'Exited from the lists, poor Denis, yes. That just leaves Julian Storrs. Good man though, Julian!'
Morse slowly walked to the door.
'What do you think about suicide, Sir Clixby?'
'In general?' The Master drained his tumbler, and thoughtfully considered the question. 'Aristode, you know, thought suicide a form of cowardice - running away from troubles oneself and leaving all the heartache to everybody else. What do
Morse was conscious of a deep loathing for this smooth and odious man.
'I don't know what your particular heartache is, sir. You see I never met Mrs Cornford myself. But I'd be surprised if she was a coward. In fact, I've got the feeling she was a bit of a gutsy girl.' Morse stood beside the study door, his face drawn, his nostrils distended. 'And I'll tell you something else. She probably had far more guts in her little finger than you've ever had in the whole of your body!'
Lewis was waiting in the Jaguar outside die Porters' Lodge; and Morse quickly climbed into the passenger seat. His voice was still vicious:
'Get-me-out-of-here, Lewis!'
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Friday, 8 March
Those who are absent, by its means become present: correspondence is the consolation of life
(Voltaire,
SERGEANT LEWIS had himself only just entered Morse's office when Jane came through with the post six official-looking letters, opened, with appropriate previous correspondence paper-clipped behind them; one square white envelope, unopened, marked 'Private', and postmarked Oxford; and an airmail letter, also unopened, marked 'Personal', and postmarked 'Washington'.
Jane smiled radiandy at her boss.
'Why are you looking so cheerful?' queried Morse.
'Just nice to have you back, sir, that's all.'
Inside the white envelope was a card, the front showing an auburn-haired woman, in a white dress, reading a book; and Morse read the brief message inside:
We all miss your miserable presence in the ward. If you haven't finished smoking, we shall never meet
for that G&Tyou promised me. Look after yourself!
Affectionately Janet (McQueen)
P.S. I looked through your old hospital records from many years ago. Know something? I found your Christian name!
'Why are
But Morse made no answer, and indeed appeared to be reading the message again and again. Then he opened the letter from America.
Just read your thing in the Police Gazette. How did I know it was yours? Ah, I too was a detective! I'd have had the champagne myself. And I think the Faure Requiem's a bit lightweight compared with the Verdi -in spite of the imprimatur of the Papacy. I know you've always wept to Wagner but I've alvays vept to Verdi myself- and the best Xmas present I had was the Karajan recording of Don Carlos.
I know you're frightened of flying, but a visit here -especially in the spring, they say - is something not to be missed in life. We'll get together again for a jar on
my return (April) and don't leave it too long before you take your pension.
As aye, Peter (Imbert)
Morse handed the letter across to Lewis.
'The old Metropolitan Commissioner!'
Morse nodded, rather proudly.
'Washington DC, that'll be, sir.'
'Where else?'
'Washington CD - County Durham, near enough.'
'Oh.'
'What's your programme today, sir?'
'Well, we've done most of the spadework-'
'Except the Harvey Clinic side of things.'
'And that's in hand, you say?'
