Colin Dexter - The Daughters of Cain

I must thank you for all you tried to do for Matthew. He often spoke of your kindness, as you know. I’m so sorry, I can’t go on with this letter any more.

Sincerely yours

Morse now accepted a second cigarette; and as Mrs Rodway read through the letter Lewis turned his head away from the exhalation of smoke. He was not overmuch concerned about the health risks supposedly linked with passive smoking, but it must have some effect; had already had its effect on the room here, where a thin patina of nicotine could be seen on the emulsioned walls. In fact the whole room could surely do with a good wash-down and redecoration? The corners of the high ceiling were deeply stained, and just above one of the radiators an oblong of pristinely bright magnolia served to emphasize a slight neglect of household renovation.

‘Did you write that?’ asked Morse.

‘Yes.’

‘Is there anything you want to tell us about it?’

‘Pretty clear, isn’t it?’

‘Did Dr McClure find anything in Matthew’s rooms?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Would he have told you if, let’s say, he’d found some drugs?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Did he think Matthew was taking drugs?’

It was hard for her to say it. But she said it: ‘Yes.’

‘Did you ever find out where he got his drugs from?’

‘No.’

‘Did he ever say anything about his friends being on drugs?’

‘No.’

‘Do you think they may have been?’

‘I only met one or two of them — on the same staircase.’

‘Do you think drugs were available inside the college?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Would Dr McClure have known, if they were?’

‘I suppose he would, yes.’

‘Was Matthew fairly easily influenced by his friends, would you say?’

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

The answers elicited from Mrs Rodway hardly appeared to Lewis exciting; or even informative, for that matter. But Morse appeared content to keep his interlocution at low key.

‘Do you blame anyone? About the drugs?’

‘I’m in no position to blame anyone.’

‘Do you blame yourself?’

‘Don’t we all blame ourselves?’

‘What about Dr McClure — where did he put the blame?’

‘He did say once… I remember…’ But the voice trailed off as she lit another cigarette. ‘It was very odd really. He was talking about all the pressures on young people these days — you know, about youth culture and all that sort of thing, about whether standards were declining in… well, in everything, I suppose.’

‘What exactly did he say?’ prompted Morse gently.

But Mary Rodway was not listening. ‘You know, if only Matthew hadn’t… killed himself that night, whatever the reason was — reason or reasons — he’d probably have been perfectly happy with life a few days later, a week later… That’s what I can’t… I can’t get over.’

Tears were dropping now.

And Lewis looked away.

But not Morse.

‘What exactly did he say?’ he repeated.

Mrs Rodway wiped her tears and blew her nose noisily. ‘He said it was always difficult to apportion blame in life. But he said… he said if he had to blame anybody it would be the students.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why was that an “odd” thing to say, though?’

‘Because, you see, he was always on the students’ side. Always. So it was a bit like hearing a trade-union boss suddenly siding with the Conservative Party.’

‘Thank you. You’ve been very kind, Mrs Rodway.’

Clearly (as Lewis could see) it was time to depart; and he closed his notebook with what might have passed for a slight flourish — had anyone been interested enough to observe the gesture.

But equally clearly (as Lewis could also see) Morse was momentarily transfixed, the blue eyes gleaming with that strangely distanced, almost ethereal gaze, which Lewis had observed so often before — a gaze which usually betokened a breakthrough in a major case.

As now?

The three of them rose to their feet.

‘Did you get to university yourself?’ asked Morse.

‘No. I left school at sixteen — went to a posh secretarial college — did well — got a good job — met a nice boss — became his PA — and he married me… As I told you, Inspector, he’s got a weakness for his PAs.’

Morse nodded. ‘Just one last question. When did your husband leave you?’

‘I told you, don’t you remember? Four years ago.’ Suddenly her voice sounded sharp.

‘When exactly , Mrs Rodway?’ Suddenly Morse’s voice, too, sounded sharp.

‘November the fifth — Bonfire Night. Not likely to forget the date, am I?’

‘Not quite four years ago then?’

Mrs Rodway made no further reply.

‘Big thing you’ve got to remember is that it’s a great healer — time. Just give it a while, you’ll see.’

It was just before lunchtime that same day, in his office at Kidlington Police HQ, that Chief Superintendent Strange thus sought to convey his commiserations to Detective Chief Inspector Phillotson — going on to suggest that an extended period of furlough might well be a good thing after… well, after things were over. And if anyone could help in any way, Phillotson only had to mention it.

‘Trouble with things like this,’ continued Strange, as he rose from behind his desk and walked round to place a kindly hand on his colleague’s shoulder, ‘is that nothing really helps much at all, does it?’

‘I don’t know about that, sir. People are being very kind.’

‘I know, yes. I know.’ And Strange resumed his seat, contemplating his own kindliness with some gratification.

‘You know, sir, I’ve heard from people I never expected to show much sympathy.’

‘You have?’

‘People like Morse, for instance.’

‘Morse? When did you see Morse? He told me he was off to Leicester this morning.’

‘No. He put a note through the letter-box, that’s all. Must have been latish last night — it wasn’t there when I put the milk-tokens out…’

‘I’d say he probably wrote it in a pub, knowing Morse.’

‘Does it matter where he wrote it, sir?’

‘Course not. But I can’t imagine him being much comfort to anybody. He’s a pagan, you know that. Got no time for the Church and… Hope and Faith and all that stuff. Doesn’t even believe in God, let alone in any sort of life after death.’

‘Bit like some of our Bishops,’ said Phillotson sadly.

‘Like some Theology dons in Oxford, too.’

‘I was still glad to get his letter.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Said what you just said really, sir; said he’d got no faith in the Almighty; said I just ought to forget all this mumbo-jumbo about meeting… meeting up again in some future life; told me just to accept the truth of it all — that she’s gone for good and I’ll never see her again; told me I’d probably never get over it, and not to take any notice of people who gave you all this stuff about time healing—’ Phillotson suddenly checked himself, realizing what he’d just said.

‘Doesn’t sound much help to me.’

‘Do you know, though, in an odd sort of way it was. It was sort of honest . He just said that he was sad, when he heard, and he was thinking of me… At the end, he said it was always a jolly sight easier in life to face up to the truths than the half-truths. I’m not quite sure what he meant… but, well, somehow it helps, when I remember what he said.’

Phillotson could trust himself to say no more, and he rose to leave.