(Storrs was listening in silence.)
Means? Forensic tests had established that both murders had been committed with the same weapon — a pistol known as the Howdah, often used by senior ranks in the armed forces, especially in India, where Storrs had served until returning to Oxford. He had acquired such a pistol; probably still had it, unless he had got rid of it recently — very recently.
The predominant cause — the Prime Mover — for the whole tragic sequence of events had been his obsessive, overweening ambition to gain the ultimate honor during what was left to him of his lifetime — the Mastership of Lonsdale, with the virtually inevitable accolade of a knighthood.
Motive, then? Yes.
Means? Yes.
Opportunity, though?
For the first murder, transport from Polstead Road to Kidlington was easy enough — there were two cars. But the target had not been quite so easy. In fact, it might well have been that Rachel James was murdered mistakenly, because of a mix-up over house numbers and a ponytailed silhouette.
But for the second murder, planning had to be far more complicated — and clever. Perhaps the “in-bed-together” alibi might sound a little thin the second time. But not if he was in a bed in some distant place; not if he was openly observed in that distant place at the time the murder must have been committed. No one had ever been in two places at the same time: that would be an affront to the rules by which the Almighty had established the universe. But the distance from Oxford to Bath was only eighty-odd miles. And in a powerful car, along the motorway, on a Sunday morning, early... An hour, say? Pushing it, perhaps? An hour and a quarter, then — two and a half hours on the road. Then there was a murder to be committed, of course. Round it up to three hours, say.
During the last few minutes of Morse’s exposition, Storrs had walked across to the window, where he stood looking out over the garden. The afternoon had clouded, with the occasional spatter of rain across the panes. Storrs was humming quietly to himself; and Morse recognized the tune of “September,” one of Richard Strauss’s Four Last Songs:
Then, abruptly, Storrs turned round.
“You do realize what you’re saying?” he asked quietly.
“I think I do,” replied Morse.
“Well, let’s get a few things straight, shall we? Last Sunday my wife Angela and I had breakfast here, in this room, at about a quarter to eight. The same young girl brought us breakfast this morning, as it happens. She’ll remember.”
Morse nodded. “She’s not quite sure it was you, though, last Sunday. She says you were shaving at the time, in the bathroom.”
“Who the hell was it then? If it wasn’t me?”
“Perhaps you’d got back by then.”
“Back? Back from Oxford? How did I manage that? Three hours, you say? I must have left at half past four!”
“You had a car—”
“Have you checked all this? You see, my car was in the hotel garage — and God knows where that is. I left it outside when we booked in, and gave the keys to one of the porters. That’s the sort of thing you pay for in places like this — didn’t you know that?”
Again Morse nodded. “You’re right. The garage wasn’t opened up that morning until ten minutes to nine.”
“So?” Storrs looked puzzled.
“You could have driven someone else’s car.”
“Whose, pray?”
“Your wife’s, perhaps?”
Storrs snorted. “Which just happened to be standing outside the hotel — is that it? A helicopter lift from Polstead Road?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Morse.
“All right. Angela’s car’s there waiting for me, yes? How did I get out of the hotel? There’s only the one exit, so I must have slipped unnoticed past a sleeping night porter—” He stopped. “Have you checked up whether the front doors are locked after midnight?”
“Yes, we’ve checked.”
“And are they?”
“They are.”
“So?” Again Storrs appeared puzzled.
“So the only explanation is that you weren’t in the hotel that night at all,” said Morse slowly.
“Really? And who signed the bloody bill on Sunday — what — ten o’clock? Quarter past?”
“Twenty past. We’ve tried to check everything. You signed the bill, sir, using your own Lloyds Visa Card.”
Suddenly Storrs turned his back and stared out of the rainflecked window once more:
“Look! You must forgive me. I’ve been leading you up the garden path, I’m afraid. But it was extremely interesting hearing your story. Outside, just to the left — we can’t quite see it from here — is what the splendid brochure calls its ‘outdoor heated exercise plunge pool.’ I was there that morning. I was there just after breakfast — about half past eight. Not just me, either. There was a rich American couple who were staying in the Beau Nash suite. They came from North Carolina, as I recall, and we must have been there together for twenty minutes or so. Want to know what we were talking about? Bosnia. Bloody Bosnia! Are you satisfied? You say you’ve tried to check everything. Well, just — check — that! And now, if you don’t mind, my dear wife appears to be back. I just hope she’s not spent — Good God! She’s bought herself another coat!”
Lewis, who had himself remained silent throughout the interview, walked across to the rain-flecked window, and saw Mrs. Storrs standing beneath the porchway across the garden, wearing a headscarf, dark glasses, and a long expensive-looking white mackintosh. She appeared to be having some little difficulty unfurling one of the large gaudy umbrellas which the benevolent management left in clumps around the buildings for guests to use when needed — needed as now, for the rain had come on more heavily.
Morse, too, got to his feet and joined Lewis at the window, where Storrs was quietly humming that tune again.
Der Garten trauert...
The garden is mourning...
“Would you and your good lady like to join me for a drink, sir? In the bar downstairs?”
Chapter sixty-four
Hypoglycemia (n): abnormal reduction of sugar content of the blood — for Diabetes sufferers a condition more difficult to spell than to spot.
“What do you think they’re talking about up there, sir?”
“He’s probably telling her what to say.”
Morse and Lewis were seated side-by-side in the Dower House lounge — this time with their backs turned on Lord Ellmore, since two dark-suited men sat drinking coffee in front of the fireplace.
Julian Storrs and a black-tied waiter appeared almost simultaneously.
“Angela’ll be down in a minute. Just changing. Got a bit wet shopping.”
“Before she bought the coat, I hope, sir,” said Lewis.
Storrs gave a wry smile, and the waiter took their order.
“Large Glenfiddich for me,” said Storrs. “Two pieces of ice.”
Morse clearly approved. “Same for me. What’ll you have, Lewis?”