'But not for us.'
'Not for us, no.'
'Not even the time she was in the bath?'
'if she was in the bath.'
'Oh.'
'Anyway, I don't somehow think it's going to be of much importance to us, what time the murderer made his entrance. '
Morse was whining on a little wearily now; and like Miss (or Mrs.) W-W he seemed to he running out of steam. Both men became silent again.
And soon Lewis was feeling pleased with himself, for he was beginning to realise that the 'second thing' he'd found for Morse was looking far more promising.
And Morse himself, with melancholy mien, sat ever motionless, his eyes staring intently at the page before him: that selfsame page in the book of Latin poetry.
Chapter Eight
Caeli, Lesbia nostra, Lesbia ill llla Lesbia, quam Catullus unam Plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes, Nunc in quadriviis et angiportis Glubit magnanimi Remi nepotes (CATULLUS, Poems LVIII)
When he was a boy--well, when he was fifteen--Morse had fallen deeply in love with a girl, a year his junior, who like him had won a scholarship to one of the two local grammar schools: one for boys, one for girls. The long re-lationship between the pair of them had been so formative, so crucial, so wonderful overall, that when, three years later, he had been called up for National Service in the Army, he had written (for the first twelve weeks) a daily letter to his girl; only to learn on his first weekend fur-lough, to learn quite accidentally, that one of his friends (friends!) had been openly boasting about the sensually re-sponsive lips of his beloved.
Morse told himself that he had finally grown up that weekend: and that was good. But he'd realised, too, at the same time, that his capacity for jealousy was pretty nearly boundless.
It was only many years later that he'd seen those deeply wise words, embroidered in multi-coloured silks, in a B&B establishmt in Maidstone: --If you love her, set her free --If she loves you, she will gladly return to you --If she doesn't she never really loved you anyway Such thoughts monopolised Morse's mind now as he looked again at Poem LVIII--a poem which his Classics master at school had exhorted the class to ignore, as being totally devoid of artistic merit. Such condemnation was al-most invariably in direct proportion to the sexual content of the poem in question; and immediately after the lesson was over, Morse and his classmates had sought to find the meaning of that extraordinary word which Catullus had stuck at the beginning of the last line.
Glubit.
In the smaller Latin dictionary, glubo, -ere was given only as 'libidinously to excite emotions.' But in the larger dictionary there was a more cryptic, potentially more interesting definition.... And here, in the margin of the book he was holding, Mc Clure had translated the same poem.
To totters and toffs in a levelish ratio My darling K offers her five-quid fellatio.
Near Carfax, perhaps, or at Cowley-Road Palais, Or just by the Turf, up any old alley: Preferring (just slightly) some kerb-crawling gent High in the ranks of Her Majesty's Government.
Morse gave a mental tick to 'Carfax' for quadriviis; but thought 'Palais' a bit adolescent perhaps. Had his own translation been as good? Better? He couldn't remember.
He doubted it. And it didn't matter anyway.
Or did it?
In the actual text of the poem, Mc Clure had underlined in red Biro the words Lesbia nostra, Lesbia ilia, llla Lesbia: my Lesbia, that Lesbia of mine, that selfsame Lesbia.
Jealousy.
That most corrosive of all the emotions, gnawing away at the heart with a greater pain than failure or hatred---or even despair. But it seemed that Mc Clure, like Catullus, had known his full share of it, with an ever- flirting, ever-hurting woman with whom he'd fallen in love; a woman who appeared willing to prostitute, at the appropriate price, whatever she possessed.
And suddenly, unexpectedly, Morse found himself thinking he'd rather like to meet the mysterious 'K.' Then, just as suddenly, he knew he wouldn't; unless, of course, that ambivalent lady held the key to the murder of Felix Mc Clure--a circumstance which (at the time) he suspected was extremely improbable.
Chapter Nine
And like a skytit water stood
The bluebells in the azured wood
(A. E. HOUSM^N, A Shropshire Lad, XLI)
Morse snapped Catullus to.
'You didn't hear what I just said, did you, sir?'
'Pardon? Sorry. Just pondering--just pondering.'
'Is it leading us anywhere, this, er, pondering?'
'We're learning quite a bit about this girl of his, aren't we? Building up quite an interesting--' 'qhe answer's 'no' then, is it?' Morse smiled weakly. 'Probably.'
'Not like you, that, sir--giving up so quickly.'
'No. You're right. We shall have to check up on her.'
