Free Morse's Greatest Mystery and Other Stories by Colin Dexter

was visibly shaken. He sat down slowly in the only chair the small room could offer, and held his head between his hands. For several minutes there was utter silence.
    Finally, he spoke. “It was that bloody correction slip, I s’pose.”
    “We-ell” (the Governor failed to mask the deep satisfaction in his voice) “there
are
a few people who know a little German.”
    Slowly, very slowly, Evans relaxed. He was beaten—and he knew it. He sat up at last, and managed to smile ruefully. “You know, it wasn’t
really
a mistake. You see, we ’adn’t been able to fix up any ’otel, but we could’ve worked that some other way. No. The really important thing was for the phone to ring just before the exam finished—to get the screws out of the way for a coupla minutes. So we ’ad to know exactly when the exam
started
, didn’t we?”
    “And, like a fool, I presented you with that little piece of information on a plate.”
    “Well,
somebody
did. So, you see, sir, that correction slip killed two little birds with a single stone, didn’t it? The name of the ’otel for
me
, and the exact time the exam started for, er, for, er …”
    The Governor nodded. “It’s a pretty common word, though, “Löwe.” It’s on the beer labels for a start.”
    “Good job it is pretty common, sir, or I’d never ’ave known where to come to, would I?”
    “Nice name, though:
zum goldenen Löwen.”
    “ ’Ow did you know which Golden Lion it was? There’s ’undreds of ’em.”
    “Same as you, Evans. Index number 313; Centre number 271. Remember? Six figures? And if you take an Ordnance Survey Map for Oxfordshire, you find that the six-figure reference 313/271 lands you bang in the middle of Chipping Norton.”
    “Yea, you’re right. Huh! We’d ’oped you’d bugger off to Newbury.”
    “We did.”
    “Well, that’s something, I s’pose.”
    “That question paper, Evans. Could you really understand all that German? I could hardly—”
    “Nah! Course I couldn’t. I knew
roughly
what it was all about, but we just Oped it’d throw a few spanners in the works—you know, sort of muddle everybody a bit.”
    The Governor stood up. “Tell me one thing before we go. How on earth did you get all that blood to pour over your head?”
    Evans suddenly looked a little happier.
“Clever
, sir. Very clever, that was—’ow to get a couple o’ pints of blood into a cell, eh? When there’s none there to start offwith, and when, er, and when the ‘invigilator,’ shall we say, gets searched before ’e comes in. Yes, sir. You can well ask about that, and I dunno if I ought to tell you. After all, I might want to use that particular—”
    “Anything to do with a little rubber ring for piles, perhaps?”
    Evans grinned feebly. “Clever, though, wasn’t it?”
    “Must have been a tricky job sticking a couple of pints—”
    “Nah! You’ve got it wrong, sir. No problem about
that.”
    “No?”
    “Nah! It’s the
clotting
, you see. That’s the big trouble. We got the blood easy enough. Pig’s blood, it was—from the slaughter’ouse in Kidlington. But to stop it clotting you’ve got to mix yer actual blood” (Evans took a breath) “with one tenth of its own volume of 3.8 per cent trisodium citrate! Didn’t know that, did you, sir?”
    The Governor shook his head in a token of reluctant admiration. “We learn something new every day, they tell me. Come on, m’lad.”
    Evans made no show of resistance, and side by side the two men walked slowly down the stairs.
    “Tell me, Evans. How did you manage to plan all this business? You’ve had no visitors—I’ve seen to that. You’ve had no letters—”
    “I’ve got lots of friends, though.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Me German teacher, for a start.”
    “You mean—? But he was from the Technical College.”
    “Was
’e?” Evans was almost enjoying it all now. “Ever check up on ’im, sir?”
    “God Almighty! There’s far more going on