Thus it was that the legendary Stamper had stayed on in Lonsdale as an honorary Emeritus Fellow, with full dining rights, from the year of his retirement, 1945, to 1955; and then to 1965... and 1975; and almost indeed until 1985, when he had finally died at the age of 104 — and then not through any dysfunction of the bodily organs, but from a fall beside his rooms in the front quad after a heavy bout of drinking at a Gaudy, his last words (it is said) being a whispered request for the Madeira to be passed round once again.
The agenda which lay before Sir Clixby Bream and his colleagues that morning was short and fairly straightforward:
(i) To receive apologies for absence
(ii) To approve the minutes of the previous meeting (already circulated)
(iii) To consider the Auditors’ statement on College expenditure, Michaelmas 1995
(iv) To recommend appropriate procedures for the election of a new Master
(v) AOB
Items (i)-(iii) took only three minutes, and would have taken only one, had not the Tutor for Admissions sought an explanation of why the “Stationery, etc.” bill for the College Office had risen by four times the current rate of inflation. For which increase the Domestic Bursar admitted full responsibility, since instead of ordering 250 Biros he had inadvertently ordered 250 boxes of Biros.
This confession put the meeting into good humor, as it passed on to item (iv).
The Master briefly restated the criteria to be met by potential applicants: first, that he be not in Holy Orders; second, that he be mentally competent, and particularly so in the “Skills of the Arithmetick” (as the original Statute had it); third, that he be free from serious bodily infirmity. On the second criterion, the Master suggested that since it was now virtually impossible (a gentle glance here at the innumerate Professor of Arabic) to fail GCSE Mathematics, there could be little problem for anyone. As far as the third criterion was concerned however (the Master grew more solemn now) there was a sad announcement he had to make. One name previously put forward had been withdrawn — that of Dr. Ridgeway, the brilliant microbiologist from Balliol, who had developed serious heart trouble at the comparatively youthful age of forty-three.
Amid murmurs of commiseration round the table, the Master continued:
“Therefore, gentlemen, we are left with two nominations only... unless we... unless anyone...? No?”
No.
Well, that was pleasing, the Master declared: He had always wished his successor to be appointed from within the College. And so it would be. Voting would take place in the time-honored way: A single sheet of paper bearing the handwritten name of the preferred candidate, with the signature of the Voting Fellow beneath it, must be delivered to the Master’s Lodge before noon on the nineteenth of March, one month away.
The Master proceeded to wish the two candidates well; and Julian Storrs and Denis Cornford, by chance seated next to each other, shook hands smilingly, like a couple of boxers before the weigh-in for a bruising fight.
That was not quite all.
Under AOB, the Tutor for Admissions was moved to make his second contribution of the morning.
“Perhaps it may be possible, Master, in view of the current plethora of pens in the College Office, for the Domestic Bursar to send us each a free Biro with which we can write down our considered choices for Master?”
It was a nice touch, typical of an Oxford SCR; and when at 10:20 A.M. they left the Stamper Room and moved outside into the front quad, most of the Fellows were grinning happily.
But not the Domestic Bursar.
Nor Julian Storrs.
Nor Denis Cornford.
Chapter twelve
The virtue of the camera is not the power it has to transform the photographer into an artist, but the impulse it gives him to keep on looking — and looking.
Earlier that same morning Morse and Lewis had been sitting together drinking coffee in the canteen at Kidlington Police HQ.
“Well, that’s them!” said an unwontedly ungrammatical Morse as he pointed to the photograph which some darkroom boy had managed to enlarge and enhance. “Our one big clue, that; one small clue, anyway.”
As Lewis saw things, the enlargement appeared to have been reasonably effective as far as the clothing was concerned; yet to be truthful, the promised “enhancement” of the two faces, those of the murdered woman and of the man so close beside her, seemed to have blurred rather than focused any physiognomical detail.
“Well?” asked Morse.
“Worse than the original.”
“Nonsense! Look at that.” Morse pointed to the tight triangular knot of the man’s tie, which appeared — just — above a high-necked gray sweater.
Yes. Lewis acknowledged that the color and pattern of the tie were perhaps a little clearer.
“I think I almost recognize that tie,” continued Morse slowly. “That deepish maroon color. And that,” he pointed again, “that narrow white stripe...”
“We never had ties at school,” ventured Lewis.
But Morse was too deeply engrossed to bother about his sergeant’s former school uniform, or lack of it, as with a magnifying glass he sought further to enhance the texture of the small relevant area of the photograph.
“Bit o’ taste there, Lewis. Little bit o’ class. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the tie of the Old Wykehamists’ Classical Association.”
Lewis said nothing.
And Morse looked at him almost accusingly. “You don’t seem very interested in what I’m telling you.”
“Not too much, perhaps.”
“All right! Perhaps it’s not a public school tie. So what tie do you think it is?”
Again Lewis said nothing.
After a while, a semi-mollified Morse picked up the photograph, returned it to its buff-colored Do-Not-Bend envelope, and sat back in his seat.
He looked tired.
And, as Lewis knew, he was frustrated too, since necessarily the whole of the previous day had been spent on precisely those aspects of detective work that Morse disliked the most: administration, organization, procedures — with as yet little opportunity for him to indulge in the things he told himself he did the best: hypotheses, imaginings, the occasional leap into the semidarkness.
It was now 9 A.M.
“You’d better get off to the station, Lewis. And good luck!”
“What are you planning to do?”
“Going down into Oxford for a haircut.”
“We’ve got a couple of new barbers’ shops opened here. No need to—”
“I — am — going — down — into — Oxford, all right? A bit later, I’m going to meet a fellow who’s an expert on ties, all right?”
“I’ll give you a lift, if you like.”
“No. It only takes one of those shapely lasses in Shepherd and Woodward’s about ten minutes to trim my locks — and I’m not meeting this fellow till eleven.”
“King’s Arms, is it?”
“Ah! You’re prepared to guess about that.”
“Pardon?”
“So why not have a guess about the tie? Come on!”
“I dunno.”
“Nor do I bloody know. That’s exactly why we’ve got to guess, man.”
Lewis stood by the door now. It was high time he went.