Bernard knew all along that I had murdered Sylvia Kaye — he passed me on my way back to Oxford. He must have seen me because I saw him. He was right behind me for some time and must have seen the number plate. I saw his car as clear as daylight when he overtook me.
I know what you have suspected about Bernard. But you have been wrong. I don't know what he's told you — but I know you have spoken to him. If he has told you lies, it has only been to shield me. But I need no one to shield me any longer. Look after Bernard and don't let him suffer too much because of me. He did what hundreds of men do, and for that I blame myself and no one else. I have neither been a good wife to him nor a good mother to his children. I am just so tired — so desperately tired of everything. For what I have done I am now most bitterly sorry — but I realize that this is no excuse. What else can I say — what else is there to say?
Margaret Crowther.
Morse's voice trailed away and the room was very still. Lewis felt very moved as he heard the letter read aloud, almost as if Margaret Crowther were there. But she would never speak again. He thought of his visit to her and guessed how cruelly she must have suffered these last few months.
You thought it was something like that, didn't you, sir?'
'No,' said Morse.
'Comes as a bit of a shock, doesn't it? Out of the blue, like.'
'I don't think much of her English style,' said Morse. He handed the letter over to Lewis. 'She uses far too many dashes for my liking.' The comment seemed heardess and irrelevant Lewis read the letter to himself.
'She's a good, clean typist anyway, sir.'
'Bit odd, don't you think, that she typed her name at the end instead of using her signature?'
Give Morse a letter and his imagination soared to the realms of the bright-eyed Seraphim. Lewis groaned inwardly.
'You think she wrote it, don't you, sir?'
Morse reluctantly reined back the wild horses. 'Yes. She wrote it'
Lewis thought he understood the Inspector's feelings. There would have to be a bit of tidying up, of course, but the case was now substantially over. He'd enjoyed most of his time working with the irascible, volatile inspector, but now. . The phone rang and Morse answered. He said 'I see' a dozen times and replaced the receiver.
'Crowther's in the Radcliffe — he's had a mild heart attack. He's not allowed to see anyone for two days at least.'
'Perhaps he couldn't tell us much more,' suggested Lewis.
'Oh yes he could,' said Morse. He leaned back, put his hands on his head like a naughty schoolboy, and stared vacantly at the farthest corner of the wall. Lewis thought it best to keep quiet, but he grew uncomfortably restless as the minutes ticked by.
'Would you like a coffee, sir?' Morse didn't seem to hear him. 'Coffee? Would you like a coffee?' Morse reminded him of a very deaf person with his hearing-aid switched off. Minute after minute slipped by before the grey eyes refocused on the world around him.
'Well, that's cleared up one thing, Lewis. We can cross Mrs. Crowther off our list of suspects, can't we?'
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Tuesday. 19 October., p.m.
AT MIDDAY PETER NEWLOVE was sitting in his rooms. He was expecting no one. Normally Bernard might have dropped in about now for a gin, but the news had swept the college that morning: Margaret had killed herself and Bernard had suffered a heart attack. And the double-barrelled news hit no one harder than Peter. He had known Margaret well and had liked her; and Bernard was his best friend in that academic, dilettante style of friendship which springs up in most collegiate universities. He had rung up the hospital, but there was no chance of visiting Bernard until Thursday at the earliest. He had sent some flowers: Bernard liked flowers and had no wife to send them now. . He had enquired, too, about the children. They had gone to stay with an aunt in Hendon, though Peter couldn't imagine how such an arrangement could possibly help them very much.
There was a knock on the door. 'It's open.'
He had not met Inspector Morse before and was pleasantly surprised that his offer of a drink was accepted. Morse explained in blunt, unequivocal terms why he had called.
'And it was written on
'No doubt about it.'
Newlove looked mildly perplexed, but said nothing.
'Do you know a young lady named Jennifer Coleby, Miss Jennifer Coleby?'
'I don't, I'm afraid.' Newlove's frown grew deeper.
'She works in the High, not far from here. Town and Gown. Assurance place.'
Newlove shook his head. 'I might have seen her, of course. But I don't know her. I've not heard the name before.'
'And you've never written to anyone of that name?'
'No. How could I? As I say, I've never heard of the woman.'
Morse pursed his lips and continued. 'Who else could have used your typewriter, sir?'
'Well, I don't know really. I suppose almost anyone in a way. I don't lock the place up very much unless there
