Colin Dexter - The Daughters of Cain

At least that’s something you’re never likely to do, thought Lewis. But the thought was not translated into words.

‘Now,’ continued Morse, ‘just tell me about this second great discovery of yours.’

‘Just give me ten more minutes — nearly ready.’

Morse ambled somewhat aimlessly around the rooms so splendidly cited by Messrs Adkinson: Sitting/Dining-Room; Fully Fitted Modern Kitchen; Cloaks/Shower Room; Guest Bedroom; Master Bedroom Suite; Luxury Bathroom. But nothing, it appeared, was able to hold his attention for long; and soon he returned to the murder room.

For Lewis, this brief period of time was profitable. His little dossier — well, three items held together by a paper-clip — was now, he thought, complete. Interesting. He was pleased with himself; trusted that Morse would be pleased with him, too.

Not that Morse had looked particularly pleased with anything these last few minutes; and Lewis watched him taking a few more books from the shelves, seemingly in random manner, opening each briefly at the title page, then shaking it quite vigorously from the spine as if expecting something to fall out. And even as Lewis watched, something did fall out from one of them — nothing less than the whole of its pages. But Lewis’s cautious amusement was immediately stifled by a vicious scowl from Morse; and nothing was said.

In fact, over only one of the title pages had Morse lingered for more than a few moments:

Correction.

Late Student of Wolsey College, Oxford…

At 5.45 p.m. PC Roberts knocked, and entered in response to Morse’s gruff behest.

‘Super just rung through, sir—’

‘“Rang” through,’ muttered Morse.

‘—and wanted me to tell you straightaway. It’s Mrs Phillotson, sir. She died earlier this afternoon. Seems she had another emergency op… and well, she didn’t pull through. He didn’t tell me any more. He just wanted you to know, he said.’

Roberts left, and Lewis looked on as Morse slowly sat down in the brown leather armchair, staring, it seemed, at the design on the carpet — the eyes, usually so fierce and piercing, now dull and defeated; a look of such self-loathing on his face as Lewis had never seen before.

It was five minutes later that Lewis made an offer which (as he knew) could hardly be refused.

‘Fancy a beer, sir? The King’s Arms down the road’s open — Open All Day, it says outside.’

But Morse shook his head, and sat there in continued silence.

So for a while Lewis pretended to complete an already completed task. Perhaps he should have felt puzzled? But no. He wasn’t puzzled at all.

Tomorrow was Thursday…

And the next day was Friday…

Strange how they’d both cropped up already that day: the Man Who Was Thursday and the Girl Who Was Friday. Yet at this stage of the case, as they sat together in Daventry Court, neither Morse nor Lewis had the vaguest notion of how crucial one of the two was soon to become.

When for a second time she had put down the phone, Eleanor Smith stared at her own carpet, in this case a threadbare, tastelessly floral affair that stopped, at each wall, about eighteen inches short of the chipped skirting-boards.

The calls hadn’t been unexpected. No. Ever since she’d read of McClure’s murder in the Oxford Mail she’d half expected, half feared that the police would be in touch. Twice, at least twice, she remembered sending him a postcard; and once a letter — a rambling, adolescent letter written just after they’d first met when she’d felt particularly lonely on a dark and cloudy day. And knowing Felix, even a bit, she thought he’d probably have kept anything she might have sent him.

Their first meeting for a drink together had been in the Chapters Bar of The Randolph. Good, that had been. No pretences then, on either side. But he’d gently refused to consider her a ‘courtesan’ if only for the reason (as he’d smilingly informed her) that anagrammatically, and appropriately, the word gave rise to ‘a sore—’.

Yes, quite good really, that first evening — that first night, in fact — together. Above all perhaps, from her point of view, it had marked a nascent interest in crossword puzzles, which Felix had later encouraged and patiently fostered…

They’d found her telephone number in his flat — of course they had. Not that it was any great secret. Not exactly an ex-directory, exclusive series of digits. A number, rather, that in the early days had been slipped into half the BT phone-boxes in East Oxford, on a card with an amateurishly drawn outline of a curvaceous brunette with bouncy boobs. Her! But it was there; there in that telephone-thing of his on the desk. She knew that, for she’d seen it there. Odd, really. She’d have expected someone with such a fine brain as Felix to have committed her five-figure number to a permanent place in his memory. Seemingly not, though.

Poor old Felix.

She’d never loved anyone in life really — except her mum. But amongst her clients, that rather endearing, kindly, caring sort of idiot, Felix, had perhaps come nearer than anyone.

He’d never mentioned any enemies. But he must have had at least one — that much was certain. Not that she could help. She knew nothing. If she had known something, she’d have volunteered the information before now.

Or would she?

The very last thing she wanted was to get involved with the police. With her job? Come off it! And in any case there was no point in it. The last time she’d been round to Felix’s apartment had been three weeks ago, when he’d cooked steak for the two of them, with a bottle of vintage claret to wash it down; and two bottles of expensive champagne, one before… things; and one after.

Poor old Felix.

A very nice person in the very nasty world in which she’d lived these last few years.

Easy enough fooling the fuzz! Just said she wasn’t there, hadn’t she? Just said she was in Spain. Just said there’d been this photo of a bare-breasted tourist in Torremolinos. Been a bit of a problem if that second copper’d asked for the photo, though. But he’d sounded all right — they’d both sounded all right. Just not very bright, that’s all. Would they check up on her? But what if they did? They’d soon understand why she’d told a few fibs. It was a joke. Bit of fun. No one wanted to get involved in a murder enquiry.

And whatever happened she couldn’t be a suspect. Felix had been murdered on Sunday 28th August, hadn’t he? And on that same Sunday she’d left Oxford at 6.30 a.m. (yes!) on a coach-trip to Bournemouth. Hadn’t got back, either, until 9.45 p.m. So there! And thirty-four witnesses could testify to that. Thirty-five, if you included the driver.

Nothing to worry about, then — nothing at all.

And yet she couldn’t help worrying: worrying about who, in his senses, would want to murder such an inoffensive fellow as Felix.

Or in her senses…

Was there some history, some incident, some background in Felix’s life about which she knew nothing? Sure to be, really. Not that he’d ever hinted—

Then it struck her.