Colin Dexter - The Daughters of Cain

No, not many, Morse.

Oddly, he’d enjoyed the short walk, although he believed that the delights of walking were often ludicrously exaggerated. Solvitur ambulando , though, as the Romans used to say; and even if the ‘ambulando’ was meant to be a figurative rather than a physical bit of ‘walking’ — well, so much the better. Not that there was anything intrinsically wrong with the occasional bit of physical walking; after all, Housman had composed some of his loveliest lyrics while walking around the Backs at Cambridge, after a couple of lunchtime beers.

Solvitur ambulando , yes.

Walk along then, Morse, since perhaps you are now walking towards the solution.

On the stone steps leading up to the entrance porch, he read the notice:

It was already past noon, and on the grass a large party of visiting schoolchildren were unharnessing ruck-sacks and extracting packed lunches as Morse walked hurriedly by. It wasn’t that he positively disliked schoolchildren; just that he didn’t want to meet any of them.

Inside the glass-roofed, galleried building, Morse continued on his course, quickly past a huge reconstruction of a dinosaur (‘Bipedal, but capable of quad-ripedal locomotion’); quickly past some assembled skeletons of African and Asian elephants. Nor was he long (if at all) detained by the tall show-cases displaying their specimens of the birds and insects of Australasia. Finally, after making his way between a statue of the Prince Consort and a well-stuffed ostrich, Morse emerged from the University Museum into the Pitt Rivers Museum; where he turned right, and knocked on the door of the Administrator.

Capital ‘A’.

‘Coffee?’ she invited.

‘No thanks. I’ve just had some.’

‘Some beer, you mean.’

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘Yes.’

She was a tall, slim woman in her mid-forties, with prematurely white hair, and an attractively diffident smile about her lips.

‘Some women,’ began Morse, ‘have an extraordinarily well-developed sense of smell—’ But then he stopped. For a second or two he’d anticipated a little mild flirtation with Jane Cotterell. Clearly it was not to be, though, for he felt her clear, intelligent eyes upon him, and the tone of her voice was unambiguously no-nonsense:

‘How can I help you?’

For the next ten minutes she answered his questions.

Brooks had joined the eight-strong team of attendants at the Pitt Rivers Museum — quite separate from the University Museum — almost exactly a year ago. He worked a fairly regular thirty-five-hour week, 8.30 a.m. to 4.30 p.m., with an hour off for lunch. The attendants had the job of cleaning and maintaining the premises; of keeping a watchful eye on all visitors, in particular on the many school-parties regularly arriving by coach from near and far; sometimes of performing specific tasks, like manning the museum shop; of being helpful and courteous to the public at all times — ‘more friendly than fierce’; and above all, of course, of safeguarding the unrivalled collection of anthropological and ethnographic items housed in the museum…

‘A unique museum, Inspector.’

‘Do you ever get anybody trying to steal things?’

‘ Very rarely. Last summer we had someone trying to get into the case with the shrunken heads in it, but—’

‘Hope you caught him.’

‘ Her , actually.’

‘I’d rather rob a bank, myself.’

‘I’d rather not rob at all.’

Morse was losing out, he realized that; and reverted to his questioning about Brooks.

The man was, in the Administrator’s view, competent in his job, not frightened of work, punctual, reasonably pleasant with the public; private sort of person, though, something of a loner. There were certainly some of his colleagues with slightly more endearing qualities.

‘If you’d known what you know now, would you have appointed him?’

‘No.’

‘Mind if I smoke?’ asked Morse.

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘Did he smoke?’

‘Not in the museum. No one smokes in the museum.’

‘In the Common Room, or whatever you have?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t associate him with drugs at all?’

She glanced at him keenly before replying. ‘There are no drugs here — not on my staff.’

‘You’d know — if there were?’

‘As you say, some women have a particularly well-developed sense of smell, Inspector.’

Morse let it go. ‘Have you still got his references?’

The Administrator unlocked a filing-cabinet beside her and produced a green folder marked ‘BROOKS, E’; and Morse looked through the half-dozen sheets it contained: Brooks’s CV; a carbon of the letter appointing him wef 1 September 1993; a photocopied page giving details of Salary, National Insurance, Job Specification, Shift-Patterns; two open, blandly worded testimonials; and one hand-written reference, equally bland.

Morse read this last item a second time, slowly.

To the Administrator, Pitt Rivers Museum

Dear Madam,

I understand that Mr Edward Brooks has applied to you for the post (as advertised in the University Gazette, June ’93) of Assistant Attendant at the Museum.

Brooks has worked as a scout at Wolsey College for almost ten years and I recommend to you his experience and diligence.

Yours sincerely,

Well, well.

‘Did you know Dr McClure?’ asked Morse.

‘No. And I shan’t have a chance of knowing him now, shall I?’

‘You heard…?’

‘I read it in the Oxford Mail . I know all about Mr Brooks’s illness too: his wife rang through early on Monday morning. But from what they say he’s on the mend.’

Morse changed tack once more. ‘I know a lot of the exhibits here are invaluable; but… but are there things here that are just plain valuable , if you know what I mean? Commercially valuable, saleable…?’

‘My goodness, yes. I wouldn’t mind getting my fingers on some of the precious stones and rings here. Or do I mean in some of them?’

But Morse appeared to miss the Administrator’s gentle humour.

‘Does Mr Brooks have access to, well, to almost everything here really?’

‘Yes, he does. Each of the attendants has a key to the wall-safe where we keep the keys to all the cabinets and drawers and so on.’

‘So, if he took a fancy to one of your shrunken heads?’

‘No problem. He wouldn’t have to use a crowbar.’

‘I see.’

Jane Cotterell smiled, and thereby melted a little more of Morse’s heart.

‘Do I gather you want me to show you a bit about the security system here?’

‘Not really,’ protested Morse.

She rose to her feet. ‘I’d better show you then.’

Twenty minutes later they returned to her office.

‘Thank you,’ said Morse. ‘Thank you for your patience and your time. You’re a very important person, I can see that.’

‘Really? How—?’

‘Well, you’ve got a capital “A” for a start; then you’ve got a wall-to-wall carpet; and for all I know you’ve not only got a parking space, you’ve probably got one with your name on it.’

‘No name on it, I’m afraid.’

‘Still…’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ve got my name on the door, at least for the present. But I’ve only got a little carpet, with a great big threadbare patch where my megapodic sergeant stands.’

‘Is there such a word — “megapodic”?’

‘I’ll look it up when I get home. I’ve just treated myself to the Shorter Oxford .’