Chapter Five
0 quid solutis est beatius curls, Cum mens onus reponit, ac peregrino Labore fessi venimus larem ad nostrum, Desideratoque acquiescimus lecto?
(What bliss! First spot the house--and then Flop down--on one's old bed again) (CATULLUS, 31)
Julia Stevens had returned home that same afternoon.
The flight had been on time (early, in fact); Customs had been swift and uncomplicated; the Gatwick- Heathrow-Oxford coach had been standing them, just waiting for b.' it seemed, welcoming her back to England. From the station at Gloucester Green she had taken a taxi (no queue) out to East Oxford, the driver duly helping her with two heavyweight cases fight up to the front door of her house--a house which, as the taxi turned into the street, she'd immediately observed to he still standing there, un-burned, unvandalised; and, as she could see as she stood inside her own living-room--at long last!--blessedly How glad she was to he back. Almost always, on the first two nights of any holiday away from home, she expe-rienced a weepy nostalgia. But usually this proved to he only a re-adjustment. Usually, too, at least for the last two days of her statutory annwal fortnight abroad, she felt a sim- ilar wrench on leaving her summer surroundings; on bid-31 ding farewell to her newly made holiday friends. One or two friends in particular.
One or two men, as often as not.
But such had not been the case this time on her package tour round the Swiss and Italian lakes. She couldn't explain why: the coach~driver had been very competent; the guide good; the scenery spectacular; the fellow- tourists pleasantly friendly. But she'd not enjoyed it at all. My God! What was happening to her?
(But she knew exactly what was happening to her.) Not that she'd said anything, of course. And Brenda irooks had received a cheerful postcard from a multi-tarred hotel on Lake Lucerne: Wed.
Having a splendid time here with a nice lot of people.
My room looks right across the lake. Tomorrow we go over to Triebschen (hope I've spelt that right) where Richard Wagner spent some of his life. There was a firework display last night--tho' nobody told us why. Off to Lugano Friday.
Love Julia
P. S. Give St. Giles a big hug for me.
As Julia walked through her front door that afternoon, her house smelt clean and fragrant; smelt of pine and polish and Windolene. Bless her--bless Brenda Brooks!
Then, on the kitchen table, there was a note the sort of note that she, Julia, had ever come to expect: Dear Mrs. S, I got your card thankyou & I'm glad you had a good time. St. Giles has been fine, there are two more tins of Whiskas in the fridge. See you Monday. There's something I want to tell you about & perhaps you can help I hope so. Welcome home!!
Brenda (Brooks)
Julia smiled to herself. Brenda invariably appended her (bracketed) surname as though the household boasted a whole bevvy of charladies. And always that deferential 'Mrs. S.' Brenda had worked for her for four years now, and at fifty-two was nearly seven years her senior. Again Julia smiled to herself. Then, as she re-read the penultimate senten, for a moment she found herself frowning slightly.
It was a pleasant sunny day, with September heralding a golden finale to what had been a hot and humid summer.
Indeed, the temperature was well above the average for an autumn day. Yet Julia felt herself shivering slightly as she unlocked and unbolted the rear door. And if a few moments earlier she may have looked a little sad, a little strained--behold now a metamorphosis! A ginger cat parted the ground-cover greenery at the bottom of the small garden and peered up at his mistress; and suddenly Julia Stevens looked very happy once again. And very beautiful.
Chapter Six
Envy and idleness married together beget curiosity (THOMAS FULLER, Gnomologia)
Morse decided to interview Laura Wynne-Wilson, should that good lady allow it, in her own ground-floor apartment.
And the good lady did so allow.
She was, she admitted, very doubtful about whether that previous policeman had attended to her evidence with suf-ficient seriousness. Indeed, she had formed the distinct im pression that he had listened, albeit politely, in a wholly perfunctory way to what she had to say. Which was? Which was to do with Dr. Mc Clure--a nice gentleman; and a ve good neighbour, who had acted as Secretary of the Residents' Action Committee and written such a splerwlid letter to that cowboy outfit supposedly responsible for the upkeep of the exterior of the properties.
She spoke primly and quietly, a thin smile upon thin lips. 'And what exactly have you got to tell us?' bawled Morse.
'Please don't shout at me, Inspector! Deaf people do not require excessive volume--they require only clarity of speech and appropriate lip-movement.'
Lewis smiled sweetly to himself as the small, white-haired octogenarian continued: 'What I have to tell you is this. Dr. Mc Clure had a fairly regular visitor here. A... a lady-friend.'
'Not all that unusual, is it?' suggested Morse, with what he hoped was adequate clarity and appropriate lip- movement.
'Oh, no. After all, it might well have been some female relative.'
Morse nodded. Already he knew that Mc Chire had no living relatives apart from a niece in New Zealand; but still he nodded.
'And then again, Inspector, it might not. You see, he had no living relatives in the United Kingdom.'
'Oh.' Morse decided that, unlike Phillotson, he at least would treat the old girl with a modicum of respect.
