Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

eminent authority on the aorist subjunctive in Classical Greek, walked out of the SCR more than slightly wounded.

Sir Clixby Bream brought up the rear as the room emptied, and lighdy touched the bottom of Angela Storrs standing just in front of him.

Sotto voce he lied into her ear: 'You're looking ravishing tonight. And I'll tell you something else - I'd far rather be in bed with you now than face another bloody Guest Night'

'So would I!' she lied, in a whisper. 'And I've got a big favour to ask of you, too.'

'We'll have a word about it after the port.'

'Before the port, Clixby! You're usually blotto after it'

Sir Clixby banged his gavel, mumbled Benedictus benedicat, and die assembled company seated themselves, the table-

plan having positioned Julian Stores and Denis Cornfbrd at diagonally opposite ends of the thick oak table, with their wives virtually opposite each other hi the middle.

'I love your suit!' lied Shelly Cornford, in a not -unpleasing Yankee twang.

'You look very nice, too,' lied Angela Storrs, smiling widely and showing such white and well-aligned teedi that no one could be in much doubt that her upper plate had been disproportionately expensive.

After which preliminary skirmish, each side observed a dignified truce, with neither a further word nor a further glance between them during the rest of the dinner.

At die head of the table, the litde priest sat on the Master's right

'Just the two candidates, I hear?' he said quiedy.

'Just the two: Julian Storrs and Denis Cornford.'

'The usual shenanigans, I assume? The usual horse-trading? Clandestine cabals?'

'Oh no, nothing like that. We're all very civilized here.'

'How do you know diat?'

'Well, you've only got to hear what people say - the way they say it.'

The litde priest pushed away his half-eaten guinea-fowl.

'You know, Clixby, I once read that speech often gets hi the way of genuine communication.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Saturday, 24 February

There never was a scandalous tale without some foundation (Richard Brinsley Sheridan, The School for ScatuLd)

WHILST THE GUEST NIGHT was still in progress, whilst still the port and Madeira were circulating in their time-honoured directions, an over-wearied Morse had decided to retire comparatively early to bed, where almost unprecedentedly he enjoyed a deep, unbroken slumber until 7.15 the following morning, when gladly would he have turned over and gone back to sleep. But he had much to do that day. He drank two cups of instant coffee (which he preferred to the genuine article) ; then another cup, this time with one slice of brown toast heavily spread with butter and Frank Cooper's Oxford Marmalade.

By 8.45 he was in his office at Kidlington HQ, where he found a note on his desk:

Please see Chief Sup. Strange a s a p

The meeting, almost until the end, was an amiable enough affair, and Morse received a virtually uninterrupted

hearing as he explained his latest thinking on the murder of Rachel James.

'Mm!' grunted Strange, resting his great jowls on his palms when Morse had finished. 'So it could be a contract-killing that went cockeyed, you think? The victim gets pinpointed a bit too vaguely, and the killer shoots at the wrong pig-tail-'

Tony-tail, sir.'

'Yes - through the wrong window. Right?'

·Yes.'

'What about the motive? The key to this sort of mess is almost always the motive, you know that.'

*You sound just like Sergeant Lewis, sir.'

Strange looked dubiously across the desk, as if a little uncertain as to whether he wanted to sound just like Sergeant Lewis.

'Well?'

'I agree with you. That's one of the reasons it could have been a case of misidentity. We couldn't really find any satisfactory motive for Rachel's murder anywhere. But if somebody wanted Owens out of the way - well, I can think of a dozen possible motives.'

'Because he's a news-hound, you mean?'

Morse nodded. 'Plenty of people in highish places who've got some sort of skeleton in the sideboard-'

'Cupboard.'