What a mult.i.tude of ties!

Morse's gla.s.s was empty; and the landlady tentatively suggested that the Chief Inspector would perhaps enjoy a further pint?

Morse had no objection; and made his way to the Gents where, as he washed his hands, he wondered whither all the washbasin plugs in the world could have disappeared - plugs from every pub, from every hotel, from every public convenience in the land. Somewhere (Morse mused) there must surely be a prodigious pile of basin-plugs, as high as some Egyptian pyramid.

Back in the bar, Morse produced his photograph and pointed to the little patch of tie.

'Do you think there's anything like that here?'

Lowbridge looked down at the slimly striped maroon tie, shaking his head dubiously.

'Don't think think so ... But make yourself at home - please have a look round - for as long as you like.' so ... But make yourself at home - please have a look round - for as long as you like.'

Morse experienced disappointment.

If only Lewis were there! Lewis - so wonderfully competent with this sort of diing: checking, checking, checking, the contents of the cabinets.

Help, Lewis!

But Lewis was elsewhere. And for twenty-five minutes or so, Morse moved round the two bars, with increasing f.e.c.klessness and irritation.

Nothing was matching .. .

Nothing.

'Find what you're after?' It was the darkly attractive Sonya, just returned from a shopping expedition to the Westgate Centre.

'No, sadly no,' admitted Morse. 'It's a bit like a farmer looking for a lost contact lens in a ploughed field.' "That what you're looking for?'

Sonya Lowbridge pointed to the tie in the photograph that still lay on the table there.

Morse nodded. "That's it.'

'But I can tell you where you can find that'

'You can?' Morse's eyes were suddenly wide, his mouth suddenly dry.

'Yep! I was looking for a tie for Steve's birthday. And you'll find one just like that on the tie-rack in Marks and Spencer's.'

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A Slave has but one Master; yet ambitious folk have as many masters as there are people who may be useful in bettering their position (La Bruyere, Characters) Characters) 'WELL?'.

Julian Storrs closed the front door behind him, hung up his dripping plastic mac, and took his wife into his arms.

'No external candidates - just the two of us.'

'That's wonderful news!' Angela Storrs moved away from her husband's brief, perfunctory embrace, and led the way into the lounge of the splendidly furnished property in Polstead Road, a thoroughfare linking the Woodstock Road with Aristotle Lane (the latter, incidentally, Morse's favourite Oxford street-name).

'Certainly not bad news, is it? If the G.o.ds just smile on us a little ...'

'Drink?'

'I think I may have earned a small brandy.' She poured his drink; poured herself a large Dry Martini; lit a cigarette; and sat beside him on the brown-leather settee. She clinked her gla.s.s with his, and momentarily her eyes gleamed with potential triumph. 'To you, you, Sir Julian!' Sir Julian!'

'Just a minute! We've got to win the b.l.o.o.d.y thing first. No pushover, old Denis, you know: good College man -fine scholar - first-cla.s.s brain-'

'Married to a second-cla.s.s tart!'

Storrs shook his head with an uneasy smile.

You're being a bit cruel, love.'

'Don't call me "love" - as if you come from Rother-ham, or somewhere.'

'What's wrong with Rotherham?' He put his left arm around her shoulders, and forced an affectionate smile to his lips as he contemplated the woman he'd married just over twenty years previously - then pencil-slim, fresh-faced, and wrinkle-free.

Truth to tell, she was aging rather more quickly than most women of her years. Networks of varicose veins marred the long, still-shapely legs; and her stomach was a little distended around the waistband of the elegant trouser-suits which recently she almost invariably wore. The neck had grown rather gaunt, and there were lines and creases round her eyes. Yet the face itself was firmly featured still; and to many a man she remained an attractive woman - as she had appeared to Julian Storrs when first he had encountered her ... in those extraordinary circ.u.mstances. And few there were who even now could easily resist the invitation of those almond eyes when after some dinner party or drinks reception she removed the dark gla.s.ses she had begun to wear so regularly.

Having swiftly swallowed her Martini, Angela Storrs got to her feet and poured herself another - her husband making no demur. In fact, he was quite happy when she decided to indulge her more than occasional craving for alcohol, since then she would usually go to bed, go to sleep, and reawaken in a far more pleasant frame of mind.

'What are your chances - honestly?' 'Hope is a Christian virtue, you know that.' 'Christ! Can't you think of anything better to say than that?'

He was silent awhile. 'It means a lot to you, Angela, doesn't it?'

'It means a lot to you, too,' she replied, allowing her slow words to take their full effect. 'It does, does, doesn't it?' doesn't it?'

Yes,' he replied softly, 'it means almost everything to me.'

Angela got up and poured herself another Martini.

'I'm glad you said that You know why? Because it doesn't just mean almost almost everything to me - it means everything to me - it means literally literally everything. I want to be the Master's Wife, Julian. I want to be Lady Storrs! Do you understand how much I want that?' everything. I want to be the Master's Wife, Julian. I want to be Lady Storrs! Do you understand how much I want that?'

Yes . .. yes, I think I do.'

'So ... so if we have to engage in any "dirty-tricks" business...'

'What d'you mean?'

'Nothing specific'

'What d'you mean?' he repeated.

'As I say...'

'Come on! Tell me!'

'Well, let's say if it became known in the College that Sh.e.l.ly Cornford was an insadable nymphomaniac ... ?' 'That just isn't fair!' fair!'

Angela Storrs got to her feet and drained the last drop of her third drink: 'Who said it was? was? 'Where are you going?' 'Where are you going?'

'Upstairs, for a lie-down, if you don't object. I'd had a few before you got back - hadn't you noticed? But I don't suppose so, no. You haven't really noticed me much at all recently, have you?'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

But she was already leaving the room, and seemed not to hear.

Storrs took another small sip of his brandy, and pulled the copy of the previous evening's Oxford Mail Oxford Mail from the lower shelf of the coffee-table, its front-page headline staring at him again: from the lower shelf of the coffee-table, its front-page headline staring at him again: MURDER AT KIDLINGTON.

Woman Shot Through Kitchen Window 'What did you tell Denis?'

'He's got a tutorial, anyway. I just said I'd be out shopping.'

'He told you about the College Meeting?'

She nodded.

'You pleased?'

'Uh,uh!'

'It'll be a bit of a nerve-racking time for you.'

You should know!'

'Only a month of it, diough.'

'What d'you think his chances are?'

'Difficult to say.'

'Will you you vote for him?' vote for him?'

'I don't have a vote.' don't have a vote.'

'Unless it's a tie.'

'Agreed. But that's unlikely, they tell me. Arithimetically quite impossible - if all twenty-three Fellows decide to vote.'

'So you won't really have much say in things at all.'

'Oh, I wouldn't say that. I'll be a bit surprised if one or two of the Fellows don't ask me for a little advice about, er, about their choice.'

'And?'

'And I shall try to be helpful.' 'To Denis, you mean?' 'Now I didn't say say that, did I?' that, did I?'

The great cooling-towers of Didcot power-station loomed into view on the left, and for a while little more was said as the two of diem continued the drive south along the A34, before turning off, just before the Ridge-way, towards the charming little village of West Ilsley.

'I feel I'm letting poor old Denis down a bit,' he said, as the dark blue Daimler pulled up in front of the village pub. feel I'm letting poor old Denis down a bit,' he said, as the dark blue Daimler pulled up in front of the village pub.

'Don't you think I do?' she snapped. 'But I don't keep on about it.'

At the bar, he ordered a dry white wine for Sh.e.l.ly Cornford and a pint of Old Speckled Hen for himself; and the pair of them studied the Egon Ronay menu chalked up on a blackboard before making their choices, and sitting down at a window-table overlooking the sodden village green.

'Do you think we should stop meeting?' He asked it quietly.

She appeared to consider the question more as an exercise in logical evaluation than as any emotional dilemma.

'I don't want that to happen.' don't want that to happen.'

She brushed the back of her right wrist down the front of his dark grey suit.

'Pity we've ordered lunch,' he said quietly. 'We can always give it a miss.' 'Where shall we go?'

'Before we go anywhere, I shall want shall want you you to do something for to do something for me.' me.'

"You mean something for Denis?' She nodded decisively.

'I can't really promise you too much, you know that.' can't really promise you too much, you know that.'

She looked swiftly around the tables there, before moving her lips to his ear. 'I can, though. I can promise you everything, Clixby,' she whispered. can promise you everything, Clixby,' she whispered.

From his room in College, Denis Cornford had rung Sh.e.l.ly briefly just before 11 a.m. She'd be out later, as she'd mentioned, but he wanted to tell her about the College Meeting as soon as possible. He told her.

He was pleased - she could sense that.

She was pleased - he could sense that Cornford had half an hour to spare before his next tutorial with a very bright first-year undergraduette from Nottingham who possessed one of the most astonishingly retentive memories he had ever encountered, and a pair of the loveliest legs that had ever folded themselves opposite him. Yet he experienced not even the mildest of erotic day-dreams as now, briefly, he thought about her. pleased - he could sense that Cornford had half an hour to spare before his next tutorial with a very bright first-year undergraduette from Nottingham who possessed one of the most astonishingly retentive memories he had ever encountered, and a pair of the loveliest legs that had ever folded themselves opposite him. Yet he experienced not even the mildest of erotic day-dreams as now, briefly, he thought about her.

He walked over to the White Horse, the narrow pub between the two Blackwell's shops just opposite the Sheldonian; and soon he was sipping a large Glenmorangie, and slowly coming to terms with the prospect that in a month's time he might well be the Master of Lonsdale College. By nature a diffident man, he was for some curious reason beginning to feel a little more confident about his chances. Life was a funny business - and the favourite often failed to win the Derby, did it not?

Yes, odd things were likely to happen in life.

Against all the odds, as it were.

His black-stockinged student was sitting cross-legged on the wooden steps outside his room, getting to her feet as soon as she saw him. Being with Cornford, talking with him for an hour every week - that had become the highlight of her time at Oxford. But History was the great fascination in his life - not her.

She knew that.