'Surely she wouldn't have done that if she'd already decided to kill herself?'

But Morse ignored the objection and continued. 'Then Jackson goes over to his own home and reads the letter-'

'But you told me he couldn't read!'

'It's addressed, Lewis, to one of two people; either to the police; or to the man who's been her lover-the man she's recently written to, and the man who's probably been the only real passion in her life-Charles Richards. And there's something in that letter that gives Jackson some immediate prospect of personal gain-a situation he's decided to take full advantage of. But let's get back to the sequence of events that day. Someone else goes into number 9 during the afternoon-Celia Richards. Pretty certainly Jackson sees her going in-as he later sees me, Lewis-but he can't have the faintest idea that she's the wife of the man he's going to blackmail. He realises one thing, though-that he's forgotten to lock the door; and so when everything's quiet he goes over and puts his key through the letter box. That's the way it happened, Lewis-you can be sure of that.'

'Perhaps,' mumbled Lewis, wiping up the last of the egg yolk with a final, solitary chip.

'You don't sound very impressed?'

'Well, to be honest, I'd thought very much the same myself, sir, and I'm pretty sure Bell and his boys-'

'Really?' Morse drained his beer and pushed the glass in front of Lewis's plate. 'Bags of time for another.'

'I got the last one, sir. Just a half for me, if you don't mind.'

'Now,' resumed Morse (glasses replenished), 'we've got to link the death of Anne Scott with the murder of Jackson, agreed? Well, I reckon the connection is fairly obvious, and from what you've just said I presume that your own nimble mind has already jumped to a similar conclusion, right?'

Lewis nodded. 'Jackson tried to blackmail Charles Richards because of what he learned from the letter, and it seems he succeeded because he took £250 to the Post Office the day before he was murdered. I reckon he'd written to Richards, or rung him up, and that Richards decided to cough up to keep him quiet. He could have arranged to meet Jackson to give him the money and then just followed him home. And once he knew who he was, and where he lived-well, that was that. Perhaps he didn't really mean to kill him at all-just scare him out of his wits and get the letter, or whatever it was.'

Morse shook his head. It might have happened the way Lewis had just outlined things; but it hadn't. 'You may be right most of the way, Lewis, but you can be absolutely certain about one thing: it wasn't Charles Richards who murdered Jackson. And until somebody proves to us that the earth is round or a triangle hasn't got three sides, we'd better bloody face it! He was giving a lecture-with me in the audience!'

'Don't you think, perhaps-?'

'Nonsense! Jackson was in the pub at gone eight and the police found his body while Richards was still talking. And he didn't leave that platform for one second, Lewis!'

'I'm not saying he did, sir. But he could have got someone else to go and rough Jackson up, couldn't he?'

Morse nodded. 'Carry on!'

'He's got a wife, sir.'

'I can't exactly see her pushing Jackson upstairs, can you? He was no youngster, but he was a tough and wiry little customer, I should think. Though perhaps it might not be a bad idea to find out exactly where she was that night…' His voice drifted off, and characteristically he married a few stray drops of beer on the table with the little finger of his left hand, his eyes seeming to stare into the middle distance.

'He's got a brother, too,' added Lewis quietly.

Morse's eyes refocused on his colleague immediately and a faint smile formed round his mouth. 'The brother? Yes, indeed! I wondered when you were going to get around to him. I've been giving our Conrad a little bit of thought myself this morning, and I reckon it's time we had a quiet little word with him.'

'We've got some jolly good prints, sir-as good as anything the boys have seen for quite some time. And it wouldn't be much trouble getting Conrad's dabs, would it?'

'No trouble at all.'

'Well'-Lewis looked at Morse rather hesitantly-'shall we go and see him?'

'Why not? We'll just have another pint and then-'

'No more for me, sir. Do you want-'

'Pint, yes please. You're very kind.'

'I've been, thinking, sir,' began Lewis when he came back from the bar.

'So have I. Listen! We'll nip over there together. There are two calls we'd better make. Conrad Richards for one, and then there's that girl friend Charles Richards told me he was with when-'

'But why see her? You've already-'

'Let's toss up, Lewis. You can drive us out there. Heads you go to see Conrad-tails I do. All right?' Morse took out a 10p piece, flipped it in the air, and then peered cautiously underneath his palm before immediately returning the coin to his pocket. 'Heads it is, Lewis. What was it we agreed? Heads was you to see Conrad, wasn't it? Excellent! I shall have to take it upon myself to visit Mrs. Whatsername.'

'Hills, sir.'

'Ah yes.' Morse relaxed and lovingly relished the rest of his beer. Someone had left a copy of the Daily Mirror on the next table and he picked it up and turned to the racing page. 'Ever have a flutter these days, Lewis?'

Lewis placed his empty glass in the middle of the plate and laid his knife and fork neatly to the side of it. 'Very seldom, sir. I'm not quite so lucky at gambling as you are.'

As they got up to go, Morse suddenly remembered his bet with the police surgeon. 'Do you think there's any way, Lewis, in which Jackson could have been murdered before eight o'clock that night?'

'No way at all, sir.'

Morse nodded. 'Perhaps you're right.'

Almost immediately Lewis found himself liking Conrad Richards, the junior partner who worked in an office no smaller than that of his brother's below, though designated by no nameplate on the door. Lewis explained the purpose of his visit, and his reasonable requests met with an amiable cooperation. Conrad had exhibited (as Lewis was later to tell Morse) some surprise, perhaps, when the subject of fingerprints was broached, but he had willingly enough pressed the fingers and thumbs of both hands upon the inkpad, and thence onto the cards.

'Just a matter of elimination,' Lewis explained.

'Yes, I realise that but…'

'I know, sir. It sort of puts you on the record, doesn't it? Everyone feels the same.'

Conrad now held his hands out awkwardly, like a woman just disturbed at the kitchen sink who is looking around for a towel. 'Do you mind if I just go and wash-'

'It's all right, sir. I'll be off now. There's only one more thing-just for the record again, of course. Can you tell me where you were between 8 and 9 p.m. on the evening of the 19^th October?'

Conrad looked vague and shook his head. 'I can't, I'm afraid. I can try to find out for you-or try to remember, but I-I don't know. Probably at home reading, I should think, but…' Again he shook his head, his voice level and seemingly unconcerned.

'You live alone, sir?'

'Confirmed bachelor.'

'Well, if you can have a think and let me know.'

'I will. I expect I'll be able to come up with something, but I've got an awful feeling I'm not going to produce any convincing alibi.'

'Few people do, sir. We don't expect it.'

'Well, that's good news.'

Lewis got up to go. 'There is just one more thing. I'd like to have a quick word with your brother. Is he-'