‘What do you want?’ she asked abruptly.

‘I want you to do something for me – something you’ll be paid for doing-paid very well.’

‘What-?’

But he held up his hand. ‘Not now! You’re living at 23A Colebourne Road-is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d like to come and see you, if I may.’

He had come the next evening, and talked whilst she listened. And, when she’d expressed her willingness to do what he asked, a deal was done, a partial payment made. And now, this very day, she had acted the role that he had asked of her, and the final payment had been made. A lot of easy money for a little easy work, and yet…

Yes, it was that little ‘and yet’ that caused her mind to fill with nagging doubts as she sat and sipped her China tea. She knew enough, of course-she’d insisted on that. But perhaps she should have insisted on knowing more, especially about the sequel to her own performance in the drama. They couldn’t -they wouldn’t, surely-have… killed him?

Her lips felt dry, and she reached for her handbag, opened the flap, and delved around for a few seconds before unscrewing a circular container-for the second time that day.

In which the Master ofLonsdale is somewhat indiscreet to a police inspector, and discusses his concern for one of his colleagues, and for the niceties of English grammar.

On the fifth morning after the events described in the preceding chapter, Detective Chief Inspector Morse, of the Thames Valley Constabulary, was seated in his office at Kidlington, Oxon. One half of him was semi-satisfied with the vagaries of his present existence; the other half was semi-depressed. Earlier that very morning he had sworn himself a solemn vow that the day ahead would be quite different. His recent consumption of food, tobacco, and alcohol had varied only within the higher degrees of addictive excess; and now, at the age of fifty-two, he had once again decided that a few days of virtually total abstinence was urgently demanded by stomach, lungs, and liver alike. He had arrived at his office, therefore, unbreakfasted, having already thrown away a half-full packet of cigarettes, and having left his half-empty wallet on the bedside-table. Get thou behind me, Satan! And, indeed, things had gone surprisingly well until about 11.30 a.m., when the Master of Lonsdale had rung through to HQ and invited Morse down to lunch with him.

‘Half-past twelve-in my rooms-all right? We can have a couple of snifters first.’

‘I’d like that,’ Morse heard himself saying.

As he walked towards the Master’s rooms in the first quad, Morse passed two young female students chattering to each other like a pair of monkeys.

‘But surely Rosemary’s expecting a first, isn’t she? If she doesn’t get one-’

‘No. She told me that she’d made a terrible mess of the General Paper.’

‘So did I.’

‘And me!’

‘She’ll be awfully disappointed, though…’

Yes, life was full of disappointments, Morse knew that better than most; and, as he half-turned, he watched the two young, lovely ladies as they walked out through the Porter’s Lodge. They must be members of the college- two outward and happily visible signs of the fundamental change of heart that had resulted in the admission of women to these erstwhile wholly. masculine precincts. Now when he himself had been up at St John’s…But, abruptly, he switched off the memories of those dark, disastrous days.

‘What’ll it be, Morse? No beer, I’m afraid but-gin and tonic-gin and French?’

‘Gin and French-lovely!’ Morse reached over and took a cigarette from the well-stocked open box on the table.

The Master beamed in avuncular fashion as he poured his mixtures with a practised hand. He had changed little in the ten years or so that Morse had known him: going to fat a little, but as distinguished-looking a man now, in his late fifties, as he had been in his late forties; a tall man, with that luxuriant grey hair still framing the large head; the suits (famed throughout the University) as flamboyant as ever they were, and today eye-catchingly complemented by a waistcoat of green velvet. A successful man, and a proud man. A Head of a House.

‘You’ve got women here now, I see,’ said Morse.

‘Yes, old boy. We were almost the last to give in-but, well, it’s been a good thing on the whole. Very good, some of them.’

‘Good-looking, you mean?’

The Master smiled. ‘A few.’

‘They sleep in?’

‘Some of them. Still, some of them always did, didn’t they?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Morse; and his mind drifted back to those distant days just after the war, when he had come up to Oxford with an exhibition in Classics from one of the Midland grammar schools.

‘Couple of firsts this year-among the girls, I mean. One in Greats, one in Geography. Not bad, eh? In fact the Classics girl, Jane-’ Suddenly the Master stopped and leaned forward earnestly, awkwardly twiddling the large, onyx dress-ring on the little finger of his left hand. ‘Look Morse! I shouldn’t have said-what I just said. The class-lists won’t be out for another week or ten days-’

Morse waved his right hand across the space between them, as though any mental recollection of the indiscretion had already been expunged. ‘I didn’t hear a word you said, Master. I know what you were going to tell me, though.’

‘Oh?’

‘She’s got the top first in the University, and she’ll soon get a summons for a congratulatory viva. Right?’

The Master nodded. ‘Super girl-bit of a honey, too, Morse. You’d have liked her.’

‘Still would, I shouldn’t wonder.’

The Master’s eyes were twinkling with merriment now. How he enjoyed Morse’s company!

‘She’ll probably marry some lecherous sod,’ continued Morse, ‘and end up with half a dozen whining infants.’

‘You’re not exactly full of the joys of summer.’

‘Just envious. Still there are more important things in life than getting a first in Greats.’

‘Such as?’

Morse considered the question a few moments before shaking his head. ‘I dunno.’

‘I’ll tell you one thing. There’s not likely to be anything much more important for her. We shall probably offer her a junior fellowship here.’

‘You mean you’ve already offered her one.’

‘Please don’t forget, will you, that I-er-I shouldn’t have said anything about all this. I’m normally very discreet.’

‘Must be the drink,’ said Morse, looking down into his empty glass.

‘Same again? Mixture about right?’

‘Fraction more gin, perhaps?’ Morse reached for another cigarette as the Master refilled the glasses. ‘I suppose she could take her pick of all the undergrads?’

‘And the dons!’

‘You never married, did you, Master.’

‘Nor did you.’

For some minutes the two of them sat silently sipping. Then Morse asked: ‘Has she got a mother?’

‘Jane Summers, you mean?’

‘You didn’t mention her surname before.’

‘Odd question! I don’t know. I expect so. She’s only, what, twenty-two, twenty-three. Why do you ask?’

But Morse was hardly listening. In the quad outside it had been comparatively easy to pull the curtain across the painful memories. But now? Not so! His eyes seemed on the point of shedding a gin-soaked tear as he thought again of his own sad days at Oxford…

‘You listening?’

‘Pardon?’ said Morse.

‘You don’t seem to be paying much attention to what I’m saying.’

‘Sorry! Must be the booze.’ His glass was empty again and the Master needed no prompting.

‘Will you keep a gentle eye on things for me, then? You see, I’m probably off myself this weekend for a few days.’

‘Few weeks, do you mean?’