Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

'Tell me about it,' urged Morse.

Denis Cornford's voice was flat, almost mechanical, as he replied:

'On Sunday just before I met you in the pub she told me she'd been to bed widi another man that morning. I hardly spoke to her after that. I slept in die spare room the last diree nights.'

'The note?' asked Morse gently. 'Is that what she was referring to?'

Yes.'

'Nothing to do with anything else?'

'No.'

'She was there, in your rooms, just before Chapel on Sunday, wasn't she?'

Cornford evinced no surprise.

'We'd had a few harsh words. She didn't want to see you.'

'Do you know who the other man was?'

Yes. Clixby Bream.'

'She told you dial, sir?'

Yes.'

'So - so she couldn't have had anything to do with the Owens murder?'

'No. Nor could the Master.'

'Did you have anything to do with it?'

'No.'

'Why did you go to see Owens last Thursday?'

'I knew Owens a bit through various things I did for his newspaper. That night I had to go to Kidlington - I went on the bus - the Kidlington History Society - held at the school - 'Effects of the Enclosure Acts in Oxfordshire' - seven o'clock to eight. He lived fairly near - five minutes' walk away. I'd done a three-part article for him on Mediaeval Oxford - Owens said it needed shortening a bit - we discussed some changes - no problems. I got a bus back to Oxford - about nine.'

'Why didn't you tell me you knew Owens?'

'I didn't want to get involved.'

'What will you do now?'

'I left a note for the Master about the election.' The voice was still monotonous; the mouth dry. 'I've withdrawn my nomination.'

'I'm so sorry about everything,' said Morse very quietly.

'Yes, I think you are, aren't you?'

Morse left the pale, bespectacled historian staring vaguely into a cup of cold tea, like a man who is temporarily anaesthetized against some overwhelming pain.

'It's a terrible business - terrible!'

The Master poured himself a single-malt Scotch.

'Drink, Chief Inspector?'

Morse shook his head.

'Won't you sit down?'

'No. I've only called to say that Dr Cornford has just told me everything - about you and his wife.'

'Mmm.'

'We shall have to get a statement from you.'

'Why is that?'

'The time chiefly, I suppose.'

'Is it really necessary?'

'There was a murder on that Sunday morning.'

'Mmm. Was she one of your suspects?'

Morse made no direct answer. 'She couldn't have been making love to you and murdering someone else at die same time.'

'No.' The bland features betrayed no emotion; yet

Morse was distastefully aware that the Master was hardly displeased with such a succinct, such an unequivocal assertion of Shelly Cornford's innocence, since by implication it was an assertion of his own.

'I understand that Dr Comford has written to you, sir.'