‘Tragic thing, Inspector – cancer of the brain.’

Morse shook his head. ‘You’re as bad as the Master, sir. “Cancer”? Forget the word! “Tumour”, if you like-or “neoplasm”. They’re the generic terms we use these days for all those nasty things we used to call “cancer”.’ (He congratulated himself on remembering the gist of what the surgeon had told him earlier that afternoon.)

‘I’m not a medical man myself, Inspector.’

‘Nor me, really. But, you know, in this job you have to pick up a few things, sometimes. By the way, are you likely yourself to be much better off-financially, I mean-with Dr Browne-Smith out of the way?’

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means we’re dealing with murder, that’s all,’ said Morse, looking across the table with guileless eyes. ‘And that’s what they pay me for, sir-trying to find out who murdered people.’

‘All right. If you must know, I shall be just over two thousand a year better off.”

‘You’re gradually shinning up the tree, sir.’

‘Not so gradually, either!’ Andrews’ eyes glinted momentarily with the future prospects of further academic preferment, and momentarily Morse was taken aback by the honesty of his answer.

‘But the Master’s still got about ten years to go,’ objected Morse.

‘Eight actually.’

Strangely, this was neither an unpleasant nor an embarrassing moment, as though each man had perfectly understood and perfectly respected the other’s thoughts.

‘Head of House!’ said Morse slowly. ‘Great honour, isn’t it?’

‘For me it’s always seemed the greatest honour.”

‘Do most of the dons share your view?’

‘Most of them-if they’re honest.’

‘Did Browne-Smith?’

‘Oh, quite certainly, yes.’

‘So he was a disappointed man?’

‘Life’s full of disappointments, Inspector.’

Morse nodded. ‘Had Browne-Smith any physical abnormalities you can remember?’

‘Don’t think so – except for his finger, of course. He lost most of his right index finger-accident in the war. But you probably know all about that.’

Morse nodded, again quite convincingly. God, he’d forgotten all about that! And suddenly the hooked atoms were engaging and re-engaging themselves so rapidly in his mind that he was desperately anxious to rid himself of the worthy man seated opposite who had put the fire to so many fuses. So he stood up, expressed his thanks and showed the Lonsdale don to the door.

‘There is just one thing,’ said Andrews. ‘I was meaning to mention it earlier, but you side-tracked me. Browne-Smith was never down to College breakfast in my time at Lonsdale-and that’s fifteen years, now.’

‘Well, that’s very interesting, sir,’ said Morse in a light tone that masked a heavy blow. ‘You’ve been extremely helpful, sir, and thank you for coming along. There’s just one more thing. Please, if you will, convey my apologies to the College secretary. I’m sorry I was rude to her-I’d like her to know that.’

‘I’ll certainly see that she does. She was upset, as I told you-and she’s a lovely girl.’

‘Is she?’ said Morse.

As soon as Andrews had gone, Morse reached for the phone to put his query to the curator of the Medical Science Library at the Bodleian, and, a few minutes later, he was listening carefully to the answer.

‘It’s the definitive work, Inspector – Dr J. P. F. Coole on Carcinoma in the Brain. This is what he’s got to say – chapter six, by the way: “Tumours are broadly divided into malignant tumours, which invade and destroy surrounding tissues; and benign tumours, which do not. Most malignant tumours have the additional property of giving rise to metastases or secondary tumours in parts of the body remote from the primary growth. A minority of malignant tumours fall into the category of tumours of local malignancy which invade and destroy surrounding tissues, but never metastasize. There are several tumours of local malignancy that occur in or on the head.” ‘

‘Bit slower now,’interposed Morse.

“Many brain tumours are local in their malignancy; for example, the spongioblostoma multiforme and the diffuse astro-cytoma. All tumours inside the skull are potentially fatal, even if they are quite benign-as this term has already been defined in-”

‘Thanks. That’s fine. From what you’re saying, then, it’s possible that a brain-tumour might not spread to somewhere else in the body?’

‘That’s what this fellow says.’

‘Good. Now, one more thing. Would one of these brain-tumours perhaps result in some sort of irrationality? You know, doing things quite out of character?’

‘Ah! That’s in chapter seven. Just let me-’

‘No, no. Just tell me vaguely, that’ll be fine.’

‘Well, judging from the case-histories, the answer’s a pretty definite “yes”. Very strange things, some of them did.’

‘You see, I’m just wondering whether a man who’d got a brain-tumour, a man who’d been sober and meticulous all his life, might suddenly snap and-’

‘By Jove, yes! Let me just quote that case of Olive Mainwearing from Manchester. Now, just let me-’

‘No! Please don’t bother. You’ve been wonderfully helpful, and I’m most grateful. The beer’s on me next time we’re together in the King’s Arms.’

Morse sat back in his black leather chair, happily ignorant of the aforementioned Olive’s extraordinary behaviour, and happily confident that at last he was beginning to see, through the mists, the outline of those further horizons.

Lewis again finds himself the unsuspecting catalyst as Morse considers the course of the case so far.

When Lewis came in half an hour later, he found Morse sitting motionless at his desk, staring down fixedly at his blotting-pad, the orange-and-brown-striped scarf still round his jaw, and the signature ‘On-no-account-disturb-me’ written overall.

Yet Lewis shattered the peace enthusiastically. ‘It was Browne-Smith’s typewriter, sir! Portable job, like you said. No doubt about it.’

Morse looked up slowly. ‘It was Westerby’s typewriter-I thought I told you that.’

‘No, sir. It was Browne-Smith’s. You must have made a mistake. Believe me-you can’t get two identical typewriters.’

‘I told you it was Westerby’s,’ repeated Morse calmly. ‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me properly.”

Lewis felt the anger rising within him: why couldn’t Morse-just for once -allow a fraction of credit for what, so conscientiously, he tried to do? ‘I did hear what you said. You told me to find the typewriter-’

‘I told you no such thing!’ snapped Morse. I told you to get Westerby’s typewriter. You deafi’

Lewis breathed deeply, and very slowly shook his head.

‘Well? Did you get Westerby’s typewriter?¹

‘It wasn’t there,’ growled Lewis. ‘The removal must have taken it. And don’t blame me for that! As I just said, sir, it would do me good just once in a while to get a bit of thanks for-’

‘Lew-is!’ beamed Morse. ‘When-when will you begin to understand the value of virtually everything you do for me? Why do you misjudge me all the time? Listen! I remember perfectly well that the first sentence I typed out was done on Browne-Smith’s typewriter, and the second on Westerby’s. Now, just think! Since it was the second, as we know, that matched the letter we found in the dead man’s pocket, it was on Westerby’s typewriter that someone wrote our letter. Agreed? And now you come and tell me it was typed on Browne-Smith’s? Well… you see what it all means, don’t you?’

Over the years, Lewis had become skilled in situations such as this, knowing that Morse, like some inexperienced schoolmaster, was far more anxious to parade his own cleverness than to elicit any halting answer from his dimmer pupils. So it was that Lewis, with a knowing nod, sat back to listen.