Colin Dexter - Last Seen Wearing

'How far's Gloucester Green from Baines's house?' asked Morse.

Lewis considered. 'Two, three hundred yards.'

Morse picked up the phone and rang the path lab. No. The humpbacked surgeon had not yet completed the scrutiny of various lengths of Baines's innards. No. He couldn't be more precise about the time of death. Eight to midnight. Well, if Morse were to twist his arm it might be 8.30 to 11.30—even 11.00, perhaps. Morse cradled the phone, stared up at the ceiling for a while, and then nodded slowly to himself.

'You know, Lewis, the trouble with alibis is not that some people have 'em and some people don't. The real trouble is that virtually no one's likely to have a really water-tight alibi. Unless you've been sitting all night handcuffed to a couple of high court judges, or something.'

'You think Phillipson could have murdered Baines, then?'

'Of course he could.'

Lewis put his notebook away. 'How did you get on with the Taylors, sir?'

Morse recounted his own interview with George Taylor, and Lewis listened carefully.

'So he could have murdered Baines, too.'

Morse shrugged noncommittally. 'How far's the Jericho Arms from Baines's place?'

'Quarter of a mile — no more.'

'The suspects are beginning to queue up, aren't they, Lewis?'

'Is Mrs. Taylor a suspect?'

'Why not? As far as I can see, she'd have had no trouble at all. Left Bingo at 9.00 p.m. and called in at the Jericho Arms at 9.30 p.m. or so. On the way she walks within a couple of hundred yards of Baines's place, eh? And where does it all leave us? If Baines was murdered at about 9.30 last night — what have we got? Three of 'em — all with their telephone numbers on Baines's little list.'

'And there's Acum, too, sir. Don't forget him.'

Morse looked at his watch. It was 8.00 p.m. 'You know, Lewis, it would be a real turn-up for the books if Acum was playing darts in the Jericho Arms last night, eh? Or sitting at a Bingo board in the Town Hall?'

'He'd have a job wouldn't he, sir? He's in Caernarfon.'

'I'll tell you one thing for sure, Lewis. Wherever Acum was last night he wasn't in Caernarfon.'

He picked up the phone and dialled a number. The call was answered almost immediately.

'Hello?' The line crackled fitfully, but Morse recognized the voice.

'Mrs. Acum?'

Yes. Who is it?'

'Morse. Inspector Morse. You remember, I rang you up—'

'Yes, of course I remember.'

'Is your husband in yet?'

'No. I think I mentioned to you, didn't I, that he wouldn't be back until late tonight?'

'How late will he be?'

'Not too late, I hope.'

'Before ten?'

'I hope so.'

'Has he got far to travel?'

'Quite a long way, yes.'

'Look, Mrs. Acum. Can you please tell me where your husband has been?'

'I told you. He's been on a teachers' conference. Sixth form French.'

'Yes. But where exactly was that?'

'Where? I'm not quite sure where he was staying.'

Morse was becoming impatient. 'Mrs. Acum, you know what I mean. Where was the conference? In Birmingham?'

'Oh, I'm sorry. I see what you mean. It was in Oxford, actually.'

Morse turned to Lewis and his eyebrows jumped an inch. 'In Oxford, you say?'

'Yes. Lonsdale College.'

'I see. Well, I'll ring up again — about ten. Will that be all right?'

'Is it urgent, Inspector?'

'Well, let's say it's important, Mrs. Acum.'

'All right, I'll tell him. And if he gets back before ten, I'll ask him to ring you.'

Morse gave her his number, rang off, and whistled softly. 'It gets curiouser and curiouser, does it not, Lewis? How far is Lonsdale College from Kempis Street?'

'Half a mile?'

'One more for the list, then. Though I suppose Acum's got just as good, or just as bad, an alibi as the rest of'em.'

'Haven't you forgotten one possible suspect, sir?'

'Have I?' Morse looked at his sergeant in some surprise.

'Mrs. Phillipson, sir. Two young children, soon in bed, soon asleep. Husband safely out of the way for three hours or so. She's got as good a motive as anybody, hasn't she?'

Morse nodded. 'Perhaps she's got a better motive than most.' He nodded again and looked sombrely at the carpet.

With a startling suddenness, a large spider darted across the floor with a brief, electric scurry— and, as suddenly, stopped — frozen into a static, frightening immobility. A fat-bodied, long-legged spider, the angular joints of the hairy limbs rising high above the dark squat body. Another scurry — and again the frozen immobility — more frightening in its stillness than in its motion. It reminded Morse of a game he used to play at children's parties called 'statues'; the music suddenly stopped and — still! Freeze! Don't move a muscle! Like the spider. It was almost at the skirting board now, and Morse seemed mesmerized. He was terrified of spiders.

'Did you see that whopper in Baines's bath?' asked Lewis.

'Shut up, Lewis. And put your foot on the bloody thing, quick!'

'Mustn't do that, sir. He's got a wife and kids waiting for him somewhere.' He bent down and slowly moved his hand towards the spider; and Morse shut his eyes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

John and Mary are each given 20p.

John gives 1p to Mary.

How much more does Mary have than John?

(Problem set in the 11+ examination)

THE URGE TO GAMBLE is so universal, so deeply embedded in unregenerate human nature that from the earliest days the philosophers and moralists have assumed it to be evil. Cupiditas, the Romans called it — the longing for the things of this world, the naked, shameless greed for gain. It is the cause, perhaps, of all our troubles. Yet how easy it remains to understand the burning envy, felt by those possessing little, for those endowed with goods aplenty. And gambling? Why, gambling offers to the poor the shining chance of something got for nothing.

Crude analysis! For to some it is gambling itself, the very process and the very practice of gambling that is so immensely pleasurable. So pleasurable indeed that gambling needs, for them, no spurious raison d'etre whatsoever, no necessary prospect of the jackpots and the windfalls and the weekends in Bermuda; just the heady, heavy opiate of the gambling game itself with the promise of its thousand exhilarating griefs and dangerous joys. Win a million on the wicked spinning-wheel tonight, and where are you tomorrow night but back around the wicked spinning-wheel?

Every society has its games, and the games are just as revealing of the society as are its customs — for in a sense they are its customs: heads or tails, and rouge ou noir, and double or quits and clunk, clunk, clunk, in the pay-off tray as the triple oranges align themselves along the fruit machine; and odds of 10 to 1 as the rank outsider gallops past the post at Kempton Park; and then came the first, saying, Lord, thy pound hath gained ten pounds. And he said unto him, Well done, thou good servant: because thou hast been faithful in a very little, have thou authority over ten cities. And once a week, a hope a light-year distant, of half a million pounds for half a penny stake, where happiness is a line of Xs and a kiss from a buxom beauty queen. For some are lucky at the gambling game. And some are not, and lose more than they can properly afford and try to recoup their losses and succeed only in losing the little that is left; and finally, alas, all hope abandoned, sit them down alone in darkened garages and by the gas rings in the kitchens, or simply slit their throats — and die. And some smoke fifty cigarettes a day, and some drink gin or whisky; and some walk in and out of betting shops, and the wealthier reach for the phone.

But what wife can endure a gambling husband, unless he be a steady winner? And what husband will ever believe his wife has turned compulsive gambler, unless she be a poorer liar than Mrs. Taylor is. And Mrs. Taylor dreams she dwells in Bingo halls.