felt he could almost have fallen a little in love with her. But now he dreamed of her no longer.
Morse had taken the sensible (almost unprecedented) pre-caution of refraining from a few pints of beer on a Sunday lunchtime; and at 3:15 t,.M. he and Lewis stood in the path lab beside the prone body of Edward Brooks, the plastic bags in which he had been inserted lying folded neatly at his feet, like the linen wraps at the Resurrection. Apart from Dr. Hobson herself, two further forensic assistants and a fingerprint expert stood quite cheerfully around the body, 'in which the handle of a broad knife stood up straight.
Yet it was not the handle itself, so carefully dusted now with fingerprint-powder, which had riveted Morse's attention.
It was the label attached to the side of the handle; a label whose lettering, though washed and smudged by the waters of the Thames, was still partially legible on its right-hand side: /brthern ; ,[to Bishop May amount chief anika yr. MIss to cent Africa) Cabinet: 52 'I just do not believe this,' whispered Morse slowly. 'Pardon, sir?'
But Morse was not listening. He touched Laura Hobson lightly on the shoulder of her starched white coat, and for the second time that day asked for the quickest way to the nearest Gents.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Karl Popper teaches that knowinge is advanced by the positing and testing of hypotheses. Countless hypotheses, I believe, are being tested at once ih the unconscious mind; only the winning shortlist is handext to our consciousness (MATm pounds P^mus, The Times, March 7, 1994)
The following day, Monday, September 26, both Morse and Lewis arrived fairly early, just after 7 ^.M., at Thames Val ley HQ.
Morse himself had slept poofi3,' his eyeballs ceaselessly circling in their sockets throught)ut the night as the dra-matic new development in the ease had gradually estab-lished itself into the pattern of his thinking; for in truth he had been astonished at the discovery that Brooks had been murdered after the theft of the Rhodesian knife; murdered in fact by the Rhodesian knife.
As he had hitherto analysed the case, assessing motive and opportunity and means, Morse had succeeded in con-vincing himself that two or perhal)s three persons, acting to some degree in concert, had probably been responsible for Brooks's murder. Each of the three (as Morse saw things) would have regarded the death of Brooks, though for slightly different reasons, as of eonsiderable benefit to the human race.
Three suspects.
Three women: the superficially gentle Brenda Brooks, who had suffered sorely in the o1 of the neglected and maltreated wife; the enigmatic IVlrs. Stevens, who had de veloped a strangely strong bond between herself and her cleaning-lady; and the step-daughter, Eleanor Smith, who had left home in her mid-teens, abused (how could Morse know?) mentally, or verbally, or physically, or sexually even....
Women set apart from the rest of their kind by the sign of the murderer--by the mark of Cain.
A confusing figuration of 'if's' had permutated itself in Morse's restless brain that previous night, filtering down to exactly the same shortlist as before, since the Final Arbiter had handed to Morse the same three envelopes. In the first, as indeed in the second, the brief verdict was typed out in black letters: 'Not Guilty'; but in the third, Morse had read the even briefer verdict, typed out here in red capitals: 'GUILTY.' And the name on the front of the third envelope was--Eleanor Smith.
For almost an hour, Morse and Lewis had spoken together that morning: spoken of thoughts, ideas, hypotheses. And when he returned from the canteen with two cups of coffee at 8 A.M., Lewis stated, starkly and incontrovertibly, the simple truth they both had to face: 'You know, I just don't see--I just can't see--how · Brenda Brooks, or this Mrs. Stevens--how either of them could have done it. We've not exactly had a video-camera on them since the knife was stolen--but not far off. All right, they'd got enough motive. But I just don't see when they had the opportunity.'
'Nor do I,' said Morse quietly. And Lewis was encour to continue.
'I know what you mean about Mrs. Stevens, sir. And I agree. There's somebody pretty clever behind all this, and she's the only one of the three who's got the brains to have thought it all out. But as I say...'
Morse appeared a little pained as Lewis continued: '... she couldn't have done it. And Mrs. Brooks couldn't have done it either, could she? She's got the best motive of any of them, and she'd probably have the nerve as well. But she couldn't have planned it all, surely, even if somehow she bad the opportunity--at night, say, after she got back from Stratford. I just don't see it.'
'Nor do I,' repeated Morse, grimacing as he sipped an-other mouthful of weak, luke-warm coffee.
'So unless we're looking in completely the wrong direction, sir, that only leaves...'
But Morse was only half listening. 'Unless,' Lewis had just said... the same word the Warden had used the pre-vious day when he'd been talking of the red-and-white striped barrier. In Morse's mind there'd earlier been a log-ical barrier to his hypothesis that Brooks's body must have been taken to the Thames in some sort of vehicle--as well as that literal barrier. But the Warden had merely lifted that second barrier, hadn't he? Just physically lifted it out of the way.
So what if he, Morse, were now to lift that earlier barrier, too?
'Lewis! Get the car, and nip along and have a word with the headmaster of the Proctor Memorial. Tell him we'd like to see Mrs. Stevens again. We can either go round to her house or, if she prefers, she can come here.'
'Important, is it, sir?'
'Oh, yes,' said Morse. 'And while you're at it, you can drop me off at the path lab. I want another quick word with the lovely Laura.'
Chapter Fifty-eight
Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen (Hebrews, ch .11, v .1)
Coming out of her lab to greet Morse, Dr. Laura Hobso appeared incongruously contented with her work. Sb pointed to the door behind her.
'You'd better not go in there, Chief Inspector. Not fi the minute. We've nearly finished, though--the main bit anyway.'
