Colin Dexter - Morse’s Greatest Mystery and other stories

Stupid.

Both of them had called me stupid.

On that same Saturday night — or rather in the early hours of the Sunday morning — I waited with great patience for the light to be switched off in the master bedroom. (You remember it?)

If they were not in the same bed at least they were in the same bedroom, since I had seen the two figures silhouetted several times behind the curtains.

I further waited one whole hour, to the minute, before moving soundlessly along the side of the house and then into the rear garden where I stooped down beside the conservatory door.

Good old Boswell! (Remember him?) I almost hoped he’d decided to sleep out in the open that night.

I struck one of the extra-large Bryant & May matches. (Remember them?) And shielding the flame I pushed my hand slowly through the cat-flap.

Behind the glass-panelled door I could see the loose sheets of paper (so carefully stacked) catching light almost immediately.

No more than ten seconds later I felt rather than heard the sudden “whoosh” of some powerful updraught as a tongue of flame licked viciously at the items (so carefully stacked) beside the conservatory door.

The colour of the blaze reminded me so very much of Boswell’s eyes.

I departed swiftly via the front path before turning round fifty or so yards down the road.

The window of the master bedroom was still in darkness. But at the rear of the house I had the impression that although it was still only 2:15 A.M. the rosy-fingered dawn was beginning to break already.

It was big news.

Headlined in Monday’s edition of The Oxford Mail, for example, I read:

It seems unlikely that the burned-out shell of the listed thatch-and-timber property in Squitchey Lane (picture p. 2) will provide too many clues to the cause of the fire. The blaze spread with such rapid intensity that...

My eyes skipped on to the next paragraph:

The remains of two bodies, charred beyond all chance of recognition, have been recovered from a first-floor bedroom and it is feared that these are the bodies of Mr. J. Speneer-Gilbey and of his wife Valerie. Mr. Spencer-Gilbey had just returned from America where...

But I wasn’t really interested about where.

So I turned to look at the picture on page two.

It hadn’t after all seemed worthwhile to turn up at the Bird and Baby the previous day. So I hadn’t gone.

You can see why.

The fire was still big (bigger) news in the Tuesday evening’s edition of The Oxford Mail:

The Oxford City Police were amazed to receive a call late yesterday evening from Heathrow. The caller was Mr. John Spencer-Gilbey who, it had been assumed, had perished with his wife in the fire which completely destroyed their home in Squitchey Lane, Oxford, in the early hours of Sunday morning.

Mr. Spencer-Gilbey had been expected back in England on Saturday from a lecture tour in America. However it now appears that industrial action by air-traffic controllers on the western seaboard of America had effected the cancellation of the original flight, and Mr. Spencer-Gilbey told the police that he had earlier rung his wife to inform her of the rescheduling of his return to England.

A police spokesman told our reporter that several aspects of the situation were quite extraordinarily puzzling and that further enquiries were being pursued. The police appeal to anyone who might have been in or near Squitchey Lane in the late evening of Saturday 13th or the early morning of Sunday 14th to come forward to try to assist in these enquiries. Please ring (0865) 266000.

“... he had earlier rung his wife...”

Yes.

And he had also rung me.

For a start I was tempted to “come forward” myself — over the phone and anonymously — with a tentative (hah!) suggestion about the identity of that second fire-victim.

God rot his lecherous soul!

But I shan’t make that call.

One call I shall quite certainly make though. Once the dust, once the ashes have started to settle.

You see, I think that a meeting between the two of us could possibly be of some value after all. Don’t you?

And even as I write I almost hear the words that I shall use:

“John? Sunday? The usual? Twelve noon in the back room of the Bird and Baby? Please be there!”

Yes, John, please be there — for both our sakes...

Lewis came into Morse’s office just before four o’clock that afternoon.

“Not much to report, sir. There’s a card on the notice-board there — looks as if it might be from a boyfriend.”

“I saw it.”

“And there’s this — I reckon it’s probably in the same handwriting.”

Lewis handed over a postcard showing a caparisoned camel standing in front of a Tashkent mosque. On the back Morse read the brief message: “Travelling C 250 K E.”

“What’s that all about, do you think, sir?”

Morse shook his head: “Dunno. Probably the number of the aeroplane or the flight number or... something. Where did you find it, anyway?”

“There was an atlas there and I was looking up that place — you know, Erzincan. The postcard was stuck in there. You know, like a sort of marker.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t you want to know where Erzincan is?”

“No. I looked it up when I got back here.”

“Oh.”

With a glint of triumph in his eyes, Morse now picked up the pink folder containing the Sheila Poster story and quickly explained its provenance.

“I want you to read this.”

“What, now , sir?”

“Did you think I meant on your summer holidays?”

“I’m a slow reader, you know that.”

“So am I.”

“You want me to read it here ?”

“No. I’ve got things to be getting on with here. Go and have a sandwich. And take your time. Enough clues there to fill a crossword puzzle.”

After Lewis had gone, Morse looked at his watch and started on The Times crossword.

When, eleven minutes later, he filled in the four blanks left, in — E-S-I-, he knew he should have been quicker in solving that final clue: “Gerry-built semi is beginning to collapse in such an upheaval” (7).

Not bad, though.

A further hour passed before Lewis returned from the canteen and sat down opposite his chief.

“Lot’s o’ clues, you’re right, sir. Probably made everything up, though, didn’t she?”

“Not everything , not by a long chalk — not according to Diogenes Small.”

“According to who, sir?”

“To whom , Lewis — please!”

“Sorry, sir. I’m getting better about spelling, though. She made one mistake herself, didn’t she?”

“Don’t you start making things up!” Morse passed a handwritten list across the desk. “You just rope in Dixon and Palmer — and, well, we can get through this little lot in no time at all.”

Lewis nodded: “Have the case sewn up before the pubs close.”

For the first time that day there appeared a genuine smile on Morse’s face. “And these are only the obvious clues. You’ll probably yourself have noticed a good many clues that’ve escaped my notice.”

“Temporarily escaped,” muttered Lewis, as he looked down at Morse’s notes:

— Names (road, house, people): all phoney, like as not?

— Gazette: same ad you found? check

— Mr. X (potential father): an academic surely? lecture tour of USA?