The Wench Is Dead (22 page)

'Except you, sir!'

'Tell 'em you're from the Gas Board and there's a leak in Number 12.'

‘The house isn't
on
gas.'

'Get
on
with it, Lewis!'

When Lewis returned, Morse was still considering his wall-marks – beaming as happily at the eight lines on the right as a pools-punter surveying a winning-line of score-draws on the Treble Chance; and, taking the torch, he played it joyously over the evidence. The new light (as it were) upon the situation quickly confirmed that any writing below the present extent of their findings was irredeemably lost; it also showed a letter in between the two sets of measurements, slightly towards the right, and therefore probably belonging with the second set.

The letter 'D'!

Daniel!

The lines on the right
must
mark the heights of Daniel Carrick; and, if that were so, then those to the left were those
of Joanna Franksl

'Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Lewis?'

'I reckon so, sir.'

'Joanna married in 1841 or 1842' – Morse was talking to himself as much as to Lewis – 'and that fits well because the measurements end in 1841, finishing at the same height as she was in 1840. And her younger brother, Daniel, was gradually catching her up – about the same height in 1836, and quite a few inches taller in 1841.'

Lewis found himself agreeing. 'And you'd expect them that way round, sir, wouldn't you? Joanna first; and then her brother, to Joanna's right.'

'Ye-es.' Morse took the white tape-measure and let it roll out to the floor. 'Only five foot, this.'

'Don't think we're going to need a much longer one, sir.'

Lewis was right. As Morse held the 'nought-inches' end of the tape to the top of Joanna's putative measurements, Lewis shone the torch on the other end as he knelt on the dirty red tiles. No! A longer tape-measure was certainly not needed here, for the height measured only 4' 9", and as Lewis knew, the woman who had been pulled out of Duke's Cut had been 5' 3
³
/
₄
" – almost seven inches taller than Joanna had been after leaving Spring Street for her marriage! Was it possible – even wildly possible – that she had grown those seven inches between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-eight? He put his thoughts into words:

'I don't think, sir, that a woman could have-'

'No, Lewis – nor do I! If not impossible, at the very least unprecedented, surely.'

'So you were right, sir… '

'Beyond any reasonable doubt? Yes, I think so.'

'Beyond
all
doubt?' asked Lewis quietly.

'There'll always be that one per cent of doubt about most things, I suppose.'

'You'd be happier, though, if-'

Morse nodded: 'If we'd found just that
one
little thing extra, yes. Like a 'J' on the wall here or… I don't know.'

'There's nothing else to find, then, sir?'

'No, I'm sure there isn't,' said Morse, but only after hesitating for just a little while.

It sounded an anti-climactic question: 'What do we do now, sir?'

Morse didn't know, and his mind was far away: 'It was done a long time ago, Lewis, and done ill,' he said slowly.

Which was doubtless a true sentiment, but it hardly answered the question. And Lewis pressed his point – with the result that together they sought out the site-foreman, to whom, producing his warranty-card, Morse dictated his wishes, making the whole thing sound as if the awesome authority of MI5 and MI6 alike lay behind his instructions regarding the property situated at Number 12 Spring Street, especially for a series of photographs to be taken as soon as possible of the pencil-marks on the wall in the entrance hall. And yes, the site-foreman thought he could see to it all without too much trouble; in fact, he was a bit of a dab hand with a camera himself, as he not so modestly admitted. Then, after Lewis had returned torch and tape-measure to a slightly puzzled-looking householder, the afternoon events were over.

It was five’ minutes to six when Lewis finally tried once again to drive away from the environs of Derby (North) and to make for the A52 junction with the Ml (South). At 6 p.m., Morse leaned forward and turned on the car-radio for the news. One way or another it had been a bad year, beset with disease, hunger, air crashes, railway accidents, an oil-rig explosion, and sundry earthquakes. But no cosmic disaster had been reported since the earlier one o'clock bulletin, and Morse switched off – suddenly aware of the time.

'Do you realize it's gone opening time, Lewis?'

'No such thing these days, sir.'

'You know what I mean!'

'Bit early-'

'We've got something to celebrate, Lewis! Pull in at the next pub, and I'll buy you a pint.'

'You
will?
’

Morse was not renowned for his generosity in treating his subordinates – or his superiors – and Lewis smiled to himself as he surveyed the streets, looking for a pub-sign; it was an activity with which he was not unfamiliar. I’m driving, sir.'

'Quite right, Lewis. We don't want any trouble with the police.'

As he sat sipping his St Clements and listening to Morse conducting a lengthy conversation with the landlord about the wickedness of the lager-brewers, Lewis felt inexplicably content. It had been a good day; and Morse, after draining his third pint with his wonted rapidity, was apparently ready to depart.

'Gents?' asked Morse.

The landlord pointed the way.

'Is there a public telephone I could use?'

'Just outside the Gents.'

Lewis thought he could hear Morse talking over the phone – something to do with a hospital; but he was never a man to eavesdrop on the private business of others, and he walked outside and stood waiting by the car until Morse re-appeared.

'Lewis – I, er – I'd like you just to call round quickly to the hospital, if you will. The Derby Royal. Not too far out of our way, they tell me.'

'Bit of stomach trouble again, sir?'

'No!'

'I don't think you should have had all that beer, though-'

'Are you going to drive me there or not, Lewis?'

Morse, as Lewis knew, was becoming increasingly reluctant to walk even a hundred yards or so if he could ride the distance, and he now insisted that Lewis park the Lancia in the AMBULANCES ONLY area just outside the Hospital's main entrance.

'How long will you be, sir?'

'How long? Not sure, Lewis. It's my lucky day, though, isn't it? So I may be a little while.'

It was half an hour later that Morse emerged to find Lewis chatting happily to one of the ambulance-men about the road-holding qualities of the Lancia family.

'All right, then, sir?'

'Er – well. Er… Look, Lewis! I've decided to stay in Derby overnight.'

Lewis's eyebrows rose.

'Yes! I think – I think I'd like to be there when they take those photographs – you know, in, er… '

‘I can't stay, sir! I'm on duty tomorrow morning.'

'I know. I'm not asking you to, am I? I'll get the train back – no problem – Derby, Birmingham, Banbury – easy!'

'You
sure,
sir?'

'Quite
sure. You don't
mind
do you, Lewis?'

Lewis shook his head. 'Well, I suppose, I'd better-'

'Yes, you get off. And don't drive too fast!'

'Can I take you – to a hotel or something?'

'No need to bother, I'll – I'll find something.'

'You look as though you've already found something, sir.'

'Do I?'

As the Lancia accelerated along the approach road to the Ml (South) Lewis was still smiling quietly to himself, recalling the happy look on Morse's face as he had turned and walked once more towards the automatic doors.

On the morning of Friday, 11th January (he had resumed duties on New Year's Day) Morse caught the early Cathedrals' Express to Paddington. He was programmed to speak on Inner City Crime at 11 a.m. at the Hendon Symposium. Tube to King's Cross, then out on the Northern Line. Easy. Plenty of time. He enjoyed trains, in any case; and when Radio Oxford had announced black ice on the M40, his decision was made for him; it would mean, too, of course, that he could possibly indulge a little more freely with any refreshments that might be available.

He bought
The Times
and the
Oxford Times
at the bookstall, got a seat at the rear of the train, and had solved
The Times
crossword by Didcot. Except for one clue. A quick look in his faithful Chambers would have settled the issue immediately; but he hadn't got it, and as ever he was vexed by his inability to put the finishing touch to anything. He quickly wrote in a couple of bogus letters (in case any of his fellow-passengers were waiting to be impressed) and then read the letters and the obituaries. At Reading he turned to the
Oxford Times
crossword. The setter was 'Quixote'; and Morse smiled to himself as he remembered 'Waggie' Greenaway finally solving the same setter's 'Bradman's famous duck (6)' and writing in DONALD at 1 across. Nothing
quite
so amusing here – but a very nice puzzle. Twelve minutes to complete. Not bad!

Morse caught a subliminal glimpse of 'Maidenhead' as the train sped through, and he took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase, first looking through the alphabetical list of those who would be attending the conference. Nobody he knew in the A-D range, but then he scanned the E-F:

Eagleston

Ellis

Emmett

Erskine

Farmer

Favant

Fielding

Tom Eagleston, yes; and Jack Farmer, yes; and…

Morse stopped, and looked again at the middle of the three delegates in the Fs. The name was vaguely familiar, wasn't it? Yet he couldn't remember where… Unusual name, though. Morse's eye continued down the list – and then he remembered. Yes! It was the name of the man who had been walking along the Oxford Canal at the time when Joanna Franks was murdered – when Joanna Franks was
supposedly
murdered; the man, perhaps, who had been traced to the Nag's Head where he'd signed the register. A mystery man. Maybe not his real name at all, for the canal had been full of men who used an alias. In fact, as Morse recollected, two of the crew of the
Barbara Bray
itself had done so: Alfred Musson, alias Alfred Brotherton; Walter Towns, alias Walter Thorold. It might well be of some deep psychological significance that criminals sometimes seemed most unwilling to give up their names, even if this involved a greater risk of future identification: Morse had known it quite often. It was as if a man's name were almost an intrinsic part of him; as if he could never shed it
completely;
as if it were as much part of his personality as his skin. Musson had kept his Christian name, hadn't he? So had Towns.

Morse spent the rest of the journey looking idly out of the window, his brain tidying up a few scattered thoughts as the train drew into Paddington: Donald Bradman -Don Bradman, the name by which everyone recognized the greatest batsman ever born; and F. T. Donavan, the greatest man in all the world; and…

Ye Gods!!

The blood was running cold through Morse's limbs as he remembered the man who had identified the body of Joanna Franks; the man who had been physically incapable (as it seemed!) of raising his eyes to look into the faces of the prisoners; the man who had held his hands to his own face as he wept and turned his back on the men arraigned before the court. Why did he do these things, Morse? Because
the boatmen might just have recognized him.
For they had seen him, albeit fleetingly, in the dawn, as 'he had made to get further on his way with all speed', Donald Favant! – or Don Favant, as he would certainly have seen himself.

Morse wrote out those letters D-O-N-F-A-V-A-N-T along the bottom margin of the
Oxford Times;
and then, below them, the name of which they were the staggering anagram: the name of F T DONAVAN – the greatest man in all the world.

Colin Dexter lives in Oxford. He has won many awards for his novels and in 1997 was presented with the CWA Cartier Diamond Dagger for outstanding services to crime literature.