'Inspector,' he opened his eyes wearily. 'Inspector, I've got to talk to you.' He had great difficulty in getting this far, and Morse looked to the doctor, who slowly shook his head.
'Tomorrow, sir,' said Morse. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'
'Inspector, I've got to talk to you.'
'Yes, I know. But not now. We'll talk tomorrow. It'll be all right then.' Morse put his hand to Crowther's forehead and felt the clammy wetness there.
'Inspector!' But the top corner of the walls where Crowther was trying to focus was slowly disintegrating before his eyes; the angles melted and spiralled and faded away.
Morse drove slowly out of Southdown Road and realized just how close Crowther lived to Jennifer Coleby. It was a black night and the moon was hidden away deep behind the lowering clouds. Rectangles of light, shaded by curtains, showed from most of the front-room windows, and in many Morse could see the light-blue phosphorescent glow of television screens. He looked at one house in particular and looked up at one window in it, the window directly above the door. But it was dark, and he drove on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tuesday, 19 October, a.m.
MORSE HAD SLEPT very badly and woke with a throbbing head. He hated suicides. Why had she done it? Was suicide just the coward's refuge from some black despair? Or was it in its way an act of courage that revealed a perverted sort of valour? Not that, though. So many other lives were intertwined; no burdens were shed — they were merely passed from the shoulders of one to those of another. Morse's mind would give itself no rest but twirled around on some interminable fun-fair ride.
It was past nine o'clock before he was sitting in his leather chair, and his sombre mood draped itself over his sagging shoulders. He summoned Lewis, who knocked apprehensively on the door before going in; but Morse had seemingly lost all recollection of the nasty little episode the day before. He told Lewis the facts of Margaret Crowther's suicide.
'Do you think he's got something important to tell us, sir?'
There was a knock on the door before Lewis could learn the answer to his question, and a young girl brought in the post, said a bright 'Good morning' and was off. Morse fingered through the dozen or so letters and his eye fell on an unopened envelope marked 'strictly private' and addressed to himself. The envelope was exactly similar to the one he had seen the previous evening.
'I don't know whether Crowther's got anything to tell us or not; but it looks as if his late wife has.' He opened the envelope neatly with a letter-knife and read its typewritten contents aloud to Lewis.
Dear Inspector,
I have never met you, but I have seen from the newspapers that you are in charge of the inquiry into the death of Sylvia Kaye. I should have told you this a long time ago, but I hope it's not too late even now. You see, Inspector, I killed Sylvia Kaye. (The words were doubly underlined.)
I must try to explain myself. Please forgive me if I get a little muddled, but it all seems very long ago.
I have known for about six months — well, certainly for six months — perhaps I've known for much longer — that my husband has been having an affair with another woman. I had no proof and have none now. But it is so difficult for a man to hide this sort of thing from his wife. We have been married for fifteen years and I know him so well. It was written all over what he said and what he did and how he looked — he must have been terribly unhappy, I think.
On Wednesday, 22nd September, I left the house at 6.30 p.m. to go to my evening class at Headington — but I didn't go immediately. Instead, I waited in my car just oft the Banbury Road. I seemed to wait such a long time and I didn't really know what I was going to do. Then at about a quarter to seven Bernard — my husband — drove up to the junction at Charlton Road and turned right towards the northern roundabout. I followed him as best I could — I say that because I'm not a good driver — and anyway it was getting darker all the time. There wasn't much traffic and I could see him clearly two or three cars ahead. At the Woodstock Road roundabout he turned along the A34. He was driving too fast for me, though, and I kept dropping further and further behind. I thought I had lost him — but there were road-works ahead and the traffic had to filter into single line for about a mile. There was a slow, heavy lorry in the front and I soon caught up again — Bernard was only about six or seven cars ahead of me. The lorry turned off towards Bladon at the next round about and I managed to keep Bernard in sight and saw him take the first turning on the left in Woodstock itself. I panicked a bit and didn't know what to do — I turned into the next street, and stopped the car and walked back. But it was hopeless. I drove back to Headington and was only twenty minutes late for my evening class.
The next Wednesday, the 29th September, I drove out to Woodstock again, leaving the house a good ten minutes earlier than usual, parked my car further along the village, and walked back to the street into which Bernard had turned the previous week. I didn't know where to wait and I felt silly and conspicuous, but I found a safe enough little spot on the left of the road — I was terrified that Bernard would see me — if he came that was — and I waited there and watched every car that came round the corner. It was child's play to see the cars turning in — and the occupants as well. He came at quarter-past seven and I felt myself trembling frantically. He was not alone — a young girl with long fair hair, in a white blouse, was sitting next to him in the front seat. I thought they must see me because the car turned — oh, only six or seven yards ahead of me — into the car park of The Black Prince. My legs were shaking and the blood was pounding in my ears, but something made me go through with it. I walked cautiously up to the yard and peered in. There were several cars there already and I couldn't see Bernard's for several minutes. I edged round the back of one car — just to the left of the yard — and then I saw them. The car was on the same side at the far end, with the boot towards the wall — he must have backed in. They were sitting in the front — talking for a while. I felt a cold anger inside me. Bernard and a blowzy blonde — about seventeen she looked! I saw them kissing. Then they got out of the front and into the back. I couldn't see any more — at least I was spared that.
I can't really explain what I felt. As I write now it all seems so flat — and so unimportant somehow. I felt more anger than jealousy I know that. Burning anger that Bernard had shamed me so. It was about five minutes later when they got out. They said something — but I couldn't hear what it was. There was a lever — a long tire- lever — I found it on the floor of the yard, and I picked it up. I don't know why. I felt so frightened and so angry. And suddenly the engine of the car was switched on and then the lights and the whole yard was lit up. The car moved off and out of the yard, and after it had gone the darkness seemed even blacker than before. The girl stood where he had left her, and I crept behind the three or four cars between us and came up behind her. I said nothing and I'm sure she didn't hear me. I hit her across the back of the head with an easy strength. It seemed like a dream. I felt nothing — no remorse — no fear — nothing. I left her where she was, against the far wall. It was still very dark. I didn't know when or how she would be found — and I didn't care.
