The Riddle Of The Third Mile

and Morse was still trying to get through to the Bursar when a man walked into the Lodge whom he had seen several times when he had dined at Lonsdale. It was the Vice-Master.

Ten minutes later, Lewis, with two keys in his hand, was climbing up the steps of Staircase T, whilst Morse was seating himself comfortably in a deep armchair in the Vice-Master’s suite, and agreeing that although it was rather early in the day a glass of something might not be totally unwelcome.

‘So you see, Inspector’ (it was several minutes later) ‘it’s not a very happy story at all-not an unusual one, though. That pair could never have got on together, whatever happened; but there were no signs of open animosity-not, as I say, until five years ago.’

‘Since when they’ve never even spoken to each other?’

‘That’s it.’

‘And the reason for all this?’

‘Oh, there’s no great secret about that. I should think almost everyone in the college knows, apart from one or two of the younger fellows.’

‘Tell me about it.’

It appeared that only two crucial ordinances had been decreed for election to the Mastership of Lonsdale College: first, that any nominand must be a layman; second, that such a person must be elected by the eight senior fellows of the college, with a minimum of six votes needed in favour, and with the election declared invalid if even a single vote was cast against. It had been common knowledge five years ago, in spite of the so-called “secret” nature of the ballot, that when Dr Browne-Smith had been proposed and seconded, one solitary vote had thwarted his election hopes; equally common knowledge was the fact that when Mr Westerby’s name, in turn, had been put forward, one single slip of paper was firmly printed with a ‘No’. The third choice-the compromise candidate-had also been one of the college’s senior fellows, and it had been a relief for everyone when the present Master had been voted into office, nem. Con.

‘Head of House!’ said Morse slowly. ‘Great honour, isn’t it?’ (He was suddenly conscious that he had repeated verbatim the question he had asked of Andrews.)

‘Some people would give a lot for it, yes.’

‘Would you?

The Vice-Master smiled. ‘No! You can leave me out of the running, inspector. You see, I’m in holy orders, and so, as I said, I’m just not eligible.’

‘I see,’ said Morse. ‘Now just getting back to Dr Browne-Smith for a minute. I’d be grateful, sir, if you could tell me something about his, well, his personal Life.’

‘Such as?’ The Vice-Master’s eyes were upon him, and Morse found himself wondering how much, or how little, he could ever expect to know of the complex web of relationships within this tight community of Lonsdale.

‘What about his health, for example?’

Again the shrewd look, as if the question had been fully expected.’He was a very sick man, Inspector.But you knew that yesterday, didn’t you? By the way, Andrews said you looked just a little surprised when he told you.’

‘How long had,you known?’ countered Morse.

‘Three weeks, I suppose. The Master called Andrews and me up to his room one evening after Hall. Strictly confidential, he said, and all that-but we had to know, of course, because of Browne-Smith’s teaching commitments.’

‘When did the Master think…?’

‘Certainly no longer than the end of the Hilary Term.’

‘Mm.’

‘And you’re wondering whether his teaching days might not be over already. Am I right?’

‘How much did Andrews tell you?’ asked Morse.

‘Everything. You didn’t mind, I hope?’

Morse felt oddly uncomfortable with the man, and after asking a few more vague questions about Browne- Smith’s lifestyle, he got up to go. ‘You getting some holiday soon, sir?”

‘Once the Master gets back. We usually alternate so that one of us is here for most of the vac. I know that some people haven’t much time for all us lazy academic layabouts, but there’s a lot to do in a college apart from looking after students. But you’d know that, of course.’

Morse nodded, and knew that he could very soon learn to dislike this unclerically garbed parson intensely.

‘We shall co-operate as much as we can,’ continued the Vice-Master. ‘You know that. But it would be nice to be kept in the picture – just a little, perhaps?’

‘Nothing really to tell you, sir-not yet, anyway.’

‘You don’t even want to tell me why your sergeant took the key to Westerby’s room as well?’

‘Ah, that! Yes, I ought to have mentioned that, sir. You see, there’s just a possibility that the corpse we found up in the canal wasn’t Browne-Smith’s after all.’

‘Really?’

But Morse declined to elaborate further as he made his farewell and strode away across the quad, sensing those highly intelligent eyes upon him as he turned into the Porters’ Lodge. From there he progressed, only some hundred yards, into the bar of the Mitre, where he had agreed to meet Lewis. He would be half an hour early, he realized that; but a thirty-minute wait in a pub was no great trial of patience to Morse.

Once inside Browne-Smith’s room, Lewis had taken out of its plastic wrapper the dark-blue jacket found on the corpse and measured it carefully against the jackets in the bedroom wardrobe: it was the same length, the same measurement round the chest, of the same sartorial style, with a single slit at the back and slim lapels. There could be little doubt about it: the jacket bad belonged to Browne-Smith. After rehanging the suits, Lewis methodically looked through the rest of the clothes, but learned only that each of the five pairs of shoes was size nine, and that four brand-new pairs of socks were all of navy-blue cotton with two light blue rings round the tops.

Westerby’s rooms opposite were silent and empty now, only the faded brown fitted carpet remaining, with oblong patches of pristine colour marking the erstwhile positions of the heavier furniture. Nothing else at all, except a plastic spoon and an jar of Nescafe on the draining-board in the kitchen.

Lewis’s highly discreet inquiries in the college office produced (amongst other things) the information that Browne-Smith certainly wore a suit very similar to the one he now unwrapped once more; and the college secretary herself (whom even Lewis considered very beautiful) was firmest of all in such sad corroboration.

The young porter was still on duty when Lewis handed back the two keys, and was soon chatting freely enough when Lewis asked about “Gilbert Removals”. As far as the porter could remember, Mr Gilbert himself had been down to T Staircase about four or five times; but he’d finished now, for Mr Westerby had at last been ‘shifted’.

‘Funny you should ask about Mr Gilbert, sergeant. He’s like your chief- both of ‘em got the jaw-ache by the look of things.’

Lewis nodded and prepared to leave. ‘Nuisance, teeth are, yes. Nothing much worse than an abscess on one of your front teeth, you know.’

The porter looked strangely at Lewis for a few seconds, for the words he had just heard were almost exactly (he could swear it) the words he had heard from the afflicted furniture-remover.

He told Lewis so… and Lewis told Morse, in the Mitre. Yet neither of them realized, at least for the present, that this brief and seemingly insignificant little episode was to have a profound effect upon the later stages of the case.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Friday, 25th July

Our two detectives have not yet quite finished with the implications of