Colin Dexter - Death Is Now My Neighbor

“Oh!”

“Do you believe me?”

“Would Mrs. Storrs remember... as clearly as you, sir?”

Storrs gave a slightly bitter-sounding laugh. “Why don’t you ask her? Shall I tell her to come through? I’ll leave you alone.”

“Yes, I think that would be helpful.”

Storrs got to his feet and walked toward the door.

“Just one more question, sir.” Lewis too rose to his feet. “Don’t you think you were awfully naive to send off that money? I think anyone could have told you you weren’t going to get anything back — except another blackmail note.”

Storrs walked back into the room.

“Are you a married man, Sergeant?”

“Yes.”

“How would you explain — well, say a photograph like the one you showed me?”

Lewis took out the passport photo again.

“Not too difficult, surely? You’re a well-known man, sir — quite a distinguished-looking man, perhaps? So let’s just say one of your admiring undergraduettes sees you at a railway station and says she’d like to have a picture taken with you. You know, one of those ‘Four color photos in approximately four minutes’ places. Then she could carry the pair of you around with her, like some girls carry pictures of pop stars around.”

Storrs nodded. “Clever idea! I wish I’d thought of it. Er... can I ask you a question?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you still only a sergeant?”

Lewis made no comment on the matter, but asked a final question:

“You’re standing for the Mastership at Lonsdale, I understand, sir?”

“Ye-es. So you can see, can’t you, why all this business, you know...?”

“Of course.”

Storrs’ face now suddenly cleared.

“There are just the two of us: Dr. Cornford — Denis Cornford — and myself. And may the better man win!”

He said it lightly, as if the pair of them were destined to cross swords in a mighty game of Scrabble — and called through to Angela, his wife.

Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half shut afterward.

In Oxford that same early evening the clouds were inkily black, the forecast set for heavy rain, with most of those walking along Broad Street or around Radcliffe Square wearing raincoats and carrying umbrellas. The majority of these people were students making their way to College Halls for their evening meals, much as their predecessors had done in earlier times, passing through the same streets, past the same familiar buildings, and later returning to the same sort of accommodation, and in most cases doing some work for the morrow, when they would be listening to the same sort of lectures. Unless, perhaps, they were students of Physics or some similar discipline where breakthroughs (“Breaksthrough, if we are to be accurate, dear boy”) were as regular as inaccuracies in the daily weather forecasts.

But that evening the forecast was surprisingly accurate; and at 6:45 P.M. the rains came.

Denis Cornford looked out through the window at Holywell Street where the rain bounced off the surface of the road like arrowheads. St. Peter’s (Dinner, 7:00 for 7:30 P.M.) was only ten minutes’ walk away but he was going to get soaked in such a downpour.

“What do you think, darling?”

“Give it five minutes. If it keeps on like this, I should get a cab. You’ve got plenty of time.”

“What’ll you be doing?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t think I’ll be venturing out too far, do you?” She said it in a gentle way, and there seemed no sarcasm in her voice. She came up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders as he stood indecisively staring out through the sheeted panes.

“Denis?”

“Mm?”

“Do you really want to be Master all that much?”

He turned toward her and looked directly into her dazzlingly attractive dark eyes, with that small circular white light in the center of their irises — eyes which had always held men, and tempted them, and occasioned innumerable capitulations.

“Yes, Shelly. Yes, I do! Not quite so badly as Julian, perhaps. But badly enough.”

“What would you give — to be Master?”

“Most things, I suppose.”

“Give up your work?”

“A good deal of that would go anyway. It would be different work, that’s all.”

“Would you give me up?”

He took her in his arms. “Of course, I would!”

“You don’t really mean—?”

He kissed her mouth with a strangely passionate tenderness.

A few minutes later they stood arm-in-arm at the window looking out at the ceaselessly teeming rain.

“I’ll ring for a cab,” said Shelly Cornford.

On Mondays the dons’ attendance at Lonsdale Dinner was usually fairly small, but Roy Porter would be there, Angela Storrs knew that: Roy Porter was almost always there. She rang him in his room at 6:55 P.M.

“Roy?”

“Angela! Good to hear your beautiful voice.”

“Flattery will get you exactly halfway between nowhere and everywhere.”

“I’ll settle for that.”

“You’re dining tonight?”

“Yep.”

“Would you like to come along afterward and cheer up a lonely old lady.”

“Julian away?”

“Some Brains Trust at Reading University.”

“Shall I bring a bottle?”

“Plenty of bottles here.”

“Marvelous.”

“Nine-ish?”

“About then. Er... Angela? Is it something you want to talk about or is it just...?”

“Why not both?”

“You want to know how things seem to be going with the election?”

“I’m making no secret of that.”

“You do realize I don’t know anything definite at all?”

“I don’t expect you to. But I’d like to talk. You can understand how I feel, can’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And I’ve been speaking to Julian. There are one or two little preferments perhaps in the offing, if he’s elected.”

“Really?”

“But like you, Roy, I don’t know anything definite.”

“I understand. But it’ll be good to be together again.”

“Oh, yes. Have a drink or two together.”

“Or three?”

“Or four?” suggested Angela Storrs, her voice growing huskier still.

The phone rang at 7:05 P.M.

“Shelly?”

“Yes.”

“You’re on your own?”

“You know I am.”

“Denis gone?”

“Left fifteen minutes ago.”

“One or two things to tell you, if we could meet?”

“What sort of things?”

“Nothing definite. But there’s talk about a potential benefaction from the States, and one of the trustees met Denis — met you , I gather, too — and, well, I can tell you all about it when we meet.”

“ All about it?”

“It’s a biggish thing, and I think we may be slightly more likely to pull it off, perhaps, if Denis...”

“And you’ll be doing your best?”

“I can’t promise anything.”

“I know that.”

“So?”

“So?”

“So you’re free and I’m free.”

“On a night like this? Far too dangerous. Me coming to the Master’s Lodge? No chance.”

“I agree. But, you see, one of my old colleagues is off to Greece — he’s left me his key — just up Banbury Road — lovely comfy double bed — crisp clean sheets — central heating — en suite facilities — mini bar. Tariff? No pounds, no shillings, no pence.”

“You remember predecimalization?”

“I’m not too old, though, am I? And I’d just love to be with you now, at this minute. More than anything in the world.”

“You ought to find a new variation on the theme, you know! It’s getting a bit of a cliché.”