The Riddle Of The Third Mile (5 page)

‘Nice?’

‘Lovely!’

‘Just relax!’ She insinuated her hands beneath the towelling and massaged his shoulders with the tips of her strong and beautifully manicured fingers, working down from the neck towards the armpits-repeatedly, gently, sensually. And then, as she’d done a thousand tunes before, she walked round the couch and stood at his side, leaning over him, the top two buttons of her tunic already unfastened.

‘Would you like me to undress while I massage you?’ Wonderful question! And almost invariably an offer that couldn’t be refused, even when the price of such an optional extra was clearly stated in advance.

It was a surprise to the woman, therefore, when her apparently pliable and co-operative client had slowly sat up, swung his legs off the couch, leaned forward to fasten the buttons of her tunic, pulled the white towelling back over his shoulders, and said ‘No’.

But there followed an even bigger surprise.

‘Look! I think I know you, and I certainly knew your father. Is it safe to talk here?’

Her father! Yes, she could still remember him. Those interminable rows she had heard so often from her lonely bedroom when the amiable drunkard had finally reached home from the local-rows apparently forgotten by the following dawns, when the household moved about its normal business. Then, in 1939, he had been called up in the army, when she had been only eight years old; and his death, three years later, had seemed to her little more than the indefinite prolongation of an already lengthy period of absence from her life. There had been many reminders of him, of course: photographs, letters, clothes, shoes. But, truth to tell, the death of her father had been an event that was less than tragic and only dimly comprehended. But it had been otherwise for her mother, who had wept so often through those first few weeks and months. And it was largely to try to compensate for such an uneven burden of things that the young girl had tried so very hard with her schoolwork, helped so regularly with the housework, and even (later on) kept in check those symptoms of teenage rebelliousness that had threatened to swamp all sense of filial piety. As the years went by, she had gradually taken over everything from an increasingly neurotic and feckless mother, who had sunk into premature senility by her early fifties, arid into her grave before reaching her sixtieth year.

When the man had fastened up her buttons, she had felt belittled and cheap-on the wrong side of the habitual transaction. But she also felt deeply interested.

‘Yes, it’s safe,’ she said, finally answering his question.

‘No microphones? No two-way mirrors?’

She shook her head. ‘About my father-’

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

She looked at him: a man over sixty, perhaps; fairly well-preserved by the look of him; head balding, teeth nicotined, jowls blue, chin somewhat sagging, but the mouth still firm and not without some sensitivity. No, she couldn’t remember him.

‘I called at your house once, but that was a long time ago. You were, I don’t know, fifteen or sixteen-still at school, anyway, because your mother asked you to go and do your homework in the kitchen. It was the year after the war was over, and I’d known your father – we were in the same mob together. In fact, I was with him when he died.’

‘What do you want?’ she asked abruptly.

‘I want you to do something for me – something you’ll be paid for doing-paid very well.’

‘What-?’

But he held up his hand. ‘Not now! You’re living at 23A Colebourne Road-is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d like to come and see you, if I may.’

He had come the next evening, and talked whilst she listened. And, when she’d expressed her willingness to do what he asked, a deal was done, a partial payment made. And now, this very day, she had acted the role that he had asked of her, and the final payment had been made. A lot of easy money for a little easy work, and yet…

Yes, it was that little ‘and yet’ that caused her mind to fill with nagging doubts as she sat and sipped her China tea. She knew
enough,
of course-she’d insisted on that. But perhaps she should have insisted on knowing more, especially about the sequel to her own performance in the drama. They couldn’t -they wouldn’t, surely-have…
killed him?

Her lips felt dry, and she reached for her handbag, opened the flap, and delved around for a few seconds before unscrewing a circular container-for the second time that day.

On the fifth morning after the events described in the preceding chapter, Detective Chief Inspector Morse, of the Thames Valley Constabulary, was seated in his office at Kidlington, Oxon. One half of him was semi-satisfied with the vagaries of his present existence; the other half was semi-depressed. Earlier that very morning he had sworn himself a solemn vow that the day ahead would be quite different. His recent consumption of food, tobacco, and alcohol had varied only within the higher degrees of addictive excess; and now, at the age of fifty-two, he had once again decided that a few days of virtually total abstinence was urgently demanded by stomach, lungs, and liver alike. He had arrived at his office, therefore, unbreakfasted, having already thrown away a half-full packet of cigarettes, and having left his half-empty wallet on the bedside-table. Get thou behind me, Satan! And, indeed, things had gone surprisingly well until about 11.30 a.m., when the Master of Lonsdale had rung through to HQ and invited Morse down to lunch with him.

‘Half-past twelve-in my rooms-all right? We can have a couple of snifters first.’

‘I’d like that,’ Morse heard himself saying.

As he walked towards the Master’s rooms in the first quad, Morse passed two young female students chattering to each other like a pair of monkeys.

‘But surely
Rosemary’s
expecting a first, isn’t she? If she doesn’t get one-’

‘No. She told me that she’d made a
terrible
mess of the General Paper.’

‘So did I.’

‘And
me!’

‘She’ll be awfully disappointed, though…’

Yes, life was full of disappointments, Morse knew that better than most; and, as he half-turned, he watched the two young, lovely ladies as they walked out through the Porter’s Lodge. They must be members of the college- two outward and happily visible signs of the fundamental change of heart that had resulted in the admission of women to these erstwhile wholly. masculine precincts. Now when he himself had been up at St John’s…But, abruptly, he switched off the memories of those dark, disastrous days.

‘What’ll it be, Morse? No beer, I’m afraid but-gin and tonic-gin and French?’

‘Gin and French-lovely!’ Morse reached over and took a cigarette from the well-stocked open box on the table.

The Master beamed in avuncular fashion as he poured his mixtures with a practised hand. He had changed little in the ten years or so that Morse had known him: going to fat a little, but as distinguished-looking a man now, in his late fifties, as he had been in his late forties; a tall man, with that luxuriant grey hair still framing the large head; the suits (famed throughout the University) as flamboyant as ever they were, and today eye-catchingly complemented by a waistcoat of green velvet. A successful man, and a proud man. A Head of a House.

‘You’ve got women here now, I see,’ said Morse.

‘Yes, old boy. We were almost the last to give in-but, well, it’s been a good thing on the whole. Very good, some of them.’

‘Good-looking, you mean?’

The Master smiled. ‘A few.’

‘They sleep in?’

‘Some of them. Still, some of them always did, didn’t they?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Morse; and his mind drifted back to those distant days just after the war, when he had come up to Oxford with an exhibition in Classics from one of the Midland grammar schools.

‘Couple of firsts this year-among the girls, I mean. One in Greats, one in Geography. Not bad, eh? In fact the Classics girl, Jane-’ Suddenly the Master stopped and leaned forward earnestly, awkwardly twiddling the large, onyx dress-ring on the little finger of his left hand. ‘Look Morse! I shouldn’t have said-what I just said. The class-lists won’t be out for another week or ten days-’

Morse waved his right hand across the space between them, as though any mental recollection of the indiscretion had already been expunged. ‘I didn’t hear a word you said, Master. I know what you were going to tell me, though.’

‘Oh?’

‘She’s got the top first in the University, and she’ll soon get a summons for a congratulatory viva. Right?’

The Master nodded. ‘Super girl-bit of a honey, too, Morse. You’d have liked her.’

‘Still would, I shouldn’t wonder.’

The Master’s eyes were twinkling with merriment now. How he enjoyed Morse’s company!

‘She’ll probably marry some lecherous sod,’ continued Morse, ‘and end up with half a dozen whining infants.’

‘You’re not exactly full of the joys of summer.’

‘Just envious. Still there are more important things in life than getting a first in Greats.’

‘Such as?’

Morse considered the question a few moments before shaking his head. ‘I dunno.’

‘I’ll tell you one thing. There’s not likely to be anything much more important for
her.
We shall probably offer her a junior fellowship here.’

‘You mean you’ve already offered her one.’

‘Please don’t forget, will you, that I-er-I shouldn’t have said anything about all this. I’m normally very discreet.’

‘Must be the drink,’ said Morse, looking down into his empty glass.

‘Same again? Mixture about right?’

‘Fraction more gin, perhaps?’ Morse reached for another cigarette as the Master refilled the glasses. ‘I suppose she could take her pick of all the undergrads?’

‘And
the dons!’

‘You never married, did you, Master.’

‘Nor did you.’

For some minutes the two of them sat silently sipping. Then Morse asked: ‘Has she got a mother?’

‘Jane Summers, you mean?’

‘You didn’t mention her surname before.’

‘Odd question! I don’t know. I expect so. She’s only, what, twenty-two, twenty-three. Why do you ask?’

But Morse was hardly listening. In the quad outside it had been comparatively easy to pull the curtain across the painful memories. But now? Not so! His eyes seemed on the point of shedding a gin-soaked tear as he thought again of his own sad days at Oxford…

‘You listening?’

‘Pardon?’ said Morse.

‘You don’t seem to be paying much attention to what I’m saying.’

‘Sorry! Must be the booze.’ His glass was empty again and the Master needed no prompting.

‘Will you keep a gentle eye on things for me, then? You see, I’m probably off myself this weekend for a few days.’

‘Few weeks, do you mean?’

‘I’m not sure yet. But if you could just, as I say, keep an eye on things – you’d put my mind at rest.’

‘Keep an eye on
what
’

‘Well, it’s just-so
unlike
Browne-Smith, that’s all. He’s the most pedantic and pernickity fellow in the University. It’s-it’s odd. No arrangements, none. Just this note left at the lodge. No apology for absence from the college meeting; nothing to the couple of students he’d arranged to see.’

‘You’ve got the note?’

The Master took a folded sheet from his dove-grey jacket and handed it over:

Please keep any mail for me here. I shall be away for several days. Sudden irresistable offer-quite out of the blue. Tell my scout to look after my effects,,i.e. to keep the rooms well dusted, put the laundry through and cancel all meals until further notice.

B-S

Morse felt a tingle in his veins as he read through the brief, typewritten message. But he said nothing.

‘You see,’ said the Master, ‘I just don’t think he wrote that.’

‘No?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘When did the Lodge get this?’

‘Monday morning-two days ago.’

‘And when was he last seen here?’

‘Last Friday. In the morning, it was. He left college at about quarter-past eight, to catch the London train. One of the fellows here saw him on the station.’

‘Did this note come through the post?’

‘No. The porter says it was just left there.’

‘Why are you so sure he didn’t write it?’

‘He just
couldn’t
have written it. Look, Morse, I’ve known him for twenty-odd years, and there was never a man, apart from Housman, who was so contemptuous about any solecism in English usage. He was almost paranoiac about things like that. You see, he always used to draft the minutes of the college meetings, and even a comma out of place in the final version would bring down the wrath of the gods on the college secretary. He even used to type a draft before he’d put a bloody notice on the board!’

Morse looked at the letter again. ‘You mean he’d have put commas after “sudden”-and “through”?’

‘By Jove, yes! He’d
always
use commas there. But there’s something else. Browne-Smith was the
only
man in England, I should think, who invariably argued for a comma after “i.e.”.’

‘Mm.’

‘You don’t sound very impressed.’

‘Ah! But I am. I think you may be right.’

‘Really?’

‘You think he’s got a bird somewhere?’

‘He’s never had a “bird”, as you put it.’

‘Is Jane Summers still in residence?’

The Master laughed aloud with genuine amusement. ‘I saw her this morning, Morse, if you must know.’