Free Death Is Now My Neighbour by Colin Dexter

for its ties: about five thousand of them at the last count Showcases of ties covered the walls, covered the ceilings, in each of the bars: ties from Army regiments, sports clubs, schools and OB associations; ties from anywhere and everywhere. The collection started (Morse learned) in 1954, when the incumbent landlord had invited any customer with an interesting-looking tie to have the last three or four inches of its back-end cut off - in exchange for a couple of pints of beer. Thereafter, the snipped-off portions were put on display in cabinets, with a small square of white card affixed to each giving provenance and description.
    Morse nodded encouragingly as the landlord told his well-rehearsed tale, occasionally casting a glance at the cabinet on the wall immediately opposite: Yale University Fencing Club; Kenya Police; Welsh Schoolboys' Hockey Association; Women's Land Army ...
    Ye gods!
    What a multitude of ties!
    Morse's glass was empty; and the landlady tentatively suggested that the Chief Inspector would perhaps enjoy a further pint?
    Morse had no objection; and made his way to the Gents where, as he washed his hands, he wondered whither all the washbasin plugs in the world could have disappeared - plugs from every pub, from every hotel, from every public convenience in the land. Somewhere (Morse mused) there must surely be a prodigious pile of basin-plugs, as high as some Egyptian pyramid.
    Back in the bar, Morse produced his photograph and pointed to the little patch of tie.
    'Do you think there's anyth ing like that here?'
    Lowbridge looked down at the slimly striped maroon tie, shaking his head dubiously.
    'Don't think so ... But make yourself at home - please have a look round - for as long as you like.'
    Morse experienced disappointment.
    If only Lewis were there! Lewis - so wonderfully competent with this sort of diing: checking, checking, checking, the contents of the cabinets.
    Help, Lewis!
    But Lewis was elsewhere. And for twenty-five minutes or so, Morse moved round the two bars, with increasing fecklessness and irritation.
    Nothing was matching .. .
    Nothing.
    'Find what you're after?' It was the darkly attractive Sonya, just returned from a shopping expedition to the Westgate Centre.
    'No, sadly no,' admitted Morse. 'It's a bit like a farmer looking for a lost contact lens in a ploughed field.' "That what you're looking for?'
    Sonya Lowbridge pointed to the ti e in the photograph that still lay on the table there.
    Morse nodded. "That's it.'
    'But I can tell you where you can find that'
    'You can?' Morse's eyes were suddenly wide, his mouth suddenly dry.
    ‘ Yep! I was looking for a tie for Steve's birthday. And you'll find one just like that on the tie-rack in Marks and Spencer's.'
Chapter Fifteen
    A Slave has but one Master; yet ambitious folk have as many masters as there are people who may be useful in bettering their position
    (La Bruyere, Characters)
    'Well?'
    Julian Storrs closed the front door behind him, hung up his dripping plasti c mac, and took his wife into his arms.
    'No external candidates - just the two of us.'
    'That's wonderful news!' Angela Storrs moved away from her husband's brief, perfunctory embrace, and led the way into the lounge of the splendidly furnished property in Polstead Road, a thoroughfare linking the Woodstock Road with Aristotl e Lane (the latter, incidentally, Morse's favourite Oxford street-name).
    'Certainly not bad news, is it? If the gods just smile on us a little ...'
    'Drink?'
    'I think I may have earned a small bra nd y .' She poured his drink; poured herself a large Dry Martini; lit a cigarette; and sat beside him on the brown - leather settee. She clinked her glass with his, and momentarily her eyes gleamed with potential triumph. 'To you, Sir Julian!'
    'Just a minute! We've got to win the bloody thing first. No pushover, old Denis, you know: good College man -fine scholar - first-class brain—'
    'Married to a second-class tart!'
    Storrs shook his head with