Inspector Morse 11 The Daughters of Cain

After undergoing a fairly thorough examination; after skillfully parrying the questions put to him about avoirdu-pois and alcohol; after politely declining a suggested con-sultation with a dietitian; after going along the corridor to have three further blood-samples taken--Morse was out again; out into the morning sunshine, with a new date (six whole weeks away!) written into his little blue card, and with the look of a man who feels fresh confidence in life. What was it that the doc had said?

"You know, I'm not quite sure why, but you're over things pretty well. You don't deserve to be, Mr. Morse; but, well, you seem surprisingly fit to me."

Walking along to the southern car park and savouring still the happy tidings, Morse caught sight of a young woman standing at the bus-stop there. By some minor co incidence (yes!) they had earlier been presem together in the same waiting-room at the Summertown Health Centre, where neither had known the other. And now, here they were together again, on the same morning, at the same time, at the same hospital, both of them (as it appeared) on their way back home.

"Good morning, Miss Smith!" said the cheerful Chief In-spector, taking care to articulate a clear "Miss," and not (as he always saw it) the ugly, pretentious, fuzzy "Ms."

Little that morning could have dampened Morse's spirits, for the gods were surely smiling on him. Even had she ig-nored his greeting, he would have walked serenely past, with little sense of personal slight. Yet perhaps he would have felt a touch of disappointment, too; for he had seen the sadness in her face, and knew that for a little while he wanted to be with her.

Chapter Forty-six

I once knew a person who spoke in dialect with an accent (IRv IN COBB)

'°There's no need really," she said, manoeuvring herself into the passenger seat. "I'm not short o' money, you know."

"How long have you been waiting?"

"Long enough! Mind if I smoke T' she asked, as Morse turned left into Headley Way. "Go ahead."

"You want one?"

"Er, no thanks--not for me."

"You do smoke, though. Else your wife does. Ashtray's full, innit? Think I'd make a good detective?"

"Which way's best?" asked Morse. "Left at the White Horse."

"Or in the White Horse, perhaps?"

"Er, no thanks--not for me," she mimicked.

"Why's that?"

"They're not bloody open yet, that's why." It was meant to be humorous, no doubt, but her voice was strained; and glancing sideways, Morse guessed that something was sorely wrong with her.

"Want to tell me about it?"

"Why the 'ell should I tell you?"

Morse breathed in deeply as she stubbed out her cigarette with venom. "I think you've been in hospital overnight. I could see a bit of a white nightie peeping out of the hold-all.

The last time we met you told me you were expecting a baby, and the JR1 is where they look after babies, isn't it?

They wouldn't normally take a mum who's had a miscar-riage, though--that'd be the Churchill. But if you had a threatened miscarriage, with some internal bleeding, per-haps, then they might well get you into the JR1 for obser-vation.

That's the sort of thing a policeman gets to know, over the years. And please remember," he added gently, "I only asked if you wanted to tell me about it."

Tears coursed down cheeks that were themselves wholly devoid of make-up; washing down with them, though, some of the heavy eye-shadow from around her dull-green eyes. "I lost it," she said, finally.

For a moment or two Morse considered placing his hand very gently, very lightly on hers, but he feared that his action would be misconstrued.

"I'm sorry," he said simply, not speaking again until he reached Princess Street.

She got out of the car and picked up her hold-all from the back. "Thank you."

"I wasn't much help, I'm afraid. But if I can ever be of any help, you've only got to give me a ting." He wrote down his ex-directory telephone number.

"Well, you could help now, actually. It's a lousy lime place I live in--but I'd be quite glad if you'd come in and have a drink with me."

"Not this morning."

"Why the 'ell not, for Christ's sake? You just said to give you a ring if I needed any hell>--and I bloody do, OK? Now."

"All right. I'll come in and have one quick drink. On one condition, though."

"What's that?"

"You don't slam the car-door. Agreed?"

"Doesn't seem too lousy a little place?" suggested Morse as, whiskey in hand, he leaned back in the only armchair in the only room--the fairly large room, though--which was Eleanor Smith's bedsitter-cum-bathroom.

"I can assure you it is. Crawling with all those micro-scopic creatures--you've seen photographs of them?"

Morse looked at her. Was he imagining things? Hadn't she just spoken to him with a degree of verbal and gram-matical fluency that was puzzlingly at odds with her habit-ual mode of speech? "Crawlin' wiv all them little bugs an' things" wasn't that how she'd normally have expressed herself?.

"I think I know why you're lookin' at me like that," she said.

"Pardon?"