Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

The porter rang a second number; spoke for a while; put down the phone.

'They've not seen him today, sir. Seems he didn't turn up for the two o'clock meeting.'

'Have you got his home number?'

'He's ex-directory, sir. I can't-'

'So am /ex-directory. You know who I am, don't you?'

The young porter looked as hopefully as he could into Morse's face.

'No, sir.'

'Forget it!' snapped Morse.

He walked back up to Holywell Street, along to the red door, and rang the bell.

There was no answer.

There were no answers.

An over-lipsticked middle-aged traffic-warden stood beside the Jaguar.

'Is this your vehicle, sir?'

'Yes, madam. I'm just waiting for the Chief Constable. He's' (Morse pointed vaguely towards the Sheldonian)

'nearly finished in there. At any rate, I hope he bloody has! And if he hasn't, put the bill to 'im, love - not to me!'

'Sorry!'

Morse wandered across to the green-shuttered Black-well's, and browsed awhile; finally purchasing the first volume of Sir Steven Runciman's History of the Crusades.

He wasn't quite sure why.

Then, for the third time, he walked up to the red door in Holywell Street and rang the bell.

Morse heard the news back in HQi

From Lewis.

A body had been found in a car, in a narrow lane off New Road, in a garage rented under the name of Dr Comford.

For a while Morse sat silent.

'I only met him the once you know, Lewis. Well, the twice, really. He was a good man, I think. I liked him.'

'It isn't Dr Cornford though, sir. It's his wife.'

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Thursday, 7 March

Is it sin

To rush into the secret house of death Ere death dare come to us?

(Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra)

'TELL ME ABOUT it,' said Morse.

Seated opposite him, in the first-floor office in St Aldates Police Station, Detective Chief Inspector Peter Warner told the story sadly and economically.

Mrs Shelly Cornford had been found in the driving-seat of her own car, reclining back, with a hosepipe through the window. The garage had been bolted on the inside. There could be litde doubt that the immediate cause of death was carbon-monoxide poisoning from exhaust fumes. A brief handwritten note had been left on the passenger seat: Tm so sorry, Denis, I can't forgive myself for what I did. I never loved anyone else but you, my darling - S.' No marks of violence; 97 mg blood alcohol - die equivalent (Warner suggested) of two or three stiffish gins. Still a few unanswered questions, of course: about her previous whereabouts that day; about the purchase of the green

hosepipe and the connector, both new. But suspicion of foul play? None.

'I wonder where she had a drink?' asked Morse.

'Well, if she'd walked up from Holywell Street, diere'd be die King's Arms, the White Horse, The Randolph ... But you're the expert'

Morse asked no more questions; but sat thinking of the questionnaire he had set for the Police Gazette (it seemed so long ago): 'If you could gladden your final days widi one of the following...' Yes, without a doubt, if he'd been honest, Morse would have applauded Shelly Comford's choice. And what the hell did it matter where she'd had those few last glasses of alcohol - few last 'units' rather -the measurements into which the dietitian had advised him to convert his old familiar gills and pints and quarts.

'Do you want to see her?'

Morse shook his head.

'You'd better see him, though.'

Morse nodded wearily. 'Is he all right?'

'We-ell. His GP's been in - but he refuses to take any medication. He's in the canteen with one of the sergeants. We've finished widi him, really.'