here . . .'
'. . and the next day he was gone,' added Morse slowly, as he thanked the
Company Secretary and felt that long familiar shiver of excitement along his
shoulders.
chapter fifty-three At which period there were gentlemen and there were
seamen in the navy. But the seamen were not gentlemen; and the gentlemen
were not seamen (Macaulay, History of England) for morse, that early evening
followed much the same old pattern: same sort of bundle of ideas abounding in
his brain; same impatience to reach that final, wonderfully satisfying,
penny-dropping moment of insight; same old pessimism about the future of
mankind; same old craving for a dram of Scotch that could make the world, at
least for a while, a kindlier and a happier place; same old chauffeur Lewis.
It was just after 6. 30 p. m. when they were shown up a spiral flight of
rickety stairs to the small office immediately above the bar of the Maiden's
Arms. Around the walls, several framed diplomas paid tribute to the
landlord's expertise and the cleanliness of his kitchen, although the untidy
piles of letters and forms that littered the desk suggested a less than
methodical approach to the hostelry's paperwork.
'Quick snifter. Inspector?'
'Later, perhaps.'
'Mind if I, er . ..?' Biffen reached behind him and poured out a liberal
tot of Captain Morgan.
'You make me feel nervous!' Knocking back the neat rum in a single swallow,
he smacked his lips crudely: 'Ahh!'
'Royal or Merchant?' asked Morse.
'Bit o' both.' But Biffen seemed disinclined to discuss his earlier years at
sea, and came to the point immediately: 'How can I help you, gentlemen?'
So Morse told him: for the moment the village seemed to be at the centre of
almost everything; and the pub was at the centre of village life and gossip;
and the landlord was always going to be at the centre of the pub; so if. For
Lewis, Morse's subsequent interrogation seemed (indeed, was) aimless and
desultory.
But Biffen had little to tell.
Of course the villagers had talked still talked talked all the time except
when that media lot or the police came round. No secret, though, that the
locals knew enough about Mrs His occasional and more than occasional
liaisons; no secret that they listened with prurient interest to the rum ours
the wilder and whackier the better, concerning Mrs His sexual predilections.
It was left to Lewis to cover the crucial questions concerning alibis.
The day of Mrs His murder? Tuesday, that was. And Tuesday was always a
special day a sacrosanct sort of day. (He'd mentioned it earlier. ) His one
day off in the week when he refused to have anything at all to do with
cellerage, bar- tending, pub-meals fuck 'em all! Secretary of the Oxon Pike
Anglers' Association, he was. Had been for the past five years. Labour of
love! And every Tuesday during the fishing season he was out all day, dawn
to dusk. Back late, almost always, though he couldn't say exactly when that
day. No one had questioned him at the time. Why should they? He'd pretty
certainly have met a few of his fellow-anglers but. . . what the hell was
all this about anyway? Was he suddenly on the suspect- list? After all this
time?
Thomas Biffen's eyes had hardened; and looking across at the brawny tattooed
arms, the ex-boxer Sergeant Lewis found himself none too anxious ever to
confront the landlord in a cul-de-sac.
Biffen was a family man? Well, yes and no, really. He'd been married -
still was, in the legal sense. But his missus had gone off four years since,
taking their two children with her: Joanna, aged three at the time, and
Daniel, aged two. He still regularly gave her some financial support; always
sent his kids something for their birthdays and Christmas. But that side of
things had never been much of a problem. She was living with this fellow in
'Weston- super-Mare fellow she'd known a long time the same fellow in fact
