Colin Dexter - The Daughters of Cain

At the door he turned back. ‘Did you say Morse went to Leicester this morning?’

‘That’s where he said he was going.’

‘Funny! Odds are I’d have been in Leicester myself. I bet he’s gone to see the parents of that lad who killed himself in Wolsey a year or so ago.’

‘What’s that got to do with things?’

‘There were a few newspaper articles, that’s all, about the lad, among McClure’s papers. And a letter from the mother. She started it off “Dear Felix” — as if they’d known each other pretty well, if you see what I mean.’

Strange grunted.

‘Do you think I should mention it to Morse, sir?’

‘No. For Christ’s sake don’t do that. He’s got far too many ideas already, you can be sure of that.’

The Turf Tavern, nestling beneath the old walls of New College, Oxford, may be approached from Holywell Street, immediately opposite Holywell Music Room, via a narrow, irregularly cobbled lane of mediaeval aspect.

A notice above the entrance advises all patrons (although Morse is not a particularly tall man) to mind their heads (DUCK OR GROUSE) and inside the rough-stoned, black-beamed rooms the true connoisseur of beers can seat himself at one of the small wooden tables and enjoy a finely cask-conditioned pint; and it is in order to drink and to talk and to think that patrons frequent this elusively situated tavern in a blessedly music — Muzak — free environment.

The landlord of this splendid hostelry, a stoutly compact, middle-aged ex-Royal Navy man, with a grizzled beard and a gold ring in his left ear, was anticipatorily pulling a pint of real ale on seeing Morse enter, followed by the dutiful Lewis, at 1.50 p.m.

The latter, in fact, was feeling quite pleased with himself. Only sixty-five minutes from Leicester. A bit over the speed-limit all the way along (agreed); but fast-driving was one of his very few vices, and the jazzy-looking maroon Jaguar had been in a wonderfully slick and silky mood as it sped down the M40 on the last stretch of the journey from Banbury to Oxford.

Morse had resisted several pubs which, en route , had paraded their credentials — at Lutterworth, Rugby, Banbury. But, as Lewis knew, the time of drinking, and of thinking, was surely soon at hand.

In North Oxford, Morse had asked to be dropped off briefly at his flat: ‘I ought to call in at the bank, Lewis.’ And this news had further cheered Lewis, since (on half the salary) it was invariably he who bought about three-quarters of the drinks consumed between the pair of them. Only temporarily cheered, however, since he had wholly misunderstood the mission: five minutes later it was he himself who was pushing a variety of old soldiers through their appropriate holes (White, Green, Brown) in the Summertown Bottle Bank.

Thence, straight down the Banbury Road to the Martyrs’ Memorial, where turning left (as instructed) he had driven to the far end of Broad Street. Here, as ever, there appeared no immediate prospect of leaving a car legitimately, and Morse had insisted that he parked the Jaguar on the cobblestone area outside the Old Clarendon building, just opposite Blackwell’s.

‘Don’t worry, Lewis. All the traffic wardens know my car. They’ll think I’m on duty.’

‘Which you are, sir.’

‘Which I am.’

‘How are we, Chief Inspector?’

‘Less of the “Chief”. Sheehy’s going to demote me. I’ll soon be just an insignificant Inspector.’

‘The usual?’

Morse nodded.

‘And you, Sergeant?’

‘An orange juice,’ said Morse.

‘Where’ve you parked?’ asked Biff. It was a question which had become of paramount importance in Central Oxford over the past decade. ‘I only ask because they’re having a blitz this week, so Pam says.’

‘Ah! How is that beautiful lady of yours?’

‘I’ll tell her you’re here. She should be down soon anyway.’ Morse stood at the bar searching through his pockets in unconvincing manner. ‘And a packet of — do you still sell cigarettes?’

Biff pointed to the machine. ‘You’ll need the right change.’

‘Ah! Have you got any change on you by any chance, Lewis…?’

When, at a table in the inner bar, Morse was finally settled behind his pint, his second pint, he took from his inside jacket-pocket the used envelope on which Lewis had seen him scribbling certain headings on their return to Oxford.

‘Did you know that Wolsey College is frequently referred to, especially by those who are in it, as “The House”?’

‘Can’t say I did, no.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘Let me concentrate on the orange juice, sir.’

‘It’s because of its Latin name, Aedes Archiepiscopi , the House of the Bishop.’

‘Well, that explains it, doesn’t it?’

‘Another peculiarity is that in all the other colleges they call the dons and the readers and the tutors and so on — they call them “Fellows”. You with me? But at Wolsey they call them “Students”.’

‘What do they call the students then?’

‘Doesn’t matter what they call ’em, does it? Look! Let’s just consider where we are. We’ve discovered a couple of possible links in this case so far: McClure’s fancy woman; and the Rodway woman, the mother of one of his former pupils. Now neither of ’em comes within a million miles of being a murderer, I know that; but they’re both adding to what we know of McClure himself, agreed? He’s a respected scholar; a conscientious don—’

‘ “Student”, sir.’

‘A conscientious Student; a man who’s got every sympathy with his stu—’

Lewis looked across.

‘ — with the young people he comes into contact with; a founder member of a society to help dedicated druggies; a man who met Matthew’s mum, and probably slipped in between the sheets with her—’

Lewis shook his head vigorously. ‘You can’t just say that sort of thing.’

‘And why not? How the hell do you think we’re going to get to the bottom of this case unless we make the odd hypothesis here and there? You don’t know? Well, let me tell you. We think of anything that’s unlikely. That’s how. Any bloody idiot can tell you what’s likely .’

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘I do say so,’ snapped Morse. ‘Except that what I say is not particularly unlikely, is it? They obviously got on pretty well, didn’t they? Take that salutation and valediction, for instance.’

Lewis lifted his eyebrows.

‘All Christian-name, palsy-walsy stuff, wasn’t it? Then there’s this business of her husband leaving her — you’ll recall I pressed her on that point? And for a very good reason. It was November, a month or so after her precious Matthew had first gone up to Oxford. And it occurred to me, Lewis — and I’m surprised it didn’t occur to you — that things may well have been the other way round, eh? She may have left him , and it was only then that he started playing around with his new PA.’

‘We could always look at a copy of the divorce proceedings.’

‘What makes you think they’re divorced?’

Lewis surrendered, sipped his orange juice, and was silent.

‘But it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s got bugger-all to do with McClure’s murder. You can make a heap of all the money you’ve got and wager it on that . No risk there!’