Death is Now My Neighbour

'Why didn't you tell me you knew Owens?'

'I didn't want to get involved.'

'What will you do now?'

'I left a note for the Master about the election." The voice was still monotonous; the mouth dry. 'I've withdrawn my nomination.'

'I'm so sorry about everything,' said Morse very quietly.

'Yes, I think you are, aren't you?"

Morse left the pale, bespectacled historian staring vaguely into a cup of cold tea, like a man who is temporarily anaesthetized against some overwhelming pain.

'It's a terrible business - terrible!'

The Master poured himself a single-malt Scotch.

'Drink, Chief Inspector?'

Morse shook his head.

'Won't you sit down?'

'No. I've only called to say that Dr Cornford has just told me everything - about you and his wife.'

'Mmm.'

'We shall have to get a statement from you."

'Why is that?'

'The time chiefly, I suppose.'

'Is it really necessary?'

'There was a murder on that Sunday morning.'

'Mmm. Was she one of your suspects?'

Morse made no direct answer. 'She couldn't have been making love to you and murdering someone else at die same time.'

'No.' The bland features betrayed no emotion; yet

Morse was distastefully aware that the Master was hardly displeased with such a succinct, such an unequivocal assertion of Shelly Cornford's innocence, since by implication it was an assertion of his own.

'I understand that Dr Comford has written to you, sir.'

'Exited from the lists, poor Denis, yes. That just leaves Julian Storrs. Good man though, Julian!'

Morse slowly walked to the door.

'What do you think about suicide, Sir Clixby?'

'In general?' The Master drained his tumbler, and thoughtfully considered the question. 'Aristode, you know, thought suicide a form of cowardice - running away from troubles oneself and leaving all the heartache to everybody else. What do you diink?'

Morse was conscious of a deep loathing for this smooth and odious man.

'I don't know what your particular heartache is, sir. You see I never met Mrs Cornford myself. But I'd be surprised if she was a coward. In fact, I've got the feeling she was a bit of a gutsy girl.' Morse stood beside the study door, his face drawn, his nostrils distended. 'And I'll tell you something else. She probably had far more guts in her little finger than you've ever had in the whole of your body!'

Lewis was waiting in the Jaguar outside die Porters' Lodge; and Morse quickly climbed into the passenger seat. His voice was still vicious:

'Get-me-out-of-here, Lewis!'

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Friday, 8 March

Those who are absent, by its means become present: correspondence is the consolation of life

(Voltaire, Philosophical Dictionary)

SERGEANT LEWIS had himself only just entered Morse's office when Jane came through with the post six official-looking letters, opened, with appropriate previous correspondence paper-clipped behind them; one square white envelope, unopened, marked 'Private', and postmarked Oxford; and an airmail letter, also unopened, marked 'Personal', and postmarked 'Washington'.

Jane smiled radiandy at her boss.

'Why are you looking so cheerful?' queried Morse.

'Just nice to have you back, sir, that's all.'

Inside the white envelope was a card, the front showing an auburn-haired woman, in a white dress, reading a book; and Morse read the brief message inside:

Geoffrey Harris Ward

Radcliffe Infirmary

7 March 96

We all miss your miserable presence in the ward. If you haven't finished smoking, we shall never meet

for that G&Tyou promised me. Look after yourself!

Affectionately Janet (McQueen)

P.S. I looked through your old hospital records from many years ago. Know something? I found your Christian name!

'Why are you looking so cheerful?' asked Lewis.

But Morse made no answer, and indeed appeared to be reading the message again and again. Then he opened the letter from America.

Washington 4 March Dear Morse,

Just read your thing in the Police Gazette. How did I know it was yours? Ah, I too was a detective! I'd have had the champagne myself. And I think the Faure Requiem's a bit lightweight compared with the Verdi -in spite of the imprimatur of the Papacy. I know you've always wept to Wagner but I've alvays vept to Verdi myself- and the best Xmas present I had was the Karajan recording of Don Carlos.

I know you're frightened of flying, but a visit here -especially in the spring, they say - is something not to be missed in life. We'll get together again for a jar on

my return (April) and don't leave it too long before you take your pension.

As aye, Peter (Imbert)

Morse handed the letter across to Lewis.

"The old Metropolitan Commissioner!'

Morse nodded, rather proudly.

'Washington DC, that'll be, sir.'

'Where else?'

'Washington CD - County Durham, near enough.'

'Oh.'

'What's your programme today, sir?'

'Well, we've done most of the spadework-'

'Except the Harvey Clinic side of things.'

'And that's in hand, you say?'

'Seeing the woman this morning. She's just back from a few day's holiday.'

'Who's she again? Remind me.'

'I told you about her: Dawn Charles.'

'Mrs or Miss or Ms?'

'Not sure. But she's the main receptionist there. They say if anybody's likely to know what's going on, she is.'

'What time are you seeing her?'

'Ten o'clock. She's got a little flat out at Bicester on the Charles Church Estate. You joining me?'

'No, I don't think so. Something tells me I ought to see Storrs again.'

Lovingly Morse put the 'Girl Reading' (Perugini,

1878) back into her envelope, then looked through Sir Peter's letter once again.

Don Carlos.

The two words stood out and stared at him, at the beginning of a line as they were, at the end of a paragraph. Not an opera Morse knew well, Don Carlos. Another 'DC', though. It was amazing how many DCs had cropped up in their enquiries - and still another one just now in the District of Columbia. And suddenly in Morse's mind the name of the Verdi opera merged with a name he'd just heard: the 'Don' chiming in with the 'Dawn', and the 'Carlos' with the 'Charles'.

Was it Dawn Charles (Mrs or Miss or Ms) who held the key to the mystery? Did they belong to her, that pair of initials in the manila file?

Morse's eyes gleamed with excitement.

'I think,' he said slowly, 'Mr Julian Storrs will have to wait a little while. I shall be coming with you, Lewis - to Bicester.'

PART SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

The best liar is he who makes the smallest amount of lying go the longest way

(Samuel Butler, Truth and Convenience)

DAWN CHARLES looked nervous when she opened the door of her flat in Woodpecker Way and let the two detectives through into the grey-carpeted lounge, where the elder of the two, the white-haired one, was already complimenting her on such an attractive residence.

'Bit unlucky though, really. I bought it at the top of the property boom for fifty-eight thousand. Only worth thirty-four now.'

'Oh dear!'

The man made her feel uneasy. And her mind went back to the previous summer when on returning from France she'd put the Green Channel sticker on the windscreen - only to be diverted into the Red Channel; where pleasantly, far too pleasantly, she'd been questioned about her time abroad, about the weather, about anything and everything - except those extra thousand cigarettes in the back of the boot. It had been as if they were just stringing her along; knowing the truth all the time.