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the capsized Tory poster is a nice little prop, don’t you reckon?
    By the way, what the hell are they doing voting Tory down there?
    Yours aye,
    Manuel (McS)
    PS Did I mention the cheque—asap?
    Morse looked at the two photographs; and like the Almighty surveying one of his acts of Creation, he saw that they were good.
    He reached for the phone and rang Inspector Crawford to tell him of his eleventh-hour reprieve—soon learning from Sergeant Wilkins that Crawford had just been called in to see Strange. He’d pass the message on, though.
(xiv)
    Confessions are good for the soul but bad for the reputation.
    (Thomas Robert Dewar)
    When, half an hour later, Crawford came in, Morse reached into a drawer for the envelope. But it was Crawford, looking preternaturally pleased with himself, who immediately seized the initiative.
    “I was just going to call
you
. You’ll never guess what’s happened.”
    “Watson’s unearthed his lost exhibits?”
    “Better than that.”
    “They’ve just appointed PC Watson Chief Constable?”
    Crawford blurted it out: “Muldoon! He’s changed his plea—through his lawyer. He’s pleading guilty as charged on all counts.
And
he’s come clean on the Jericho and Botley places.
Very
interesting what he’s told us about
them
. Complete change of heart, that’s what he’s had, Muldoon—with the, er, encouragement of some, you know—one or two little privileges.”
    “Well done!” said Morse, quietly slipping the envelope back into its drawer.
    “And
Strange
? He’s over the moon.”
    “Everybody’ll be pleased.”
    “Lucky though, wasn’t I?” said Crawford reflectively.
    “We all deserve a little bit of luck now and then,” said Morse.
    After Crawford had gone, Morse once more took the photographs from their envelope, and looked at them briefly again—especially at that neatly sliced left ear—beforeslowly tearing them up and dropping the pieces into his waste-paper basket.
    Then he wrote out a cheque, and addressed an envelope to Manuel McSevich, Esquire, The Studio, High St., Abingdon, Oxon. It seemed to Morse a quite disproportionate sum to pay; yet, perhaps, not totally exorbitant—considering the nature of the entertainment which that most unusual of evenings had provided.
(xv)
    If children grew up according to early indications, we should have nothing but geniuses.
    (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)
    Only very occasionally did Superintendent Strange patronize the canteen at HQ. But that lunchtime, as the solitary Morse sat at the corner table, his back to his colleagues, rather dejectedly sipping a bowl of luke-warm leek soup, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
    “Can I join you?”
    Morse nodded a supererogatory “yes,” as Strange unloaded from his tray a vast plateful of steak-and-kidney pie, two bread rolls, and a substantial wodge of treacle-tart covered—nay smothered—with custard.
    “You heard about Muldoon, Morse?”
    “Inspector Crawford told me the good news.”
    Strange rubbed his hands gleefully. “Excellent, isn’t it? Excellent! Not the slightest suspicion of any undue police pressure either—you know that!”
    “So I understand, sir.”
    “Above
suspicion, eh? Like Caesar’s wife.”
    “Let’s hope so.”
    “You
couldn’t remember her name, could you?”
    “No.”
    “Crawford could, though.”
    Morse nodded. Crawford was clearly the flavour of the month. So be it.
    “You’re not eating much?” queried Strange, forking another great gobbet of meat into his mouth.
    “I’m not very hungry today.”
    “It’s a wonder you’re not in the pub, then. You’re usually
thirsty
enough.”
    The reminder did little to lighten Morse’s mood; and in sycophantic fashion he quickly sought to change the drift of the conversation.
    “How’s that little grandson of yours, sir?”
    “Fine. Absolutely fine! Did I show you his latest photo?”
    Morse nodded, hurriedly. “Still behaving himself?”
    For a few seconds, Strange looked slightly