Paki-stani doctor--a kindly, compassionate man, with Spaniel eyes--who had gently encouraged her at least to consider the alternative: that of keeping the child she had conceived.
She felt glad that she had tried to present herself in rather more conventional guise, putting on bra and pants (both!) beneath her only presentable summer dress--and removing the rings from her nostrils. Admittedly that left her hair, still streaked with crimson like the horizon in an angry sun-set; but she felt (dare she admit it to herself?.) somehow... expiated!
She couldn't really think why.
No, she could think why.
It was something to do with being with her mum once more....
The 3:09 train from New Street, timetabled to arrive in Oxford at 4:31 },.irt., arrived virtually on time. And half an hour later Ellie Smith was back at her flat, reading the brief note contained in the white envelope ('By Hand') which she'd found propped up at the foot of her white-painted door on the third floor: Hope things went OK. Any chance of you thinking again? If there's even a remote chance of its being mine, I'll marry you and make an honest woman of you yet. Don't be cross with me for badgering you.
Ashley, with lots and lots of kisses.
As she put her key into the lock, Ellie Smith wondered whether she'd sadly misjudged Mr. Ashley Davies.
(ii)
'Thanks for coming,' said a sombre Phillotson.
In vain Lewis sought to find some suitable rejoinder. 'Morse on the mend?'
'Out tomorrow, so they say.'
'Will he be fit enough to carry on--with the case?'
'Dunno, sir. I suppose he'll please himself whatever haly pens.'
'I suppose he will, yes.'
Lewis moved away, and briefly surveyed the wreaths laid out there, including a splendid display of white lilies from the Thames Valley Police HQ.
Phillotson's wife had lived a gently unspectacular life, and died at the age of forty-six. Not much of an innings, re-ally; and not too much of a memorial either, although her husband, her next of kin, and ail of her friends, would hope that the little rose-bush (Rosa rubrifolia), already happily stuck into a wodge of blackly-rich compost in the Garden of Remembrance, would thrive and prosper--and, metem-psychotically, as it were, take over.
If Chief Inspector Morse had been present at the short service, he would have been impatient with what he saw as the pretentious prayers; and yet, almost certainly, he would have welcomed the hymn that was played there--'O Love that wilt not let me go'--and his quiet unmusical baritone would probably have mingled with the singing.
But Morse was not one of the thirty-seven mourners Lewis counted at the Oxford Crematorium that Wednesday lunchtime.
(iii)
'What exactly's wrong with you, Morse?'
'I'm only here for observation.'
'Yes, I know that. But what exactly is it they're observing?'
Morse drew a deep breath. 'I'm suffering from bronchi-something beginning with 'e'; my liver and kidneys are Colin Deter disintegrating; my blood pressure isn't quite off the top of the scale--not yet; I'm nursing another stomach ulcer; and as if that wasn't enough I'm on the verge of diabetes, be-cause my pancreas, they tell me, isn't producing sufficient insulin to counteract my occasional intake of alcohol. Oh yes, and my cholesterol's dangerously high.'
'I see. Perhaps I should have asked what exactly's right with you, Morse.'
Strange shifted his great bulk awkwardly on the small wooden chair beside Morse's bed in Ward 7 of the John Radcliffe Two Hospital out at Headington, whither, in spite of his every protestation of being in excellent health, Morse had been conveyed by ambulance, half an hour after the doctor had been summoned the previous Sunday afternoon. 'I had an endoscopy yesterday,' continued Morse. 'Sounds painful. Where do they stick that?'
'In the mouth, sir.'
'Ah. No more dramatic finds?'
'No more corpses under the floorboards.'
'Well, the wife'll be very pleased if you can last out till fairly soon, isn't it?--when you've got a speaking en gagement, I understand.'
'I have?'
'You know--the WI group-meeting in Kidlington. Likely to be a good crowd there, she says. So try to make it, old man. She's, er... you know, she's the President this year. Means a lot to her.'
'Tell her I'll be there, even if they have to wheel me in.'
'Good. Good. 'The Grislier Aspects of Murder.' Nice lit-fie title, that.'
With which Morse's mind reverted to the investigation.
'If you see Lewis, sir, tell him to call in tonight, will you?
I'd like to know how things are going.'
