Inspector Morse 11 The Daughters of Cain

In answer, she placed an index finger on each nostril. On each ringless nostril.

And Morse nodded. "Yes, I prefer you as you are now."

"So you said."

"You know that your step-father's still missing?"

"So what? You want me to break out into goose-pimples or something?"

"Why do you hate him so much?"

"Next question."

"All right. You said you were going to get married. Does all this--the loss of your baby--does it make any differ-ence?'

"Gettin' deep, ain't we? Cigarette?"

,!

'i Ellie held out the packet; and stupidly, inevitably, M-rse capitulated.

"You're still going ahead with getting married?"

"Why not? It's about time I settled down, don't you think?"

"I suppose so."

"What else can I tell you?"

Well, if she was inviting questions (Morse decided) it was a good opportunity to.probe a little more deeply into the heart of the mystery, since he was convinced that the key to the case--the key to both cases lay somewhere in those late afternoon hours of Wednesday, September 7, when someone had stolen the knife from the Pitt Rivers Museum.

"After your trip to Birmingham, you could have caught an earlier train back?"

She shrugged. "Dunno. I didn't, though."

"Do you remember exactly what time you asked your friend up herewhen you got back that afternoon?"

"Exactly? Course, I can't. She might. Doubt it, though.

We were both tight as ticks later that night." Was she lying? And if so, why? "On that Wednesday--"

But she let him get no further. "Christ! Give it a rest about Wednesday, will you? What's wrong with Tuesday? Or Monday? I 'aren't a bleedin' clue what I was doin' them days. So why Wednesday? Like I say, I know where I was all the bloody time that day."

"It's just that there may be a connection between Dr. Mc Clure's murder and the theft of the knife."

She seemed unimpressed, but mollified again. "Drop more T'

"No, I must be off."

"Please yourself." She poured herself another Scotch, and lit another cigarette. "Beginnin' to taste better. I hadn't smoked a fag for three days--three days!--before that one in your car. Tasted terrible, that first one."

Morse rose to his feet and put his empty glass down on the cluttered mantelpiece, above which, on the white chimney-breast, four six4nch squares in different shades of yellow had been painted---with the name of each shade written in thick pencil inside each square: Wild Primrose, Sunbeam, Buttermilk, Daffodil White.

"Which d'you like best?" she asked. "I'm considering some redecoration."

There it was again, in the last sentence--the gear-shift from casual slang to elegance of speech. Interesting...

"But won't you be leaving here after you're married?

"Christ! You can't leave it alone, can you? All these bloody questions!"

Morse turned towards her now, looking d0azn at her as she sat on the side of the bed.

"Why did you invite me here? I only ask because you're making me feel I'm unwelcome--an intruder--a Nosey Parken Do you realise that?"

She looked down into her glass. "I felt lonely, that's all. I wanted a bit of company."

"Haven't you told Mr. Davies--about your aaiscarriage?"

"No."

"Don't you think "

"Augh, shut up! You wouldn't know what it feels like, would you? To be on your own in life..."

"I'm on my own all the time," said Morse.

"That's what they all say, did you know that? All them middle-aged fellows like you."

Morse nodded and half smiled; and as he atalked to the door he looked at the chimney-breast again.

Yellow s a difficult colour to live with; but I'd go for the Daffodil White, if I were you."

Leaving her still seated on the bed, he trod down the nar-row, squeaking stairs to the Jaguar, where for a few minutes he sat motionless, with the old familiar sensation tingling across his shoulders.

Why hadn't he thought of it before?

Chapter Forty-seven

Given a number which is a square, when can we write it as the sum of two other squares?

(DIOPHANTUS, Arithmetic)

Lewis was eager to pass on his news. Appeals on Radio Oxford and Fox FM, an article in the Oxford Mail, local enquiries into the purchase, description, and condition of Brooks's comparatively new bicycle, had proved, it ap-peared, successful. An anonymous phone-call (woman's voice) had hurriedly informed St. Aldate's City Police that if they were interested there was a "green bike" chained to the railings outside St. Mary Mags in Cornmarket. No other details.

"Phone plonked down pronto," the duty sergeant had said.

"Sure it wasn't a 'Green dyke' chained to the railings?" Lewis had asked, in a rare excursion into humour.

Quite sure, since the City Police were now in possession of one bicycle, bright green--awaiting instructions.

The call had come through just after midday, and Lewis felt excitement, and gratification. Somebody--some mother or wife or girlfriend had clearly decided to push the hot property back into public circulation. Once in a while pro cedure and patience paid dividends. Like now.

If it was Brooks's bike, of course.