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

almost invariably wore, she had the inestimable merit of being interesting. And sometimes, over half a glass of mild beer in the ill-lit bar at the rear of the Bird and Baby, her wonted nervousness would disappear, and in her rather deep, husky voice she would talk with knowledge, volubility, and wit, about the class-structure, about the progress of the war—and aboutmusic. Yes, above all about music. The pair of them had joined the Record Library, thereafter spending a few candle-lit evenings together in Dodo’s room listening to everything from Vivaldi to Wagner. On one occasion, Wise had almost been on the verge of telling her of the Platonic-plus pleasure he was beginning to experience in her company.
    Almost.
    Dodo had a brother called Ambrose who now and then managed to get a weekend leave-pass and come to stay with Dodo, usually (though quite unofficially) sleeping on the floor of her single room. Almost immediately, Philip Wise and Ambrose Whitaker became firm friends, spending (somewhat to Dodo’s annoyance) rather too many hours together drinking whisky—a commodity plentiful enough, if over-priced, in the Bird and Baby, but a rare one in the wilds of Bodmin, where Ambrose, with two stripes on each arm, spent his days initiating recruits into the mysteries of antiquated artillery pieces. He was a winsome, albeit somewhat raffish, sort of fellow whose attraction to alcohol apparently eclipsed even his love of music (Dodo spoke of Ambrose, amongst other things, as a virtuoso on the piano). Those weekends had flashed by, with Wise far too soon finding himself walking across Gloucester Green to see his friend off at the Great Western station late on Sunday afternoons.
    Brother and sister—what an engaging couple they were!
    Rich, too—at least their parents were.
    Dodo, in particular, made no secret of her parents’ extremely comfortable lifestyle, which Wise himself had once (and only once) experienced at first hand, when Dodo had suggested—on his having to spend a week inBristol in February 1942—that he stay with them; had even loaned him a key to the family mansion in case they were out when he arrived. Wise had already known that Dodo’s parents lived in Bristol, since he’d noticed the postmark on the letter (doubtless from Mummy) that lay each week on the undusted mahogany table in the small entrance hall of number 14—her name in the address, incidentally, always prefixed by the letter “A.” Alice? Angela? Anne? Audrey?—Wise had never been told and, again, had never enquired. But that little fact was something else he’d known earlier, too, since he was with her when, with a practised flourish of those slim and sinewy fingers, she’d signed her membership card at the Record Library. As for the parents, they turned out to be a straight-laced, tight-faced pair who remained frigidly reserved towards their guest throughout his short stay, and who appeared less than effusively appreciative of Dodo—and almost embarrassingly dismissive of Ambrose. Oddly, Wise had not found a single fond memento of their talented offspring in the Whitakers’ gauntly luxurious villa, and not a single family photograph to grace the daily-dusted mantelpieces.
    It was three weeks after his return from his ill-starred visit that Dodo left Oxford, her wartime work (something “hush-hush,” it was understood) necessitating a move to Cheltenham. Only about forty miles away—and she’d keep in touch, she said.
    But she hadn’t.
    “Forty-eight years ago, this was, Inspector. Forty-eight! I was twenty-three myself, and she must have been about the same. Year or two older, perhaps—I’m notsure. You see, I never even asked her how old she was. Pretty spineless specimen, wasn’t I?”
    In the darkness, Morse nodded his silent assent, and the Jaguar finally turned into the Residents Only parking area.
    Wise contrived to keep talking as the two men dashed through the rain to the entrance hall. “I’d be glad to give