Inspector Morse 11 The Daughters of Cain

With no prospects, therefore, of the exhibit retaining any incriminating fingerprints or blood-stains, Lewis in turn now picked up the black-handled knife, its blade unusually broad at the base, but tapering to a sharpmlooking point at the end. And concurrently several thoughts coursed through his mind--exciting thoughts. There was the description, for a start, of the murder weapon--so very similar to this knife--which had appeared in the Oxford Mail, the description which was perhaps worrying Morse somewhat when he'd mentioned his premonition about the possibility of a copy-cat killing. Then there was the firm likelihood that the second of Morse's necessary prerequisites had now been met--not only a body, but also a weapon; and this one surely seemed to fit the bill so very nicely. And then by far the most exciting thought of all--the strong possibility that the knife had come from a set of such knives, one of which Lewis had seen so very recently: that slim, elegant, black-handled little knife with which Mrs. Brenda Brooks had sliced the Madeira cake the previous Sunday afternoon.

Chapter Thirty-seven

I enjoy convalescence; it is the part that makes the illness worth while (GEORGE BERNARD SHAW)

On Thursday, September 8, as on the previous day, so many things were happening in close sequence that it is difficult for the chronicler to decide upon the most comprehensible way in which to record events, events which were to some degree contemporaneous but which also overlapped and which in their full implications stretched both before and beyond their strict temporal occurrence.

Let the account begin at Morse's flat in North Oxford.

Morse was due to be discharged at ten o'clock that moming. Lewis had rung through to the ward-sister half an hour earlier to save Morse any wait for an ambulance and to chauffeur him home in style---only to discover that his chief had already discharged himself, getting a lift from one of the consultants there who was on his way out to Bicester.

Lewis rang the door-bell at 9:45 ^.M., experiencing a customary qualm of semi-apprehension as he waited outside that lonely flat--until a fully dressed Morse, his cheeks rosy-red, suddenly appeared on the threshold, panting like a breathless bulldog.

"I'm just starting a new regimen, Lewis. No more nico-tine, limited very limit---alcohol, plenty of fresh fruit and salad, and regular exercise. What about that? I've"---he paused awhile to get his breath--"I've just done a dozen press-ups. You'd never have thought that possible a week ago, now, would you?"

"You must be feeling quite, er, elated, sir."

"'Knackered' is the word I think you're looking for, Lewis. But come in! Good to see you. Have a drink."

Almost as if he were trespassing, Lewis entered the lounge and sat down.

"Nothing for me, thanks."

"I'11 just..." Morse quickly drained a tumbler of some pale amber liquid that stood on one of the shelves of the book-lined room beside the Deutsche Grammophon cas-settes of Tristan und Isolde. "A small, celebratory libation, that, Lewis--in gratitude to whatever gods there be that temporarily I have survived the perils and dangers of this mortal life."

Lewis managed a grin, half sad, half happy--and imme-diately told Morse about the knife.

"I don't believe it! We'd had those gardens searched."

"Only up to six either side, sir. If only we'd gone a cou-ple further."

"But why didn't this fellow Rayson find it earlier? Is he blind or something?"

"He was in Italy."

"Oh."

"You don't sound all that pleased about it."

"What? Course I am. Well done!"

"I know you were a bit worried about that Oxford Mail article.... "

,,! was.9,, "You know, the premonition you had'"

"Nonsense! I don't even know what a premonition is."

"Well, if that description's anywhere near accurate, sir, I think we've got the knife that was used to kill Mc Clure. And I think I know where it came from. And I think you do, too."

The small round-faced clock on the mantelpiece showed two minutes after ten, and for a while Morse sat in silence. Then, of a sudden, he jumped to his feet and, against all the medical advice he'd so meekly accepted over the previous few days, insisted on being driven immediately to police HQ, stopping (as it happened) only briefly along the jour-ney, in a slip-road on the left, just opposite the Sainsbury supermarket in Kidlington, to buy a packet of Dunhill King-Size cigarettes.

Brenda Brooks had spent the previous night not in her own house in Addison Road but in the spare bedroom, the only other bedroom, of Julia Stevens's house in Baldwin Road.

After Mrs. Stevens had left for school at 8:15 a.M., Brenda had eaten a bowl of Corn Flakes and a round of toast and marmalade. Her appointment at the hairdresser's was for 9:15 n.M.; and fairly soon after her breakfast she was closing the Oxford-blue front door behind her, testing (as al-ways) that the lock was f Lrmly engaged, and walking down towards the Cowley Road for her Special Offer Wash-and-Perm.