The Dead of Jericho

'You didn't drive Conrad into Oxford the night Jackson was killed? The night you spoke at the Book Association?'

'I swear I didn't!'

'Where was Conrad that night?'

'I honestly don't know. I did ask him-after we'd heard about this Jackson business. But he said he just couldn't remember. Probably at home all night but-'

'He's got no alibi, you mean?'

'I'm afraid not.'

'Well, I shouldn't worry about that, sir-Mr. Richards, I mean. I'd take it as a good sign rather than a bad one that your brother's a bit hazy about that night.'

'I see, yes. You know, it's not all that easy, is it, remembering where you were a week or so ago?'

'You'd surely have no trouble, though? About that night, I mean.'

'No, I haven't. I forget exactly when the meeting finished, but I know I drove straight home, Inspector. I must have been home by-oh, half-past ten, I should think.'

'Would your wife remember?'

'Why don't you ask her?'

'Hardly worth it, is it? You've probably got it all worked out, anyway.'

'I resent that, Inspector! All right, my brother and I probably acted like a pair of idiots, I realise that. I should have told the police about the letter and so on straight away. All right! But please don't drag Celia into things! I've treated the poor woman shabbily enough without her having to-'

'I'm sorry! I shouldn't have said that; and it doesn't really matter when you got home that night. Why should it?'

'But it's rather nice when someone can confirm what you say, isn't it? And I'm quite sure that Celia-'

'Forget it, please! I think I've got the general picture, and I'm very grateful to you.' Morse stood up to go. 'We shall have to have a statement, of course. But I can send Sergeant Lewis along at some time that's convenient for you.'

'Can't we get it done now, Inspector? I've got a pretty hectic programme these next few days.'

'Not off to Spain again, I hope?'

'No. I'm off to Newcastle first thing in the morning, and I expect to be there a couple of days. Then I'm going on-'

'Don't worry about that. There's no rush. As I say, it's not really important. But you know all this bureaucratic business of getting things down on paper: getting people to sign things, and all that. And to be truthful, Mr. Richards, we sometimes find that people change their evidence a bit when it actually comes down to having to sign it. Funny, isn't it? And, of course, the memory plays some odd tricks on all of us. Sometimes we find that we suddenly remember a particular detail that we thought we'd quite forgotten.'

'I'm not sure I like what I think you're trying to say,' said Richards, his voice a degree harsher now.

'No? All I'm saying is that it won't do any harm for you to think things over at your leisure. That's all.'

'Shall I write it all out, and post it to you?'

'No, we can't do that, I'm afraid. We shall need you to sign the statement in front of a police officer.'

'All right.' Richards seemed suddenly relaxed again and rose from his chair. 'Let's arrange something, shall we?'

'I should think the best thing is for you to give Sergeant Lewis a ring at the Kidlington HQ when you've finished your business trips. One day early next week, shall we say?'

'Monday? Will that be all right?'

'Certainly. Well, I'll be off now. I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time.'

'Would you like a cup of tea?'

'Tea? Er, no thank you-I must be getting back. Please give my regards to Mrs. Richards.'

The two men walked to the front door, and Morse asked if he could have a quick look at the Rolls.

'Beautiful!' was his verdict.

'And here's the famous bike,' said Richards ruefully.

Morse nodded. 'I've always had pretty sharp eyes, they tell me.'

They shook hands and Morse walked down to the road where Lewis sat waiting with his usual placid patience.

'Well?' said Morse.

'It was just as you said, sir.'

Morse sat back contentedly as they drove past the last few houses in Oxford Avenue. 'Well, I've thrown in the bait, Lewis. We just sit back now, and wait for the fish to bite.'

'Think he will?'

'Oh, yes! You should have heard me, Lewis. A bloody genius, I was!'

'Really, sir?'

'Why do you call me "sir" all the time?'

'Well, it's just a sort of convention in the Force, isn't it? Just a mark of respect, I suppose.'

'Do you think I deserve some respect?'

'I wouldn't go so far as that, but it's a sort of habit by now and I don't think I could change in a hurry-sir!'

Morse sat back happily, for things were going extraordinarily well. At least on one front.

Chapter Thirty-Six

A vauntour and a lyere, al is one.

– Geoffrey Chaucer, Troylus and Criseyde

As instructed, the sister had telephoned Kidlington HQ when the time seemed to her most opportune; and the following evening at 8 p.m. Morse and Lewis sat waiting in a small anteroom just off Dyne Ward in the Eye Hospital at the Radcliffe Infirmary in Walton Street, whither Michael Murdoch had now been transferred. Edward Murdoch, after just leaving his brother's bedside, looked surprised and somewhat flustered as he was ushered into this room and told to sit down. There were no formalities.

'Can you spell "believe"?' asked Morse.

The boy swallowed hard and seemed about to answer when Morse, thrusting the blackmail note across the table, answered the question for him.

'Of course you can. You're a well-educated lad, we know that- No! Please don't touch it, Edward! Fingerprints all over it, you see-but whoever wrote that letter couldn't spell "believe", could he? Just have a look at it.'

The boy shifted awkwardly in his chair, his eyes narrowing over the writing in the long, uncomfortable silence that followed.

'Did you write it?' asked Morse slowly. 'Or was it your brother?'

The boy shook his head in apparent bewilderment. 'You must be joking!'

It was Lewis who spoke next, his voice flat and unconcerned. 'You didn't write it yourself-is that what you're saying?'

'Of course I didn't!'

'That's all I wanted to know, Mr. Murdoch,' said Lewis with polite finality. He whispered something into Morse's ear; and Morse, seemingly faced with a decision of some delicacy, finally nodded.

'Now, sir?' asked Lewis.

Morse nodded again, and Lewis, taking a pen from his breast pocket and picking up a sheaf of papers from the table, got up and left the anteroom.

Morse himself picked up a copy of Country Life, turned to the crossword, and had finished it in eleven minutes-minutes during which Edward Murdoch was showing increasing signs of agitation. Two or three times his mouth had opened as if he were about to speak, and when Morse wrote in the last word he could stay silent no longer.

'What is all this?'

'We're waiting.'

'Waiting for-for him to come back?'

Morse nodded. 'Sergeant Lewis-that's his name.'

'How long will he be?'

Morse shrugged his shoulders and turned over a page to survey the features of the Honourable Fiona Forbes-Smithson. 'Difficult to say. Some people are co-operative-some aren't.'

'He's gone to see Michael, hasn't he?'

'He's got his duty to do-just like the rest of us.'

'But it's not fair! Michael's ill!'

'He's a lot better. Going to see a bit, so they tell me.'

'But it's not-'

'Look, lad!' said Morse very gently and quietly. 'Sergeant Lewis and myself are trying our best to solve a murder. It takes a lot of time and patience and we have to do an awful lot of things we'd rather not do. But if we're lucky and people try to help us-well, sometimes we manage to get to the bottom of things.'

'But I've told you, Inspector, I never-'