Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

'What did she do before the place opened?'

'Dunno.'

'Read, Lewis!'

'Well, like I said, diere was a library book in her drawer.'

'What was it?'

'I didn't make a note.'

'Can't you remember?'

Ye-es, Lewis thought he could. Yes!

'Book called The Masters, sir - by P. C. Snow.'

Morse laughed and shook his head.

'He wasn't a bloody police constable, Lewis! You mean C. P. Snow.'

'Sorry, sir.'

'Interesting, though.'

'In what way?'

But Morse ignored the question.

' When did she get it from the library?'

'How do I know?'

*You just,' said Morse slowly, sarcastically, 'take fourteen days from the date printed for the book's return, which you could have found, if you'd looked, by gently opening the front cover.'

'Perhaps they let you have three weeks - at the library she borrowed it from.'

'And which library was that''

Somehow Lewis managed to maintain his good humour.

'Well, at least I can give you a very straight answer to that I haven't the faintest idea.'

'And what's the good news?'

This time, it was Lewis's turn to make a slow, impressive pronouncement

'I know who the fellow is - die fellow in the photo.'

'You do?' Morse looked surprised. 'You mean he turned up at the station?'

'In a way, I suppose he did, yes. There was no one like him standing around waiting for his girlfriend. But I had a word with diis ticket-collector - young chap who's only been on the job for a few weeks. And he recognized him straightaway. He'd asked to look at his rail pass and he remembered him because he got a bit shirty with him - and probably because of that he remembered his name as well.'

'A veritable plethora of pronouns, Lewis! Do you know how many he's and him's and his's you've just used?'

'No. But I know one diing - he told me his name!' replied Lewis, happily adding a further couple of potentially confusing pronouns to his earlier tally. 'His name's Julian Starrs.'

For many seconds Morse sat completely motionless, feeling the familiar tingling across his shoulders. He picked up his silver Parker pen and wrote some letters

on the blotting pad in front of him. Then, in a whispered voice, he spoke:

'I know him, Lewis'

*You didn't recognize him, though-?'

'Most people,' interrupted Morse, 'as they get older, can't remember names. For them 'A name is troublesome' - anagram - seven letters - what's that?'

''Amnesia'?'

'Well done! I'm all right on names, usually. But as I get older it's faces I can't recall. And there's a splendid word for this business of not being able to recognize familiar faces-'

'Tro-sop-a-something', isn't it?'

Morse appeared almost shell-shocked as he looked across at his sergeant 'How in heaven's name ... ?'

'Well, as you know, sir, I didn't do all that marvellously at school - as I told you, we didn't even have a school tie - but I was ever so good at one thing' (a glance at the blotting pad) 'I was best in the class at reading things upside-down.'

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Facing the media is more difficult than bathing a leper (Mother Teresa of Calcutta)

THERE HAD BEEN little difficulty in finding out information on Julian Charles Storrs - a man to whom Morse (as he now remembered) had been introduced only a few months previously at an exhibition of Thesiger's desert photography in the Pitt Rivers Museum. But Morse said nothing of this to Lewis as the pair of them sat together that same evening in Kidlington HQ; said nothing either of his discovery that the tie whose provenance he had so