‘Who Sir?’
‘They’re in your statement, Lewis -the men who made the arrangements at the topless bar. Haven’t you heard of W. S. Gilbert?’
‘Yes, but-’
‘You know what “W. S.” stands for, don’t you? William Schwenck!’
‘Oh.’
‘You know, there’s something to be said in the Gilberts’ favour: at least they had a warped sense of humour. You remember the name Soho Enterprises is registered under?’
Lewis remembered: Sullivan! He shook his head and then nodded. He knew he wasn’t being very bright.
‘Anyway,’ continued Morse, ‘Browne-Smith and Westerby are left alone. And when Westerby gradually comes round -with a splitting headache, I should think-he finds his age-long antagonist sitting on the bed beside him. And they talk-and no doubt soon they have a blazing row… and please remember that Browne-Smith’s got his old army revolver with him! And yet… and yet, Lewis…’
‘He doesn’t use it,’ added Lewis in a very quiet voice.
‘No. Instead they stay there talking together for a long, long time; and finally they bring one of the Gilbert Brothers in-and at that point the road is twisting again to take us forward on the third and final mile.’
Morse finished his coffee, and held out the plastic cop. ‘I enjoyed that, Lewis. Little more sugar this time, perhaps?’
The phone rang whilst Lewis was gone. It was Max.
‘Spending most of your time in Soho, I hear, Morse.’
‘I’ll let you into a secret, Max. My sexual appetite grows stronger year by year. What about yours?’
‘About that leg. Lewis tell you about it?’
‘He did.’
‘Remember that piece you put in the paper? You got the colour of your socks wrong.’
‘What do you expect. I hadn’t got a leg to go on, had I?”
‘They were purple!’
‘Nice colour-purple.’
‘With green suede shoes?’
‘You don’t dress all that well yourself sometimes.’
‘You said they were blue!’
‘Just sucking the blinker out in the middle of a blizzard.’
‘What? What?’
‘I’ve not had your report yet.’
‘Will it help?’
‘Probably.’
‘You know who it is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Want to tell me?’
So Morse told him; and for once the humpbacked man was lost for words.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
We near the end, with two miles and four furlongs of the long and winding road now completed.
‘We found the body,’ resumed Morse, ‘on Wednesday the 23rd, and the odds are that it had been in the water about three days. So the man must have been murdered either the previous Saturday or Sunday.’
‘He could have been murdered a few days before that, surely?’
‘No chance. He was watching the telly on the Friday night!’
Lewis let it go. If Morse was determined to mystify him, so be it. He’d not interfere again unless he could help it. But one plea he did make. ‘Why don’t you simply tell me what you think happened-even if you’re not quite sure about it here and there?’
‘All right. A third man goes to London on Saturday the 19th, taking up an offer which nobody in this case seems able to refuse. This time, though, all the initial palaver is probably dispensed with, and there’s no intermediary stop at the topless bar. This third man is murdered-by Browne-Smith. And if both the Gilberts were there, we’ve got four men on the scene with a body on their hands-a body they’ve got to get rid of. Of the four men, Westerby is wetting his pants with panic; and after a few tentative arrangements are made with him, he goes off- not, as we know, back to Oxford, but to a cheap hotel near Paddington. The other three-I think that Bert had probably kept out of the way while Westerby was still there-now confer about what can and what must be done. The body can’t just be dumped anyhow and anywhere-for reasons that’ll soon be clear, Lewis. It’s going to be necessary, it’s agreed, to sever the head, and to sever the hands. That gruesome task is performed, in London, by one of the Gilberts-I should think by Bert, the cruder of the pair-who promises Browne-Smith that the comparatively uncumbrous items he’s just detached can be I disposed of safely and without difficulty. Then two of the three, Browne-Smith and Ben Gilbert, drive off to Oxford in Westerby’s Metro-and with Westerby’s prior consent. It’s probably the only car immediately available anyway; but it’s got one incalculable asset, as you know, Lewis.
‘Once in Oxford-this is late Sunday evening now-Browne-Smith lets himself into Lonsdale via the back door in The High and goes into his rooms and takes one item only-a suit. I’m pretty sure, by the way, that it must have been on a second trip to his rooms, later-after Westerby decided he’d little option but to cancel his Greek holiday-that he took the Lonsdale College stamp and one of his Macedonian postcards. Anyway, the two men drive out to Thrupp-the only likely stretch of water either of ‘em can think of-where they stop, without any suspicion being roused, in Westerby’s car, outside Westerby’s cottage, to which Bert Gilbert has the key. Once inside with the body, Gilbert is willing (what he was paid for all this we shall never know!) to perform the final grisly task-of taking off the dead man’s clothes and re-dressing him in Browne-Smith’s suit. Then, long after the Boat Inn is closed, the two men carry the body the hundred yards or so along to the one point where no boats are moored or can be moored: the bend in the canal by Aubrey’s Bridge. The job’s done. It must have been in the early hours when the two of them get back to London, where the faithless Bert returns to his faithful Emily, and Browne-Smith to his room in the Station Hotel at Paddington. All right so far?’
‘Are you making some of it up, sir?’
‘Of course I bloody am! But it fits the clues, doesn’t it? And what the hell else can I do? They’re all dead, these johnnies. I’m just using what we know to fill in what we don’t know. You don’t object, do you? I’m just trying, Lewis, to match up the facts with the psychology of the four men involved. What do you think happened?’
Morse always got cross (as Lewis knew) when he wasn’t sure of himself, especially when ‘psychology’ was involved-a subject Morse affected to despise; and Lewis regretted his interruption. But one thing worried him sorely: ‘Do you really think Browne-Smith would have had the belly for all that business?’
‘He wasn’t a congenital murderer, if that’s what you mean. But the one real mystery in this case is that one man-Browne-Smith-actually did so many inexplicable things. And there’s more to come! What we’ve got to do, Lewis, is not to explain behaviour but to consider facts. And there’s a very sad but also a very simple factual explanation of all this, as you know. I rang up a fellow in the Medical Library to learn something about brain-tumours, and he was telling me about the completely irrational behaviour that can sometimes result… Yes… I wonder just what Olive Mainwearing of Manchester actually did…’
‘Pardon, sir?’
‘You see, Lewis, we’re not worried about his belly-we’re worried about his mind. Because he acted with such a weird combination of envy, cunning, remorse, and just plain ambivalence, that I can’t begin to fathom his motives.’ Morse shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Lewis. I’m just beginning to realize what a fine thing it is to have a mind like mine that’s mainly motivated by thoughts of booze and sex- infinitely healthier! But let’s go on. Just one more point about the body. Murderers aren’t usually quite as subtle as people think; and you were absolutely right, as you know, when you mentioned that pleasure-cruiser off the Bahamas or somewhere. In Max’s first report he said the legs were sheared off far more neatly than the other bits-and it’s now clear that a boat propeller hit the body and lopped the legs off. Well done!’