Free The Secret of Annexe 3 by Colin Dexter Page B

been the branch of a tree or something . . .? Could have been, I suppose. About two feet long, nice easy grip, couple of inches in diameter.’
    ‘You didn’t see any wood splinters?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘What about a bottle?’
    ‘No broken glass on his face, either, as far as I could see.’
    ‘Tough things, though. Some of these people who launch battleships have a hell of a job breaking champagne bottles.’
    ‘We may find something, Morse.’
    ‘When can you let me have a report?’
    ‘Not tonight.’
    ‘Much blood, would there have been?’
    ‘Enough. No spurting though.’
    ‘No good asking the guests if they saw a fellow walking around with blood all over his best shirt?’
    ‘What about a
woman
, Morse? With blood all over her liberty bodice?’
    ‘Perhaps, I suppose.’
    The surgeon nodded non-committally and looked into the fire: ‘Poor sod . . . Do
you
ever think of death?
Mors
,
mortis
, feminine – remember that?’
    ‘Not likely to forget a word like that, am I? Just add on “e” to the end and . . .’
    The surgeon smiled a sour acknowledgement of the point and drained his glass. ‘We’ll just have the other half. Then we’ll get back, and show you round the scene of the crime
again.’
    ‘When the body’s out of the way?’
    ‘You don’t like the sight of blood much, do you?’
    ‘No. I should never have been a policeman.’
    ‘Always turned me on, blood did – even as a boy.’
    ‘Unnatural!’
    ‘Same again?’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘What turns
you
on?’ asked the surgeon as he picked up the two glasses.
    ‘Somebody from the
Oxford Times
asked me that last week, Max. Difficult, you know – just being asked out of the blue like that.’
    ‘What did you say?’
    ‘I said I was always turned on by the word “unbuttoning”.’
    ‘Clever!’
    ‘Not really. It comes in one of Larkin’s poems somewhere. It’s just that you know nothing about the finer things in life . . .’
    But the surgeon, apparently unhearing, was already standing at the bar and rattling an empty glass imperiously on the counter.

C HAPTER T WELVE
Wednesday, January 1st: p.m.
    Close up the casement, draw the blind,
    Shut out that stealing moon.
    (THOMAS HARDY)
    U NDER THE SURGEON ’ S supervision, the frozen-footed ambulancemen had finally stretchered away the white-sheeted corpse to
the morgue at the Old Radcliffe at 11.30 p.m., and Lewis was glad that the preliminaries of the case were now almost over. The two fingerprint men had departed just after eleven, followed ten
minutes later by the spiky-haired young photographer, clutching the neck of his flash-bulb camera as if it were some poisonous serpent. The surgeon himself had driven off in his old black Ford at a
quarter to midnight, and the hotel seemed strangely still as Lewis followed Morse across the slush and blackened snow to the room called Annexe 3, where the two men stood for the second time that
evening, and where, each in his own way, they now took a more detailed mental inventory of what they saw.
    Immediately to the left in the spacious room (about twenty feet by fourteen feet) stood a built-in wardrobe of white wood, in which nine plastic coat-hangers hung from the cross-rail; beyond it
stood a dressing table, its drawers (as we have seen) quite empty, with a brochure of the hotel lying on its top, next to a card with the handwritten message: ‘Welcome – your room has
been personally prepared by Mandy’; a colour TV set stood in the corner; and, between it and the dressing table, a ledge some four feet from the floor held a kettle, a small teapot, two cups
and two saucers, and a rectangular plastic tray, on which, in separate compartments, were small cellophaned packets of biscuits, sachets of Nescafe´, sachets of sugar, teabags, and little
squat tubs of Eden Vale milk.
    Along the far wall was a long low radiator, and just above its top the sill of an equally long window, the latter a triptych of panes, the centre one fixed, but