I am thinking of the earlier times when we were so happy. Nothing can take them from us. Look after the children. It's my fault - not theirs. I pray that you won't think too badly of me and that you can forgive me.

Margaret.

It wasn't going to be much comfort, but Crowther had got to face it some time.

'Please read it, sir.'

Bernard read it, but he showed no emotion. His despair could plumb no lower depths. "What about the children?' he said at last.

'Don't worry yourself about that, sir. We'll look after everything.' The police doctor's voice was brisk. He was no stranger to such situations, and he knew the procedure from this point on. It wasn't much that he could do - but it was something.

'Look, sir, I want you to take ...'

What about the children?' He was a shattered, broken man, and Morse left him to the ministrations of the doctor. He retired with Bell to the front room, and noticed the list of the accounts, insurances, mortgage repayments, and stock-exchange holdings which Margaret had left so neatly ordered under a paper-weight on the desk. But he didn't touch them. They were something between a husband and his wife, a wife who had been alive when he had interviewed Crowther earlier that day.

'You know him, then?' asked Bell.

'I saw him this morning,' said Morse. 'I saw him about the Woodstock murder.'

'Really?' Bell looked surprised.

'He was the man who picked up the girls.'

'You think he was involved?'

'I don't know,' said Morse.

'Has this business got anything to do with it?'

'I don't know.'

The ambulance was still waiting outside and curious eyes were peeping from all the curtains along the road. In the kitchen Morse looked down at Margaret Crowther. He had never seen her before, and he was surprised to realize how attractive she must have been. Fortyish? Hair greying a little, but a good, firm figure and a finely featured face, twisted now and blue.

'No point in keeping her here,' said Bell.

Morse shook his head. 'No point at all.'

'It takes a long time, you know, this North Sea gas.'

The two men talked in a desultory way for several minutes, and Morse prepared to leave. But as he walked out to his car, he was called back by the police doctor.

'Can you come back a minute, Inspector?' Morse re-entered the house.

'He says he must talk to you.'

Crowther sat with his head against the back of the chair. He was breathing heavily and the sweat stood out upon his brow. He was in a state of deep shock, and was already under sedation.

'Inspector,' he opened his eyes wearily. 'Inspector, I've got to talk to you.' He had great difficulty in getting this far, and Morse looked to the doctor, who slowly shook his head.

'Tomorrow, sir,' said Morse. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

'Inspector, I've got to talk to you.'

'Yes, I know. But not now. We'll talk tomorrow. It'll be all right then.' Morse put his hand to Crowther's forehead and felt the clammy wetness there.

'Inspector!' But the top corner of the walls where Crowther was trying to focus was slowly disintegrating before his eyes; the angles melted and spiralled and faded away.

Morse drove slowly out of Southdown Road and realized just how close Crowther lived to Jennifer Coleby. It was a black night and the moon was hidden away deep behind the lowering clouds.

Rectangles of light, shaded by curtains, showed from most of the front-room windows, and in many Morse could see the light-blue phosph.o.r.escent glow of television screens. He looked at one house in particular and looked up at one window in it, the window directly above the door. But it was dark, and he drove on.

25 Tuesday, 19 October, a.m.

Morse had slept very badly and woke with a throbbing head. He hated suicides. Why had she done it?

Was suicide just the coward's refuge from some black despair? Or was it in its way an act of courage that revealed a perverted sort of valour? Not that, though. So many other lives were intertwined; no burdens were shed - they were merely pa.s.sed from the shoulders of one to those of another. Morse's mind would give itself no rest but twirled around on some interminable fun-fair ride.

It was past nine o'clock before he was sitting in his leather chair, and his sombre mood draped itself over his sagging shoulders. He summoned Lewis, who knocked apprehensively on the door before going in; but Morse had seemingly lost all recollection of the nasty little episode the day before. He told Lewis the facts of Margaret Crowther's suicide.

'Do you think he's got something important to tell us, sir?' There was a knock on the door before Lewis could learn the answer to his question, and a young girl brought in the post, said a bright 'Good morning' and was off. Morse fingered through the dozen or so letters and his eye fell on an unopened envelope marked 'strictly private' and addressed to himself. The envelope was exactly similar to the one he had seen the previous evening.

'I don't know whether Crowther's got anything to tell us or not; but it looks as if his late wife has.'

He opened the envelope neatly with a letter-knife and read its typewritten contents aloud to Lewis.

Dear Inspector, I have never met you, but I have seen from the newspapers that you are in charge of the inquiry into the death of Sylvia Kaye. I should have told you this a long time ago, but I hope it's not too late even now. You see, Inspector, I killed Sylvia Kaye. (The words were doubly underlined.) I must try to explain myself. Please forgive me if I get a little muddled, but it all seems very long ago.

I have known for about six months - well, certainly for six months - perhaps I've known for much longer - that my husband has been having an affair with another woman. I had no proof and have none now. But it is so difficult for a man to hide this sort of thing from his wife. We have been married for fifteen years and I know him so well. It was written all over what he said and what he did and how he looked - he must have been terribly unhappy, I think.

On Wednesday, 22nd September, I left the house at 6.30 p.m. to go to my evening cla.s.s at Headington - but I didn't go immediately. Instead, I waited in my car just oft the Banbury Road. I seemed to wait such a long time and I didn't really know what I was going to do. Then at about a quarter to seven Bernard - my husband - drove up to the junction at Charlton Road and turned right towards the northern roundabout. I followed him as best I could - I say that because I'm not a good driver - and anyway it was getting darker all the time. There wasn't much traffic and I could see him clearly two or three cars ahead. At the Woodstock Road roundabout he turned along the A34. He was driving too fast for me, though, and I kept dropping further and further behind. I thought I had lost him - but there were road-works ahead and the traffic had to filter into single line for about a mile. There was a slow, heavy lorry in the front and I soon caught up again - Bernard was only about six or seven cars ahead of me. The lorry turned off towards Bladon at the next round about and I managed to keep Bernard in sight and saw him take the first turning on the left in Woodstock itself. I panicked a bit and didn't know what to do - I turned into the next street, and stopped the car and walked back. But it was hopeless. I drove back to Headington and was only twenty minutes late for my evening cla.s.s.

The next Wednesday, the 29th September, I drove out to Woodstock again, leaving the house a good ten minutes earlier than usual, parked my car further along the village, and walked back to the street into which Bernard had turned the previous week. I didn't know where to wait and I felt silly and conspicuous, but I found a safe enough little spot on the left of the road - I was terrified that Bernard would see me - if he came that was - and I waited there and watched every car that came round the corner. It was child's play to see the cars turning in - and the occupants as well. He came at quarter-past seven and I felt myself trembling frantically. He was not alone - a young girl with long fair hair, in a white blouse, was sitting next to him in the front seat. I thought they must see me because the car turned - oh, only six or seven yards ahead of me - into the car park of the Black Prince. My legs were shaking and the blood was pounding in my ears, but something made me go through with it. I walked cautiously up to the yard and peered in. There were several cars there already and I couldn't see Bernard's for several minutes. I edged round the back of one car - just to the left of the yard - and then I saw them. The car was on the same side at the far end, with the boot towards the wall - he must have backed in. They were sitting in the front - talking for a while. I felt a cold anger inside me. Bernard and a blowzy blonde - about seventeen she looked! I saw them kissing. Then they got out of the front and into the back. I couldn't see any more - at least I was spared that.

I can't really explain what I felt. As I write now it all seems so flat - and so unimportant somehow. I felt more anger than jealousy I know that. Burning anger that Bernard had shamed me so. It was about five minutes later when they got out. They said something -but I couldn't hear what it was. There was a lever - a long tyre-lever - I found it on the floor of the yard, and I picked it up. I don't know why. I felt so frightened and so angry. And suddenly the engine of the car was switched on and then the lights and the whole yard was lit up. The car moved off and out of the yard, and after it had gone the darkness seemed even blacker than before. The girl stood where he had left her, and I crept behind the three or four cars between us and came up behind her. I said nothing and I'm sure she didn't hear me. I hit her across the back of the head with an easy strength. It seemed like a dream. I felt nothing - no remorse - no fear - nothing. I left her where she was, against the far wall. It was still very dark. I didn't know when or how she would be found - and I didn't care.

Bernard knew all along that I had murdered Sylvia Kaye - he pa.s.sed me on my way back to Oxford.

He must have seen me because I saw him. He was right behind me for some time and must have seen the number plate. I saw his car as clear as daylight when he overtook me.

I know what you have suspected about Bernard. But you have been wrong. I don't know what he's told you - but I know you have spoken to him. If he has told you lies, it has only been to shield me. But I need no one to shield me any longer. Look after Bernard and don't let him suffer too much because of me. He did what hundreds of men do, and for that I blame myself and no one else. I have neither been a good wife to him nor a good mother to his children. I am just so tired - so desperately tired of everything. For what I have done I am now most bitterly sorry - but I realize that this is no excuse.

What else can I say - what else is there to say?

Margaret Crowther.

Morse's voice trailed away and the room was very still. Lewis felt very moved as he heard the letter read aloud, almost as if Margaret Crowther were there. But she would never speak again. He thought of his visit to her and guessed how cruelly she must have suffered these last few months.

You thought it was something like that, didn't you, sir?'

'No,' said Morse.

'Comes as a bit of a shock, doesn't it? Out of the blue, like.'

'I don't think much of her English style,' said Morse. He handed the letter over to Lewis. 'She uses far too many dashes for my liking.' The comment seemed heardess and irrelevant Lewis read the letter to himself.

'She's a good, clean typist anyway, sir.'

'Bit odd, don't you think, that she typed her name at the end instead of using her signature?'

Give Morse a letter and his imagination soared to the realms of the bright-eyed seraphim. Lewis groaned inwardly.

'You think she wrote it, don't you, sir?'

Morse reluctantly reined back the wild horses. 'Yes. She wrote it'

Lewis thought he understood the Inspector's feelings. There would have to be a bit of tidying up, of course, but the case was now substantially over. He'd enjoyed most of his time working with the irascible, volatile inspector, but now... The phone rang and Morse answered. He said 'I see' a dozen times and replaced the receiver.

'Crowther's in the Radcliffe - he's had a mild heart attack. He's not allowed to see anyone for two days at least.'

'Perhaps he couldn't tell us much more,' suggested Lewis.

'Oh yes he could,' said Morse. He leaned back, put his hands on his head like a naughty schoolboy, and stared vacantly at the farthest corner of the wall. Lewis thought it best to keep quiet, but he grew uncomfortably restless as the minutes ticked by.

'Would you like a coffee, sir?' Morse didn't seem to hear him. 'Coffee? Would you like a coffee?'

Morse reminded him of a very deaf person with his hearing-aid switched off. Minute after minute slipped by before the grey eyes refocused on the world around him.

'Well, that's cleared up one thing, Lewis. We can cross Mrs Crowdier off our list of suspects, can't we?'

26 Tuesday. 19 October., p.m.

At midday Peter Newlove was sitting in his rooms. He was expecting no one. Normally Bernard might have dropped in about now for a gin, but the news had swept the college that morning: Margaret had killed herself and Bernard had suffered a heart attack. And the double-barrelled news. .h.i.t no one harder than Peter. He had known Margaret well and had liked her; and Bernard was his best friend in that academic, dilettante style of friendship which springs up in most collegiate universities. He had rung up the hospital, but there was no chance of visiting Bernard until Thursday at the earliest. He had sent some flowers: Bernard liked flowers and had no wife to send them now ... He had enquired, too, about the children. They had gone to stay with an aunt in Hendon, though Peter couldn't imagine how such an arrangement could possibly help them very much.

There was a knock on the door. 'It's open.'

He had not met Inspector Morse before and was pleasantly surprised that his offer of a drink was accepted. Morse explained in blunt, unequivocal terms why he had called.

'And it was written on that one?' Newlove frowned at the open portable typewriter on the table.

'No doubt about it."

Newlove looked mildly perplexed, but said nothing.

'Do you know a young lady named Jennifer Coleby, Miss Jennifer Coleby?'

'I don't, I'm afraid.' Newlove's frown grew deeper.

'She works in the High, not far from here. Town and Gown. a.s.surance place.'

Newlove shook his head. 'I might have seen her, of course. But I don't know her. I've not heard the name before.'

'And you've never written to anyone of that name?'

'No. How could I? As I say, I've never heard of the woman.'

Morse pursed his lips and continued. 'Who else could have used your typewriter, sir?'

'Well, I don't know really. I suppose almost anyone in a way. I don't lock the place up very much unless there are question papers about.'

'You mean you leave your doors open and let anybody just walk in and help himself to your booze or your books - or your typewriter?'

'No, it's not like that. But quite a few of the Fellows do drop in.'

'Who in particular, would you say?'

'Well, there's a new young don here this term, Melhuish, for example. He's been in quite a few times recently.'

'And?'

'And a dozen others.' He sounded a little uneasy.

'Have you ever seen any of these er friends of yours using your typewriter?'

'Well, no. I don't think I have.' They'd use their own, wouldn't they?'

'Yes. I suppose they would.'

'Not much "suppose" about it, is there, sir?' said Morse.

'No.'

'You've no idea then?'

'I'm not being very helpful, I know. But I've no idea at all.'