Colin Dexter - The Daughters of Cain

‘Make it three-quarters of an hour, then,’ said Morse, wondering, in fact, where his wallet was, for he seldom used it when Lewis was around.

Lewis himself rang again that evening, about ten minutes after Morse had left. The path lab had confirmed that the blood found on the recovered bicycle was McClure’s; and on his way home (a little disappointed) he pushed a note to that effect through the front door of Morse’s bachelor flat — together with the newspaper cutting from the previous week’s Oxford Times received from one of his St Aldate’s colleagues:

An optimistic scheme to provide free bicycles was scrapped yesterday by the Billingdon Rural District Council.

The cycles, painted green, and repaired by young offenders on community service, were put into specially constructed stands outside the church for villagers to use and then return.

However within thirty-six hours of the scheme being launched, all twelve cycles, purchased at a cost of £1100, had disappeared.

The chair of the Council, Mrs Jean Ashton, strongly defended the initiative. ‘The bikes are still somewhere on the road,’ she maintained.

DC Watson of the Thames Valley Police agreed: ‘Most of them probably in Oxford or Banbury, resprayed a bright red.’

Ashley Davies also had repeatedly rung an Oxford number that Saturday evening, but with similar lack of success; and he (like Sergeant Lewis) felt some disappointment. Ellie had told him that she would be out all day, but suggested that he gave her a ring in the evening. His news could wait — well, it wasn’t really ‘news’, at all. He just wanted her to know how efficient he’d been.

He’d visited the plush, recently opened Register Office in New Road, where he’d been treated with courtesy and competence. In the circumstances ‘Notice by Certificate’ (he’d been informed) would be the best procedure — with Saturday, 15 October a possible, probable, marriage date, giving ample time for the requisite notices to be posted both at Bedford and at Oxford. He’d agreed to ring the Registrar the following Monday with final confirmation.

A few ‘family’ to witness the ceremony would have been nice. But, as Ashley was sadly aware, his own mother and father had long since distanced themselves from ‘that tart’; and although Ellie’s mum could definitely be counted upon, no invitation would ever be sent to her step-father — and that not just because he had left no forwarding address, but because Ellie would never allow even the mention of his name.

Only one wedding guest so far then. But it would be easy to find a few others; and anyway the legal requirement (Ellie, oddly enough, had known all about this) was only for two.

Ashley rang her number again at 10 p.m. Still no answer. And for more than a few minutes he felt a surge of jealousy as he wondered where she was, and with whom she was spending the evening.

She was nowhere to be seen in the area known as the Parsonage Bar, which (as we know) served as a combined bar and restaurant. There were, however, two temporarily unescorted young women there, one blonde, the other brunette. The former, immaculately coiffured, and dressed in a white suit, would attract interest wherever she went; the latter, her hair cut stylishly short, and dressed in a fold-over Oxford-blue creation, would perhaps attract her own fair share of attention too, but her face was turned away from Morse, and it was difficult for him to be certain.

With no real ale on offer, he ordered a glass of claret, and stood at the bar for a couple of minutes watching the main door; then sat on one of the green bar-stools for a further few minutes, still watching the main door.

But Miss Smith made no entrance.

‘Are you on your own?’

The exaggeratedly seductive voice had come from directly behind him, and Morse swivelled to find one of the two women, the brunette, climbing somewhat inelegantly on to the adjoining stool.

‘For the moment I am, yes. Er, can I buy —?’

He had been looking at her hair, a rich dark brown, with bottled-auburn highlights. But it was not her hair that had caused the mid-sentence hiatus, for now he was looking into her eyes — eyes that were sludgy-green, like the waters of the Oxford Canal.

‘Ye gods!’ he exclaimed.

‘Didn’t recognize me, did you? I’ve been sittin’ waitin’. Good job I’ve got a bit of initiative.’

‘What will you have to drink?’

‘Champagne. I fancy some champagne.’

‘Oh.’ Morse looked down at the selection of ‘Wines available by the Glass’.

‘Can’t we stretch to a bottle?’ she asked.

Morse turned over the price-list and surveyed ‘A Selection of Vintage Champagnes’, noting with at least partial relief that most of them were available in half-bottles. He pointed to the cheapest (cheapest!) of these, a Brut Premier Cru: £18.80.

‘That should be all right, perhaps?’

She smiled at him slyly. ‘You look a little shell-shocked, Inspector.’

In fact Morse was beginning to feel annoyed at the way she was mocking him, manipulating him. He’d show her!

‘Bottle of Number 19, waiter.’

Her eyebrows lifted and the green eyes glowed as if the sun were shining on the waters. She had crossed her legs as she sat on the bar-stool, and Morse now contemplated a long expanse of thigh.

‘“Barely Black” they’re called — the stockings. Sort of sexy name, isn’t it?’

Morse drained his wine, only newly aware of why Eleanor Smith could so easily have captivated ( inter alios ) Dr Felix McClure.

They sat opposite each other at one of the small circular-topped tables.

‘Cheers, Inspector.’

‘Cheers.’

He noticed how she held the champagne glass by the stem, and mentally awarded her plus-one for so doing; at the same time cancelling it with minus-one for the fingernails chewed down to the quicks.

‘It’s OK — I’m workin’ on it.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Me fingernails — you were lookin’ at ’em, weren’t you? Felix used to tell me off about ’em.’ She speared first a green, then a black olive.

‘You can’t blame me for not recognizing you. You look completely different — your hair…’

‘Yeah. Got one o’ me friends to cut it and then I washed it out — four times! — then I put some other stuff on, as near me own colour as I could get. Like it?’

She pushed her hair back from her temples and Morse noticed the amethyst earrings in the small, neat ears.

‘Is your birthday in February?’

‘I say! What a clever old stick you are.’

‘Why this… this change of heart, though?’

She shook her head. ‘Just change of appearance. You can’t change your heart. Didn’t you know that?’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Morse defensively.

‘Well, like I told you, I’m gettin’ spliced — got to be a respectable girl now — all that sort o’ thing.’

Morse watched her as she spoke and recalled from the first time he’d seen her the glossy-lipsticked mouth in the powder-pale face. But everything had changed now. The rings had gone too, at least temporarily, from her nose; and from fingers, too, for previously she had worn a whole panoply of silverish rings. Now she wore just one, a slender, elegant-looking thing, with a single diamond, on the third finger of her left hand.

‘How can I help you?’ asked Morse.

‘Well, I thought you might like to see me for starters — that wouldn’t ’ave bin no good over the blower, would it?’