‘supra-orbital foramen’ and
‘infra-orbital fissure’, which Morse was perfectly happy to ignore. But there was a personal note from the surgeon written in a spidery scrawl at the foot of this report. ‘Morse:
A major drawback to any immediate identification is going to be the very extensive laceration and contusion across the inferior nasal concha – this doesn’t give us any easily
recognizable lineaments for a photograph – and it makes the look of the face harrowing for relatives. In any case, people always look different when they’re dead. As for the time of
death, I’ve nothing to add to my definitive statement of yesterday. In short, your guess is as good as mine, although it would come as a profound shock to me if it was any better.
Max.’
Morse glanced through the report as rapidly as he could, which was, to be truthful, not very rapidly at all. He had always been a slow reader, ever envying those of his colleagues whose eyes
appeared to have the facility to descend swiftly through the centre of a page of writing, taking in as they went the landscape both to the left and to the right. But two points – two simple,
major points – were firmly and disappointingly apparent: and Morse put them into words.
‘They don’t know who he is, Lewis; and they don’t know when he died. Bloody typical!’
Lewis grinned: ‘He’s not a bad old boy, though.’
‘He should be pensioned off! He’s too old! He drinks too much! No – he’s not a bad old boy, as you say; but he’s on the downward slope, I’m afraid.’
‘You once told me
you
were on the downward slope, sir!’
‘We’re
all
on the downward slope!’
‘Shall we go and have a look at the other bedrooms?’ Lewis spoke briskly, and stood up as if anxious to prod a lethargic-looking Morse into some more purposive line of inquiry.
‘You mean they may have left their Barclaycards behind?’
‘You never know, sir.’ Lewis fingered the great bunch of keys that Binyon had given him, but Morse appeared reluctant to get moving.
‘Shall I do it myself, sir?’
Morse got up at last. ‘No! Let’s go and have a look round the rooms – you’re quite right. You take the Palmers’ room.’
In the Smiths’ room, Annexe 2, Morse looked around him with little enthusiasm (wouldn’t the maid have tidied Annexe 1 and Annexe 2 during the day?), finally turning back the sheets
on each of the twin beds, then opening the drawers of the dressing table, then looking inside the wardrobe. Nothing. In the bathroom, it was clear that one or both of the Smiths had taken a shower
or a bath fairly recently, for the two large white towels were still slightly damp and the soap in the wall-niche had been used – as had the two squat tumblers that stood on the surface
behind the washbasin. But there was nothing to learn here, Morse felt sure of that. No items left behind; no torn letters thrown into the waste-paper basket; only a few marks over the carpet,
mostly just inside the door, left by shoes and boots that had tramped across the slush and snow. In any case, Morse felt fairly sure that the Smiths, whoever they were, had nothing at all to do
with the crime, because he thought he knew just how and why the pair of them had come to the Haworth Hotel, booking
in
at the last possible moment, and getting
out
at the earliest
possible moment after the murder of Ballard had been discovered. ‘Smith, J.’ (there was little doubt in Morse’s mind) was an ageing rogue in middle management, drooling with lust
over a new young secretary, who’d told his long-suffering spouse that he had to go to a business conference in the Midlands over the New Year. Such conduct was commonplace, Morse knew that;
and perhaps there was little point in pursuing the matter further. Yet he would like to meet her, for she was, according to the other guests, a pleasingly attractive woman. He sat on one of the
beds, and picked up the phone.
‘Can I help you?’ It was
‘infra-orbital fissure’, which Morse was perfectly happy to ignore. But there was a personal note from the surgeon written in a spidery scrawl at the foot of this report. ‘Morse:
A major drawback to any immediate identification is going to be the very extensive laceration and contusion across the inferior nasal concha – this doesn’t give us any easily
recognizable lineaments for a photograph – and it makes the look of the face harrowing for relatives. In any case, people always look different when they’re dead. As for the time of
death, I’ve nothing to add to my definitive statement of yesterday. In short, your guess is as good as mine, although it would come as a profound shock to me if it was any better.
Max.’
Morse glanced through the report as rapidly as he could, which was, to be truthful, not very rapidly at all. He had always been a slow reader, ever envying those of his colleagues whose eyes
appeared to have the facility to descend swiftly through the centre of a page of writing, taking in as they went the landscape both to the left and to the right. But two points – two simple,
major points – were firmly and disappointingly apparent: and Morse put them into words.
‘They don’t know who he is, Lewis; and they don’t know when he died. Bloody typical!’
Lewis grinned: ‘He’s not a bad old boy, though.’
‘He should be pensioned off! He’s too old! He drinks too much! No – he’s not a bad old boy, as you say; but he’s on the downward slope, I’m afraid.’
‘You once told me
you
were on the downward slope, sir!’
‘We’re
all
on the downward slope!’
‘Shall we go and have a look at the other bedrooms?’ Lewis spoke briskly, and stood up as if anxious to prod a lethargic-looking Morse into some more purposive line of inquiry.
‘You mean they may have left their Barclaycards behind?’
‘You never know, sir.’ Lewis fingered the great bunch of keys that Binyon had given him, but Morse appeared reluctant to get moving.
‘Shall I do it myself, sir?’
Morse got up at last. ‘No! Let’s go and have a look round the rooms – you’re quite right. You take the Palmers’ room.’
In the Smiths’ room, Annexe 2, Morse looked around him with little enthusiasm (wouldn’t the maid have tidied Annexe 1 and Annexe 2 during the day?), finally turning back the sheets
on each of the twin beds, then opening the drawers of the dressing table, then looking inside the wardrobe. Nothing. In the bathroom, it was clear that one or both of the Smiths had taken a shower
or a bath fairly recently, for the two large white towels were still slightly damp and the soap in the wall-niche had been used – as had the two squat tumblers that stood on the surface
behind the washbasin. But there was nothing to learn here, Morse felt sure of that. No items left behind; no torn letters thrown into the waste-paper basket; only a few marks over the carpet,
mostly just inside the door, left by shoes and boots that had tramped across the slush and snow. In any case, Morse felt fairly sure that the Smiths, whoever they were, had nothing at all to do
with the crime, because he thought he knew just how and why the pair of them had come to the Haworth Hotel, booking
in
at the last possible moment, and getting
out
at the earliest
possible moment after the murder of Ballard had been discovered. ‘Smith, J.’ (there was little doubt in Morse’s mind) was an ageing rogue in middle management, drooling with lust
over a new young secretary, who’d told his long-suffering spouse that he had to go to a business conference in the Midlands over the New Year. Such conduct was commonplace, Morse knew that;
and perhaps there was little point in pursuing the matter further. Yet he would like to meet her, for she was, according to the other guests, a pleasingly attractive woman. He sat on one of the
beds, and picked up the phone.
‘Can I help you?’ It was
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