Colin Dexter - The Remorseful Day

“How do you know all that?”

“You can’t do everything yourself, Lewis.”

“Dixon, you mean?”

“Good man, Dixon! So we’re going to see her tonight. Just you and I.”

“You think Simon murdered his mum.”

“No doubt about that. Not any longer, Lewis,” said Morse quietly.

“Just because he found her in bed with someone...”

“With Barron. I know that, Lewis.”

Never before had Lewis been so hesitant in asking Morse a question:

“Did... did Mrs. Harrison ever tell you that she was... seeing Barron?”

Morse hesitated — hesitated for far too long.

“No. No, she never told me that.”

Lewis waited a while, choosing his words carefully and speaking them slowly: “If she had told you, would you have been as jealous as Simon Harrison?”

Again Morse hesitated. “Jealousy is a dreadfully corrosive thing. The most powerful motive of all, in my view, for murder — more powerful than—”

The phone rang once more and Morse answered.

Kershaw.

“They’ll soon be winging their way across the channel, sir. Anything more you want me to do?”

“Yes. Have a pint of beer, just the one, then bugger off home.”

Morse put down the phone.

“Good man, Kershaw! Bit of an old woman though. Reminds me of my Aunt Gladys in Alnwick, my last remaining relative. Well, she was. Dead now.”

“I think he’ll do well, yes.”

“Kershaw? Should do. He got a First in History from Keble.”

“Bit more than me, sir.”

“Bit more than me, Lewis.”

The phone was ringing again.

Strange.

“Morse? You’ve let him out of the country, I hear?”

“Yes. We need a bit more time and a bit more evidence before we bring him in.”

“I agree,” said Strange, unexpectedly. “No good just...”

“He’ll be back for the day of reckoning.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“And in the interim?”

“He’ll be having a beano — kisses, wine, roses. ‘But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire...’ You know the Dowson poem, sir?”

“Course I bloody do!”

“Well, I don’t think he’ll ever be really happy with any of these other women of his.”

“This one sounds like a bit of all right though.”

“I’d still like to bet he wakes up in the small hours sometimes and thinks back on the woman he loved more than any of them, feeling a bit desolate—”

“—and sick of an old passion.”

“Exactly.”

“Yvonne, you mean?”

“No, not Yvonne, sir. Elizabeth — Elizabeth Jane Thomas.”

Sylvia Marsden (née Prentice) was temporarily living with her mother in a pleasantly appointed semi on a housing estate at Witney. And it was her mother (Lewis had phoned earlier) who had answered the door and shown the two detectives into the lounge where the buxom Sylvia, blouse open, was breast-feeding a very new baby — not in the slightest degree disconcerted to be thus interrupted in her maternal ministrations, one hand splayed across an engorged nipple, the fingers of the other playing lovingly around the lips of the suckling infant.

An awkwardly embarrassed Morse moved slowly round the room, simulating deep interest in the tasteless bric-a-brac that cluttered every surface and shelf in the brightly decorated room; whilst Lewis stood above the mother and child, smiling quasi-paternally and drawing the back of his right index finger lightly across the cherubic cheek:

“Little treasure, isn’t he? What’s his name?”

“She’s a she, actually — aren’t you, Susie?”

“Ah yes, of course!”

Morse temporarily declined to take a seat but accepted, strangely enough, the offer of coffee, and began his questioning whilst looking through the window on to the neatly kept back garden.

“We’re just having to make one or two further inquiries, Mrs. Marsden—”

“Call me Sylvia!”

“It’s about one of your former boyfriends—”

“Simon, yes, I know. That Sergeant Dixon told me. Nice man, isn’t he? He got on ever so well with Mum.”

Morse nodded, aware of the probable reason. “It’s a long time ago now, I realize...”

“Not really. Not for me it isn’t. The night Simon’s mum was murdered? Can’t forget something like that, can you?”

“That’s good news, Sylvia. Now that night, that evening, the 9th—”

“Oh no! You’ve got it wrong. It was the 8th — the night Mrs. Harrison was murdered. I’m quite sure of that. My birthday, wasn’t it? Simon took me to the ABC in Oxford. Super film! All about these male strippers—”

“Did the police ever ask you about it?”

“No. Why should they?”

Sylvia rebuttoned her blouse, and as Morse turned at last to face her, Lewis could see the disappointment on his face.

Mrs. Prentice (née Jones), who had clearly been listening keenly from the adjacent kitchen, now brought in two cups of coffee. “I can remember that,” she volunteered. “Like she says, that was your birthday, wasn’t it, Sylv?”

“How did you find Simon, Mrs. Prentice?” asked Lewis.

“I liked him. He used to come in sometimes but I think he felt a bit... you know, with his hearing.”

“He didn’t come in that night?”

“No. I remember it well. Like Sylv says — well, not something you forget, is it? I saw him though, after he’d brought her back. And I heard the pair of ‘em whispering on the doorstep. Nice boy, really. Could have done worse, couldn’t you, Sylv?”

“I did better , Mum, OK?”

Clearly there was less than complete family agreement on the merits of baby Susie’s official father and Morse swallowed his coffee quickly and, as ever, Lewis followed his chief’s lead dutifully.

In the car outside they sat for some time in silence.

“You knew it was the 8th, sir. Why—?”

“Just to test her memory.”

There was another long silence.

“Looks as if we’ve been wrong, sir.”

“Looks as if I’ve been wrong.”

“Alibis don’t come much better than that.”

“No.”

“You know when Mrs. Whatshername said she heard the pair of ‘em whispering outside, she probably heard more of the conversation than Simon ever did!”

Morse nodded with a wry grin. “You don’t think there’s any chance that somebody bribed our Sylvia and Sylvia’s mum...?”

“Not the remotest. Do you?”

“No.”

“Where do we go from here, sir?”

“You can drop me off at the Woodstock Arms or...”

“No. I meant with the case , sir.”

“... or perhaps the Maiden’s Arms.”

It seemed that Morse was hardly listening.

“I know you’re disappointed, sir, but—”

“Disappointed? Nonsense!”

Some light-footed mouse had just scuttled across his scapulae; and when Lewis turned to look at him, it seemed as if someone had switched the electric current on behind his eyes.

“Yes, Lewis. Just drive me out to Lower Swinstead.”

Unwontedly in a car, Morse was almost continuously talkative as they drove along: “Do you know that lovely line of Thomson’s about villages ‘embosomed soft in trees’?”