road, that’s for certain.’

‘So she hasn’t got a car?’

‘Well, if she has, she doesn’t use it.’

‘She probably came by bus then.’

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘Number twenty-something: down the Cowley Road, through the High to Carfax, along Cornmarket and St Giles’, then up the Banbury Road.’

‘Has she got a season-ticket, sir?’

‘Such flippancy ill becomes you, Lewis.’

‘I’m not being flippant. I’m just confused. You’ll be telling me next what colour her eyes are.’

‘Give me a chance.’

‘Which street she lives in…’

‘Oh, I think I know that.’

Lewis grinned and shook his head. ‘Come on, sir, tell me!’