CHAPTER FIFTEEN
From two sources, Morse gains valuable insight into the workings of the human mind, and specifically into the mind of Dr Browne-Smith of Lonsdale.
Andrews (‘a good young man’, as Browne-Smith had earlier described him) turned out to be about Morse’s age-a slim, bespectacled, shrewd-looking man of medium height who gave the immediate impression of not suffering fools at all gladly. For the time being he was (as he told Morse) the senior resident fellow at Lonsdale, in which capacity he was far from happy about the way the college secretary had been telephonically assaulted. But, yes: on Friday, 11th July, the college had breakfasted on kippers. That had been the question-and that was the answer.
So Morse began to like the man, and was soon telling
‘Let me come clean, Inspector. I know more about this than you think. Before he left, the Master told me he was worried about Browne-Smith.’
‘If he’s got any sense, he’s still worried.’
‘But we had a note from him.’
‘Which he didn’t write.’
‘Can you prove that?’ Andrews asked, as if prodding some semi-informed student into producing a piece of textual evidence.
‘Browne-Smith’s dead, I’m afraid, sir.’
For a few moments Andrews sat silently, his eyes betraying no sense of shock or surprise.
‘Was he a blood donor?’ asked Morse suddenly.
‘I don’t know. Not the sort of thing one broadcasts, would you say?’
‘Some people have those “Give Blood” suckers on the car windows.’
‘I don’t remember seeing-’
‘Did he have a car?’
‘Big, black, thirsty Daimler.’
‘Where’s that now?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘What was his favourite tipple in the Common Room?’
‘He liked a drop of Scotch, as most of us do, but he wasn’t a big drinker. He was an Aristotelian, Inspector; with him it was always the half-way house between the too much and the too little -if you- er- follow what I’m saying.”
‘Yes, I think I do.’
‘You remember the Cambridge story that Trinity once saw Wordsworth drunk and once saw Person sober? Well, I can tell you one thing: Lonsdale never once saw Browne-Smith drunk.’
‘He was a bore, you mean?’
‘I mean nothing of the sort. It’s just that he couldn’t abide woolly-mindedness, shoddiness, carelessness-’
‘He wouldn’t have made too many mistakes in English grammar?’
‘Over his dead body!”
‘Which is precisely where we stand, sir,’ said Morse sombrely.
Andrews waited a moment or two. ‘You really are quite sure of that?’
‘He’s dead,’ repeated Morse flatly. ‘His body was fished out of the canal up at Thrupp yesterday.’
Morse was conscious of the steady, scholarly eyes upon him as Andrews spoke: ‘But I only read about that in the Oxford Mail this lunch time. It said the body couldn’t be identified.’
‘Really?’ Morse appeared genuinely surprised. ‘Surely you don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers, sir?’
‘No, but I believe most of it,’ replied Andrews simply and tellingly; and Morse abruptly switched his questioning.
‘Dr Browne-Smith, sir. Was he a fit man-considering his age, I mean?’
For the first time Andrews appeared less than completely at ease. ‘You know something about that?’
‘Well, not officially, but
Andrews stared down at the threadbare carpet. ‘Look, Inspector, the only reason the Master mentioned anything to me…’
‘Go on!’
‘… well, it’s because I shall be taking over his duties in the College, you see.’
‘After he retires?’
‘Or before, I’m afraid. You-er-you knew, didn’t you, that he’d only a few months to live?’
Morse nodded, quite convincingly.
‘Tragic thing, Inspector – cancer of the brain.’
Morse shook his head. ‘You’re as bad as the Master, sir. “Cancer”? Forget the word! “Tumour”, if you like-or “neoplasm”. They’re the generic terms we use these days for all those nasty things we used to call “cancer”.’ (He congratulated himself on remembering the gist of what the surgeon had told him earlier that afternoon.)
‘I’m not a medical man myself, Inspector.’
‘Nor me, really. But, you know, in this job you have to pick up a few things, sometimes. By the way, are you likely yourself to be much better off-financially, I mean-with Dr Browne-Smith out of the way?’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means we’re dealing with murder, that’s all,’ said Morse, looking across the table with guileless eyes. ‘And that’s what they pay me for, sir-trying to find out who murdered people.’
‘All right. If you must know, I shall be just over two thousand a year better off.”
‘You’re gradually shinning up the tree, sir.’
‘Not so gradually, either!’ Andrews’ eyes glinted momentarily with the future prospects of further academic preferment, and momentarily Morse was taken aback by the honesty of his answer.
‘But the Master’s still got about ten years to go,’ objected Morse.
‘Eight actually.’
Strangely, this was neither an unpleasant nor an embarrassing moment, as though each man had perfectly understood and perfectly respected the other’s thoughts.
‘Head of House!’ said Morse slowly. ‘Great honour, isn’t it?’
‘For me it’s always seemed the greatest honour.”
‘Do most of the dons share your view?’
‘Most of them-if they’re honest.’
‘Did Browne-Smith?’
‘Oh, quite certainly, yes.’
‘So he was a disappointed man?’
‘Life’s full of disappointments, Inspector.’
Morse nodded. ‘Had Browne-Smith any physical abnormalities you can remember?’
‘Don’t think so – except for his finger, of course. He lost most of his right index finger-accident in the war. But you probably know all about that.’
Morse nodded, again quite convincingly. God, he’d forgotten all about that! And suddenly the hooked atoms were engaging and re-engaging themselves so rapidly in his mind that he was desperately anxious to rid himself of the worthy man seated opposite who had put the fire to so many fuses. So he stood up, expressed his thanks and showed the Lonsdale don to the door.
‘There is just one thing,’ said Andrews. ‘I was meaning to mention it earlier, but you side-tracked me. Browne-Smith was never down to College breakfast in my time at Lonsdale-and that’s fifteen years, now.’
‘Well, that’s very interesting, sir,’ said Morse in a light tone that masked a heavy blow. ‘You’ve been extremely helpful, sir, and thank you for coming along. There’s just one more thing. Please, if you will, convey my apologies to the College secretary. I’m sorry I was rude to her-I’d like her to know that.’
‘I’ll certainly see that she does. She was upset, as I told you-and she’s a lovely girl.’
‘Is she?’ said Morse.
As soon as Andrews had gone, Morse reached for the phone to put his query to the curator of the Medical Science Library at the Bodleian, and, a few minutes later, he was listening carefully to the answer.
‘It’s the definitive work, Inspector – Dr J. P. F. Coole on Carcinoma in the Brain. This is what he’s got to say – chapter six, by the way: “Tumours are broadly divided into malignant tumours, which invade and destroy surrounding tissues; and benign tumours, which do not. Most malignant tumours have the additional property of giving rise to metastases or secondary tumours in parts of the body remote from the primary growth. A minority of malignant tumours fall into the category of tumours of local malignancy which invade and destroy surrounding tissues, but never metastasize. There are several tumours of local malignancy that occur in or on the head.” ‘