Colin Dexter - The Daughters of Cain

What worried Lewis slightly was that Morse appeared just as interested in the disappearance of a knife as in the death of a don, as though the connection between the two events (Morse had yet again reversed his views) was both logically necessary and self-evidently true.

But was it?

And on the morning of Thursday, 15 September, he had voiced his growing doubt.

‘Brooks, sir — Brooks is the only real connection, isn’t he? Brooks who’s top of your murder-suspects; and Brooks who’s got a job at the Pitt Rivers.’

‘Have you ever thought, Lewis, that it could have been Brooks who stole the knife?’

‘You can’t be serious?’

‘No. Brooks didn’t steal the knife. Sorry. Go on!’

‘Well, you said so yourself early on: we often get people who do copy-cat things, don’t we? And whoever stole the knife — well, it might not have anything to do with the murder at all. Somebody just read that bit in the Oxford Mail and…’

‘Ye-es. To tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking the same.’

‘It could just be a coincidence.’

‘Yes, it could. Perhaps it was.’

‘I mean, you’ve often said coincidences happen all the time; just that some of us don’t spot ’em.’

‘Yes, I’ve often thought that.’

‘So there may be no causal connection after all—?’

‘Stop sounding like a philosopher, Lewis, and go and get us some coffee.’

Morse, too, was finding this period of inactivity frustrating. And a time of considerable stress, since for three whole days now he had not smoked a single cigarette, and had arrived at that crucial point where his self-mastery had already been demonstrated, his victory over nicotine finally won. So? So it was no longer a question of relapsing, of re-indulging. If he wished to re- start , though… for, in truth, the fourth day was proving even harder than the third.

The earlier wave of euphoria was ebbing still further on the fifth day, when it was his own turn to have a medical check-up, and when ten minutes before his appointment time he checked in at the Outpatients reception at the JR2 and sat down in the appropriate area to await his call, scheduled for 9.20 a.m. By some minor coincidence (yes!) this was the same time that Mr Edward Brooks had been expected for his own designated brand of Outpatient care — an appointment which had not been kept eight days earlier… and which was unkept still.

After undergoing a fairly thorough examination; after skilfully parrying the questions put to him about avoirdupois and alcohol; after politely declining a suggested consultation with a dietitian; after going along the corridor to have three further blood-samples taken — Morse was out again; out into the morning sunshine, with a new date (six whole weeks away!) written into his little blue card, and with the look of a man who feels fresh confidence in life. What was it that the doc had said?

‘You know, I’m not quite sure why, but you’re over things pretty well. You don’t deserve to be, Mr Morse; but, well, you seem surprisingly fit to me.’

Walking along to the southern car park and savouring still the happy tidings, Morse caught sight of a young woman standing at the bus-stop there. By some minor coincidence (yes!) they had earlier been present together in the same waiting-room at the Summertown Health Centre, where neither had known the other. And now, here they were together again, on the same morning, at the same time, at the same hospital, both of them (as it appeared) on their way back home.

‘Good morning, Miss Smith!’ said the cheerful Chief Inspector, taking care to articulate a clear ‘Miss’, and not (as he always saw it) the ugly, pretentious, fuzzy ‘Ms’.

Little that morning could have dampened Morse’s spirits, for the gods were surely smiling on him. Even had she ignored his greeting, he would have walked serenely past, with little sense of personal slight. Yet perhaps he would have felt a touch of disappointment too; for he had seen the sadness in her face, and knew that for a little while he wanted to be with her.

‘There’s no need really,’ she said, manoeuvring herself into the passenger seat. ‘I’m not short o’ money, you know.’

‘How long have you been waiting?’

‘Long enough! Mind if I smoke?’ she asked, as Morse turned left into Headley Way.

‘Go ahead.’

‘You want one?’

‘Er, no thanks — not for me.’

‘You do smoke, though. Else your wife does. Ashtray’s full, innit? Think I’d make a good detective?’

‘Which way’s best?’ asked Morse.

‘Left at the White Horse.’

‘Or in the White Horse, perhaps?’

‘Er, no thanks — not for me,’ she mimicked.

‘Why’s that?’

‘They’re not bloody open yet, that’s why.’ It was meant to be humorous, no doubt, but her voice was strained; and glancing sideways, Morse guessed that something was sorely wrong with her.

‘Want to tell me about it?’

‘Why the ’ell should I tell you ?’

Morse breathed in deeply as she stubbed out her cigarette with venom. ‘I think you’ve been in hospital overnight. I could see a bit of a white nightie peeping out of the hold-all. The last time we met you told me you were expecting a baby, and the JR1 is where they look after babies, isn’t it? They wouldn’t normally take a mum who’s had a miscarriage, though — that’d be the Churchill. But if you had a threatened miscarriage, with some internal bleeding, perhaps, then they might well get you into the JR1 for observation. That’s the sort of thing a policeman gets to know, over the years. And please remember,’ he added gently, ‘I only asked if you wanted to tell me about it.’

Tears coursed down cheeks that were themselves wholly devoid of make-up; washing down with them, though, some of the heavy eye-shadow from around her dull-green eyes.

‘I lost it,’ she said, finally.

For a moment or two Morse considered placing his hand very gently, very lightly on hers, but he feared that his action would be misconstrued.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply, not speaking again until he reached Princess Street.

She got out of the car and picked up her hold-all from the back. ‘Thank you.’

‘I wasn’t much help, I’m afraid. But if I can ever be of any help, you’ve only got to give me a ring.’ He wrote down his ex-directory telephone number.

‘Well, you could help now, actually. It’s a lousy little place I live in — but I’d be quite glad if you’d come in and have a drink with me.’

‘Not this morning.’

‘Why the ’ell not , for Christ’s sake? You just said to give you a ring if I needed any help — and I bloody do , OK? Now .’

‘All right. I’ll come in and have one quick drink. On one condition, though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You don’t slam the car-door. Agreed?’

‘Doesn’t seem too lousy a little place?’ suggested Morse as, whisky in hand, he leaned back in the only armchair in the only room — the fairly large room, though — which was Eleanor Smith’s bed-sitter-cum-bathroom.

‘I can assure you it is . Crawling with all those microscopic creatures — you’ve seen photographs of them?’

Morse looked at her. Was he imagining things? Hadn’t she just spoken to him with a degree of verbal and grammatical fluency that was puzzlingly at odds with her habitual mode of speech. ‘Crawlin’ wiv all them little bugs an’ things’ — wasn’t that how she’d normally have expressed herself?