Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

shouldn't be long - if that's what you want?'

'We'd rather talk to you alone, sir.'

'What's this bloody 'sir' got to do with things?'

The three of them - Storrs, Morse, Lewis - were seated in Room 36, a pleasingly spacious room, whose windows overlooked the hotel's pool and the sodden-looking croquet-green.

'What's all this about anyway?' Storrs' voice was already sounding a little weary, increasingly tetchy. 'Can we get on with it?'

So Morse got on with it, quickly sketching in the background to the two murders under investigation:

Storrs had been having an affair with Rachel James -and Rachel James had been murdered.

Storrs had been blackmailed by Owens - and Owens had been murdered.

^ J ?? AM. 4

The grounds for this blackmail were three-fold: his extramarital relationship with Ms James; his dishonest concealment of his medical prognosis; and his wife's earlier career as striptease dancer and Soho call-girl. For these reasons, it would surely have been very strange had Storrs not figured somewhere near the top of the suspect list

As far as the first murder was concerned, Storrs - both the Storrs - had an alibi: they had been in bed widi each other. How did one break that sort of alibi?

As far as the second murder was concerned, Storrs -again both Storrs - had dieir alibis: but this time not only were they in the same bedroom together, but also eighty-odd miles away from the scene of the crime. In fact, in the very room where they were now. But alibis could be fabricated; and if so, they could be broken. Sometimes they were broken.

(Storrs was listening in silence.)

Means? Forensic tests had established that both murders had been committed with the same weapon - a pistol known as the Howdah, often used by senior ranks in the armed forces, especially in India, where Storrs had served until returning to Oxford. He had acquired such a pistol; probably still had it, unless he had got rid of it recendy - very recendy.

The predominant cause - the Prime Mover - for the whole tragic sequence of events had been his obsessive, overweening ambition to gain the ultimate honour during what was left to him of his lifetime - the Mastership of Lonsdale, widi the virtually inevitable accolade of a knighthood.

Motive, then? Yes.

Means? Yes.

Opportunity, though?

If For the first murder, transport from Polstead Road to

Kidlington was easy enough - there were two cars. But the target had not been quite so easy. In fact, it might well have been that Rachel James was murdered mistakenly, because of a mix-up over house-numbers and a pony-tailed silhouette.

But for the second murder, planning had to be far more complicated - and clever. Perhaps the 'in-bed-together' alibi might sound a little thin the second time. But not if he was in a bed in some distant place; not if he was openly observed in diat distant place at the time the murder must have been committed. No one had ever been in two places at the same time: that would be an affront to the rules by which the Almighty had established the universe. But the distance from Oxford to Bath was only eighty-odd miles. And in a powerful car, along the motorway, on a Sunday morning, early ... An hour, say? Pushing it, perhaps? An hour and a quarter, then - two and a half hours on the road. Then there was a murder to be committed, of course. Round it up to three hours, say.

During the last few minutes of Morse's exposition, Storrs had walked across to the window, where he stood looking out over the garden. The afternoon had clouded, with the occasional spatter of rain across the panes. Storrs was humming quietly to himself; and Morse recognized the

13 njvr en. i

tune of 'September', one of Richard Strauss's Four Last Songs:

Der Garten trauert

Kiihl sinkt in die Blumen der Regen ...

Then, abruptly, Storrs turned round.

'You do realize what you're saying?' he asked quietly.

'I think I do,' replied Morse.

'Well, let's get a few things straight, shall we? Last Sunday my wife Angela and I had breakfast here, in this room, at about a quarter to eight. The same young girl brought us breakfast this morning, as it happens. She'll remember.'

Morse nodded. 'She's not quite sure it was you, though, last Sunday. She says you were shaving at the time, in the bathroom.'

'Who the hell was it then? If it wasn't me?'

'Perhaps you'd got back by then.'

'Back? Back from Oxford? How did I manage that? Three hours, you say? I must have left at half past four!'

You had a car - '