Death Is Now My Neighbour Part 24

No man is wholly bad, perhaps ...

On the shelf beneath was an extended row of videos: Fawlty Towers, Morecambe and Wise Christmas Shows, Porridge, Fawlty Towers, Morecambe and Wise Christmas Shows, Porridge, and several other TV cla.s.sics. And two (fairly obviously) p.o.r.nographic videos: and several other TV cla.s.sics. And two (fairly obviously) p.o.r.nographic videos: Grub Screws, Grub Screws, its crudely lurid, technicolor cover-poses hardly promising a course in carpentry with the Open University; and the plain-covered, yet succinctly entided its crudely lurid, technicolor cover-poses hardly promising a course in carpentry with the Open University; and the plain-covered, yet succinctly entided Sux and f.u.x, Sux and f.u.x, which seemed to speak quite unequivocally for itself. Morse himself had no video mechanism on his rented TV set; but he was in the process of thinking about the benefits of such a facility when Lewis came in, the latter immediately instructed to have a look around. which seemed to speak quite unequivocally for itself. Morse himself had no video mechanism on his rented TV set; but he was in the process of thinking about the benefits of such a facility when Lewis came in, the latter immediately instructed to have a look around.

Morse's attention now turned to the single row of books in the opposite alcove. Mostly paperbacks: P. D. James, Jack Higgins, Ruth Rendell, Wilbur Smith, Minette Walters . .. RAC Handbook, World Atlas, Chambers Dictionary, Pevsners Oxfords.h.i.+re... RAC Handbook, World Atlas, Chambers Dictionary, Pevsners Oxfords.h.i.+re...

'See this?' Lewis suddenly raised aloft the Grub Screws. Grub Screws. 'The statutory p.o.r.n video, sir. Good one, that! Sergeant Dixon had it on at his stag-night.' 'The statutory p.o.r.n video, sir. Good one, that! Sergeant Dixon had it on at his stag-night.'

"You'd like to see it again, you mean?'

'Again? Not for me, sir. Those things get ever so boring after a while. But don't let me stop you if...' Not for me, sir. Those things get ever so boring after a while. But don't let me stop you if...'

'What? Me? I've got more important things to do than watch that sort of thing. High time I saw Cornford, for a start. Fix something up, Lewis. The sooner the quicker.'

After Lewis had gone, Morse felt unwilling to face the chorus of correspondents and the battery of cameras which awaited those periodically emerging from the front of Number 15. So he sat down, yet again, in the now empty kitchen; and pondered.

Always in his life, he had wanted to know the answers answers to things. In Sunday School he had once asked a question concerning the topographical position of Heaven, only to be admonished by an unimaginative middle-aged spinster for being so very silly. And he had been similarly discouraged when as a young grammar-school boy he had asked his Divinity master who it was, if G.o.d had created the Universe, who in turn had created G.o.d. And after receiving no satisfactory answer from his Physics master about what sort of thing could possibly exist out there at the end of the world, when s.p.a.ce had run out, Morse had been compelled to lower his sights a little, thereafter satisfying his intellectual craving for answers by finding the values of 'x' and 'y' in (ever more complicated) algebraic equations, and by deciphering the meaning of (ever more complicated) chunks of choruses from the Greek tragedies. to things. In Sunday School he had once asked a question concerning the topographical position of Heaven, only to be admonished by an unimaginative middle-aged spinster for being so very silly. And he had been similarly discouraged when as a young grammar-school boy he had asked his Divinity master who it was, if G.o.d had created the Universe, who in turn had created G.o.d. And after receiving no satisfactory answer from his Physics master about what sort of thing could possibly exist out there at the end of the world, when s.p.a.ce had run out, Morse had been compelled to lower his sights a little, thereafter satisfying his intellectual craving for answers by finding the values of 'x' and 'y' in (ever more complicated) algebraic equations, and by deciphering the meaning of (ever more complicated) chunks of choruses from the Greek tragedies.

Later, from his mid-twenties onwards, his need to know know had transferred itself to the field of crossword puzzles, where he had so often awaited with almost paranoiac impatience the following day's answer to any clue he'd been unable to solve the day before. And now, as he sat in Bloxham Drive on that overcast, chilly Sunday afternoon in early March, he was aware that there had transferred itself to the field of crossword puzzles, where he had so often awaited with almost paranoiac impatience the following day's answer to any clue he'd been unable to solve the day before. And now, as he sat in Bloxham Drive on that overcast, chilly Sunday afternoon in early March, he was aware that there was was an answer to this present puzzle: probably a fairly simple answer to the question of what exactly had taken place earlier that morning. For a sequence of events an answer to this present puzzle: probably a fairly simple answer to the question of what exactly had taken place earlier that morning. For a sequence of events had had taken place, perhaps about 7.30. Someone had knocked on the door; had gained entry; had shot Owens twice; had gone upstairs to try to find something; had left via the kitchen door; had gone away, on foot, on a bike, in a car. taken place, perhaps about 7.30. Someone had knocked on the door; had gained entry; had shot Owens twice; had gone upstairs to try to find something; had left via the kitchen door; had gone away, on foot, on a bike, in a car.

Who?

Who, Morse? For it was Morse? For it was someone - someone - someone with a human face and with a human motive. If only he could put together all the clues, someone with a human face and with a human motive. If only he could put together all the clues, he would know. he would know. And even as he sat there some pattern would begin to clarify itself in his mind, presenting a logical sequence of events, a causative chain of reactions. But then that same pattern would begin to blur and fade, since there was destined to be no flash of genuine insight on that afternoon. And even as he sat there some pattern would begin to clarify itself in his mind, presenting a logical sequence of events, a causative chain of reactions. But then that same pattern would begin to blur and fade, since there was destined to be no flash of genuine insight on that afternoon.

Furthermore, Morse was beginning to feel increasingly worried about his present failure - like some hidierto highly acclaimed novelist with a score of bestsellers behind him who is suddenly a.s.sailed by a nightmarish doubt about his ability to write that one further winner; by a fear that he has come to the end of his creative output, and must face the possibility of defeat.

Lewis came back into the kitchen once more.

Dr Cornford would be happy to meet Morse whenever it suited. Five o'clock that afternoon? Before Chapel? In his rooms in Lonsdale?

Morse nodded.

'And I rang the Storrs again, sir. They're back in Oxford. Seems they had a bit of lunch in Burford on the way. Do you want me to go round?'

Morse looked up in some puzzlement.

'What the h.e.l.l for, Lewis?'

CHAPTER F FORTY-FOUR.

The bells would ring to call her In valleys miles away: 'Come all to church,goodpeople; Good people, come and pray.'

But here my love would stay (A. E. Housman, A Shrops.h.i.+re Lad XXI) A Shrops.h.i.+re Lad XXI) MORSE ENQUIRED AT the Lodge, then turned left and walked along the side of the quad to the Old Staircase, where on the first floor he saw, above the door to his right, the Gothic-style white lettering on its black background: the Lodge, then turned left and walked along the side of the quad to the Old Staircase, where on the first floor he saw, above the door to his right, the Gothic-style white lettering on its black background: DR DR D D.J C CORNFORD.

'I suppose it's a bit early to offer you a drink, Chief Inspector?'

Morse looked at his wrist.w.a.tch. 'Is it?'

'Scotch? Gin? Vodka?' 'Scotch, please.'

Cornford began to pour an ever increasingly liberal tot of Glenmorangie into a tumbler. 'Say "when"!'

It seemed that the Chief Inspector may have had some difficulty in enunciating the monosyllable, for Cornford paused when the tumbler was half filled with the pale-golden malt.

'When!' said Morse.

'No ice here, I'm afraid. But I'm sure you wouldn't want to adulterate it, anyway.'

"Yes, I would, if you don't mind. Same amount of water, please. We've all got to look after our livers.'

Two doors led off the high-ceilinged, oak-panelled, book-lined room; and Cornford opened the one that led to a small kitchen, coming back with a jug of cold water.

'I would have joined you normally - without the water! - but I'm reading the Second Lesson in Chapel tonight' (it was Cornford's turn to consult his wrist.w.a.tch) 'so we musui't be all that long. It's that bit from the Epistle to the Romans, Chapter thirteen - the bit about drunkenness. Do you know it?'

'Er, just remind me, sir.'

Clearly Cornford needed no copy of the text in front of him, for he immediately recited the key verse, with appropriately ecclesiastical intonation: Let us walk honestly, as in the day; not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying ...

'You'U be reading from the King James version, then?' 'Absolutely! I'm an agnostic myself; but what a tragedy that so many of our Christian brethren have opted for these new-fangled versions! "Boozing and Bonking", I should think they translate it.'

Morse sat sipping his Scotch contentedly. He could have suggested 'f.u.x and Sux'; but decided against it Cornford smiled. 'What do you want to see me about?'

'Well, in a way it's about that last bit of your text: the "strife and envying" bit. You see, I know you're standing for the Masters.h.i.+p here 'Yes?'

Morse took a deep breath, took a further deepish draught, and then told Cornford of the murder that morning of Geoffrey Owens; told him that various doc.u.ments from the Owens household pointed to a systematic campaign of blackmail on Owens' part; informed him that there was reason to believe that he, Cornford, might have been - almost certainly would would have been - one of the potential victims. have been - one of the potential victims.

Cornford nodded quietly. 'Are you sure of this?'

'No, not sure at all, sir. But-'

'But you've got your job to do.'

You haven't received any blackmail letters yourself?'

'No.'

'I'll be quite blunt, if I may, sir. Is there anything you can think of in the recent past, or distant past, that could have been used to compromise you in some way? Compromise your candidature, say?'

Cornford considered the question. 'I've done a few things I'm not very proud of - haven't we all? - but I'm fairly sure I got away with them. That was in another country, anyway..."

Morse finished the quotation for him: '... and, besides, the wench is dead.'

Cornford's pale grey eyes looked across at Morse with almost childlike innocence.

Yes.'

'Do you want to tell me about them?'

'No. But only because it would be an embarra.s.sment for me and a waste of time for you.'

"You're a married man, I understand.'

'Yes. And before someone else tells you, my wife is American, about half my age, and extremely attractive.' The voice was still pleasantly relaxed, yet Morse sensed a tone of quiet, underlying strength.

'She hasn't been troubled by letters, anonymous letters, anything like that?' hasn't been troubled by letters, anonymous letters, anything like that?'

'She hasn't told me of anything.'

' Would she tell you?' she tell you?'

Did Morse sense a hint of uneasy hesitation in Corn-ford's reply?

'She would, I think, yes. But you'd have to ask her' her' Morse nodded. 'I know it's a bit of a bother - but I Morse nodded. 'I know it's a bit of a bother - but I shall shall have to do that, I'm afraid. She's, er, she's not around?' have to do that, I'm afraid. She's, er, she's not around?'

Cornford again looked at his wrist.w.a.tch.

'She'll be coming over to Chapel very shortly.'

'Has there been much feeling - much tension -between you and the, er, other candidate?'

'The atmosphere on High Table has been a little, let's say, uncomfortable once or twice, yes. To be expected, though, isn't it?'

'But you don't throw insults at each other like those boxers before a big fight?'

'No, we just think think them.' them.'

'No whispers? No rumours?'

'Not as far as I'm aware, no.'

'And you get on reasonably well with Mr Storrs?'

Cornford got to his feet and smiled again, his head slightly to one side.

'I've never got to know Julian all that well, really.'

The Chapel bell had begun to ring - a series of monotonous notes, melancholy, ominous almost, like a curfew.

Ten minutes to go.

'Come ye to church, good people, Good people, come and pray,'

quoted Cornford.

Morse nodded, as he ventured one final question: 'Do you mind me asking you when you got up this morning, sir?'

'Early. I went out jogging - just before seven.'

Just you?'

Cornford nodded vaguely.

'You didn't go out after that - for a paper? In the car, perhaps?'

'I don't have a car, myself. My wife does, but it's garaged out in New Road.' 'Quite a way away.'

'Yes,' repeated Cornford slowly, 'quite a way away.' As Morse walked down the stairs, he thought he'd recognized Cornford for exactly what he was: a civilized, courteous, clever man; a man of quiet yet unmistakable resolve, who would probably make a splendid new Master of Lonsdale.

Just two things worried him, the first of them only slightly: if Cornford was going to quote Housman, he jolly well ought to do it accurately.

And he might be wholly wrong about the second ...

The bedroom door opened a few moments after Morse had reached the bottom of the creaking wooden staircase.

'And what do you think all that that was about?' 'Couldn't you hear?' 'Most of it,' she admitted. was about?' 'Couldn't you hear?' 'Most of it,' she admitted.

She wore a high-necked, low-skirted black dress, with an oval amethyst pinned to the bodice - suitably ensembled for a seat next to her husband in the Fellows' pews.

'His hair is whiter than yours, Denis. I saw him when he walked out.'

The bell still tolled.

Five minutes to go.

Cornford pulled on his gown and threw his hood back over his shoulders with pracdsed precision; then repeated Housman (again inaccurately) as he put his arms around his wife and looked unblinkingly into her eyes.

'Have you got anything to pray for? Anything that's worrying you?'

Sh.e.l.ly Cornford smiled sweetly, trusting that such deep dissimulation would mask her growing, now almost desperate, sense of guilt 'I'm going to pray for you, Denis - for you to become Master of Lonsdale. That's what I want more than anything else in the world' (her voice very quiet now) 'and that's not for me, my darling - it's for you.'

'Nothing else to pray for?'

She moved away from him, smoothing the dress over her energedc hips. 'Such as what?'

'Some people pray for forgiveness, that sort of thing, sometimes,' said Denis Cornford softly.

Morse had walked to the Lodge, where he stood in the shadows for a couple of minutes, reading the various notices about the College's sporting fifteens, and elevens, and eights; and hoping that his presence there was un.o.bserved - when he saw them. An academically accoutred Cornford, accompanied by a woman in black, had emerged from the foot of the Old Staircase, and now turned away from him towards the Chapel in the inner quad.

The bell had stopped ringing.

And Morse walked out into Radcliffe Square; thence across into the King's Arms in Broad Street, where he ordered a pint of bitter, and sat down in the back bar, considering so many things - including a wholly unprecedented sense of grat.i.tude to the Tory Government for its reform of the Sunday licensing laws.