‘Water's all right,' he admitted '- in moderation.'
'Not original!' -
'No. Mark Twain.'
A young bow-tied waiter had brought the coffee, and she poured almost full cup before adding a little very thick cream; and Morse looked down at those slim fingers as she circled the spoon in a slow-motion, almost sensual stir.
'You got the paper?'
Morse nodded his gratitude. 'Yes.'
"Let me tell you something – I'm not even going to ask why you wanted it so badly.'
'Why not?'
'Well, for one thing, you told me in your note.'
'And for another?'
She hesitated now, and turned to look at him. 'Why don't you offer me a cigarette?'
Morse's new-found happiness scaled yet another peak.
'What's your name?' she asked.
'Morse. They, er, call me Morse.'
'Odd name! What's your surname?'
'That is my surname.'
'As well? Your name's Morse Morse? Like that man in Catch 22 isn't it? Major Major Major.'
'Didn't he have four Majors?'
'You read a lot?'
'Enough.'
'Did you know the Coleridge quotation? I could see you lookin at the crossword last night.'
'Hadn't you got the paper twixt thee and me?'
'I've got X-ray eyes.'
Morse looked at her eyes, and for a few seconds looked deeply into her eyes – and saw a hazel-green concoloration there, with sign now of any bloodshot webbing. I just happened to know the quote, yes.'
'Which was?'
'The answer was "sieve".'
'And the line goes?'
'Two lines actually, to make any sense of things:
"Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope without an object cannot live." '
'You do read a lot.'
'What's your name?'
'Louisa.'
'And what do you do, Louisa?'
'I work for a model agency. No, that's wrong. I am a model agency.'
'Where are you from?'
'From a little village just south of Salisbury, along the Chalke Valley.'
Morse nodded vaguely. 'I've driven through that part once or twice. Combe Bissett? Near there, is it?'
‘Quite near, yes. But what about you? What do you do?'
'I'm a sort of glorified clerk, really. I work in an office – nine-to-five man.'
"Whereabouts is that?'
‘Oxford.'
‘Lovely city!'
‘You know Oxford?'
‘Why don't you buy me a large brandy?' she asked softly in his ear.
Morse put the drinks on his room-bill and returned with one large brandy and one large malt Scotch. Several other couples were enjoying their liqueurs in that happily appointed bar, and Morse looked out from the window at the constantly whitening waves before placing the drinks side by side on the table.
‘Cheers!'
‘Cheers!'
‘You're a liar,' she said.
The three words hit Morse like an uppercut, and he had no time to regain his balance before she continued, mercilessly: "You're a copper. You're a chief inspector. And judging from amount of alcohol you get through you're probably never in your office much after opening time.'
‘Is it that obvious – I'm a copper, I mean?'
‘Oh no! Not obvious at all. I just saw your name and address in the register and my husband – well, he happens to have heard of you. He says you're supposed to be a bit of a whizz-kid in the In the crime world. That's all.'
‘Do I know your husband?'
‘I very much doubt it.'
‘He's not here-'
‘What are you doing in Lyme?'
‘Me? I dunno. Perhaps I'm looking for some lovely, lonely lady who wouldn't call me a liar even if she thought I was.'
'You deny it? You deny you're a copper?'
Morse shook his head. 'No. It's just that when you're on holiday, well. sometimes you want to get away from the work you do – and sometimes you tell a few lies, I suppose. Everyone tells a few lies occasionally.'
They do?
'Oh yes.'
'Everyone?'
Morse nodded. 'Including you.' He turned towards her again, but found himself unable to construe the confusing messages read there in her eyes.
'Go on,' she said quietly.
'I think you're a divorced woman having an affair with a married man who lives in Oxford. I think the pair of you occasionally get the opportunity of a weekend together. I think that when
Jean-Marie Blas de Robles