Colin Dexter - Death Is Now My Neighbor

Sara Hickman was from Leicestershire, a tall, slimly attractive woman in her midthirties, with green eyes (just like Sister McQueen) and dark curly hair. She was dressed in a businesslike suit; she spoke in a businesslike manner; and so very clearly was she part of an extremely businesslike hotel, since manifold awards — RAC Blue Ribbons, AA Rosettes, Egon Ronay Stars — vied with each other for space around the walls.

After hesitating, finally capitulating, over the offer of coffee, Morse soon found himself listening very carefully.

Sara had, she told him, been able to reinterview almost all of the service personnel who had been on duty the previous weekend, most of whom, as it happened, were performing similar duties that present weekend. But there seemed little to add, at least in general terms, to the details earlier communicated by the Manager himself to the Thames Valley Police. One minor correction: The room the Storrs had slept in was a Standard Twin, not a Standard Double; and in fact the couple had asked for the same room again, if it was available. Which, by some strange coincidence, it was: the only Standard Twin still available in the hotel that weekend. Registration? She passed to Morse the card dated the previous Saturday, 3–2–96: Guest’s Name; Address; Telephone No.; Arrival Date; Departure Date; Nationality; Payment Type; Passport No.; Signature; Car Reg. No. — and more. All filled in with a neat, feminine, slightly forward-leaning script, in black Biro; and signed “Angela Storrs.” It would be comparatively easy to check, of course; but Morse had little or no doubt that the signature was genuine.

“The Manager told my sergeant, when he rang about last weekend, that we might be able to see some itemized bills?”

Sara Hickman smiled.

“I thought somehow you might ask for them,” she said, and now read aloud from a small sheaf of bills in front of her.

“Last Saturday night they ate at Table twenty-six, in the far corner of the restaurant. He had the Carpaccio of Beef, Truffled Noodles, and Parmesan, for his starter; for his main course, the Seabass served with Creamed Celeriac and Fennel Liqueur; Passion Fruit Mousse for sweet. She wasn’t quite so adventurous, I’m afraid: Consommé; with Baked Plaice and Green Salad for her main course; and then cream crackers and Edam — the waiter particularly remembers her asking for the Edam.”

“Good low-fat cheese they tell me,” mumbled Morse, recalling his own hard-nosed dietitian’s homily in the Geoffrey Harris Ward. And he was smiling vaguely to himself as the Deputy Manager continued:

“Now, Sunday morning. Mr. Storrs had ordered breakfasts for the two of them over the phone the previous night — at about eleven, half past — can’t be sure. He said he thought he was probably too late with the form, but he obviously had it in front of him — the night porter remembers that. He said he’d have a Full English for himself, no kidney though, with the tomato well grilled, and two fried eggs. Said his wife would go for a Continental: said she’d like cereal, Ricicles, if we’d got some — Chief Inspector, we’ve got a bigger selection of cereals than Sainsbury’s! — some brown toast and honey, the fresh fruit compote, and orange juice. Oh, yes,” Sara checked the form again, “and hot chocolate.”

“The time?” asked Morse.

“It would have been between seven-thirty and eight. We don’t serve Full English until after seven-thirty — and both breakfasts went up together.”

“And last night for dinner?”

“They didn’t eat here.”

“This morning?”

“They had breakfast in their room again. This time they filled in the form early, and left it on the doorknob outside the room. Same as before for Mr. Storrs—”

“How do you know it wasn’t for her ?”

“Well, it’s exactly what he ordered before. Here, look for yourself.”

She passed the room service order across the desk; and Morse saw the instructions: “Well grilled” against “Tomato”; no tick against “Kidney”; the figure “2” against “Eggs (fried).”

“I see what you mean,” admitted Morse. “Not even married couples have exactly the same tastes, I suppose.”

“ Especially married couples,” said Sara Hickman quietly.

Morse’s eyes continued down the form, to the Continental section, and saw the ticks against “Weetabix” (“semi-skimmed milk” written beside it), “Natural Yogurt,” “Toast (brown),” “Coffee (decaffeinated).” The black-Biro’d writing was the same as that on the registration form. Angela Storrs’ writing. Certainly.

“I shall have to have copies of these forms,” said Morse.

“Of course.” Sara got to her feet. “I’ll see that’s done straightaway. Shall we go over to the bar?”

The day was brightening.

But for Morse the day had already been wonderfully bright; had been for the past hour or so, ever since the Deputy Manager had been speaking with him.

And indeed was very shortly to be brighter still.

Queen Elizabeth the First Slept Here.

—Notice, which according to the British Tourist

Board is to be observed in approximately

2,400 residences in the United Kingdom

They walked across the splendidly tended garden area behind the main complex to the Dower House, an elegant annex wherein were situated most of the hotel’s suites and bedrooms, as well as the restaurant, the main lounge — and the bar.

Immediately inside the entrance, Morse saw the plaque (virtually a statutory requirement in Bath) commemorating a particularly eminent royal personage:

In the lounge, Morse sat down amid the unashamedly luxurious surroundings of elaborate wall lights, marble busts — and courteously prompt service, for a uniformed waitress was already standing beside them.

“What would you like to drink, sir?”

Lovely question.

As he waited for his beer, Morse looked around him; and in particular at the portrait above the fireplace there: “Lord Ellmore, 1765–1817,” the inscription read, a fat-cheeked, smooth-faced man, with a protruding lower lip, who reminded Morse unhappily of Sir Clixby Bream.

Then he walked through to the Gents in the corridor just off the lounge where the two loos stood side by side, the Men’s and the Ladies’ logos quite unequivocally distinct on their adjacent doors.

It would have been difficult even for the myopic Mrs. Adams to confuse the two, thought Morse, as he smiled and mouthed a few silent words to himself:

“Thank you! Thank you, Mrs. Arabella Adams!”

It wasn’t that she could have been certain — from some little distance? with her failing eyesight? — that the person she had seen was a man or a woman. Certainly not so far as the recognition of any facial features was concerned. Faces were notoriously difficult to distinguish, appearing so different when seen in profile, perhaps, or in the shadows, or wearing glasses. No! It was just that old Mrs. Adams had always known what men looked like, and what women looked like, since habitually the men wore trousers and the women wore skirts. But of course if someone wore trousers, that certainly didn’t prove that the wearer was a man, now did it, Morse? In fact it proved one thing and one thing only : that the person in question was wearing trousers!