Colin Dexter - Death Is Now My Neighbor

“Forget it!” snapped Morse.

He walked back up to Holywell Street, along to the red door, and rang the bell.

There was no answer.

There were no answers.

An overlipsticked middle-aged traffic warden stood beside the Jaguar.

“Is this your vehicle, sir?”

“Yes, madam. I’m just waiting for the Chief Constable. He’s,” Morse pointed vaguely toward the Sheldonian, “nearly finished in there. At any rate, I hope he bloody has! And if he hasn’t, put the bill to ’im, love — not to me!”

“Sorry!”

Morse wandered across to the green-shuttered Blackwell’s, and browsed awhile; finally purchasing the first volume of Sir Steven Runciman’s History of the Crusades.

He wasn’t quite sure why.

Then, for the third time, he walked up to the red door in Holywell Street and rang the bell.

Morse heard the news back in HQ.

From Lewis.

A body had been found in a car, on a narrow lane off New Road, in a garage rented under the name of Dr. Cornford.

For a while Morse sat silent.

“I only met him the once you know, Lewis. Well, the twice, really. He was a good man, I think. I liked him.”

“It isn’t Dr. Cornford though, sir. It’s his wife.”

Is it sin

To rush into the secret house of death

Ere death dare come to us?

“Tell me about it,” said Morse.

Seated opposite him, in the first-floor office in St. Aldates Police Station, Detective Chief Inspector Peter Warner told the story sadly and economically.

Mrs. Shelly Cornford had been found in the driving seat of her own car, reclining back, with a hosepipe through the window. The garage had been bolted on the inside. There could be little doubt that the immediate cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning from exhaust fumes. A brief handwritten note had been left on the passenger seat: “I’m so sorry, Denis, I can’t forgive myself for what I did. I never loved anyone else but you, my darling — S.” No marks of violence; 97 mg blood alcohol — the equivalent (Warner suggested) of two or three stiffish gins. Still a few unanswered questions, of course: about her previous whereabouts that day; about the purchase of the green hosepipe and the connector, both new. But suspicion of foul play? None.

“I wonder where she had a drink?” asked Morse.

“Well, if she’d walked up from Holywell Street, there’d be the King’s Arms, the White Horse, The Randolph... But you’re the expert.”

Morse asked no more questions; but sat thinking of the questionnaire he had set for the Police Gazette (it seemed so long ago): “If you could gladden your final days with one of the following...” Yes, without a doubt, if he’d been honest, Morse would have applauded Shelly Cornford’s choice. And what the hell did it matter where she’d had those few last glasses of alcohol — few last “units” rather — the measurements into which the dietitian had advised him to convert his old familiar gills and pints and quarts.

“Do you want to see her?”

Morse shook his head.

“You’d better see him , though.”

Morse nodded wearily. “Is he all right?”

“We-ell. His GP’s been in — but he refuses to take any medication. He’s in the canteen with one of the sergeants. We’ve finished with him, really.”

“Tell me about it,” urged Morse.

Denis Cornford’s voice was flat, almost mechanical, as he replied:

“On Sunday just before I met you in the pub she told me she’d been to bed with another man that morning. I hardly spoke to her after that. I slept in the spare room the last three nights.”

“The note?” asked Morse gently. “Is that what she was referring to?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing to do with anything else?”

“No.”

“She was there, in your room, just before Chapel on Sunday, wasn’t she?”

Cornford evinced no surprise.

“We’d had a few harsh words. She didn’t want to see you.”

“Do you know who the other man was?”

“Yes. Clixby Bream.”

“ She told you that, sir?”

“Yes.”

“So — so she couldn’t have had anything to do with the Owens murder?”

“No. Nor could the Master.”

“Did you have anything to do with it?”

“No.”

“Why did you go to see Owens last Thursday?”

“I knew Owens a bit through various things I did for his newspaper. That night I had to go to Kidlington — I went on the bus — the Kidlington History Society — held at the school — ‘Effects of the Enclosure Acts in Oxfordshire’ — seven o’clock to eight. He lived fairly near — five minutes’ walk away. I’d done a three-part article for him on Medieval Oxford — Owens said it needed shortening a bit — we discussed some changes — no problems. I got a bus back to Oxford — about nine.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew Owens?”

“I didn’t want to get involved.”

“What will you do now?”

“I left a note for the Master about the election.” The voice was still monotonous; the mouth dry. “I’ve withdrawn my nomination.”

“I’m so sorry about everything,” said Morse very quietly.

“Yes, I think you are, aren’t you?”

Morse left the pale, bespectacled historian staring vaguely into a cup of cold tea, like a man who is temporarily anesthetized against some overwhelming pain.

“It’s a terrible business — terrible!”

The Master poured himself a single-malt Scotch.

“Drink, Chief Inspector?”

Morse shook his head.

“Won’t you sit down?”

“No. I’ve only called to say that Dr. Cornford has just told me everything — about you and his wife.”

“Mmm.”

“We shall have to get a statement from you.”

“Why is that?”

“The time chiefly, I suppose.”

“Is it really necessary?”

“There was a murder on that Sunday morning.”

“Mmm. Was she one of your suspects?”

Morse made no direct answer. “She couldn’t have been making love to you and murdering someone else at the same time.”

“No.” The bland features betrayed no emotion; yet Morse was distastefully aware that the Master was hardly displeased with such a succinct, such an unequivocal assertion of Shelly Cornford’s innocence, since by implication it was an assertion of his own.

“I understand that Dr. Cornford has written to you, sir.”

“Exited from the lists, poor Denis, yes. That just leaves Julian Storrs. Good man though, Julian!”

Morse slowly walked to the door.

“What do you think about suicide, Sir Clixby?”

“In general?” The Master drained his tumbler, and thoughtfully considered the question. “Aristotle, you know, thought suicide a form of cowardice — running away from troubles oneself and leaving all the heartache to everybody else. What do you think?”

Morse was conscious of a deep loathing for this smooth and odious man.

“I don’t know what your particular heartache is, sir. You see I never met Mrs. Cornford myself. But I’d be surprised if she was a coward. In fact, I’ve got the feeling she was a bit of a gutsy girl.” Morse stood beside the study door, his face drawn, his nostrils distended. “And I’ll tell you something else. She probably had far more guts in her little finger than you’ve ever had in the whole of your body!”

Lewis was waiting in the Jaguar outside the Porters’ Lodge; and Morse quickly climbed into the passenger seat. His voice was still vicious:

“Get — me — out — of — here, Lewis!”