rising and falling in the water like some half-knackered jelly-fish.'
'Very fine!'
'I read that bit about the jelly-fish somewhere. Too good to let it go, eh?' 'He needed a hair-cut, you mean?' 'You've no poetry in your soul.' ‘What party was it tonight?
'Oxfordshire Health Authority. Guest Speaker - no less!' Max flicked his bow-tie with the index-finger of his right hand, before pointing the same finger at the figure of a man lying covered with a plastic sheet on the splashed grass beside the water's edge.
'Who is it?' asked Morse quietly.
'Ah, I was hoping you could tell me that. You're the detective, Morse. Have a guess!'
'A seventy-year-old Californian whose wife died yesterday - died, according to the best informed medical opinion, of purely natural causes.'
'And what did he die of?'
'Suicide - suicide by drowning - about three or four hours ago, just as it was getting dark. Crashed his head against a jagged branch as he was floating by. Anything else you want to know?'
'Back to school, Morse! I'm not sure he's an American or whether he was recently severed from his spouse. But he's certainly not in his seventies! Forties more like - you could put your pension on the forties.'
'I propose keeping my pension, thank you.'
'See for yourself!'
Max drew back the covering from the corpse, and even Lewis gave his second involuntary shudder of the night. As for Morse, he looked for a second or two only, breathed very
deeply, lurched a fraction forward for a moment as if he might vomit, then turned away. It was immediately clear, as Max had said, that there had earlier been much blood; soon clear, too, that the body was that of a comparatively young man; the body of the man whom Morse had interviewed (with such distaste) the previous evening; the man who had been cheated of the Wolvercote Jewel - and the man who now had been cheated of life. Dr Theodore Kemp.
Max was putting his bag into the boot of his BMW as Morse walked slowly up to him. 'You got here early, Max?'
'Just round the corner, dear boy. William Dunn School of Pathology. Know it?' 'How did he die?'
'Blood probably coagulated before he entered the water.' 'Really? I've never heard you say anything so definite before!'
'I know, Morse. I'm sorry. It's the drink.'
'But you'll know for certain tomorrow?'
' "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow."'
'It wasn't suicide, then?'
'Oh no, Morse. That was your verdict.'
'No chance?'
'I'm only a pathologist.'
'How long in the water?'
'Couldn't possibly say.'
'Roughly?'
'Eight, seven, six, five, four hours . . . "Roughly", you said?'
'Thank you very much.'
Max walked round to the front of his car: 'By the way, I was talking to Dr Swain again this evening. He's reporting you to the Chief Constable.'
' 'Night, Max.'
' 'Night, Morse.'
* * *
When the surgeon had departed, Morse turned with unwarranted ferocity upon his ill-used sergeant: 'You told me, Lewis, that Mr Eddie bloody Stratton had been missing in quite extraordinarily suspicious circumstances since early afternoon, and that a frenetically distraught Ashenden had rung you up—'
‘I didn't! I didn't say that!'
'What did you tell me, then?'
'Well, I did mention that Stratton had gone AWOL. And I also said that Dr Kemp hadn't turned up at the railway station when they'd arranged for a taxi to pick him up and take him—'
'What time was that?'
'Three o'clock, sir.'
'Mm. So if there's some evidence of a whacking great crack on his head . . . and if this had been deliberately inflicted rather than accidentally incurred . . . about seven hours ago, say . . . Three o'clock, you say, Lewis, when Kemp turned up again in Oxford?'
'When he didn't turn up in Oxford, sir.'
So many lights; the yellow lights of the arc-lamps that shone down on the river-bank; the white lights from the flashes of the police photographers; the blue lights of the police cars that lingered still around the scene. But little light in Morse's mind. He could hang around, of
'Very fine!'
'I read that bit about the jelly-fish somewhere. Too good to let it go, eh?' 'He needed a hair-cut, you mean?' 'You've no poetry in your soul.' ‘What party was it tonight?
'Oxfordshire Health Authority. Guest Speaker - no less!' Max flicked his bow-tie with the index-finger of his right hand, before pointing the same finger at the figure of a man lying covered with a plastic sheet on the splashed grass beside the water's edge.
'Who is it?' asked Morse quietly.
'Ah, I was hoping you could tell me that. You're the detective, Morse. Have a guess!'
'A seventy-year-old Californian whose wife died yesterday - died, according to the best informed medical opinion, of purely natural causes.'
'And what did he die of?'
'Suicide - suicide by drowning - about three or four hours ago, just as it was getting dark. Crashed his head against a jagged branch as he was floating by. Anything else you want to know?'
'Back to school, Morse! I'm not sure he's an American or whether he was recently severed from his spouse. But he's certainly not in his seventies! Forties more like - you could put your pension on the forties.'
'I propose keeping my pension, thank you.'
'See for yourself!'
Max drew back the covering from the corpse, and even Lewis gave his second involuntary shudder of the night. As for Morse, he looked for a second or two only, breathed very
deeply, lurched a fraction forward for a moment as if he might vomit, then turned away. It was immediately clear, as Max had said, that there had earlier been much blood; soon clear, too, that the body was that of a comparatively young man; the body of the man whom Morse had interviewed (with such distaste) the previous evening; the man who had been cheated of the Wolvercote Jewel - and the man who now had been cheated of life. Dr Theodore Kemp.
Max was putting his bag into the boot of his BMW as Morse walked slowly up to him. 'You got here early, Max?'
'Just round the corner, dear boy. William Dunn School of Pathology. Know it?' 'How did he die?'
'Blood probably coagulated before he entered the water.' 'Really? I've never heard you say anything so definite before!'
'I know, Morse. I'm sorry. It's the drink.'
'But you'll know for certain tomorrow?'
' "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow."'
'It wasn't suicide, then?'
'Oh no, Morse. That was your verdict.'
'No chance?'
'I'm only a pathologist.'
'How long in the water?'
'Couldn't possibly say.'
'Roughly?'
'Eight, seven, six, five, four hours . . . "Roughly", you said?'
'Thank you very much.'
Max walked round to the front of his car: 'By the way, I was talking to Dr Swain again this evening. He's reporting you to the Chief Constable.'
' 'Night, Max.'
' 'Night, Morse.'
* * *
When the surgeon had departed, Morse turned with unwarranted ferocity upon his ill-used sergeant: 'You told me, Lewis, that Mr Eddie bloody Stratton had been missing in quite extraordinarily suspicious circumstances since early afternoon, and that a frenetically distraught Ashenden had rung you up—'
‘I didn't! I didn't say that!'
'What did you tell me, then?'
'Well, I did mention that Stratton had gone AWOL. And I also said that Dr Kemp hadn't turned up at the railway station when they'd arranged for a taxi to pick him up and take him—'
'What time was that?'
'Three o'clock, sir.'
'Mm. So if there's some evidence of a whacking great crack on his head . . . and if this had been deliberately inflicted rather than accidentally incurred . . . about seven hours ago, say . . . Three o'clock, you say, Lewis, when Kemp turned up again in Oxford?'
'When he didn't turn up in Oxford, sir.'
So many lights; the yellow lights of the arc-lamps that shone down on the river-bank; the white lights from the flashes of the police photographers; the blue lights of the police cars that lingered still around the scene. But little light in Morse's mind. He could hang around, of
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