Colin Dexter - Death Is Now My Neighbor

“Really. I thought it was rather nice.”

“Lew-is! He may be terrific; he may be terrible — but he’s never nice . Not Bach!”

Lewis concentrated on the busy road ahead as Morse sank back into his seat and, as was ever his wont in a car, said virtually nothing for the rest of the journey.

And yet Morse had said so many things — things upon which Lewis’s mind intermittently focused again, as far too quickly he drove down to the Chieveley junction with the M4….

Once back from Polstead Road, Friday afternoon had been very busy and, for Lewis, very interesting. It had begun with Morse asking about their present journey.

“If you had a posh car, which way would you go to Bath?”

“A34, M4, A46 — probably the best; the quickest, certainly.”

“What if you had an old banger?”

“Still go the same way, I think.”

“What’s wrong with the Burford-Cirencester way?”

“Nothing at all, if you like a bit of scenery. Or if you don’t like motorway driving.”

Then another question:

“How do we find out which bank the Storrs use?”

“Could be they have different banks, sir. Shouldn’t be too difficult, though: Lloyds, Barclays, NatWest, Midland... Shall I ring around?”

Morse nodded. “And try to find out how they’ve been spending their money recently — if it’s possible.”

“May take a bit of time, but I don’t see why not. Let me find out anyway.”

Lewis turned to go, but Morse had a further request.

“Before you do, bring me the notes you made about the Storrs’ stay in Bath last weekend. I’m assuming you’ve typed ’em up by now?”

“All done. Maybe a few spelling mistakes — a few grammatical lapses — beautifully typed, though.”

It had taken Lewis only ten minutes to discover that Mr. Julian Storrs and Mrs. Angela Storrs both banked at Lloyds. But there had been far greater difficulty in dealing with Morse’s supplementary request.

The Manager of Lloyds (Headington Branch) had been fully cooperative but of only limited assistance. It was very unusual of course, but not in cases such as this unethical , for confidential material concerning clients to be disclosed. But Lewis would have to contact Lloyds Inspection Department in Bristol.

Which Lewis had promptly done, again receiving every cooperation; also, however, receiving the disappointing news that the information required was unlikely as yet to be fully ready. With credit card facilities now almost universally available, the volume of transactions was ever growing; and with receipt items sometimes irregularly forwarded from retail outlets, and with a few inevitable checks and delays in processing and clearance — well, it would take a little time.

“Later this afternoon?” Lewis had queried hopefully.

“No chance of that, I’m afraid.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

Lewis heard a deep sigh at the other end of the line. “We don’t usually... It is very urgent, you say?”

The phone had been ringing in Morse’s office — an office minus Morse — and Lewis had taken the brief call. The postmortem on Shelly Cornford confirmed death from carbon monoxide poisoning, and completely ruled out any suspicion of foul play.

A note on yellow paper was Cellotaped to the desk:

Lewis!

— Just off to the Diab. Center (3:45)

— Yr notes on Bath most helpful, but try to get Sarah Siddons right — two d’s, please.

— Good job we’re getting a few facts straight before jumping too far ahead. Reculer pour mieux sauter!

— We’ll be jumping tomorrow A.M. tho’ to Bath. Royal Crescent informs me the Storrs — Herr und Frau — are staying there again!

— I need yr notes on Julian Storrs.

Ring me at home — after the Archers.

And on the side of the desk, a letter from the Thame and District Diabetic Association addressed to Det. Chief Inspector Morse:

Dear Sir,

Welcome to the Club! Sorry to be so quick off the mark but news travels fast in diabetic circles.

We meet on the first Thursday of each month 7:30 P.M. in the Town Hall in Thame and we shall be delighted if you can come to speak to us. We can offer no fee but we can offer a warmhearted and grateful audience.

During this last year we have been fortunate to welcome several very well known people. For example our last six speakers have been Dr. David Matthews, Lesley Hallett, Professor Harry Keane, Angela Storrs, Dr. Robert Turner, and Willie Rushton.

Please try to support us if you can. For our 1996-97 program we are still looking for speakers for October ’96 and February ’97. Any hope of you filling one of these slots?

I enclose SAE and thank you for your kind consideration...

But Lewis read only the first few lines, for never, except in the course of a criminal investigation, had he wittingly read a letter meant for the eyes of another person...

From the passenger seat Morse had still said nothing until Lewis, after turning off the M4 at Junction 18 onto the A46, was within a few miles of Bath.

“Lewis! If you had a mistress—”

“Not the milk-lady, sir. She’s far too fat for me.”

“—and, say, you were having a weekend away together and you told your missus that you were catching the train but in fact this woman was going to pick you up in her car somewhere— The Randolph, say...”

“Yes, sir?” (Was Morse getting lost?)

“Would you still go to the railway station? Would you make sure she picked you up at the railway station — not The Randolph?”

“Dunno, sir. I’ve never—”

“I know you haven’t,” snapped Morse. “Just think , man!”

So Lewis thought. And thought he saw what Morse was getting at.

“You mean it might make you feel a bit better in your own mind — feel a bit less guilty, like — if you did what you said you’d be doing — before you went?” (Was Lewis getting lost?)

“Something like that,” said Morse unenthusiastically as a sign welcomed the two detectives to the Roman City of Bath.

As soon as Lewis had stopped outside the Royal Crescent Hotel, Morse rang through on the mobile phone to the Deputy Manager, as had been agreed. No problem, it appeared. The Storrs had gone off somewhere an hour or so earlier in the BMW. The coast was clear; and Morse got out of the car and walked round to the driver’s window.

“Good luck in Bristol!”

Lewis raised two crossed fingers of his right hand, like the logo of the National Lottery, as Morse continued:

“If you find what I hope you’re going to find, the battle’s half won. And it’s mostly thanks to you.”

“No! It was you who figured it all out.”

“Wouldn’t have done, though, without all those visits of yours to Soho.”

“Pardon, sir?”

“To see the chorus line, Lewis! The chorus line at the Windmill.”

“But I’ve never—”

“ ‘Legs right up to her armpits,’ you said, right? And that was the second time you’d used those words, Lewis. Remember?”

Life, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than a neatly arranged and well-provisioned breakfast table.

Morse stood for some while on the huge slabs that form the wide pavement stretching along the whole extent of the great 500-foot curve of cinnamon-colored stone, with its identical facades of double Ionic columns, which comprise Bath’s Royal Crescent. It seemed to him a breathtaking architectural masterpiece, with the four-star hotel exactly at its center: Number 16.

He walked between the black spiked railings, through the white double doors, into the black-and-white floor-tiled, high-ceilinged entrance hall, and then to reception, where he was immediately ushered into the beige-carpeted, pine-furnished office of the Deputy Manager, just beyond.