back in the house at some time after eight. She couldn’t be more precise. Morse got up to take his leave. He hadn’t mentioned the very thing he had come to discuss, and he wasn’t going to. That could come later.
He sat for a few minutes in the driving seat of his car and his blood ran hot and cold. He had not quite been able to believe his eyes. But he’d seen it in black and white, or rather dark blue on white.
Morse knew the Oxford library routine only too well, for he rarely returned his own irregular borrowings without having to pay a late fine. The library worked in weeks, not days, for books borrowed, and the day that every ‘week’ began was Wednesday. If a book was borrowed on a Wednesday, the date for return was exactly 14 days later – that Wednesday fortnight. If a book was borrowed on Thursday, the date for return was a fortnight after the following Wednesday, 20 days later. The date-stamp was changed each Thursday morning. This working from Wednesday to Wednesday simplified matters considerably for the library assistants and was warmly welcomed by those borrowers who found seven or eight hundred pages an excessive assignment inside just fourteen days. Morse would have to check, of course, but he felt certain that only those who borrowed books on Wednesday had to return books within the strict 14-day limit. Anyone taking out a book on any other day would have a few extra days’ grace. If Jennifer Coleby had taken Villette from the library on Wednesday last, the date-stamp for return would have read Wednesday, 13 October. But it didn’t. It read Wednesday, 20 October . Morse knew beyond any reasonable doubt that Jennifer had lied to him about her movements on the night of the murder. And why? To that vital question there seemed one very simple answer.
Morse sat still in his car outside the house. From the corner of his eye he saw the lounge curtain twitch slightly, but he could see no one. Whoever it was, he decided to let things stew a while longer. He could do with a breath of fresh air, anyway. He locked the car doors and sauntered gently down the road, turned left into the Banbury Road and walked more briskly now towards the library. He timed himself carefully: nine and a half minutes. Interesting. He walked up to the library door marked PUSH . But it didn’t push. The library had closed its doors two hours ago.
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C HAPTER E IGHT
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Saturday, 2 October
B ERNARD C ROWTHER ’ S WIFE , Margaret, disliked the weekends, and effected her household management in such a way that neither her husband nor her twelve-year-old daughter nor her ten-year-old son enjoyed them very much either. Margaret had a part-time job in the School of Oriental Studies, and suspected that throughout the week she put in more hours of solid work than her gentle, bookish husband and her idle, selfish offspring put together. The weekend, they all assumed, was a time of well-earned relaxation; but they didn’t think of her. ‘What’s for breakfast, mum?’ ‘Isn’t dinner ready yet?’ Besides which, she did her week’s wash on Saturday afternoons and tried her best to clean the house on Sundays. She sometimes thought that she was going mad.
At 5.30 on the afternoon of Saturday, 2 October, she stood at the sink with bitter thoughts. She had cooked poached eggs for tea (‘What, again?’) and was now washing up the sticky yellow plates. The children were glued to the television and wouldn’t be bored again for an hour or so yet. Bernard (she ought to be thankful for small mercies) was cutting the privet hedge at the back of the house. She knew how he hated gardening, but that was one thing she was not going to do. She wished he would get a move on. The meticulous care he devoted to each square foot of the wretched hedge exasperated her. He’d be in soon to say his arms were aching. She looked at him. He was balding now and getting stout, but he was still, she supposed, an attractive man to some women. Until
He sat for a few minutes in the driving seat of his car and his blood ran hot and cold. He had not quite been able to believe his eyes. But he’d seen it in black and white, or rather dark blue on white.
Morse knew the Oxford library routine only too well, for he rarely returned his own irregular borrowings without having to pay a late fine. The library worked in weeks, not days, for books borrowed, and the day that every ‘week’ began was Wednesday. If a book was borrowed on a Wednesday, the date for return was exactly 14 days later – that Wednesday fortnight. If a book was borrowed on Thursday, the date for return was a fortnight after the following Wednesday, 20 days later. The date-stamp was changed each Thursday morning. This working from Wednesday to Wednesday simplified matters considerably for the library assistants and was warmly welcomed by those borrowers who found seven or eight hundred pages an excessive assignment inside just fourteen days. Morse would have to check, of course, but he felt certain that only those who borrowed books on Wednesday had to return books within the strict 14-day limit. Anyone taking out a book on any other day would have a few extra days’ grace. If Jennifer Coleby had taken Villette from the library on Wednesday last, the date-stamp for return would have read Wednesday, 13 October. But it didn’t. It read Wednesday, 20 October . Morse knew beyond any reasonable doubt that Jennifer had lied to him about her movements on the night of the murder. And why? To that vital question there seemed one very simple answer.
Morse sat still in his car outside the house. From the corner of his eye he saw the lounge curtain twitch slightly, but he could see no one. Whoever it was, he decided to let things stew a while longer. He could do with a breath of fresh air, anyway. He locked the car doors and sauntered gently down the road, turned left into the Banbury Road and walked more briskly now towards the library. He timed himself carefully: nine and a half minutes. Interesting. He walked up to the library door marked PUSH . But it didn’t push. The library had closed its doors two hours ago.
----
C HAPTER E IGHT
----
Saturday, 2 October
B ERNARD C ROWTHER ’ S WIFE , Margaret, disliked the weekends, and effected her household management in such a way that neither her husband nor her twelve-year-old daughter nor her ten-year-old son enjoyed them very much either. Margaret had a part-time job in the School of Oriental Studies, and suspected that throughout the week she put in more hours of solid work than her gentle, bookish husband and her idle, selfish offspring put together. The weekend, they all assumed, was a time of well-earned relaxation; but they didn’t think of her. ‘What’s for breakfast, mum?’ ‘Isn’t dinner ready yet?’ Besides which, she did her week’s wash on Saturday afternoons and tried her best to clean the house on Sundays. She sometimes thought that she was going mad.
At 5.30 on the afternoon of Saturday, 2 October, she stood at the sink with bitter thoughts. She had cooked poached eggs for tea (‘What, again?’) and was now washing up the sticky yellow plates. The children were glued to the television and wouldn’t be bored again for an hour or so yet. Bernard (she ought to be thankful for small mercies) was cutting the privet hedge at the back of the house. She knew how he hated gardening, but that was one thing she was not going to do. She wished he would get a move on. The meticulous care he devoted to each square foot of the wretched hedge exasperated her. He’d be in soon to say his arms were aching. She looked at him. He was balding now and getting stout, but he was still, she supposed, an attractive man to some women. Until
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