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Chapter Text

Chapter 1:

Prologue: Incipit  

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Washington, D.C.  

Early August, 1969  

In the murky shadows gathering around the National Mall, a man sits on a bench, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, waiting.  He is of indeterminate age, unremarkable features, and impenetrable expression.  Though the heat of the day has passed, the air is still heavy with humidity, and mosquitos buzz around the long pool of still water nearby.  Few tourists stroll at this time of day and those that do will not remember him.   

He finishes his cigarette, stubbing it out on the side of the bench with a languid gesture before reaching into his jacket pocket.  He leisurely rolls another, smokes.  And then another.  He is patient.  Finally, as the cicadas are beginning to sing, another man, in suit and tie, his face shaded by the rim of a fedora, approaches out of the twilight.   

‘I was starting to think you wouldn’t come,’ says the man on the bench, not looking up.  

‘I didn’t want to.  You know how busy I am these days.’   

The first man smiles, picking stray tobacco off his lip.  ‘Oh, yes, I know.’   

‘Why am I here?’  The man in the hat doesn’t sit, and instead shoves his hands into his pockets, scanning his surroundings.   

‘I assume you heard about the old man’s death?’   

A pause; this is not what he had expected.  ‘Of course.’   

‘It’s raised some . . . complications.’  He rubs his jaw with stained fingertips.   

‘I would have thought it solved all your complications.’   

A rueful smile.  ‘You know what he was like.  We have a problem.’   

‘You mean you have a problem.’   

‘Alright, yes, I have a problem,’ he says, fresh cigarette dangling from his lips.  ‘And you can help me solve it.’  He lights up.   

‘It’s not my concern anymore.’  Nevertheless, after a moment, the man in the hat sits down.  ‘What problem?’   

‘I had a visitor in recent days,’ says his companion, suddenly adopting a casual, cheerful tone more appropriate to a cocktail party than a clandestine assignation.  He slips his lighter back into his jacket.  

Sighing, the other man plays along, with a roll of his eyes.  ‘Oh, yes?  Who?’   

‘Actually I wasn’t there, so it hardly matters.  But I received a gift .’  He says the word with an uncustomary sneer, flicking ash from his cigarette.   

The other man pauses, frowns.  ‘ Timeo Danaos.’  

A soft chuckle.  ‘Indeed.  More than you know.  An unwelcome message in unseemly trappings.’  

‘Message?  What message?’   

He takes a long drag on his cigarette and exhales slowly before answering, staring into the distance.  ‘Pravda vyydet,’ he intones in perfect Russian.  He has always been good with languages.   

His companion, however, struggles, and after a moment rolls his eyes.  ‘Goddammit,’ he finally says, hissing through his teeth.  ‘Just tell me.’   

He inhales again, exhales smoke-filled words: ‘Truth—will—out.’   

The man in the hat’s eyes narrow.  ‘The old man?’   

The smoker nods.  ‘He couldn’t let it go.  Dis obedient, even unto death,’ he says with a grimace.  

‘Well, what does it mean?  What are you going to do?’   

‘What are we going to do?, you mean.’   

‘No.’  The man in the hat gestures decisively.  ‘You know I can’t be involved anymore.’   

His companion ignores the objection.  ‘I believe you can expect a similar visit in the near future.  A similar message.’  He draws on his cigarette again.   

‘So what?’   

‘So you’re still very much involved in this.’   

The man in the hat shakes his head in disgust.  ‘In what?  What do you mean?’   

‘I mean, that in dying, I think the old man intends to bring down the whole operation.’  He stubs out his cigarette with more force than is necessary.   

‘How?  Even if he spills the beans, so what?  No one’s going to believe it.  Where’s the proof?  You’ve still got it, right?  Squirreled away someplace safe, I assume.’  He rolls his eyes, then shakes his head sadly.  ‘Nobody cares anymore anyway.’   

A long pause as the smoker rolls another cigarette.  ‘There was a copy,’ he finally says.   

‘What?’  The other man’s head snaps to attention.   

‘He made a copy.  Mayhew told me.’  He coolly lights his cigarette, as though he hadn’t a care in the world, snaps the lighter closed.   

‘Christ!’ his companion hisses.  ‘Where is it?’   

‘Don’t know.  Not in the house—I checked.’  He slips the lighter back into his pocket.   

‘Dammit.’  The suited man blows out his breath in frustration.  ‘Are you sure?’   

The smoker glares sideways, the answer obvious.   

‘Well, where the hell is it, then?’  The sudden bluster startles a nearby pigeon into flight.   

The first man inhales lazily, waiting for his companion’s anger to dissipate.  His calm demeanor, born from years of practiced nonchalance, irritates the other man.  ‘I’m not sure, to be honest,’ he answers at last, blowing a stream of smoke into the stagnant air.  ‘But now he’s leaving a trail of breadcrumbs leading right to it.’   

‘Fuck.’  The man in the hat runs his hand over his mouth and chin with increasing agitation.   

‘We have to cut that trail off before the message gets through,’ the smoker states calmly.  His direct manner betrays nothing of his own anxiety.   

‘How?’   

He hesitates before answering, rolling his cigarette between his fingers thoughtfully.  ‘The messenger.’  

The man in the hat narrows his eyes.  ‘Does he have it?  The messenger?’   

A small smile.  ‘Don’t know.’  He knits his brows.  ‘Like I said, I wasn’t there,’ he says regretfully.  

‘Well, can’t you intercept the message?’   

‘Tried.’  He inhales.   

‘And?’   

A tiny shrug, almost imperceptible, as he exhales through his nose.   

The man in the hat huffs in annoyance.  ‘Well, what do you want me to do about it?’   

A pause.  ‘When do you go back?’   

‘I’m sure you know very well when I go back, dammit, but you better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking.  This is your fucking problem, not mine.’   

‘You have the means, don’t you?  The personnel?’  He is coolly examining his fingernails.   

‘It’s not a question of means,’ he hisses, ‘I can’t be involved in this anymore and you know it.’   

A silence descends.  The smoker turns to face him for the first time.  ‘I can either ask you,’ he draws out the words, ‘or I can ask . . . someone else.  Of course, I’d fear for the messenger should I have to do that.’   

‘Chanticleer?’  Another silence.  ‘Shit, does he know?’   

‘He’s not stupid.  I daresay he’s worked it out.  Might even take steps of his own, so we need to act fast.’   

Around them, night has fallen, and the electric lamps buzz and pop on.  The first man stubs out his cigarette, begins to roll another, his movements slow and smooth.   

‘God dammit—why didn’t you get a hold of it while he was still alive?’   

For the first time, the smoker falters, frowns.  ‘I really thought he understood.’  He shakes his head sadly.  ‘The last time I saw him . . .’  A brief flicker of emotion crosses his normally impassive face.  Disappointment.  Betrayal.  ‘Oh, well.’  He sniffs, recovers, reaches into his jacket for his lighter.  ‘We need that copy.  You’re well-placed.’   

The man in the hat shakes his head, speaks through his teeth.  ‘I was against this from the very beginning, if you recall.  And now you want me to risk my career—more—to tie up your loose ends?  No, I won’t do it—to hell with it, to hell with him.  I say we let the chips fall—he's had his time, served his purpose—it's over.’   

‘Over?’ the other man almost laughs.  ‘Over?’  He turns aside, masters himself again.  ‘You think now we’ve been to the Moon the Soviets will just up and quit?  Give in?’  He pauses to light his new cigarette.  ‘It’s never over and you know it.  We need him—now more than ever— in situ and uncompromised.’  

They sit in silence for several minutes, the first man steadily smoking with unhurried ease.  He can wait.  His companion stares across the Mall towards the Capitol, remembering things he’s tried hard to leave in the past.  He rubs damp palms on the knees of his trousers, turns them over to look at them.  ‘Out, out, damned spot,’ he mutters.   

The other man drags on his cigarette, slowly exhales a stream of smoke into the night before responding, ‘We all have blood on our hands, Len.’   

‘Some more than others,’ he snaps, the bitterness cutting through the gathering darkness.   

Another pause.  ‘It’s too late for regrets.’   

The man in the hat snorts derisively.   

‘You’ll do it?’  It is barely a question.   

‘Do I have a choice?’   

‘There is always a choice.’  He drags on the cigarette again, the end glowing red in the deepening gloom.  ‘We make our own destinies in this line of work.’   

‘We destroy destinies in this line of work,’ the man in the hat responds, his mouth tight.   

A charged silence before he responds.  ‘That, too.’  He drops his half-finished cigarette to the ground and rises from the bench.  Stepping gently on the lit end with his shoe, he says, ‘There’s an envelope under the bench.’  Then, hands in his pockets, he casually strolls away into the burgeoning night, a figure as unobtrusive as the shadows themselves.   

Behind him, the other man takes off his hat to run a hand over his face and through his thinning hair.  ‘Shit,’ he says out loud, his shoulders slumping, before reaching beneath him to retrieve what’s waiting there.    

♦ 
 

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Excursus  

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Oxford, England  

A few weeks later  

♦ I. ♦ 

‘Plans for the holiday?’  

‘What?’  Morse looked up from his crossword, irritated by the interruption.  ‘No, I’m on duty.’  

‘Oh, right.  Well—thanks for covering for the rest of us, who occasionally like a break,’ Strange teased. 

Morse rolled his eyes, returned to the crossword.  He was having trouble with the bottom left corner.  Fridays’ were always the hardest.  

Strange sat down across from him.  ‘Though too much more of a break and we’ll be bored to death.’  Since the events at Wicklesham quarry earlier in the month, and Chief Superintendent Bright’s promotion to command of Castle Gate, things had been slow.  Dull, even.  Once the paperwork was finished—and there had been a lot of paperwork—and Ronnie Box discharged from hospital to convalesce, there hadn’t been much to keep them busy—a purse-snatching here, a public brawl there, but nothing of substance.  Dismantling the criminal enterprise run by Alan Jago and George McGyffin seemed to have rid Oxford of major crime, for the time being, leastways. 

Morse grunted in agreement, clicking his pen.  The monotony was getting to him, too.  And the blasted heat wave didn’t help.  The room was sweltering, with mid-day sunlight streaming through the window blinds of the Criminal Investigation Department.  Desultory currents from electric fans did nothing to alleviate the sticky stillness of the room.  

Morse wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and furrowed his brow in concentration at the last few clues while Strange drummed his fingers arrhythmically on the desk.  ‘Would you stop that, please?’ Morse snapped after a few minutes.  

‘Sorry.’  Strange stared at the telephone as though willing it to ring, sighing when it remained stubbornly mute.  ‘I guess all the troublemakers are headed for the Isle of Wight—you heard about this festival?  They’re saying it’ll be just like Woodstock.’  

Morse grimaced.  ‘A hundred thousand people crammed into a field for two days of mud and rain?’ he said with disgust.  ‘Sounds like the third circle of hell.’ 

Strange chuckled.  ‘I take it you won’t be attending, then?’  Morse ignored him.  ‘Me neither.  I’m taking Noreen to the Cotswolds.’  

With a slight pang of conscience, Morse realized he’d been rude, that he should have reciprocated the question about holiday plans.  Strange clearly wanted to tell him.  Why did people insist on offering these overtures to intimacy?  He never asked for them.  But Strange was a loyal friend, a good officer, and now Morse felt guilty.  

‘Well that should be nice.’  He tried to atone, mustering all the politeness he could manage in this heat.  ‘Getting quite serious, isn't it?’  Strange had only met his girlfriend the month before, but had fallen hard for her, a typist with Mutual and Provident.  Morse had met her once at the pub; she seemed a nice girl, sweet.  Morse was happy for Strange—someone deserved to be lucky in love.  He, on the other hand—since his brief but disastrous liaison with Isla Fairford, he’d begun to believe he would never find love.  Maybe he just wasn’t capable anymore.  

‘I hope you enjoy it,’ he continued.  ‘I’ll be stuck here, waiting for that damn telephone to ring.’ 

‘Well, cheer up, matey—sooner or later, something terrible will happen!’  

And it did.  

Late in the afternoon, just as the heat was beginning to leach out of the day, the call came in from the Information Room.  Strange groaned, having just made up his mind to leave early, head for a pint before going home.  But Morse was relieved.  He didn’t like to be idle.  

When they arrived in the alley behind one of the shipping warehouses abutting the Thames, Max deBryn was already there, kneeling next to the body of a man clad in shabby clothes.  Looking up with a nod of acknowledgement, he started listing the pertinent information. ‘Stabbed.  Only once, but then that’s all that’s needed with this kind of precision.  Right in the heart, I’m afraid.  Death would have followed swiftly.’ 

‘Professional?’ Morse asked.  

‘Not necessarily.  Lucky, more likely.’  

‘Weapon?’  Strange’s turn.  

‘Oh, nothing special.  Something narrow, maybe a stiletto.  I’ll know more once I’ve had a peek and a poke.  Shall we say first thing in the morning, gentlemen?’  

Morse murmured an assent, looking around the alley, studying the scene.  ‘Witnesses?’  

‘Not my métier, but apparently yes,’ deBryn replied, rising and brushing dirt from his knees.  ‘You’ll have to speak to the constables about that.’  He nodded a farewell, ‘Sergeants,’ and started back towards the street, carrying his case.  

Glad to get out of the waning heat, Morse and Strange walked into the warehouse, where one of the witnesses, a middle-aged warehouse manager called Davies, was being interviewed by a uniformed officer, one of Bright’s transfers from Traffic—Benson, Morse thought his name was.  Apparently, Davies had been alerted to a fracas outside by a scream, had run out the service entrance to see a man lying bleeding in the alley.  ‘T’other one, he was already rushing that poor young lady, ready to strike!  Had one of them switchblades.  I yelled out, but not afore he managed to take a swipe at ‘er.   And then—’ he snapped his fingers ‘—off he ran like the devil.  I tried to help Miss DeAngelis, o’ course, poor thing, while my ‘prentice Georgie called the coppers,’ he finished.  

‘You ever seen him before?  The man with the knife?’ asked Strange.  

‘Oh, aye, I think so.  Just seen him ‘round the pub this last week.  Wrong ‘un.’  

‘And the dead man?’  

‘Oh, yes—Robbie Cartwright—that's him.  He’s well-known ‘round here.’  He shook his head.  ‘Always in trouble with someone or other—law included.  Not surprised he ended up like that, sad to say.’  

‘What was he doing here, do you think?’ Morse asked.  

‘Oh—dunno, sir.’  

‘You weren’t expecting him?’  

‘No, not here,’ the man scoffed.  ‘Don’t let his sort in—this is a respectable firm!  Like as not, looking to pinch summat,’ he harrumphed.  

‘Alright, thanks.  We’ll need a full description of the assailant along with your particulars.’  They managed to wrest a sketchy description of the perpetrator from Davies and asked which pub he’d seen him in.  

Conferring, they agreed a search should be started immediately, though it was unlikely the man was still in the vicinity.  Constable Benson nodded, assuring them, ‘There’s three more uniforms on the way in with the guvnor.’  

‘There’s another witness?’ Strange asked.  

The constable nodded again, consulting his notes.  ‘A Miss Katherine DeAngelis.  Nice-looking bird—American.  Very American.’  He raised his eyebrows as if insinuating something unwholesome. 

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Strange said with a note of censure.  Morse looked aside, puzzled. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.  

‘Nuffin, sir.  Just, you know . . . loud.’  

‘Where is she?’ Strange wanted to know.  

‘Transferred to hospital for patchin’ up.  Partner went with her.’  

‘Serious?’ asked Morse.  

‘Don’t think so, sir.  Defensive wounds.  Looked alright to me.’  

‘Alright, we’ll get over there and see what she has to add.’  

Mr. Davies unexpectedly interrupted their conversation.  ‘Sirs—if you’re seein’ Miss DeAngelis, would you mind tellin’ her—her trunks arrived today.  Georgie and me, we’ll bring ‘em over straight away soon as we get the all-clear.’  

‘We’re not messengers, Mr. Davies,’ Morse said.  

‘Oh, I know it, sir, but please,’ the man protested.  ‘She’s been waitin’ some weeks now, worried-like.  Terrible delay.  Just, if you get the chance . . . she’s a nice lady.  American, you know.’ 

Morse frowned at him, but Strange relented, “Alright, if we get the chance.’  

♦ II. ♦ 

Glancing at his notes, Morse knocked softly on the open door.  ‘Miss DeAngelis, I believe?’  

She was sitting in a hospital chair, looking down and fingering the torn sleeves of a plaid jacket in her lap.  The blouse and matching skirt she wore were stained with splotches of blood, and both forearms bore fresh bandages.  

‘Yes,’ she said hoarsely, looking up and rising as the two detectives entered the room.  Strange shut the door behind them.  It was blessedly cool in the small consulting room the hospital staff had arranged.  

She was quite striking, as the constable had implied, with long dark hair and large features, though her face was pale and drawn.  But Morse was most struck by her eyes—‘Green as leeks’—the thought came, unbidden—like Pyramus.  She cleared her throat and tried to smile as he introduced himself and his colleague.  ‘Katherine DeAngelis,’ she replied, automatically extending her hand and wincing at the pain the gesture brought.  

‘I’m sorry you find yourself in these circumstances, Miss DeAngelis,’ said Morse, nodding toward her bandaged arms.  ‘How are you feeling?’ he added, noticing that her hand shook slightly as she laid the ruined blazer on the back of the chair.  

She let out a distinctly American snort of nervous laughter.  ‘Oh, the doctor said I’d be fine, but—well, you know—I’m a little shaken.’  

‘Understandable.  Please, sit down.’  Strange brought over two more chairs from where they stood against the wall.  ‘Can we—the orderlies—get you anything?  Water?  Tea?’  

‘Tea!’  She laughed somewhat maniacally as she sat down.  ‘Oh, yes, that will solve everything—the panacea of England!’  Then she grimaced and pressed her lips together, as though regretting the outburst.  ‘No, thank you, I’m alright,’ she finished quickly.  

Morse narrowed his eyes at her, piqued by the comment.  ‘Very American,’ the constable had said.  Indeed.  Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he went on.  ‘We’ll try not to keep you long; we just need to know what happened.’  He flipped to a blank page in his notebook, saw Strange do the same beside him.  ‘Can you tell us what you saw?’  

‘I saw—death!’ she exclaimed, too loudly for the small room.  Swallowing hard, she squeezed her eyes shut and when they opened, Morse could see fear in them.  ‘It was terrifying,’ she said, her voice catching.  Suddenly the brashness was gone, and her chest heaved with the effort not to cry.  

To forestall hysterics, Morse held up his hand for her to stop.  ‘It’s alright—take your time.’  

She brought a still-shaky hand to her throat.  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, calming down.  ‘I’ve just never seen anyone killed before.’  

‘It’s quite alright.  Let’s start at the beginning.  What were you doing in that part of town?’  

‘I, um . . .’  She took a moment to collect herself, taking a deep breath.  ‘I went to see if my trunks had come in.  I just moved here—arrived a few weeks ago—but my things still haven’t made it.’  She sighed.  ‘”Delayed”’ she mimicked, in something approximating an English accent.  ‘Anyway, it’s getting pretty tough to live out of my little suitcase, so I left work early to see if maybe my things had finally arrived.’  

‘They have,’ said Strange, speaking up.  ‘Manager said they’d deliver later today.’  

‘Really?’  She looked at Strange, her eyes wide.  ‘Oh, thank God!’ she cried, wincing as she raised her hands in exaggerated gratitude.  The vowel in God was long, harsh in Morse’s ears.  Head thrown back and shoulders relaxing, she smiled genuinely for the first time.  She had a lovely smile, big and open.  She looked from Morse to Strange and back again, inviting them to share in her sudden joy.  ‘Well!—that’s something!’ she sighed contentedly.  ‘Not a completely miserable day, then!’  

Morse frowned at her, his eyes narrowed.  There was something irritating about this woman’s cavalier demeanor.  ‘You were attacked by a murderer, Miss DeAngelis.’  

She pressed her lips together, suppressing the smile.  ‘Yeah.  I know.’  She hesitated.  ‘Sorry.  Maybe I’m still in shock—I do feel a bit . . . giddy.’  But she persisted, shaking her head, ‘Still I can’t help feeling relieved!  It’s so hard to feel at home when you’ve only got the contents of a tiny suitcase in a tiny apartment!’ she complained.  ‘Flat!’ she corrected herself, green eyes widening. 

‘Y-es,’ replied Morse, still frowning.  Maybe she is in shock.  Eyebrows raised, he prompted, ‘To return to the subject—what happened after you arrived?’ 

She took another deep breath and described, more calmly, what had taken place in the alley outside the warehouse.  She spoke expressively, using her hands to tell the story, occasionally flinching when she moved too fast.  The front door had been locked, she explained, so she went around to the service entrance.  ‘I’ve been enough of a nuisance this past week, asking after my things, and I knew that was where they received deliveries anyway.’  As she walked around the side of the building, she’d heard raised voices.  ‘Sounded like arguing,’ she said in response to Morse’s question.  ‘I didn’t hear what they were saying.’  

‘That didn’t seem a cause for concern?’ he prodded.  ‘You didn’t think to turn back?’  

‘No—,’ she scoffed.  ‘I hardly even noticed!’ she said with a shrug.  ‘I’m used to the sounds of the city, Detective—?’  She stopped and blinked at him, having clearly forgotten her inquisitor’s name. 

‘Morse.’  

‘Detective Morse.’  She paused, looking him straight in the eye.  He quickly looked down, feeling strangely warm.  His own name sounded different in her American accent.  He wasn’t sure he liked it.  

She continued, her face animated.  ‘Anyway, I turned the corner, and I saw two men fighting—you know, kind of—grappling, up against the wall.  Before I knew what was happening, one of them sort of cried out and fell to the ground.  I saw blood on his shirt.’  She swallowed, readjusting her shoulders nervously.  ‘And the other man—standing there—!’  She broke off, closing her eyes.  

Morse glanced up at her, watching her face contort with the memory.  Her manner was so open, with little effort made to contain or conceal her scattered emotions.  It bothered him.  ‘Very American.’  She must have felt his stare, because her eyes snapped open, startling green and sparkling, catching him out.  

‘I saw that poor man die, Detective Morse,’ she said seriously, holding his gaze.  ‘He looked right at me, and I . . . and I saw the darkness veil his eyes.’  Her gaze drifted off to the side and she whispered something melodic.  Morse’s eyes narrowed.  

‘Excuse me?’ he pounced.  ‘What did you say?’  

She shook her head slightly.  ‘Nothing.  Just a . . . it’s nothing.’  She looked back up at him, biting her bottom lip to stop it trembling.  Suddenly she looked very fragile.  ‘I thought I’d left all the violence behind, here in pastoral England.’  She gestured carelessly towards the window, though the only landscape on view was the grimy wall of the building opposite.  

‘Oxford is hardly pastoral,’ Morse countered, affronted.  

‘Compared to Chicago it is!’ she retorted, her eyes flashing.  Morse didn’t respond.  He’d read enough about the recent outbursts of violence in that city—the racial, political, and economic frustrations of American society exploding with savage intensity—to offer any argument.  Oxford had its share of criminality, but riots?  Civilians shot down in the street?  Nothing like that.  

Crinkling his brow, he said delicately, ‘I hope you’ve not been the victim of violence before, Miss DeAngelis.’  

She looked at him critically, weighing out how much he understood.  ‘No.’  She took another breath, and plunged ahead.  ‘Anyway, I think I screamed—I must have screamed, because he suddenly turned—saw me.  I was—God, I just froze!  I mean, I just stood there.  What an idiot!’  She rolled her eyes, then tilted her head, asking Morse, ‘Is that normal?’  

‘S—Sometimes,’ Morse blinked, surprised by the question.  ‘It’s hard to predict how you’ll react in situations like that.’  

‘Mmm.’  She looked thoughtful.  

‘And then?’  

‘Oh—um, and then—well, he sort of lunged toward me and—he had that knife.  There was blood on it.’  She swallowed thickly.  ‘I raised my arms,’ she said, her voice surging with emotion, lifting her limbs to show how she’d defended herself.  ‘I didn’t even feel it!’ she laughed somewhat madly, but then faltered.  ‘At the time.  Anyway, that’s when Mr. Davies came out.  Thank God!’  That long, flat vowel again.  It inexplicably grated on Morse’s nerves.  ‘The manager, you know.  The man with the knife, he looked really crazy—panicked, you know—and I think he took another swipe at me, and then he just started running.  Past me, towards the main road there, that leads back along the river—um, I’m sorry, I don’t know the name.’  

‘That’s alright.’  He smiled politely at her.  ‘We have the rest from Mr. Davies.  Can you describe this man?’  She traced out a fairly complete image of her attacker, recalling more detail than Davies had, her eyes closed in concentration.  ‘Would you recognize him again, do you think?’ 

‘Yes.’  She nodded once.  

‘You’re sure?’  

She clenched her jaw.  ‘He came at me with a knife, Detective Morse—I’ve never been so scared.  I’ll remember it till the day I die.’  

‘Of course.  And what about the dead man?  Had you ever seen him before?’  

She flinched at the word ‘dead,’ but recovered quickly.  ‘Um, oh—yes, actually.  I think he was there the last time I came by—at the warehouse.’  

‘When was that?’ Morse asked with interest, his eyes narrowing.  

‘Um, let’s see . . . that would have been . . . Tuesday.’  

‘And what was he doing?’  

She shrugged.  ‘Just—standing around.’  Then she snapped her fingers, blurting out, ‘Oh, but when I came back out, he was smoking with that guy who works there!’  

‘Mr. Davies?’ Morse asked, doubtful.  

‘No!  The other one, the young one—oh, what’s his name?’  

Morse flipped a couple of pages back in his notebook, searching.  ‘George, perhaps?’  

‘Yes, that’s it,’ she cried, pointing at him.  ‘Georgie.  Does that help?’  She looked excited at the prospect.  

‘Um, yes, it does.’  He smiled at her eagerness.  ‘Thank you, Miss DeAngelis.  Just a few more questions.’  She nodded for him to go on.  ‘What’s your address in Oxford, please?  We may need to contact you again.’  

A flicker of displeasure crossed her face.  ‘At the moment I’m ensconced—she gave the word her attempt at a proper accent—‘at Blackbird Leys on the Cowley Road.  But it’s only temporary,’ she added hastily.  

‘Isn’t that where you are now, Morse?’ Strange asked.  Morse had almost forgotten Strange was there, and was annoyed he had chosen to chime in now.  

‘Oh?’ she chuckled, turning back to Morse with a friendly smile.  ‘What a coincidence!  But I am sorry to hear that!’  She leaned forward somewhat confidentially, ‘It’s not much of a place to call home, is it?’  

He grinned, her frank manner contagious, and agreed, ‘No, it isn’t.  I only just moved in myself.’  Unconsciously, he reached up to fiddle with his ear.  ‘It’s better than the last place I was, but . . .’  He trailed off, embarrassed.  Why should he care what this woman thought of his living arrangements?  Clearing his throat, he continued with the routine questions.  ‘Telephone number?’  It took her a moment to remember.  ‘And what brings you to Oxford?  You’ve not been here long, I gather?’  

‘No—I just got here this month.  I came for a job—at the Bodleian.’  That caught his attention, and he looked up from his notebook, peering at her curiously.  She smiled slightly, obviously pleased this information had taken him by surprise.  ‘I’m the curator attached to the Milford Collection—from the University of Chicago.’  

‘You—’ he started.  Tried again: ‘You’re—’  Then suddenly everything fell into place.  He snapped his fingers and leant forward, happy to have the puzzle solved.  ‘Of course—I knew your name sounded familiar!  DeAngelis, Chicago,’ he mumbled, stunned by the realization.  ‘I read about you in the Mail!’  He stared at her in amazement, seeing her for the first time as more than just a victim in his latest investigation.  

The Milford Collection—coveted by institutions across Europe and the New World, but bequeathed by its American owner, a Rhodes scholar, to the Oxford Libraries.  Only now, after Douglas Milford’s death earlier in the year, was his priceless hoard coming to England.  Milford had been a rich man, and an esteemed scholar even by Oxford standards, spending a lifetime in the study and preservation of medieval, Renaissance, and early modern musical texts.  There had been a few pictures in the Mail article, weeks ago now, of beautifully illuminated hymnals and musical scores from centuries past.  But no pictures of the woman who was to oversee the Collection’s transition and re-cataloging.  Just a name, a name he’d quite forgotten, his keen interest in the Collection notwithstanding.  There was a Thomas Tallis manuscript he was particularly curious about. 

As he continued to gape at her, she looked down with sudden bashfulness.  ‘I’m sorry,’ he started.  ‘I’m just astonished.’  

She looked up with a wry smile, one eyebrow arched.  ‘And why is that?’  

He tripped over his words.  ‘Well, I . . . it’s just . . . you . . . you’re not what I expected from the article.’  He had imagined a stereotypical librarian, puckered and pinched, with a stiff bun and glasses trailing from a beaded lanyard.  Not this . . . forthright and somewhat beguiling young woman with her bright green eyes and—now that he was looking—lovely, glossy, jet-black hair pulled into a low ponytail that spilled over her shoulder.  He shook his head, chuckling, ‘You don’t look like a—what did the Mail say—“an expert in early musical history, speaker of four languages!”  

Looking back down, she said, ‘Actually, that’s not entirely accurate.  The newspaper made a mistake.’ 

‘Oh?’  

She grinned, with a charming shrug of her shoulders.  ‘Well, including English, I speak five languages.’  She went on, laughing, ‘I thought maybe they were casting aspersions on my American English!’  

Morse blinked at her, at a loss.  She stared right back, a strange smile playing about the corners of her lips, which—now that he was looking—were full and alluring.  There was a dimple in her left cheek.  As the silence between them expanded, she bit into her lower lip, but did not break his gaze. 

‘Which five?’  They both looked at Strange, surprised to find him there.  The spell was broken. 

She addressed Strange.  ‘Besides English,’ she said pointedly, ‘I speak Greek, Latin, French, and German.’  She turned back to Morse as she rattled them off.  ‘And actually Italian, too, but that’s mostly just by accident . . . hardly counts, but . . .’ she trailed off.  Her self-deprecation was enchanting.  ‘I guess that’s six.’  

‘Impressive,’ Morse managed to choke out.  Most impressive.  Then—‘That was Greek, wasn’t it?  What you said earlier?’  

She smiled broadly, clearly pleased by his interest.  ‘Yes!—from The Iliad.  ‘Tón dé skótos ósse kálypsen,’’ she murmured.  

‘Kálypsen . . .’ he repeated, furrowing his brow, reaching back into his mind.  ‘Cover, hide . . . ?’  

‘Oh, very good!’  She stared back at him with frank admiration, perhaps a little surprised herself.  ‘“And the darkness veiled his eyes,”’ she intoned, somewhat pompously.  ‘Usually how it’s translated, anyway.  I never really understood what Homer meant until today.’  Reminded of the trauma of the last few hours, she stopped smiling.  

Then she shook herself, blinking at him incredulously.  ‘A bobby who knows Greek!  I guess it’s my turn to be astonished!’  

‘Well, I learned at College,’ Morse said, surprised by a sudden desire to impress her and distractedly reaching for his ear again.  ‘Here in Oxford,’ he added.  

‘Oh, an Oxford man?  Which college?’ she asked.  

‘Lonsdale,’ he answered, ‘though I didn’t take a degree, and I rather despise that term.’  He felt stupidly bashful all of a sudden.  ‘Do you know it?’  

She laughed out loud.  ‘Oh, no!—I’m sorry—I don’t know anything about any of them, really!  I’ve only been here three weeks!  I don’t even know why I asked—Just something people say!’   

Morse found himself laughing with her, drawn by her candor.  They smiled at each other again, their gazes lingering.  

It was too much for Strange, who rolled his eyes, unnoticed.  ‘Well, I think that’s all we need, Miss DeAngelis,’ he said loudly, closing his notebook and rising from his chair.  Morse, remembering himself, did the same.  Get ahold of yourself, he chided.  

‘Wait,’ she protested, rising herself and holding out a hand to stop them leaving.  ‘Did you catch him?  The man with the—the murderer?’  The word almost stuck in her throat.  ‘Is he still out there?’  She swallowed nervously, her hand straying to her neck.  

Morse was determined not to look at her again, though he could feel her eyes searching for his.  When Strange didn’t respond—Damn the man, he clams up now?—Morse tried to sound reassuring, fiddling with his notebook to keep from glancing up. ‘He may have gotten away for the nonce,’ he explained.  ‘But don’t worry, he won’t get far.  Mr. Davies said he’s seen him around the neighborhood, so we’ll find him.’  

‘Oh.’  Her voice sounded small.  ‘He’s not—you know, going to come after me, is he?’  She laughed uneasily, but could not quite conceal her underlying fear.  ‘Being a witness can be dangerous where I come from.’  

‘No.’  He couldn’t stop himself, and looked up, determined to allay the concern in her voice.  ‘No, he won’t.’  He found himself staring into her unnerving green eyes again, and felt his face grow warm.  But his decisive answer seemed to soothe some of her worry—she smiled again, looking at him through dark lashes.  

‘Good.’  

‘And we’ll find an officer to escort you home,’ Strange stated, turning towards the door just as there was a knock on the glass.  Morse turned, too, tearing his eyes from hers, as another man walked in.  

The newcomer removed his hat and introduced himself as DCI Thursday, handing Miss DeAngelis a brown leather handbag.  ‘I believe this belongs to you, Miss.’  

‘Oh, yes, thank you!’ she exclaimed.  ‘I must have dropped it when . . . well.’  She clutched the bag tightly, clearly relieved to have something solid and regular to hold on to.  ‘If we’re finished,’ she continued, opening the bag and checking its contents, ‘can I be excused to the, um, facilities?  The loo?’  

‘Of course, Miss.’  Thursday ushered her into the hallway, where a passing nurse showed her the way.  Returning to his sergeants, Thursday asked, ‘Get anything new from her?’  

‘Not really,’ snorted Strange, ‘But Morse is in love.’  

‘What?’ Morse glowered.  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’  Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t really all that ridiculous.  

Thursday was looking at him, amused.  ‘Really, now?’  

‘No.’  He hated being teased, and Thursday’s scolding over Isla Fairford still stung.  

‘She is very pretty.’   

Morse rolled his eyes.  

‘And she speaks six languages,’ Strange sniggered.  ‘And knows more about music than he does.’ 

‘Well, I doubt that,’ Morse snapped, then reconsidered.  ‘Maybe.’  He shook his head, annoyed.  ‘It doesn’t matter.  She’s just a witness.’  He changed the subject.  ‘Any luck with the search?’ 

‘No,’ Thursday relented.  ‘Scarpered.  Did she get a good look?’  Morse nodded.  ‘Between Davies and DeAngelis, we should be able to ID the fellow, and then it’s a matter of known associates, last known, that sort of thing.’  His sergeants nodded.  ‘Victim’s wife says he owed money, substantial amounts, apparently, to some nasty people—gambling.’  

‘Who’s running the turf game these days?’ asked Strange.  

‘Good question, now it’s up for Jago’s lot,’ Thursday replied.  ‘But nature abhors a vacuum, I suppose.  Someone will have taken that action over.’  

‘Did the widow know what he was doing at the warehouse?’ Morse asked, crossing his arms.  ‘Miss DeAngelis said she’d seen him there before—earlier this week.  If Cartwright was that deeply indebted, I shouldn’t think he’d be loitering in back alleys, asking to be waylaid.’  

‘Widow said he’d been out most days, past few weeks.  Said he’d some scheme to get out from under it, though she thought he had a girl.’  

‘What scheme?’  

‘Didn’t say—didn't work, apparently.  Maybe he planned to rob the warehouse —there's quite a lot of merchandise goes through there, place like that.’  

‘If he did, it’s likely Davies’ apprentice George knew of it,’ Morse continued.  ‘She saw them together.’ 

‘Inside job, you think?’ Strange asked.  ‘Usually is.’  

‘Mmm.’  Morse looked down, thinking.  

‘Why, you think there’s more to it?’ Thursday inquired.  

Morse shrugged.  ‘Maybe.  You can’t collect from a dead man, is all.’  

‘Not every case can be a diabolical puzzle of international proportions, matey,’ Strange chuckled. 

Miss DeAngelis appeared at the end of the hallway and Morse turned away.  Listening to her heels click-click down the hallway, he felt his face grow warm again.  ‘Ah, Miss DeAngelis.’  Thursday stepped forward.  ‘I think we’re all finished for tonight.  We’ll be in touch shortly about a proper identification, but for now, I’ll ask one of the constables to take you home.’  

‘Why doesn’t Morse take her?’ Strange suggested, smirking at him with feigned innocence.  Traitor, Morse thought.  ‘They actually live in the same buildings.’  

‘Oh, really?’  Thursday affected the same innocuous tone.  ‘Well, that’s certainly convenient.  What do you say, Morse?  Only if you’re willing, of course—you're off-duty for now.  Really more of a job for uniform.’  

‘You don’t want me to start pursuing inquiries?  Sir?’  

‘Pretty late to start knocking on doors.  Cordon’s up, and Strange here can write up the initial.  You’re on all week-end, aren’t you?  Go home, get some sleep.  You’ll see deBryn in the morning?’ 

Morse nodded, and Thursday continued.  ‘Shall I call out a uniform, then, or will you run our witness home?’  

Morse turned to his superior with a grimace.  ‘Of course, sir.’  He glanced at Miss DeAngelis, and quickly away.  Her face held more color now, but she looked bemused by the odd tone of the conversation around her.  

‘That would be great, thanks,’ he heard her say, whether to him or Thursday he couldn’t tell.  He cleared his throat and steeled himself.  Turning towards her, he gestured towards the exit at the other end of the hallway.  

‘This way, Miss DeAngelis.’  

‘Oh,’ she started, ‘Let me just—’  And she stepped towards the consulting room door just as he was starting down the hall.  They collided, and Morse tried to avoid touching her, making the encounter even more awkward.  She grabbed his arms to stop their embarrassing shuffle and steer him out of the way.  

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, just as she whispered the same with a slight giggle.  He could feel his colleague’s eyes burning into his back.  Damn them.  

‘I just need to get my jacket,’ she murmured, stepping around him and ducking into the room.  In her brief absence, Morse glared at his colleagues, who both smiled with barely concealed amusement.  She returned, babbling, ‘I know it’s basically ruined, but, well, I don’t know . . .’  She trailed off.  Looking around at the three detectives, she stammered, ‘Well, thank you all very much for your help.  Um, good night!’  She caught Morse’s eye—‘Which way?’  

As Morse escorted her through the exit, he glanced back at Strange and Thursday, who were of course watching them depart.  Strange had the gall to offer a cheeky wave.  Morse scowled at him.  And then they were gone, the door closing with a squeak and a soft thud behind them.  

Strange turned to Thursday.  ‘See what I mean?’  

♦ III. ♦ 

Outside, the sky was beginning to darken.  In the short walk to his car, neither spoke.  It was still warm, the air heavy and still, and he took off his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder.  Damn it, thought Morse.  I’m not usually so terrible at this.  Why did she make him so nervous?  She’s just a witness, he had to remind himself.  He wasn’t interested anyway.  

‘I’m just here,’ he mumbled when they had reached his Jaguar, bought recently at the expense of a place of his own.  That was how he’d ended up at Blackbird Leys, the latest prong in the Council’s housing plan, constructed, thankfully, without Four Winds Aggregate. 

He reached down to open the passenger door for her, but she reached for the handle too, and their hands brushed.  Quick as lightning, they both withdrew, Morse’s hand straying to the back of his head.  That brief touch of skin was a jolt, electrifying.  His face felt impossibly warm.  

‘Sorry,’ she murmured.  ‘Not used to such—chivalry.’  She looked flustered, too, and he found himself hoping she had felt the same electricity.  He reached down again and opened the door, not trusting himself to speak.  

They set off in silence and he again cursed his reticent nature.  Just say something, he told himself.  But he suddenly couldn’t think of anything remotely appropriate.  After what seemed like an eternity, they both started talking at once.  

‘Any plans for the weekend?’ she asked, just as he blurted out, ‘When does the Collection arrive?’ 

They answered each other at the same time, too: ‘No, I’m on duty,’ and ‘Next week, hopefully.’ 

They both halted, and silence descended again.  

Remembering his earlier faux pas, however, he recovered, asking, ‘What about you?  Are you doing anything for the holiday?’  

‘Oh, not really.  I—I was supposed to go to a friend’s house in the country, but I begged off.  I thought about going somewhere maybe, but now—’  She hesitated.  ‘I don’t know—there’s work to finish up at the Library, I suppose, with the Collection coming.’  

‘Next week, you said?’  

She nodded.  ‘It will be some time before the grand unveiling, but I should be able to start work properly soon, which is a relief—I've felt a little useless lately.’  He nodded, concentrating on driving.  The sun was setting, throwing a glare onto the windscreen.  ‘Are you—interested in music?’ she asked.  

‘Yes.  Very.’  He smiled, on firmer ground now.   ‘Um, the Mail said there’s a Tallis antiphon in the Collection?  In his own hand?’  

‘Well, his signature, anyway, but yes!  It’s a votive antiphon,’ she said, clearly proud.  ‘Composed for Mary Tudor, circa 1554.’  

‘Really?’  That made it quite extraordinary, given her brief reign.  ‘I’d like to see that.’  He glanced over, smiling, and caught a glimpse of her green eyes, smiling back.  ‘I look forward to the unveiling,’ he finished awkwardly.  

‘Well, I’ll let you know.’  

‘How did you become involved with the Collection?  You—you seem young to have such an important charge.’  

‘I’m not that young,’ she countered, her voice hardening defensively.  

‘I don’t mean any offense,’ he proffered.  

She pursed her lips together.  ‘Sorry—I'm just a little—I worry people will think I’m only here because I’m . . . required by the bequest.’  She rolled her eyes, her brow crinkling into a frown.  

‘What do you mean?’  

‘My appointment—it was a stipulation of Dr. Milford’s will.  But it’s only because he trusted me—he knew I was the best person to see his life’s work properly integrated into the University’s collections!’  She sounded cross, and Morse suspected that someone, somewhere, had already called her qualifications into doubt.  

‘You don’t need to justify yourself.  I only meant—you must be very good at your job.’  He glanced over at her again.  

‘I am,’ she said pointedly.  ‘And I know that Collection like the back of my hand.  I’ve been working with it for years—most of my life, believe it or not.’  

‘Oh, yes?’  

‘Yeah—my father was a colleague of Dr. Milford’s.’  She paused and when she spoke again, her voice had changed.  ‘As a child I spent many happy hours with him, in libraries, museums, and Dr. Milford’s laboratory.’  She said ‘laboratory’ the American way, skipping the middle syllable.  ‘He’d put me to work sometimes, transcribing passages, while they talked for hours, debating some arcane point on the Albigensian Crusades or some such—Dad's specialty was French Gnosticism.  Between that and the Church, I learned Latin before I was ten!’  

‘Catholic?’  

‘Very,’ she replied.  ‘I thought DeAngelis gave it away.  Italian and Irish, actually, so, yes . . . very Catholic—raised, anyway.  ‘Course now that I’m here in England, I’m likely to be hanged for recusancy, right?’  

He chuckled.  ‘Well, King Henry’s been gone for some time, so you should be alright.’  

‘What a relief!’ she said, laughing back.  

‘I was raised a Quaker, so we’re both dissenters—though of course, here in Oxford, it’s the Protestants who should beware.’  

‘Oh, yes!—speaking of Mary Tudor!’  She grinned and a silence settled.  He was mildly impressed that she’d understood his allusion to the Oxford martyrs—most Americans seemed unaware of anything outside their own time and place.  

‘So—how did you end up at Blackbird Leys?’ he asked.  

She sighed.  ‘Well, my appointment was supposed to come with a College cottage, but I’ve been told it’s not ready yet, so they’ve put me up there for now.’  She rolled her eyes again.  ‘I mean, it’s not horrible or anything, it’s just not what I was expecting, you know?  My boss said it shouldn’t be long . . . we’ll see.’  She trailed off with a shrug.  

‘Who’s your boss?’  He had some acquaintance at the Bod, especially after the recent case there. 

‘Sir Lawrence Mallory—Head of the Manuscript Division.  Do you know him?’  He shook his head.  ‘He’s very posh, I gather, well-connected.  But he’s been quite nice, really, the cottage problem notwithstanding.  Very welcoming.’  She paused.  ‘He—he knew my father too, actually, during the War.  They all worked together here in England—Dr. Milford, too.’  

‘Here in Oxford?’  

‘No, but nearby, somewhere—very hush-hush, you know.  Intelligence, I assume.  But they visited Oxford—Dad was here the day I was born, actually.  So I like to think it’s Fate that I’m here now.’  

Morse did not believe in Fate, or much of anything, really, but he let it pass.  ‘Is he pleased, then, that you’ve come to Oxford—your father?’  

She didn’t answer for a moment and he turned to look at her, suddenly realizing she’d used the past tense and wishing he hadn’t said anything.  Then—‘My parents were killed in a car crash when I was ten.’  She spoke very quickly and tried to sound very matter-of-fact, but there was a small catch in her voice.  

They were nearly at Blackbird Leys.  Morse couldn’t respond, forcibly reminded of his own loss. What a terrible thing to have in common.  ‘I’m sorry,’ he finally choked out.  ‘Sorry for bringing it up.’  

‘Don’t be,’ she replied immediately.  ‘It’s okay.  I mean—it's not okay, obviously, but—’  She hesitated again, tried to recover her composure.  ‘I’ve lived longer now without them than with them—though it doesn’t always seem like it.’  She paused.  ‘I suppose you get used to it.’  

They had arrived.  He’d never thought of it like that—he, too, had lived longer with loss than without it, and though it still hurt, he’d found an equilibrium of sorts.  Hands still on the wheel, staring straight ahead, Morse nodded.  ‘I suppose you do.’  He took a deep breath, forged ahead.  ‘My mother died when I was twelve.’  He had a momentary flash, back to that dreadful morning—shaking her already-cold body, desperate to rouse her, pleading with her to wake up.  

‘Oh,’ she said in a small voice.  She reached across the seat to place a hand on his arm, pressing gently.  He turned to look at her, her eyes shiny and glowing in the twilight.  ‘Then you know—you don’t ever get over it, but you get used to it.’  He nodded and they gazed at each other, her hand still on his arm.  He could feel the warmth of her touch through his shirtsleeve.  He was so mesmerized by her glowing green eyes, part of him wanted to lean over and kiss her right then and there, but that wouldn’t do.  So after a moment he reached for the door handle instead and her hand fell away.  

Outside the light was fading fast.  ‘I’m over this way.’  He gestured toward his building, one of three in the rather non-descript establishment.  ‘You?’  

‘This one.’  She pointed to the closest.  ‘Well, thanks for toting me around, I appreciate it,’ she grinned at him.  

He smiled back.  ‘My pleasure.  Not like it’s out of my way.  I’ll walk you inside.’  He didn’t want to part from her yet.  

‘Oh, there’s no need—’  

‘Nonsense, it’s no trouble.  As a policeman, it’s my duty to see young ladies safely home,’ he joked, trying to shake off the melancholy that had descended on their conversation.  

‘Alright,’ she said, still smiling.  She looked lovely in the glow of the streetlamps—he'd have to watch himself.  

They made their way up the sidewalk and inside.  She lived on the second floor, though she called it the third, which led to some confusion on the landing, as Morse turned to climb another flight and she made for the hall door.  As they walked down her hallway, a door opened and a middle-aged woman with a broad face and stomach to match peered out at them.  

‘Oh, Katie, there you are, finally!’ she exclaimed as she stepped out the door.  She eyed Morse suspiciously and then saw the bandages on Miss DeAngelis’ arms, the splotches of blood on her clothes.  ‘Good Lord, dear, what’s happened to you?’  

‘Oh, Mrs. Murphy, it’s alright.  I’m alright!’  Mrs. Murphy had grabbed her arms none-to-gently and Morse saw a shiver of pain cross her face.  ‘I had an accident, but it’s fine, really.’  She slipped out of Mrs. Murphy’s grip and gestured towards Morse.  ‘This is Detective Morse, Mrs. Murphy.  He brought me home.  Detective, this is my neighbor, Mrs. Murphy.’  He shook her hand, but the woman was too distracted to pay much attention to him.  

‘Accident?  What kind of accident?’ she pried, peering at Kate.  Then, without waiting for an answer, she forged on.  ‘That Mr. Davies came by for you earlier—you know, from the warehouse.’ 

‘Oh, no!  And I wasn’t here!’  Her face fell, shoulders slumping.  ‘And it’s the holiday—I’ll have to wait till Tuesday to get my things!’  Her disappointment was palpable.  

‘Ah, not so, lass!  I knew you’d be wanting those trunks straight away, so I persuaded him to leave them with me.’  And she proudly swung her door wide to reveal three sturdy, weather-beaten trunks of varying sizes, taking up most of her pastel-colored living room.  

She exclaimed with delight, ‘Oh, Mrs. Murphy, thank you!  Thank you so much!’  She suddenly caught up her neighbor in a full body embrace, which seemed to surprise the woman.  

‘Oh, my goodness, I’m sure,’ she flustered, her cheeks turning as red as her frizzy hair.  ‘It’s alright, dear.  Knew you’d need your things.  I’ll get my son to help shift them.’  She turned and bellowed into the depths of her flat, ‘Danny!!  Get out here and make yourself useful!’  Turning back to the hallway, she nodded at Morse.  ‘Daresay this gentleman can help, too.  They’s heavy.’  

♦ IV. ♦ 

They were heavy.  While Morse and the apparently feckless Danny heaved the trunks down the hall into the spartan flat Miss DeAngelis occupied, Mrs. Murphy grilled her young neighbor over what, exactly, this ‘accident’ had been.  Leery of revealing too much, Miss DeAngelis outlined a fib concerning an attempted mugging, imploring Morse with a glance not to contradict her.  

‘I just didn’t want to give her an excuse to be any nosier than she already is!’ she confessed, after the several minutes it took to thank Mrs. Murphy and son properly and chivvy them out of her flat.  They were alone again, her back against the finally closed door as he stood, sweaty and awkward, in the midst of the precious cargo, shirtsleeves rolled up, wondering if he should go.  Not wanting to leave.  

‘Seems wise,’ he agreed.  

Flashing a dazzling smile that made Morse’s breath catch in his throat, she came towards him—or he thought towards him, but then she knelt down next to the trunk on the floor in front of him.  He watched her unlock the padlock with a key from her handbag, click open the fasteners and wrench it open.  She gazed at the contents with a satisfied sigh before looking up at him, still smiling.  ‘I really can’t thank you enough for helping,’ she beamed.  ‘You have no idea how much I’ve missed these!’  She flung back the top to reveal a record player and dozens of LPs, well-packed and protected from international jostling by strategic layers of foam rubber and newspaper.  

He grinned back.  He could very well imagine the agony of enforced silence, especially to a music lover.  ‘On the contrary—now I understand what all the fuss was about.  And why that trunk was so heavy,’ he added, making her laugh.  That was almost music enough.  

‘Oh, I know—it's a lead weight!  But I couldn’t leave it behind—I've had it for years,’ she explained as she gently unpacked the turntable—a Champion model in red leatherette—and tried to lift it out of the trunk.  With her injuries, she struggled to free it from the packaging, and Morse stepped forward to help.  

‘Here, let me.’  He took it from her, and Morse felt a brief shiver of electricity again as their fingers brushed.  ‘Where would you like it?’ he asked, looking around.  Besides the trunks, there wasn’t much else in the room.  The flat was bigger and newer than his own, with a gas stove and full-sized fridge, but it was only technically ‘furnished’—an orange sofa, a couple of side tables, and small kitchen table with two chairs.  

She laughed at her empty surroundings.  ‘There, I guess.’  She rushed forward to clear a place on the kitchen table, stacking some papers and books off to the side and shifting the remains of a light breakfast to the small countertop next to the sink.  As he put down the player, she thanked him again.  ‘For everything.  Will you stay for some tea?  That’s what people do, right?’  

‘Oh, no, I’ll let you get on.’  He made a small gesture towards her clothing, adding, ‘I’m sure you’re tired after today—have things to do.’  

She looked down at herself, the splotches of blood on her blouse and skirt already drying brown and dark.  ‘Oh, Jesus!’ she cried, aghast.  She’d evidently forgotten about the state of her clothes.  He started towards the door, hands in his pockets.  ‘But please stay!’  She came around the table to stand between him and the door.  ‘Please—you’ve been so kind—it's really the least I can do!’  

He wasn’t sure staying was a very good idea, but nor did he want to leave.  He looked at her, trying to suss out whether this was an earnest invitation.  Was it wishful thinking that she might want his company?  Was she just trying to be polite?  No, he thought, she’s an American—they don’t do things just to be polite, right?  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ he tried, his hand straying to his ear.  ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance.’  

‘Oh, no, not at all!’ she assured him, taking another step towards him.  ‘Honestly, I’d be glad of the company—I'm still a little, well, rattled, I guess, and I don’t know many people here yet—there’s no one I can call.’  She looked hopefully at him, a little embarrassed, biting her bottom lip again.  How can I say no to that? he wondered.  ‘You’ll stay?’  He nodded soundlessly, still staring at her mouth.  ‘Great!’  She grinned at him.  ‘Let me just change clothes and then I’ll make you that tea!’  

She stepped carefully around him, walking to the door standing ajar opposite, leading, presumably, to her bedroom.  He felt himself start to blush just thinking about it.  ‘Why don’t you pick out something to play?’ she called over her shoulder, pausing in the doorway to add, ‘Anything you want—it's all stuff I love!’  And she disappeared into the room, flicking on the light before closing the door behind her.  He heard water running.  

Before turning back to the open trunk, Morse inspected her stack of reading material.  The latest Agatha Christie paperback, a bookmark partway through.  A cloth-bound library volume, in French, on Gascon troubadours.  With a quick glance at the closed bedroom door, he picked up the books to peek underneath.  And there was the Mail, folded to the daily crossword, almost complete.  He stopped, stared at it.  He’d finally finished it himself earlier, before the call came in, though with some difficulty.  Fridays’ were always the hardest.  She’d gotten stuck on the same corner that had given him trouble.  He shook his head in disbelief.  Good God, who is this woman? 

Carefully returning the books to the stack, Morse turned back to the open trunk and began flipping through her records, no longer surprised now by the excellent taste he saw reflected therein—he came across one or two of his own favorite pieces.  He was examining with curiosity a recording of Chopin by the Argentine prodigy Martha Argerich when the bedroom door opened a few minutes later and she emerged, wearing cigarette pants and a loose jumper that covered the bandages, holding onto the door frame as she slipped her feet into a pair of slippers.  ‘Find anything you like?’  She walked over and knelt beside him.  

‘Yes, actually.’  He was very aware of how close she suddenly was to him.  She had refashioned her ponytail, but carelessly, and a strand of hair had escaped, curling damply on the side of her face. 

‘Well, don’t sound so surprised,’ she teased.  ‘I do know about these things.’  

‘Yes, of course, but Fauré, Mussorgsky?’  He flipped the LPs one by one.  ‘Scriabin?  These aren’t medieval—I thought that was your specialty.’  

‘Well, yes, in terms of scholarship.  There’s plenty of that, too, but for pure listening pleasure, it doesn’t get any better than the Romantics!’  She was leaning towards him, watching him go through her records.  He could smell her perfume—lavender and orange.  He stopped browsing, concentrating wholly on resisting the urge to touch her, any part of her, feel that crackle of electricity again.  She misinterpreted his hesitation, saying, ‘Well, in my opinion, anyway.’  She looked at him, her brow crinkling.  ‘Why, what do you like?’  

He wasn’t sure his voice would work properly, and he cleared his throat before stammering out, ‘O-opera.’  

‘Oh, those are in the back!’  She brushed against him as she reached further into the trunk, searching.  He sat back on his heels, watching her, his throat tight.  Maybe Strange was right.  ‘Let’s see . . . Norma, Carmen, Lucia—she’s my favorite—Faust, Cendrillon, Il Barbiere, Samson . . .’  As she flipped through the LPs, a frown flickered across her face.  ‘That’s funny, I could have sworn . . . oh, here it is!’  She found what she was looking for.  

She got up and put the record on—she’d chosen Rosalind Calloway’s Tosca.  Incredible, thought Morse.  She leaned back against the table, head back and eyes closed, savoring the music as the overture filled the empty room.  He couldn’t take his eyes off her.  She looked transported by the music, and he noticed a light sprinkle of freckles across her nose.  When her eyes opened again, she caught him staring, but didn’t look away.  ‘Do you like Puccini?’ she whispered after a moment.  

‘Yes,’ he breathed, still on his knees.  

‘Me, too.’  She bit into her lower lip as Morse rose to his feet.  He stepped towards her, their eyes locked.  

Suddenly the telephone rang—its shrill clamor a stark contrast to the music.  They both started and the moment was lost.  She quickly turned down the music and went over to the wall where the telephone continued to ring.  As she brushed past him, he narrowly resisted the desire to take hold of her.  He tried to remind himself that she was part of a case, that he shouldn’t become involved.  I should probably leave.  

‘Hello?’ she picked up the receiver, then stuttered out her exchange number.  

She covered the mouthpiece as she mouthed the caller’s name to Morse.  It was Sir Lawrence Mallory, who had somehow been informed of her misadventure and was calling to check in on her.  ‘Yes, sir . . . no, I’m alright, really. . . Yes, that’s right. . .Uh-huh.’  She muttered a few more assurances, wished him a good holiday weekend.  ‘No, I decided not to . . .’  

She turned aside as the conversation stretched on.  Morse reached for his jacket, folded over the back of a kitchen chair.  ‘Oh, no, that’s alright, Sir Lawrence, I’m fine, really! . .’  She gestured for Morse to wait, holding up her index finger with an imploring look.  ‘Uh-huh . . . Yes, you too . . . Thank you for calling, Sir Lawrence—I'll see you on Tuesday . . . Yes. . . Goodnight.’  She hung up the phone with a huff of relief.  

‘It’s nice of him to be concerned,’ offered Morse.  

‘I know,’ she sighed, ‘but how did he even find out?  So quickly?’ she wondered.  

‘Oh, Oxford is full of spies,’ he warned, only half-joking.  ‘Someone higher up at CID must have realized your connection to Sir Lawrence.  Passed it along.'  

She gave a slight roll of her eyes.  ‘Well, I suppose it’s not a secret,’ she shrugged.  ‘Anyway . . . you’re not going, are you?’  

‘I can stay a little longer, I suppose.’  He replaced his jacket on the chair and stood awkwardly, hands in his pockets.  She was looking at him strangely.  Had she regretted the interruption as much as he had?  

After a moment she turned away, moving toward the kitchenette.  ‘I know I promised you tea,’ she said in a rush, ‘but I’m really in the mood for something stronger—it's been quite a day.  Also, I’m not that adept at making tea, I’m afraid.’  She was rummaging in the cabinet, but stopped and looked over her shoulder to say, ‘I’m sorry I made that stupid comment earlier—about tea fixing everything.  It’s just not something we do in the States—but I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.’ 

‘Never mind,’ he assured her.  She smiled and turned back to the cabinet.  

‘Good.  Can I make you a cocktail?’  Without waiting for a reply, she took down two glasses and began pouring gin, halting suddenly to ask, ‘You’re not a tee-totaler, are you?’ 

‘No,’ he snorted.  

‘Thank God!’  That long vowel didn’t grate so much this time.  

He stepped over and took the glass she offered.  ‘Cheers,’ he smiled at her as they sipped.  ‘How are you liking Oxford thus far?’  

‘Oh, I love Oxford,’ she cried, her eyes lighting up.  ‘I’ve always wanted to come here.  I told you my father was here during the War?’  He nodded.  ‘He came back several times over the years, and he used to tell me all about it—the history and the architecture and the dreaming spires,’ she gushed.  ‘And then I read Brideshead at far too young an age!’  

He gave a small snort of mirth. 

‘Anyway, I was hooked—decided I was going to be a Greats girl!’  She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.  ‘You were in Greats, weren’t you?’  

‘Yes,’ he admitted.  

‘Well, that was my plan, too.’  She took a swallow of gin and tonic.  ‘But—well, of course, things changed after they died.’  She gave a shrug of one shoulder, not sad but wistful.  ‘Anyway, I’m here now, right?  Fate,’ she mused.  She smiled briefly, then adopted a lighter tone.  ‘I’m still settling in, obviously.  I—I feel very wrong-footed sometimes, like everyone around me is thinking, “Stupid Yank!”’ she gave the phrase a fairly convincing Cockney turn.  He suddenly felt guilty—he had come very close to thinking that himself.  'Like earlier—at the top of the stairs.  How is this not the third floor?  There are two floors below us!'   She laughed, shaking her head as Morse shrugged, unable to come up with a response.  ‘It doesn’t really matter, of course, it’s just—’  She sighed.  ‘Things here are . . . different, and it’s jarring—like a piano out of tune.  It makes me nervous, sometimes, especially around, you know, posh people.’  She raised her eyebrows.  ‘Toffs.’  

He chuckled, nodding.  

‘But anyway, Oxford is beautiful—all these ancient buildings!’  She looked out the small window, though there was nothing ancient on view from here.  ‘We don’t have that kind of history in the U.S!  And I’ve met a lot of nice people at the Library and the colleges, so I’m slowly expanding my new circle of friends.’  She paused, looking at him sideways.  ‘I can count you among them now, can’t I?’  

‘Of course.’  He felt himself start to blush and quickly stammered out, ‘And do you miss your old circle?’  

She hesitated, her mouth open, then said with a small smile, ‘Some of them.’  She turned away and walked to the sofa, weaving around the trunks.  

Sitting down, she patted the cushion beside her, inviting him to join her.  He did, keeping a respectful distance.  After a moment’s silence, she spoke.  ‘So, you like opera.  Do you have any favorites?’  

‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ he demurred.  ‘Favorite?  I guess I’d have to say . . . well, Lohengrin, I suppose.’ 

To his dismay, she froze, the smile sliding from her face.  He’d said something wrong, but wasn’t sure how to recover.  After a moment, she shook herself, saying tersely, ‘I’m sorry—I just don’t like Wagner.’  

‘Oh.  I like other composers, too,’ he said stupidly.  He tried to set things right again.            ‘W-what about you—who's your favorite?  You have a lot of piano recordings I noticed . . . Do you play?’  

It worked, the smile returning to her pretty face.  ‘Yes!—I mean, I’m not a professional or anything, but I do play—just not as well as I’d like!  I haven’t had much time to practice the last couple of years, and—well, now I don’t even have an instrument.’  

‘I’m sure you can use the practice rooms at one of the colleges—they’re usually open to staff.’  

‘Oh, really?’  The idea clearly appealed to her.  ‘I’ll have to ask Sir Lawrence about that.  It sure would be nice to play occasionally.’  

‘And what do you play?  Your favorites?’  

‘Well, Chopin, of course—and I’ve always been partial to the French—Debussy, Ravel, Satie, Poulenc—’  She laughed mirthlessly, ‘—all of whom, incidentally, hated Wagner, too.’  She looked down.  ‘But I don’t actually dislike his music, exactly,’ she explained with a chagrined smile.  ‘Just . . . bad associations, I suppose.’  She took a large sip of her drink.  

‘Oh.  Sorry.’  Her sudden reticence was surprising, but he wasn’t going to pry.  It was kind of a relief that she wasn’t entirely open about everything.  

‘No, I’m sorry.  Let’s change the subject.’  She turned toward him, shifting so her back was against the arm of the sofa and slipping off her shoes.  He glanced down at her bare feet, so close to his leg; her toenails were painted a delicate pink.  She cocked her head to one side and said, ‘Tell me about you.  Are you from Oxfordshire?’ she gave the word her attempt at a posh accent, making him laugh.  

‘No, no, I grew up in Lincolnshire.’  

‘Oh.  That’s north, right?’ she asked, with an embarrassed laugh.  

‘Yes.’  

‘And . . . do you still have any family there?’ she enquired delicately.  

‘A sister—half-sister.  Our father died a few years ago.’  

‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’  Her long vowels had stopped bothering him.  

He shook his head.  ‘No, it’s alright.  We did not get on.  He mostly hated me, I think.’  

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’  

‘No, I think it is,’ he scoffed.  ‘It's all right, the feeling was mutual.  Anyway—you’re lucky—I don’t have happy memories of my father, like you do.’  

‘And your mother—?’ 

He paused.  Thought back.  ‘Yes—yes, I have happy memories of her.’  He couldn’t believe the personal details he was sharing with this woman, basically a stranger.  She didn’t feel strange, though, and her frank manner invited confidence.  

‘Good.’  She leaned forward onto her knees and took another sip, blinking at him.  He’d forgotten he even had a glass, quickly tried to catch up.  

‘What about you?’ he asked her.  ‘You have brothers and sisters?’  

She shook her head with a half-smile.  ‘Lots of cousins, though.  My cousin Mary Anne—she's practically a sister.  We’re only a few months apart, and we grew up together. . . after—you know, after my parents died.’  She took a large swallow of gin.  

He gave a murmur of understanding.  ‘You lived with her?’  

She nodded.  ‘On our family’s farm.  Quite a change, after growing up inter silvas academi!’. She raised her eyebrows for emphasis, adding, ‘Not a lot of culture in Oskaloosa, Illinois.’  

It was a funny name, and he chuckled, ‘No, I imagine not.  Sounds almost . . . pastoral,’ he said teasingly.   

‘Ha!  Godforsaken, more like!  What’s the joke—not quite the middle of nowhere, but you can see it from here!’  They laughed.  ‘But Doc Milford looked out for me, made sure I had books to read—poetry, philosophy, history of course—brought me to the city for concerts and lectures, that sort of thing.  Said he didn’t want to let my father down.’  She smiled sadly at the memory.  

He nodded, deep in thought.  She was very lucky, if that was possible in the circumstances, to have had so many people who cared for her after such a dreadful tragedy.  After his mother’s death, he, too, had been torn away from everything familiar.  Out of the small village where they’d lived together, into the cramped terraced house outside Lincoln with people he barely knew—a hard-hearted father, a spiteful step-mother, and little Joycie, then barely more than an infant.  He had a distinct memory of a cold, heavy rain that seeped into his clothes as he lugged his scant belongings into the strange house all those years ago—stunned, suffering, and all-too-aware of how unwelcome his arrival was.  But then she'd died in May, so the rain was likely an invention of his adolescent mind—a manifestation of his overwhelming grief and fear for the future.  But whereas he’d felt utterly alone in his new life, she’d had family, friends, people to take care of her.  Perhaps that was why she, with a loss even greater than his own, didn’t seem angry or lost or hopeless or any of the other things he so often felt.  

A hush had descended onto the room.  The recording had ended, the rhythmic static familiar and comforting.  

‘I’m sorry—’ she began, rousing him from his thoughts.  ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this!  I didn’t mean to be such a downer.’  

‘Oh, no—it’s—sorry, I was just thinking.’  He looked over at her with an awkward smile.  

‘It’s a horrible thing to have in common, isn’t it?’ she murmured, guessing the direction of his thoughts.  He nodded sadly.  Their eyes locked, lingered, as the silence expanded.  

‘You’re really easy to talk to,’ she remarked unexpectedly.  

This was a compliment the likes of which he had never, ever heard before, and the incredulity must have shown on his face, because she burst out laughing.  ‘Ha!  Apparently you don’t agree!  I just mean—well, it’s nice to find someone who knows about music, and you’re not as . . . reserved, I guess?  As other Englishmen I’ve met.’  

He definitely was as reserved as other Englishmen, at least most of the time.  More reserved, actually.  He realized abruptly how much she had broken through his usual defences—he’d been utterly disarmed by her.  Maybe she’s a Soviet spy, he thought wildly.  

Her laughter subsided and she shifted again, tucking her legs underneath her and angling closer to him.  Tilting her head, she asked curiously, ‘So, how did a Greek-speaking, opera-loving Greats man end up a police detective?  Why didn’t you take a degree at—Lonsdale, wasn’t it?’  

‘Yes.  Erm . . .,’ he hedged, but found he couldn’t go on.  That was a tale he was not prepared to share, and besides, it was time to leave.  Before things got out of hand.  She was suddenly very close to him again, and he felt . . . exposed, susceptible, far more intoxicated than one drink would justify.  ‘I think that’s a story for another time.’  He smiled at her, self-conscious now, fiddling with his ear.  

‘Oh, I’m sorry—I’m being nosy, aren’t I?  I wasn’t trying—I didn’t mean to offend you!’  

‘No, no, not at all, really.’  He tossed back the rest of his drink and rose, glancing at his watch.  ‘It’s getting late, I really should be going—I'm on duty all weekend.’  He started for the door, reaching for his jacket.  

‘Oh, okay, that’s . . .’  She stood up, too, following him, barefoot, across the room.  ‘You’re probably right.  But, um, listen—’  

They had reached the door—it was a small flat—and she reached out to touch his arm.  He turned to her.  ‘That man—,’ she faltered.  ‘He’s—I mean, really—he's not gonna, like, look for me?’  Though she tried to hide it, her eyes betrayed sincere concern, flicking nervously to his and away.  

‘Oh, no,’ he assured her.  ‘Honestly—he’s gone.  We’ll have to track him down—and we will,’ he added.  ‘But it’s likely he’s left Oxford already.  It was an opportunistic attack, we think.  There were multiple witnesses—you're perfectly safe.’  

She nodded, but didn’t look completely relieved.  ‘Well, I hope you’re right.  I’m not sure I’ll feel perfectly safe until you catch him.’  

‘Well, I’m close by, of course.’  He reached into the pocket of his jacket for a card.  ‘Here—if you need anything—my home number is on the back.’  He held it out to her.  

‘Thanks.’  She took the card from him with a grateful glance, her fingertips brushing against his.  

‘Of course, make sure you lock your door—I mean, regardless, you know, lock your door at night.  During the day, even.’  He was stalling, babbling, but years of police work had made him overly cautious.  ‘It’s just . . . safer.  Oxford isn’t completely pastoral, you know,’ he teased.  

‘It’s okay—I’m from Chicago, remember?’  He really didn’t want to go—not with her looking like that, all bright eyes and tangled emotions.  The way she looked—it was inappropriate to kiss a woman you just met, hours after a traumatic attack—Right?—even if it looked like that’s what she wanted.  Her lips were parted becomingly—he hesitated.  

‘Well, thank you,’ she blurted into his doubtful silence.  ‘For—you know—the ride, and the trunks,’ she gestured, ‘and, um, the police work . . .’ she was babbling now.  ‘I’m sorry for the bother . . .’  

‘Not at all.’  She was so tempting.  ‘Really, it’s been my pleasure, Miss DeAngelis.’  

‘Oh, God, there’s no need for that,’ she implored.  ‘Call me Kate—please.’  

'It’s been my pleasure, Kate.'  Her first name sounded too intimate.  He flushed—he had to get out here.  

She looked at him expectantly.  'And you?  I didn’t get your first name—'  

'Oh.'  He looked down, his hand going to his ear again.  'Oh, erm—uh—just Morse is fine.'  

She misread his reluctance, suddenly revising her entire demeanor into diffident formality.  'Oh.  I’m sorry.'  

‘No, please don’t misunderstand—'  He couldn’t bear the frosty look on her face.  'I—I don’t have a Christian name—or leastways not one I care to use . . .'  He hoped she would understand.  'So, really—please—just Morse.'  

She looked at him critically, tilting her head.  ‘That’s very mysterious.’  She tucked a strand of stray hair behind her ear and held out her hand.  ‘Well, goodnight, then . . . just Morse.'  She said his name very deliberately, eyes narrowed slightly, as though trying it out.  He took her hand.  It was warm, smooth and soft, and the electric charge was amplified by the prolonged contact.  He really didn’t want to let go.  

‘Of course, I’m sorry to have met you under the circumstances . . .  Kate,’ he admitted, trying her name out, too.  'But . . . I’m very glad to have met you nevertheless.'  

She looked at him shyly through dark lashes.  'Yes.  Me, too.'  She squeezed his hand.  Her trying-not-to-smile smile was spell-binding, bringing out the small dimple in her cheek.  He held her hand only a moment longer.  Made himself let go.  Leave.  Now.  You can’t kiss her.  Trying to tear his eyes away from hers, he reached for the door handle.  So did she.  They laughed awkwardly when their hands collided again.  

‘Allow me,’ she laughed, turning the handle and pulling the door inwards.  'Goodnight.  Thank you again—really, for everything.'  

'Goodnight.'  He slipped through the open door, breaking away from the intensity of her gaze.  But he turned in the hallway, remembering.  ‘Oh!—’ he said, gesturing slightly towards the kitchen table, his hand then straying to his ear.  ‘Um, 22-Down—refers to Samuel Johnson, not Pepys.’  He was embarrassed to admit he’d snooped into her things, but couldn’t help himself.  ‘I made the same mistake,’ he shrugged with an abashed smile.  

Her eyes glowed with wry amusement at his admission.  Then she arched one eyebrow, saying sarcastically, ‘Very good, Detective—thanks.’  He shrugged again, sheepish.  ‘Goodnight,’ she said with a laugh.  

‘Goodnight.’  One last smile passed between them and then Kate closed the door.  He heard the locks click into place.  He stood still for a moment, trying to collect himself before finally starting down the hall.  

♦ V. ♦ 

On the other side of the door, Kate was leaning back, eyes closed.  She bit her lip, took a heaving breath. Good God, who is this man?  

She looked down at the card she was holding, rubbing her thumb over the handprinted number on the back, thoughtful.  Then, tsking at herself, she tucked the card behind the telephone and tried to shake off the frisson of emotion he’d ignited in her.  Snap out of it, she scolded herself. 

She poured another drink and turned the record over, keeping the volume low in deference to the neighbors.  Rubbing the back of her neck, she flopped onto the sofa.  God, what a day. 

That morning seemed like ages ago.  Had it really only been earlier that day when Audrey had tried to persuade Kate to accompany her and her husband to their country house for the holiday weekend?  She had almost accepted, curious about Audrey’s sophisticated lifestyle and wondering what on earth else she could do with herself, alone in a new city for three long, empty days.  She’d thought about going to Stratford, maybe.  Maybe she still would.  She only had a year here, after all, she’d better get started.  

Her arms throbbed painfully under the bandages, and she wondered whether she should have gone with Audrey after all.  She bit her lip, tears forming behind her eyes.  The memory of the attack was still raw and real.  Only a few terrifying seconds, the blink of an eye, really, but her fear had stretched it into an eternity.  She’d thought, in that moment, he was going to kill her.  She closed her eyes, letting the emotion overwhelm her for a moment.  Then forced herself to be calm, squeezing her fingernails into her palms and putting it from her mind—she was very good at that—though she knew she’d remember it for the rest of her life.  

As it happened, the wounds were not very serious; her poor jacket had taken most of the damage.  Ten neat stitches on her right arm, six on her left.  The doctor had said she’d have some scarring, but the cuts were fairly shallow, so no real harm had been done.  On the way to the hospital, staring at the constable in his ridiculous helmet—she’d definitely been in shock—as he pressed a piece of cloth against her arms, she’d thought numbly about nerve damage, wondered detachedly whether she’d ever play the same way again.  

Then again, if I’d gone with Audrey, she pondered, curling up and sipping her drink, I’d have missed meeting Morse.  And she couldn’t regret that.  She looked over at his card, peeking out from behind the telephone, thinking of his eyes, such a clear and vivid blue it made her shiver.  Soulful and sad.  

Fate, my old friend, you’re a funny thing.  

She was thankful he had left when he did, though she was wide awake and restless.  He could have stayed all night as far as she was concerned, so she was glad he had acted prudently for both of them.  It wouldn’t do to sleep with a man she just met—a policeman no less—especially here in snobby, prudish England.  

Even if he was handsome, and clever, and adorably self-conscious.  And prickly, which she thought charming; it only made her want to tease him, make him blush.  God, he’d be so easy to fluster.  He knew about music, too, which was rare and sweet and surprising.  And he tried too hard to conceal the well of tragedy he clearly carried within him, which she found perversely attractive.  She’d always been drawn to damaged people like herself, often to her own detriment.    

She sipped her drink, thinking.  Often men didn’t need much encouragement to make a pass at her, but Morse had been a perfect gentleman—though there had been a few moments when she thought he might try to kiss her, his eyes growing wide and round as marbles as he looked at her.  She would have let him.  If he’d stayed, she thought, I’d be kissing him right now.  

But she hadn’t come to Oxford just to be distracted by an accent and a handsome face.  Even one accompanied by eyes you could drown in.  

Why, oh why, did he have to mention Wagner?  Of all the—dammit.  To be reminded, out of the blue like that—her stomach churned.  She rolled her eyes, irked by her reaction.  He must think I’m crazy.  She forced it from her mind, downed the rest of her drink.  

She slid off the sofa and retrieved her keys from her handbag to unlock the other two trunks that filled the room.  Kneeling next to the second, she was disappointed to see its padlock wasn’t clasped shut, in fact wouldn’t shut, but clacked uselessly when she tried to close it.  Sighing at the damage, she withdrew it and flipped open the latches on either side of the lock.  She hoped nothing had broken en route.  Lifting the lid, she peered at the contents.  

She hadn’t brought much with her to England.  She’d ruthlessly abridged her record collection, leaving the rest in the cellar of the greystone on Vernon Avenue.  She hadn’t been able to part with much of her wardrobe, though, stuffing the largest trunk with clothing and shoes.  

This last trunk was packed with the remainder of her baggage—except what she’d stowed away with the Collection itself, of course.  On top there were several frames, lovingly wrapped in thick paper and some winter scarves.  

One by one, she carefully freed them, studying each photograph before placing it on the shelf above the sofa.  Her parents on their wedding day—in dress uniform and tailored suit, smiling on the steps of St. Thomas’, where several years later she’d joined the children’s choir.  A snapshot of Doc, reading in an armchair in his study, holding his pipe and smirking scornfully at her camera—he'd been annoyed by the interruption and hated being photographed.  An older, posed photo of her grandparents on the front porch of their farmhouse, surrounded by their children, including her mother—a blurry toddler on the step—and Uncle Stephen, a solemn boy sitting beside her.  In a picture taken years ago now, a rare smile from her Uncle Sal as his eldest son Gio leaned on his shoulder behind the counter at the family grocery, their Nonna beside him, hands on her hips.  And a color shot taken recently, of the party Helen had thrown last month for the Moon landing—the last time she’d seen many of her old friends.  There was Helen, her arm around Kate’s shoulder, Mary Anne on the other side.  Others had come to see her off, too—her cousin Rosalie was in the corner of the picture with her 1-year-old son; she’d confided to Kate that she was expecting again, which had brought an unexpected jolt of pain.  And even Dean Schaffer, smiling shyly from behind her left shoulder, had driven all the way from Oskaloosa to say goodbye, despite everything.  Mary Anne had rushed to get the photo developed, stuck it into a cheap wooden frame, and given it to Kate the day before she left Chicago.  They’d both cried.  

She stood back and looked at the shelf of people and places she’d left behind—who had left her behind.  She’d made the right decision coming to England, she knew, but she suddenly felt very lonely.  She looked around the empty room, blank, bare, and devoid of any character, and thought, I am a stranger in a strange land—and stuck in this tiny, dreary apartment with a leaky faucet and a drafty bedroom window.  Not quite the idyllic English cottage she’d envisioned, tucked away in a garden behind a hedge.  

Although Morse is nearby, she reminded herself, smiling.  That did put the drab concrete buildings in a more positive context.  She found herself wondering what his flat was like, what he was doing right now.  Maybe he’s thinking about me, she thought with a smirk, turning back to the open trunk.  Maybe a romantic adventure was just what she needed after all—Wagner had his good points, too.  

She wasn’t sure how much to unpack, since she’d been assured the cottage would be ready soon, so she picked through the trunk to see what she might need.  Her jewelry box came out to sit on the dresser in the bedroom, and she replaced the valuable pieces she’d carried with her to their proper places.  There were toiletries and towels, and her hairdryer—though she wasn’t totally sure she trusted the device or its adaptor to the strange-looking outlets in the walls.   And she took out an embossed leather writing chest—she owed letters to people back home—but her new typewriter, photo album, and recipe box stayed in the trunk, along with her sewing basket, as Kate conceded with a sigh that her plaid jacket was unsalvageable.  

At the bottom of the trunk was one of the few totally sentimental additions she’d allowed herself: the mirrored music box her parents had given her for her eighth birthday.  A frivolous thing, featuring Cinderella and Prince Charming spinning in place to the tinny strains of A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes.  Now, nearly twenty years later, there was a crack down the right-hand side and the couple inside revolved rather lethargically, but no matter.  She loved it, and it held all her small treasures from childhood and beyond—seashells from an early trip to Coney Island, a smooth pebble collected from a riverbed in Door County, tickets stubs from concerts and plays, Jordan almonds from Rosalie’s wedding, memorial cards from the funerals of family and friends.  She lifted the box carefully and began to unwrap the scarf that cradled it.  Froze when she found, on the front of the box, right next to the Fairy Godmother’s kind and smiling face on the clasp, an ugly smudge of dirty grease on the glass surface.  

She stared at it, frowning.  Is that a fingerprint?  That hadn’t been there before—she was sure of it.  She distinctly remembered polishing the mirrored box lovingly before stowing it away.  Polished it to a shine, with the pale blue scarf she’d wrapped it in, thinking how perfectly it matched Cinderella’s ball gown.  Wait a minute.  She looked down at the scarf she’d let fall to the floor.  It was her green scarf, the one that brought out her eyes.  With mounting confusion, she looked around—the blue scarf was on the sofa.  It had been wrapped around one of the frames.  A sense of disquiet slid over her, making the skin on the back of her neck prickle unpleasantly.  

She put the music box on the coffee table, suddenly not wanting to touch it, and sat back on her heels, her forehead wrinkling with confusion.  The recording had ended and the staticky silence added to the eerie feeling tingling in the pit of her stomach.  What the hell? she thought.  Am I going crazy?  But no—she was sure.  Positive.  It wasn’t possible—but the scarves had swapped places.  She fingered the broken lock on the floor next to her, thinking.  

She remembered now that something else had been out-of-place in her trunks—Puccini should have been between Massenet and Rossini, but the Tosca record had been in the wrong place.  On her hands and knees, she scrambled over to the trunk of music and flipped, with increasing agitation, through her records.  By the time she finished, she’d found other errors, too many to be her own.  Perotinus was before Palestrina in her motet recordings, Dvořák before Debussy in the orchestral section, and a recording of Sleeping Beauty was stuck in the middle of Stravinsky’s ballets. 

Maybe Morse moved them, she thought, but she couldn’t convince herself.  She stifled a sob as it became inescapably clear that someone—somewhere—had rifled through her trunks.  Had tried, and failed, to hide the trespass.  But it didn’t make sense.  Nothing seemed to be missing.  And why on earth would anyone search her belongings?  She didn’t have anything of any particular value.  

Alarmed now, she crawled over to the last trunk and heaved it open, rummaging through her wardrobe and tossing things out haphazardly, but nothing jumped out as being misplaced.  Then again, she hadn’t paid very close attention when packing this trunk, concerned only with fitting in as much as she possibly could.  Maybe I'm imagining things.  But she knew she wasn’t.  She shivered, suddenly cold despite the warm summer air coming through the open window.  She sprang up, immediately closing and locking it.  

From the window, her eyes wandered to the telephone.  She’d call him.  Show him the smudged fingerprint, tell him about the scarf and the records—he’d know what to do.  She rushed over and was about to dial with trembling fingers when she stopped.  Slowly, she placed the receiver back in its cradle.  He’ll think I’m crazy.  Or worse, desperate.  She swallowed thickly, her throat tight, trying to rationalize the anomalies.  

Maybe Mrs. Murphy had gotten curious.  Or that son of hers.  Or the young man at the warehouse who always stared at her a little too long.  Never mind that the depth of scrutiny belied casual interest—surely there had to be a simple, innocent explanation.  She tried to make light of it, reminding herself that nothing had been taken, so there was no harm done.  Just to my peace of mind.  

She picked up the music box again, staring suspiciously at the greasy smudge left by whomever had been through her things.  It gave her the creeps, and in a spasm of panic, she smeared it away with the sleeve of her sweater.  She placed the box on the shelf alongside her photos and attempted to forget about it, rubbing her shoulders to rid them of tension.  

She read for a little while, trying to shake off the unease that had stolen over her, but she couldn’t concentrate—and Agatha Christie wasn’t the best choice in the circumstances anyway.  Finally, she gave up, slamming her bookmark into place.  She sighed and changed for bed, wincing when the sweater rubbed against the bandages on her arms.  She checked that her bedroom window was closed and locked, too, despite the heat.  

She brushed her teeth and climbed into bed—but immediately climbed out to double check the front door.  

She walked back into the bedroom—but immediately walked back out, grabbing a kitchen chair to shove under the door handle.  She gave it a firm kick to wedge it into place.  

When she had convinced herself the apartment was as secure as she could make it, she burrowed down into her covers and switched off the bedside light.  She closed her eyes, trying to comfort herself with Morse’ reassuring words.  ‘You’re perfectly safe,’ he’d said.  

‘You’re perfectly safe,’ she repeated out loud into the dark, practicing the English accent.  But she couldn’t help wondering how much safer she’d feel in Morse’s arms.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Later that night, deep into the silent hours between midnight and dawn, when the whole building is sleeping and still, the doorknob of Kate’s flat begins, ever so slightly, to rattle.  The locks give easily, and it is only Kate’s last-minute addition of the chair that saves her another misadventure. 

♦ 
 

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Marginalia  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Some time that same evening, at a Georgian manor in Regent’s Park, a man readies for bed in an upstairs apartment.  He is sipping the last of his scotch when the telephone on the table buzzes.  

‘Yes?’  His mid-Atlantic accent reveals origins far from London.   

It’s his secretary.  ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s a call—code name Charlie.’   

He lets out a weary sigh.  ‘Alright, patch it through on the secure line.’   

A series of clicks and then an English voice on the other end.  ‘Sir, there’s been a development.  I thought you should know.’   

The man listens to his agent’s report, sighing again and sitting down on the bed as the story unfolds.  ‘Damn,’ he says eventually, drawing a hand across his face.  He’d been afraid of this.   

‘Could be nothing, sir.’  The tone left him in no doubt as to his agent’s opinion.   

He snorts.  ‘Could be something.’  He pauses to think for a minute before continuing, ‘Alright,’ he exhales.  ‘I’m sending you another agent.  I want ongoing surveillance, okay?  I’m not risking another incident.’   

‘Very good, sir.’   

‘Any sign of our friend?’ he asks, his jaw tightening.   

‘Not that we’ve seen, sir, but we’re making inquiries.’   

‘Mmm.  Let me know.’  Rubbing his forehead, he sighs, ‘Anything else?’   

‘I’m afraid not, sir.  We searched the flat again as you requested—there's nothing there.’   

‘Any unusual activity?’   

‘No, sir.  She went to London as planned, but nothing happened.  Just a shopping trip.’   

‘Where did she go?’   

A pause.  ‘Shops, sir—Bond Street.  Tea at Claridge’s, a walk through Hyde Park.  They were together the whole time.’   

‘She was in Mayfair?  No detours to the Embassy?’   

‘No, sir.’   

‘Alright.’  Some logistical instructions followed, and he said goodnight.   

‘I think it’s pretty clear where it is, sir.  I’ll have more next week.’   

‘Yeah, let me know.  Sooner, if you need.’   

‘Of course, sir.  Goodnight.’   

He replaces the phone in its cradle and sighs, his shoulders drooping, before picking it up again.  

His secretary answers immediately.  ‘Nick, I’m going to need another man—for that special detail.  Can you take care of that?  ASAP.  Yeah.  Thanks, you too.’   

He sets the receiver back with a click and rubs a hand over his jaw.   

There is no way he’ll be able to sleep now, so he rises and pours himself another scotch.  Shuffling over to the window, her sits heavily in a chair, and stares out, unseeing, at the glowing lights of the city.   

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

♦ I. ♦ 

As Fate would have it, Morse had been thinking about Kate that evening.  In fact, he could hardly think of anything else.  

Away from the distracting presence of her intense green gaze, at first he’d been able to regain his composure.  Though the night was still warm, the fresh air helped clear his head as he made his way to his own building, though he subconsciously looked up at the glow of her living room window as he passed.  

She was just a witness—he needed an identification from her, but that was all.  Yes, she was pretty— very pretty— but that didn’t matter.  He didn’t care to count the number of times he’d become infatuated on a case—it was always a mistake, occasionally had been a dreadful mistake.  The very record Kate had chosen was a painful reminder of that.  And he could not forget having to force Isla Fairford into the back of a police car while her father and son looked on in shock.  He would not—could not—risk anything like that happening again.  Thursday had warned him a few times over the years about his weakness for the fairer sex—it was time he listened.  By the time he unlocked his own flat, he’d mastered himself, and the attraction was over.  

But as he hung up his jacket and poured himself a drink, images of her kept flashing through his mind.  Her brilliant smile, her chest heaving with emotion, the way she bit her lower lip.  And especially her eyes, staring out from between long, dark lashes—eyes so bewitching he couldn’t get them out of his head.  He was reminded of Cavaradossi’s aria—‘ Qual’occhio al mondo può star di paro ’—though of course Tosca’s eyes were black.  But truly he’d never seen eyes like Kate’s—a bright, bottle green, like new leaves lit by pale winter sun.  Ugh, that’s pretentious , he reproached himself, shaking his head .   He’d barely known her a few hours and he was already resorting to grandiose metaphor.  He rubbed his temples to try and rid his brain of her, but it didn’t work.  Yes, she’s beautiful .  But that didn’t mean he had to lose his head.  

It wasn’t her beauty that had him so captivated anyway.  Not only her beauty, at least.  It was more than that—she was clever and witty and educated.  She’d wanted to be a Greats girl, and even though she hadn’t been up at Oxford, she could quote Homer from memory—in Greek.  And she was a music lover—no, a music scholar —and a musician, too.  With little foundation, he nevertheless assumed her to be an accomplished pianist—he remembered her long, slender fingers flipping through the trunk of records, the solidness of her handshake.  She had talent, he was sure, in addition to knowledge and good taste—her dislike of Wagner notwithstanding.  

He loosened his tie, kicked off his shoes.  

And it wasn’t as though she was a suspect— she hadn’t killed Robbie Cartwright.  Could she be involved?  He couldn’t see how or why.  No, she’d just been unlucky—the wrong place at the wrong time.  This wasn’t a case of premeditated murder—just a stabbing in an alley over gambling debts.  Maybe, he thought—he still wasn’t sure about that.  But Thursday would not have teased him about her if he’d thought Morse’s interest inappropriate.  

He finished his whisky, hesitating only a second before pouring out a little more.  Maybe he could court her.  If she’d have him. 

But she bothered him.  She was too direct, too open, too— Too American , he supposed.  And he was annoyed by how much she’d drawn out of him in so short a time.  He couldn’t be involved with someone like that—he liked his privacy, his secrets, his own thoughts to keep him company.  He was perfectly content to live a solitary, cerebral existence, with music and work to fill the empty spaces.  Most of the time, anyway.  

He threw back the rest of his drink, conflicted.  He wanted her, yes, but he had to be sensible.  Love had never been kind to him—though to be fair, he realized he was pretty terrible at it, too.  Not the act itself, of course—he was assiduous in all his undertakings—but romance?  Les affaires de cœur ?  He’d never had much success.  And this woman could really be trouble.  Intelligent, charming—her looks alone were rather daunting to a guarded, self-doubting man like him.  A woman like her could annihilate whatever remained of his heart.  He’d had too many disasters, too many disappointments, he didn’t think he could take another.  

No, he wouldn’t risk it.  He’d solve the case, close it, move on.  He would bury his feelings, as usual, and throw himself into work until he forgot about her.  After the experiences of the last year, he’d decided he was a copper— ‘first, last, and always ,’ like Thursday said.  

But as he readied for bed, he kept thinking of how she looked listening to the music earlier—her head thrown back, eyes closed, enraptured.  How often did he meet a woman who loved Puccini like that?  He would be crazy not to try— Right?   

He punched his pillow into a ball and tried to get comfortable.  But it was no use—he kept imagining what it would be like to run his hands through her raven-dark hair, kiss her, hold her, take her to bed.  He finally drifted off, but slept fitfully.  He dreamed he was wandering alone through a hushed winter forest deep with snow, searching for something.  

By the time he rose a few hours later, his thoughts were clearer.  His vacillation over Kate didn’t matter anyway—he'd focus on closing the case.  There was still a suspect out there, and he had questions that wanted answers.  He’d worry about the rest after it was finished, when he wouldn’t have her involvement in work complicating things.  

It was still early, barely past dawn, but he dressed and left for the station under a brightening sky, again glancing at what he knew was her window as he passed.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Kate had also been disturbed by unsettling dreams, full of creeping menace and gnawing insecurity—pursued by crunching footsteps through a frozen, moonless wood choked with brambles. 

She woke early but lingered morosely in bed, staring at the ceiling, not wanting to face the empty weekend that stretched ahead of her.  She stared dejectedly at the dressings on her forearms.  Underneath, the knitting skin was beginning to itch.  Finally, she rose and slouched toward the living room, leaning on the door frame and taking stock of last night’s disorder.  Her trunks were gaping open, clothes and shoes and other belongings scattered wherever she’d tossed them in her agitated state.  The chair she’d shoved under the door handle stood in silent testimony to her emotional turmoil.  She stared at it, now feeling a little silly.  Surely she’d been imaging things? 

The stillness of the cluttered room in the pale morning light only added to her feeling of unease.  She knew she should tidy up, finish unpacking, but didn’t want to handle any of the emotions it would dredge up.  She shifted her shoulders uncomfortably, trying to release the tension still in the back of her neck.  She could go into work, she supposed, or— 

She made a quick decision, dressing hurriedly and throwing things into a weekender bag.  She grabbed her purse on the way out the door, stuffing her book and the unfinished crossword inside.  She swept the kitchen chair out of place and back towards the table, and just before leaving, on impulse, she plucked Morse’s card out from behind the telephone, tucking it into her wallet.  

After carefully locking up, she knocked softly on Mrs. Murphy’s door, not sure if her neighbor would be awake yet.  But she answered the door in a quilted robe and curlers and immediately invited Kate in for some tea and toast.  Refusing politely, Kate told her she’d decided to go away for the weekend.  Unprompted, Mrs. Murphy promised to ‘keep an eye on the place,’ and Kate thanked her awkwardly, quickly excusing herself before the inevitable barrage of questions.  

She left the building, looking up at the wispy pink clouds scudding steadily across the horizon, and smiled to herself.  Weather coming in from the north—it would be cooler today, and the heat wave would break.  A good omen.   

As she made her way out to the street, she noticed that Morse’s red Jaguar was already gone.  

♦ II. ♦ 

At the station, Morse learned the cordon had been unsuccessful—there was nothing in overnight, no suspect apprehended.  He read the report Strange had prepared the evening before, learning that Cartwright had a history of pilfering in and around Oxford and a couple of arrests for using some of Eddie Nero’s former services.  But the owner of the pub where Davies had seen the assailant remembered the man and had given them a name, Joseph Ellis, which the night crew had matched to a man from Birmingham with a long record of assault and petty crime.  He’d recently been released from Farnleigh after serving a short sentence for an ABH resulting from a pub brawl.  Morse made some notes, collected the mugshot they’d dug up from the Information Room, and went to see Dr. deBryn, whom he found just opening the pathology office.  

‘Early for you, Sergeant.  I don’t usually see you under a rosy-fingered dawn,’ Max quipped as he unlocked the doors and ushered Morse inside.  

Morse shrugged, hands in his pockets.  ‘We said first thing.’  

‘Yes, but I’ve not even made my tea.’  Max put down his bag on the metal countertop and turned to face Morse.  ‘Would you like?’  

‘Oh, no, I’m fine, thanks,’ he said, waving the question away.  As Max busied himself in the next room, Morse looked around the immaculate lab.  Despite Morse's deep regard for Max, he never felt comfortable in his tiled, sterile domain.  And with the caesura in serious crime recently, Morse had hardly seen Max since Wicklesham quarry.  The last time he’d been here, in fact, it was to discover Max had been taken hostage by McGyffin’s goons.  Conscious of the trauma Max had been through, after a moment he called out, ‘How have you been, Doctor?’  

There was a pause in the clatter before Max responded.  Finally, he answered, ‘You mean—Have I recovered from being dragged out of my own lab, knocked unconscious, and held captive by vicious criminals?’  Morse grimaced, and Max emerged from the doorway holding a steaming cup.  Looking at Morse, his face inscrutable, he finally said, ‘More or less.’  

Morse couldn’t think what to say.  He felt somewhat responsible for getting Max involved in the whole affair.  He couldn’t meet Max’s eyes, instead nodding awkwardly and looking at his shoes, hands still in his pockets.  ‘I’m sorry,’ he finally muttered.  

‘It’s no fault of yours.’  Max moved forward into the lab, Morse shuffling in his wake, doubtful.  Reaching the examination table, Max turned, adding, ‘Anyway, it was for George Fancy.’  Morse swallowed, nodding again; at least they’d been able to avenge their young colleague, for whatever that was worth.    

‘Well,’ Max continued, ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any furthers or betters on last night’s corpus.’  Setting down his tea, he opened the file lying on the counter, and went on.  ‘Stabbed once, straight into the ventriculus dexter , with a smooth, narrow blade approximately fifteen to twenty centimeters in length.  Nothing surprising or extraordinary—sorry to disappoint.’  

Morse snorted.  

‘There were some old contusions to the abdomen and lower back.  I’d say he’d taken a good pasting somewhere in the vicinity of ten days ago—two weeks at the outside.  Would you like to see him?’ Max asked, gesturing to the wall of cadaver cabinets.  ‘I can pull him out for you.’  Morse gave a tight-lipped smile and shook his head.  

Max motioned to a metal basin sitting next to the microscope.  ‘His effects, then.  Keys, wallet—not much besides.’  Max picked up another dossier and moved away, leaving Morse to go through the dead man’s meager possessions.  

Cartwright had been carrying a ring of keys, a pack containing four and a half cigarettes, a cheap matchbook, and a battered, worn wallet.  Morse opened the last to find an unexpectedly large amount of cash—£40—in crisp notes.  

Not possible, then, that Cartwright had been killed for failure to make payment on a gambling debt—Morse had been right.  There must have been some other motive behind the murder—he needed to talk to Cartwright’s widow, find out what other bad blood might have led to his death.  He quickly went through the rest of the wallet, finding only a quartered scrap of paper.  Unfolding it, he frowned, shocked, when he saw what was written there: B. Bird B-26.   He stared at the cramped scrawl, hoping he’d misread it, but it was unmistakable.  B-26 was Kate’s flat number—at Blackbird Leys.  What was Kate’s address doing in Cartwright’s wallet?  Was she involved?  Or was she in danger?  

Pocketing the slip of paper, he excused himself with a hurried farewell, muttering to Max, ‘I have to go,’ and rushing out, leaving the pathologist still sipping his morning tea.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

As he sped back to the housing complex, Morse tried to work out how Kate could be involved in Cartwright’s death.  Perhaps she was in on plans to rob the warehouse?  As a legitimate patron, she might have been well-placed.  She hardly seemed like a criminal mastermind, though.  He knew he was prejudiced, but he couldn’t fathom it.  

The alternative, however, was that Cartwright had been tailing Kate, which might mean she was still in danger.  He remembered she’d told them Cartwright looked right at her in death—perhaps because he recognized her as his quarry—knew exactly who she was.  He was a known thief—had she been the intended mark, and not the warehouse?  She had something he’d wanted—something in her trunks, maybe.  Is that why he’d been at the warehouse earlier in the week?  Kate's trunks had been late in arriving—were they both waiting for them?  

He parked and trotted into Building B, taking the stairs two at a time.  He wasn’t sure whether he was planning to confront Kate or warn her, but it didn’t matter anyway, since he received no answer to his knocking except a curious Mrs. Murphy peeping out from across the hall.  

‘You won’t find her, duck,’ she informed him.  ‘She’s gone.’  

‘Gone?’ he started, his mind racing through the possibilities.  She’d done a bunk, guilty of something nefarious.  Or been snatched, abducted by Cartwright’s associates.  

‘Off for the holiday,’ the woman continued.  Morse relaxed.  Of course.   She’d mentioned something about that.  ‘Told her I’d keep an eye,’ she went on, surveying him warily.  ‘This about her accident?’  Morse murmured an assent.  ‘Caught ‘im yet?’  

Shaking his head, he reached into his jacket for a card and handed it to Mrs. Murphy.  ‘Can you let her know I need to speak with her—as soon as she returns?’  

‘Alright, dear, leave it to me.’  Morse thanked her and set off down the hall, though he could feel the woman watching his departure.  

He wished he’d told Kate to stay put in Oxford—who knew what peril she might be wandering into?  Mrs. Murphy didn’t even know where she’d gone, though hopefully that meant no one else did either.  Perhaps it was for the best.  Anyway, there was no help for it, so he refocused his attention on his next step. 

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Cartwright’s home address was a top-floor flat in a run-down area not far from the warehouse.  The widow let him in reluctantly, immediately slumping down in a wooden chair and lighting up a cigarette as she gestured listlessly toward another seat.  Her eyes were ringed with dark circles and she looked exhausted.  Despite the break in the heat wave today, the room was sweltering, the air stagnant and heavy with smoke.  

‘Whatya want then?’ she mumbled through her cigarette.  “I already told e’erything to that other copper.’  

‘Yes, I’m sorry to bother you again, Mrs. Cartwright, but I have some more questions.’  She shrugged apathetically and flicked ash into the overflowing tray next to her.  Morse asked her about her husband’s debts, but she didn’t know to whom he owed money, just that he’d been worried about it—he'd been roughed up a couple of weeks before, rather badly.  

‘Stole my whole pay packet last week,’ she said bitterly.  ‘Still weren’t enough.’  

‘He had money on him yesterday,’ Morse told her.  ‘Forty pounds.’  The woman’s head snapped up at that, her eyes wide.  ‘You don’t know where he would have come by such a sum?’  

‘No,’ she replied, frowning.  Then, ‘Can I have it?’  

He pressed his lips together, feeling sorry for her.  ‘I’m afraid it’s evidence.  You might get it back eventually.’  She rolled her eyes, not believing him.  

‘You said your husband intended to get out from under his debt.’  She snorted derisively.  ‘Do you know what he had in mind?’  

‘Not a clue,’ she said, irritated.  ‘I told ‘im that—the other—don't you talk to each other?  Robbie never told me nothin’, just told me not to worry.’  She scoffed at that.  ‘Probably a load of bollocks anyway—all piss and wind, that one.’  

He tried a different tack.  ‘Did your husband have any enemies?’  

She snorted again.  ‘’Sides hisself, you mean?’  She shrugged.  ‘Sure.  Everybody loved Robbie—‘til they didn’t.  Always up to something, rat bastard,’ she sneered with sudden vehemence.  ‘Take your pick—loan sharks, folks he’d stole from, men whose birds he’d knobbed.’  She inhaled the last of her cigarette as she bitterly delineated her late husband’s faults.  

‘This is a delicate question, Mrs. Cartwright, but do you know whom he might have been seeing recently?’  

‘Delicate, my arse,’ she mocked, blowing smoke out her nose.  ‘Who knows?  Some bit of brass.’  She stubbed her cigarette out and reached for the pack lying on the table.  ‘Weren’t likely to tell me, now, was he?’  

He wasn’t going to get anything out of this woman.  Resignedly he withdrew the photo of Ellis from his jacket pocket.  ‘Have you ever seen this man before?’  She peered at the picture and shook her head, striking a match for another cigarette.  ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Cartwright.  We’ll let you know of any developments.’  She grunted.  He frowned at her, saying, ‘Don’t you want to know who killed your husband?’  

‘What difference does it make now?’  For a brief moment she looked wretched, on the brink of tears and utter collapse, and then she lit her cigarette with the burning match, muttering, ‘Good riddance to a bad seed.’  She sniffed and looked at him defiantly.  He bid her farewell and left her to her smoke-filled room.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

He made his way to the warehouse nearby, which he found staffed only by Georgie, the gangly young apprentice, who seemed nervous, his eyes darting back and forth as Morse started asking questions.  

Morse showed him the mugshot, watching him carefully, but was met with a shrug and a terse, ‘Never seen ‘im.’  

‘But the dead man,’ Morse pressed him.  ‘Cartwright—you knew him quite well, didn't you?’  

‘Sez who?’ Georgie said with unconvincing bravado.  

‘You were seen together just a few days ago, outside here.  I wonder what the two of you were talking about?’  

At first the young man tried to deny it, but he was an artless youth, unaccustomed to lying, and soon faltered under Morse’s queries.  It came out that Cartwright was an old school chum’s uncle, and had taken advantage of this tenuous relationship to force a malicious intimacy on him, and he admitted to giving Cartwright Kate’s address.  

‘Why?  What did he want with her?’ he demanded with barely contained irritation.  

‘I don’t know, sir, honest!’ the young man insisted.  Then, ‘She had something he needed.’  

‘What?  Something in her trunks?’  

Georgie nodded miserably.  ‘I told him they’d arrived.  That’s why he was here.’  Morse could see in his face the guilt of having summoned Cartwright to his death, however unwittingly.  

‘Did you let him in?  Did he find what he was looking for?’  His mind raced through the short list of what had been found on the dead man—nothing of value, except the cash.  

‘No—didn’t get the chance, did he?  I never even saw him—before—,’ he broke off.  

‘And you’re sure you’ve never seen this man?’  Morse held up the photograph again, but Georgie shook his head and shrugged.  

‘Is that him?  What killed him?’  He swallowed uncomfortably.  

‘Probably.’  

‘I’m real sorry, sir.  I shouldn’ta done it, but I didn’t know what was gonna happen!  I just thought . . . I dunno.’  

Morse ignored his plea for absolution, fuming, ‘No, you shouldn’t have.  You realize you may have placed Miss DeAngelis in danger?’  The boy’s face collapsed and he looked down, thoroughly ashamed.  ‘Did Cartwright tell you anything else?’  

‘Not really,’ he mumbled, before adding, ‘Said he’d see I got my cut if I helped him.’  Morse glared at him, disappointed in his monetary motivations.  But if Cartwright was being paid, someone was paying him—he had to find out who it was.  He prepared to leave, tucking the mugshot back into his notebook.  As he turned to go, Georgie implored, ‘Is Miss DeAngelis all right?  She’s not really in trouble, is she?’  

‘I hope not,’ Morse replied curtly.  He started to walk towards the door, but stopped and turned back with one more question.  ‘Do you know if he was involved with anyone?  Besides his wife, I mean.’  

Georgie was reluctant to reveal such information, but grudgingly told Morse that Cartwright had spoken of a girl, Janet, a hairdresser at Madame Hazel’s.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

It turned out Janet had been sent home for the day, and when she opened the door to her flat, Morse understood why.  Despite layers of makeup, he could clearly see a nasty shiner marring the left side of her face.  She didn’t look particularly surprised to see a police detective on her doorstep, merely sighing and stepping aside to admit him.  

Nor did she seem too shocked to find out her lover had been killed.  She just nodded shakily, hand over her mouth, and sank onto the tatty sofa.  When Morse showed her the mugshot of Ellis, she gave it the merest glance before turning away.  ‘That’s Joe,’ she said simply.  

‘Joseph Ellis?’  

She gave a shrug of assent.  ‘He killed Robbie, didn’t he?’  She looked as though she might cry.  Or be sick, or both.  

‘It looks that way.  Have you seen him recently?’  

She laughed mirthlessly and gestured to her face.  ‘He was here yesterday.’  

‘I see.’  He’d remember to add that to the list of charges.  ‘What time would that have been?’  

‘He showed up just before teatime, I guess.’  

‘And what is your relationship to him?’  

She sighed.  ‘We were engaged, once.  But he’s a hard man.  After what he did—’  

‘The pub brawl?’  

She nodded.  ‘Some bloke was looking at me—or so he thought.  Joe busted a bottle over his head,’ she told him, her voice catching.  ‘I broke it off, moved away.  But I guess he wasn’t having it.  I didn’t even know he was out,’ she said ruefully.  

‘Do you know where he is now?’  

Janet shook her head.  ‘He said he’d be back, but he never showed.’  She hesitated, swallowed hard.  ‘I was scared of what he’d do.’  She bit her lip to stop it trembling.  

‘Where would he go?  You must know his family?  Friends?’  

‘Not sure Joe had any friends.  His mum’s still in Birmingham.  There’s a sister, in—oh, Dunstable, I think.’  

A few more questions and he left her in peace, giving her his card and telling her to contact him if she saw or heard anything.  ‘Be careful,’ he warned.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

A love affair gone wrong, then.  An old story, if a rather mundane one.  But although Cartwright’s murder might not have had anything to do with Kate, he was still worried about her.  Who was behind Cartwright’s attempted theft?  Whoever it was hadn’t gotten what they wanted, which might mean they’d try again.  But with Cartwright dead and no one else in the know, he’d have trouble finding out who it was responsible.  Unless Kate knows.   That was a disturbing thought. 

Returning to the station, he started to trace the whereabouts of Ellis’ sister—surely Dunstable was where he would be found.  

♦ III. ♦ 

Late in the afternoon on Monday, Kate returned to Oxford, treating herself to a taxi from the station.  Her short trip had refreshed and inspired her, reminding her of all the reasons she was glad to be in England.  She smiled to herself as the car moved through the age-worn streets, thinking about all the places that she would visit—Bath, Canterbury, Winchester—and all the landscapes she longed to see—white cliffs, windswept moors, placid tarns tucked amidst rugged fells. 

Gone were her misgivings of loneliness and regret; she’d remembered how much she loved her own company.  It had been a long time since she’d been beholden to no one — Maybe never —and she’d reveled in sublime feelings of freedom as she strolled alone through ancient cemeteries, along cobbled streets and riverbanks dotted with swans.  

She’d been offered company a handful of times, of course—by a fellow guest at the hotel, the waiter at the café Audrey had recommended, a stranger who followed her into Holy Trinity.  By now, Kate was keenly aware of the effect she had on men.  Since she was barely more than a girl, men had stared at her wherever she went—in stores and restaurants, on trains and buses, in the middle of the street.  Women, too, sometimes, whether in envy or admiration or lust.  

She’d been so surprised, at the tender age of fourteen, when a complete stranger approached her for the first time.  She’d been walking from the L stop on her way to visit her family in Little Italy, when a young man with large brown eyes and a winning smile stopped her with the now-familiar, ‘I don’t usually do this, but—’  That evening, back in her bedroom at Dr. Milford’s greystone, she had examined herself in the mirror above the dresser.  She’d been told many times she was beautiful, but had never thought much of it—friends and family saw beauty in everyone they loved.  Now she looked critically at herself, turning her face from side to side.  Large green eyes surrounded by dark lashes.  The aquiline nose she’d always thought too large for her face.  The full, rosy lips, the high cheekbones.  Her hair—thick, wavy, black as night.  She had realized that night that she was beautiful—‘ Bellissima ,’ the youth had called her—and now, many years later, she was used to such solicitations.  But Kate had refused all her would-be suitors in Stratford, intoxicated by the pleasures of solitude.  She’d decided her travels would be private affairs, seeped in beauty and history.  

Which of course meant she’d forego any romantic adventures in Oxford, too, however attractive candidates might be.  She’d come to England, in some part, to escape—for good, this time—a poisonous affair, and it would be foolish to allow herself to become entangled again— least of all with another Wagnerian, for Christ’s sake .  

No, she would resist the lure of romance—she would be Artemis, Diana, the Vestalis Maxima.  She planned to devote herself ascetically to work and study and travel—she’d learn Russian, and finally master Sonatine.   She had no need for men—beyond Pushkin and Ravel—no need for their demands or their drama.  She would remain untamed, untethered, untrammeled—like Greta Garbo or Louisa May Alcott or the Princesse de Clèves .   Though , she thought wickedly, what harm in a tumble or two?   No need to abjure the company of men completely— but she’d paddle her own canoe.  

Also gone from Kate’s mind was the silly sense of violation that had so overwhelmed her before leaving.  She was convinced she’d made the whole stupid thing up.  

The driver offered to carry her things—men were always offering to do things for her—but she refused, tipping him generously anyway.  Today even the dull buildings of Blackbird Leys seemed more beautiful, glowing warmly in the afternoon sunshine, and she unlocked her flat with a contented sigh, thinking, Here is a room of my own.  Pushing the door open, though, she wished she’d taken the time to straighten up before leaving—it was always vexing to come home to a mess—and her living room was very messy, indeed.  

But there was something else that unsettled her about the room, something that made her skin tingle as she stepped over the threshold.  She had the definite impression that someone had been here in her absence; there was a distinct aura of intrusion—the air itself seemed tinged with it.  She dropped her suitcase, purse, and shopping bags in the doorway and stood there for several minutes, looking around with a frown.  She tried to remember in detail her actions on Friday evening, the following morning—was that really where she’d left the kitchen chair?  Didn’t I put my music box on the shelf?   She couldn’t be certain—surely she was just imagining things again.  This was only the mess she’d made herself.  Right?   

She was still trying to shake off her discomfort and regain the cheer and composure she’d enjoyed just minutes before when a voice behind her—‘Hello?’—made her jump and cry out.  She whirled around to see Detective Morse standing in the hallway.  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he said with a sweet smile, and her heart melted a little.  Oh, shit.   She turned aside, avoiding those lovely blue eyes.  She hadn’t expected her resolve to be tested quite so soon.  

He leaned forward, peering past her, and a look of alarm crossed his face.  ‘Oh, God,’ he exclaimed, stepping into the room uninvited.  ‘What happened?’  

Kate blinked, flustered.  ‘What?’ she sputtered.  ‘What are you doing here?’  

‘Are you alright?  What did they take?’  Morse turned and grabbed her arms, his face full of concern.  

‘Ouch!’ she cried, wrenching out of his grasp and rubbing her arms beneath her blouse.  ‘What are you talking about?’  She felt totally at sea.  

He blinked, apologizing.  ‘I forgot—’  

‘Lucky you,’ she snapped, still wincing.  

He glanced down at her bags lying in a pile on the floor.  ‘You weren’t here when this happened, were you?’  

‘When what happened?  What are you doing here?’ she asked again, annoyed.  

‘When this happened!’ he cried, gesturing to the cluttered mess.  ‘What were they looking for?  What do you have in those trunks?’ he demanded.  

His accusatory tone was disconcerting, and disrespectful at best.  ‘Whoa!’ she stopped him, holding up her hands.  ‘What the hell?’  She took a deep breath to calm herself before going on.  ‘Nothing happened, Detective .’  She deliberately used a formal address, upset with him for barging in on her new-found independence with confusing questions and admonishing tones.  

He noticed her censure, thankfully, and curtailed his brusque manner, pressing his lips together. 

She let her reproachful silence linger a moment longer and then went on.  ‘I did this,’ she explained, taking in the room with a sweep of her arm.  ‘It’s fine.  Now, will you please tell me what you’re doing here?’  

He looked surprised and somewhat confused himself, muttering abashedly, ‘I came to see if you were back—I need—well, I have more questions . . .’  Then with a charming half-smile he chuckled, ‘You must be the untidiest librarian I’ve ever met.’  His eyes were shining with mirth.  

She arched an eyebrow at him in response.  ‘I’m not, usually,’ she retorted.  ‘I was . . . never mind.’  Turning to shut the door, she observed wryly, ‘Mrs. Murphy must be out.’  She gestured for him to sit down, pulling the errant chair back to the table and sitting down heavily.  ‘What questions?’ she asked, trying not to look at him.  

‘Well—’  He sat but seemed unsure how to begin.  He was staring at her with an odd expression, and Kate wished he’d stop—it was making it difficult to deny her attraction.  He withdrew a small notebook from his jacket pocket and pulled a photograph from between its pages.  Giving it to her, he asked, ‘Is this the man who attacked you?’  

She glanced down at the mugshot and shivered.  She’d never forget that face.  ‘Yeah, that’s him alright,’ she gulped, passing it back to him.  ‘Did you find him?’  

‘Not yet,’ he said with chagrin, tucking the picture back into his notebook.  His brow furrowing, he continued, ‘Are you sure you never met Robbie Cartwright?’  She frowned in confusion and he had to clarify, ‘The man who was killed.’  

‘Oh—no,’ she shook her head decisively.  ‘I’ve only been here a few weeks,’ she reminded him.  

He hesitated before pulling something else from the notebook.  ‘Well, when he was killed, this was in his wallet.’  Watching her closely, he handed her a slip of paper.  

She took it from him warily, not knowing what to expect.  Then she blanched, her jaw dropping, when she saw what was written there.  ‘How—?’ she blurted out.  ‘What does this mean?’  She snapped her head up, eyes wide with shock, only to find herself caught in his intense ice-blue stare.  ‘W-why would he have this?’  She suddenly felt a little faint, and not solely because of this frightening revelation.  

He explained, ‘George—the apprentice at the warehouse—admitted to giving him your address.’  His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he went on, ‘I think Cartwright meant to steal something from you—something in your luggage, perhaps?’  He glanced at the half-empty trunks, their contents strewn around the room.  ‘Can you think of what that might have been?  Were you transporting something valuable?’  

Suddenly it felt like all the air in the room was gone.  Kate’s hand strayed to her throat, pulling at the collar of her dress.  She stared at him, wrestling with how much to reveal.  She still hoped she’d imagined the whole thing—she’d rather be crazy.  She bit her lip, conflicted.  

He leaned toward her as she sat in mute bewilderment.  ‘Are you alright?’  He sounded worried. 

She took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice steady.  ‘Somebody searched them,’ she managed, the words barely more than a whisper.  

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing even further.  ‘What?’  

She swallowed thickly before continuing, ‘My trunks.  Somebody searched them—I think.’  

He paused, frowning.  ‘Are you sure?’  

She gave a bark of anxious laughter.  ‘No, not really.  But I—I think so, yes.’  She faltered, head in her hands.  ‘I don’t know,’ she cried.  Confusion and fear were putting her on the edge of hysterics. 

Morse reached across the table to gently touch her arm.  ‘I can’t help you if you don’t tell me,’ he murmured.  

She looked into his eyes, wide and soft and full of concern.  His hand on her arm ignited something electric, furious in her.  Oh, Jesus.  This whole Artemisian crusade was going to be more difficult than anticipated.  

But if she was in some sort of trouble, she wanted to know what it was.  Someone rifling through her belongings?  A murdered man with her address in his wallet?  These were alien experiences—all she knew of criminality was limited to articles in The Trib and Steve McQueen movies.  She didn’t know what to do; she needed help, someone to trust.  And though she barely knew him, Morse had this air of quiet authority about him—he seemed steady, sensible.   

And he was the police, after all, so she told him—about the records, the scarves, the greasy fingerprint.  

She couldn’t sit still, and got up to show him the scant evidence she had.  As she moved around the room, she attempted to straighten up a little, just to funnel her nervous energy.  She could feel him watching her as he listened—attentively, his brow furrowed—and asked the occasional question.  She felt stupid for having smeared away the crucial piece of evidence in a fit of pique, and was embarrassed to show him her childish music box, but her confidence grew as she unfolded her suspicions.  ‘I’m a music librarian,’ she concluded.  ‘I know what order my records are in.’  He nodded slowly, still frowning.  She felt better for telling someone—maybe especially him, with his reassuring demeanor and enticing blue eyes.  To keep from falling into them again, she bundled an armload of clothes back into the trunk and stood in the middle of the room, rubbing her fingers together nervously.  

She held back only the unsettling impression she’d had upon returning to the apartment, which seemed vague at best, and fanciful at worst.  Trying to defuse her own anxiety, she proposed, ‘But—well, it must have been him—Cartwright—who searched my stuff.  Right?’  

Morse hedged, acknowledging, ‘The apprentice said he never got the chance.’  She bit into her thumb nervously, and he added quickly, ‘But he mightn’t have known, not for certain . . .’ he trailed off, not entirely convinced.  They were both silent for a minute.  ‘You’re sure nothing is missing?’ he asked.  

‘No,’ she admitted with a shrug.  ‘Not that I can tell.’  

‘Would you have anything—well, worth the effort?’  

‘No, not really.’  She shrugged again, ‘I have jewelry, but I carried all the good stuff with me on the airplane.  And anyway, nothing worth killing over!’  

‘Actually, I don’t think Cartwright was killed over this—whatever this was.  He was seeing someone, an old boyfriend took issue.  It looks like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like you.’  

‘Oh.  Well, that’s a relief I guess.’  She sank down on the sofa, suddenly exhausted.  

‘You weren’t carrying some part of the Collection, were you?’  

‘No way!’ she said emphatically.  ‘The Pinkertons would not have allowed that!’  

‘The Pinkertons?’ he chuckled.  ‘I thought they—chased outlaws in the Wild West, broke up strikes.’ 

She laughed, ‘No, not anymore—it's not 18 69!  They’re private security, these days—escorted the Mona Lisa in ‘62.  We—the estate—hired them to guard the Collection in transit.  They’re responsible for its security until it reaches the Bodleian.  They’re well paid, well -armed, and very thorough.’  

‘It’s too bad they weren’t guarding your things as well,’ he remarked.  

‘There’s nothing to guard!’ she maintained.  ‘Who’d want to steal this stuff?’  She motioned to her belongings, now mostly contained again in the open trunks.  ‘Photographs?  My typewriter?  Shoes?’  She laughed nervously.  ‘Not exactly King Solomon’s horde!’  When he didn’t respond, she went on, ‘But—that’s it, right?  I mean, he’s dead,’ she flinched at saying it out loud, ‘so whatever . . . he wanted—he didn’t get it, so—I don’t need to worry, right?’  She was wringing her hands together, and Morse came over to her on the sofa.  She looked up at him and quickly away, trying to remind herself of her earlier resolution.  ‘ I vant to be alone ,’ she told herself in her best Swedish accent, briefly squeezing her eyes shut.  

He sat down next to her.  ‘Actually, it appears Cartwright was probably working for someone else.’ 

‘What?’ she cried, her hand straying to her throat again.  ‘Why?  This doesn’t make any sense!’  It wasn’t fair—why was this happening to her?  ‘Jesus,’ she exclaimed, throwing up her hands in a helpless gesture, ‘I never imagined—I've always romanticized England—Oxford especially.  It always seemed so civilized.’  

He shrugged rather weakly.  ‘Evil is everywhere.’  

‘But good, too—shadow and substance.  Privatio boni , right?’  She could hear the note of pleading in her voice.  

His mouth tightened.  ‘Maybe.  Evil is pretty substantial, in my experience.  But my philosophizing days are behind me.  I’m not concerned with the origins of evil, only its manifestations.’ 

‘Mmm, I suppose so.’  She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.  Regardless of her idealized visions of England, Kate realized he must have seen some terrible, dark things as a policeman.  Violence, malice, maybe even true evil.  And now she was tangled up in it herself.  She let her eyes close momentarily, a cascade of fear washing over her.  Then she sighed.  ‘Well, what the hell am I supposed to do now?  Sleep with one eye open?  Move to a hotel?  Maybe I’ll hire one of the Pinkertons to sleep here,’ she joked.  

‘I’m close by,’ he offered.  

‘Not close enough!’ she exclaimed, and immediately regretted it.  If she was honest, she wanted him to sleep there, wanted him very close indeed, but she shouldn’t have intimated such a thing.  She glanced at him, sitting stiffly beside her, and she could tell by the look on his face that he had caught the insinuation.   She tried to look away, but those blue eyes of his were magnetic—he seemed to look right through her.  She could feel her pulse start to race.  Maybe he could stay—we're adults, we needn’t give in to desire .  But even as she was thinking it, she had the urge to kiss him—find out if his lips were as soft as they looked.  He opened his mouth to speak, possibly on the verge of suggesting just what she had in mind.  She got up quickly and spoke before he could.  ‘I think I’ll see if Audrey’s back from the country.’  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Audrey was back from the country, thankfully, and as soon as she heard about Kate’s misadventures, all but bellowed into the telephone, ‘Good Lord , I’ll be right there!’  

She was as good as her word.  After a few further instances of temptation, Kate had just ushered Morse through the door when she spotted her new friend sauntering down the hall.  He nodded at her as they passed and Audrey’s head followed his progress as they both continued on.  Turning back to Kate, who was leaning out the door, she pushed her sunglasses down her nose, eyebrows raised in a question.  

‘Who’s that , then?’ she asked loudly, before she even reached Kate’s doorway.  Kate giggled at her deliberate indiscretion.  ‘He’s rather dishy,’ Audrey continued as she swanned into the room.  

Kate swung the door shut behind her.  ‘Just a policeman,’ she said with affected casualness, trying to suppress a smirk.  

But Audrey Hartley was no fool.  ‘Really ?  Has he taken your particulars yet?’  She swept her sunglasses off with a gloved hand and tucked them into her stylish handbag.  

There was no hiding her smirk now.  ‘Audrey!’ Kate scolded gently.  

‘Well, never mind that, darling.’  Audrey turned to her seriously, squeezing her shoulder.  ‘Now—what happened to you?  I told you, you should have come with Michael and me.’  She steered Kate toward the sofa, pushed her down.  ‘Tell me everything .’  She pulled off her gloves, laying them atop her bag on the coffee table.  

Kate related the whole sorry tale, everything from the terrifying attack in the alleyway all the way up through the strange feeling she’d had upon arriving home earlier that afternoon.  She told her about Detective Morse’s suspicions concerning an attempted theft of her things, purposefully sticking with formality, though Audrey wasn’t taken in for a second—she smiled and nodded knowingly. 

But she otherwise ignored Kate’s evasiveness about the handsome stranger in her hallway, instead focusing on her new friend’s feelings about the ordeal.  

‘Good God , Kate!’ she exclaimed at last.  ‘It’s like a novel!’  

Of course, Audrey thought everything was like a novel.  She had regaled Kate quite early in their acquaintance with her belief that the canon of British literature encompassed the entirety of human experience and thus, as she explained, ‘We need never stray from its example for analogy.’  She was very assured in her opinions, but then she’d earned her First in literature at Lady Matilda’s, so she had all the expertise and rhetorical prowess to back them up.  Now she taught the very same subject in the very same classrooms.  An Oxford girl through and through, she had come as a student and never left.  Her husband Michael was a lecturer at Lovelace, some sort of scientist, and they were both devoted to their respective careers.  Audrey assured Kate her husband was ‘a genius! ’’ and destined to be master at Lovelace, just as she had designs on the principality of Lady Matilda’s.  They were minor aristocrats—she was technically The Honorable Mrs. (‘Daddy’s a baron, you know ,’ she’d explained offhandedly), and Michael would inherit some sort of lordship after the death of his father.  Their familial ties to Oxford were old and strong; Audrey’s great-uncle was deputy vice-chancellor of the whole University and Michael could claim descent from several illustrious former dons.  

But despite Audrey's distinguished pedigree, Kate had found her to be warm and welcoming—and great fun.  She was gregarious and theatrical, full of unapologetic affectation, and enjoyed parties, good conversation, and beautiful clothes.  She’d swept Kate off to London recently on a quest to find gowns for the gala that would be held once the Collection was settled, convincing Kate to splurge on something really special.  This evening she wore a black and white pencil skirt with a cropped jacket—Kate was sure they were Dior.  She reminded Kate a little of her college friend Helen, who shared her quick wit and tenacity, and Kate had liked her immediately.  She wondered if they would have been friends had she come to Oxford as a student.  

‘Really?  What novel is this?’ she asked now, grinning.  

‘Oh, I don’t know, something Gothic— Udolpho springs to mind.  Let’s see—young woman forced to live in a crumbling tower,’ she encompassed the whole complex with a careless gesture, ‘Objects moving about with no explanation, dashing strangers,’ she winked, ‘General air of menace—yes, that will do.  And, of course, Emily’s an orphan as well.  Sorry , darling—it’s a common theme amongst heroines, I'm afraid.  Estella Havisham, Little Nell, Esther Summerson, Lucie Manette, the list goes on—and that’s just Dickens!  I haven’t even started on Hardy or the Brontës!’ 

‘I always preferred Anne Shirley.’  

‘Oh, not a Canadian, dear.  Besides, I doubt Green Gables was ever menaced by the banditti!  But seriously , darling, are you alright?’  Audrey squeezed her hand warmly with a look of real concern.  ‘It sounds absolutely ghastly.  You must have been so frightened!’  

‘Yes!’ she nodded.  ‘Yes, I was.’  And suddenly it all came out, all the ups and downs of the last few days brought to a maudlin crescendo by the emotional turbulence of the last few hours, and she burst into tears.  

Audrey let her cry for a few minutes, murmuring platitudes and offering a stiff hug and a few clumsy pats on the shoulder—physical sympathy not being Audrey’s forte.  Then, holding Kate at arm’s length, she declared, ‘Alright, darling, that’s enough.  You need taking out of yourself,’ she said sagely.  Looking around the room, she commented, ‘There’s unpacking, clearly—you know, I hate coming home to a mess, don’t you?  I'm sure whatever else might have happened, you coming over queer earlier can be chalked up to the chaos you returned to.  Let’s have a tidy, shall we?’  

Kate sniffed decorously, and agreed.  ‘Yeah, okay.’  

‘But first—cocktails.’  She asked Kate to put on some music while she made them very strong gimlets.  ‘But please tell me you have something from this century in there.’  

‘I have lots of things from this century!’  

‘Mmm—this decade ?’  

‘Ha, ha.  Yes, of course.  Here, this just came out a few months ago.’  She put on a record, a poet-songstress she liked.  

Then together they dragged her clothes trunk into the bedroom and unloaded it into wardrobe and dresser, Audrey offering comments on this and that.  'Oh, yes , very smart,’ she approved of Kate’s collection of wool separates, coats, and dresses.  ‘Dreamy ,’ she purred over a mandarin-style shift in jade silk.  And even gushed, ‘Oh, my God, where did you get this?’ over a gorgeous lurex brocade mini she’d picked up in New York.  Audrey was disappointed, however, that they didn’t wear the same size shoe.  ‘I’ve such elephant feet,’ she lamented and instead contented herself with trying on Kate’s red plaid cloche over her elegant French twist, admiring herself in the mirror.  

They next applied themselves to the living room, pushing the empty clothes trunk against the wall to hold Kate’s turntable.  Kate flipped over the record and they managed to shove the heavy trunk of records up next to it.  

Kate’s unneeded things were neatly re-packed in the remaining trunk, which become a sort of settee with a pretty scarf draped over it.  But Audrey insisted on leaving Kate’s photo album out, flipping through a few pages curiously as Kate went through her holiday purchases, setting a lovely old, leather-bound edition of the Sonnets next to the album.  

‘Well,’ Audrey said finally, ‘that’s better, right?  Now when you come back it’ll feel more like home.’  

‘Come back?’  

‘Well, yes , darling.  Vous dormez chez moi ce soir .  It won’t do , you being alone, you’ll torment yourself with visions of some Italian count, bent on thievery and ruin.’  Kate laughed.  ‘Though I’m convinced that whoever was financing this dead man’s ventures ,’ Audrey dismissed such undertakings with an imperious wave, ‘is certainly the same person who searched your things.  There can’t be two villains after your shoe collection, fab ulous though it might be!’  Then she stopped, gasping, ‘Wait a minute—I know this song!’  She listened and began to sing along, ‘Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels . . . ’   

Kate smiled and joined in.  ‘ That dizzy, dancing way you feel . . .’  They sang the rest of the song together.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Audrey drove Kate to her house near the Parks in her shiny silver Aston Martin.  As they sped along, Audrey finally inquired, ‘So—about this dashing detective—what's his story?  Is he your Valancourt?’  

‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ Kate demurred.  ‘He’s just a policeman.’  Audrey glanced at her, eyebrows raised.  ‘He’s been very nice.’  

‘Oh yes, I’m sure he has.  Rather nice to look at, too.  What do we know about him?’  

Kate thought for a moment.  ‘Rather a puzzle, actually,’ she told her friend.  ‘Let’s see—Lincolnshire originally.  He was up at Oxford—’  

‘An Oxford rozzer?  Curious! ’’ 

‘Hmm, yes, but he left, not sure why.  I wouldn’t think he could have been—expelled or anything.’ 

‘ Sent down , dear.  Why not?’  

‘He seems very smart.’  

‘Reasons for leaving unknown?  Very mysterious.  Well, I love a mystery.  What's his name?’  

She explained with some bemusement his peculiar request to be known only by his surname.  

‘That is a puzzle.  How odd .’  

‘Lost his mother quite young, poor thing.’  

‘Oh, just like you,’ Audrey gasped.  ‘I mean—’  

Kate looked out the window at the darkened streets, biting her lip.  ‘Yes, I know, just like me.’  Which meant he’d understand, in a way others never could, the void such a loss left, the blank space that could never be filled—and the melancholy that still dogged her steps, and could spring up like a beast, sometimes threatening to swallow her whole.  She turned back to Audrey.  ‘He seems . . . sweet—I mean, kind of tricky actually, but . . . I don’t know, lonely , I think, in    a—’  She rolled her eyes at herself.  ‘Well, in a rather attractive sort of way, I hate to admit.’  

‘Mmhh, yes, intriguing.  Handsome, mysterious orphan, tortured and brooding—sounds like Heathcliff— Oh oh oh !  Lord, Kate—Heathcliff to your Katherine!’  

‘Oh God, not Heathcliff, please!’ Kate pleaded.  ‘Besides, Catherine Earnshaw wasn’t an orphan.’ 

‘She was after her father died.’  

‘I don’t want an anti-hero!’  She corrected herself, ‘I mean, I don’t want any heroes, Byronic or otherwise—it's not the right time for romantic dalliances.  I am not tempted in the least.’  Being with Audrey always made her speak like she was in a novel.  

‘Good heavens , why not?  He seems quite tempting.’  

‘Not at all.  I don’t need any distractions right now.  I shall be the orphaned Estella, cold and uncaring—I won’t bestow my tenderness anywhere.’  

Audrey tutted but appreciated the reference.  ‘Well, I suppose Pip was an orphan as well, and I daresay you could play a perfect Estella if you wanted to, but I seriously doubt you have ice in place of your heart, my dear, and—you’ll excuse me saying so—you don’t seem the heartbreaking sort.’  Audrey pulled into a short gravel drive fronting a large Victorian brick house with bay windows and a gabled entry.  ‘And I do hope your Dr. Milford didn’t have much in common with Miss Havisham!’ 

Kate laughed.  ‘No, not at all.  Neither did Gran.’  

Audrey looked at her as she turned off the engine.  ‘But you know, dear, Charles Dickens is not going to keep you warm at night, or satisfied.’  

‘I have a thick blanket.’  

‘And the other?’  She tilted her head, smiling.  

‘I don’t need that right now.’  

‘Hmph,’ Audrey snorted, opening her door.  ‘I need that all the time.  He seems a worthy contender, why ever not?’  Alighting onto the drive, she added, ‘Don’t tell me you’ve left your heart in the U.S. of A.?’  

‘No, not exactly.’  Kate climbed out of the car, sighing, ‘Like Joni Mitchell says, “I’ve looked at love from both sides,” and I’m not quite ready to face those illusions again quite yet.’  

‘Ah!  I see.’ Audrey said as she led the way to the door.  ‘Well, I’ll only say it seems a missed opportunity.  What does Pip say?’  She turned to Kate as she dug for the house key in her handbag.  ‘“Better to have a natural heart, even to be bruised or broken.”’  She turned the found key in the lock and pushed in the door with her hip.  

Following Audrey inside, Kate muttered, ‘Maybe.’  

♦ IV. ♦ 

The next morning Kate had breakfast with the Hartleys.  She felt awkward and slightly silly sitting in their formal dining room, Michael wearing a mustard-colored cardigan reminiscent of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood and Audrey draped in a lavender silk dressing gown edged in marabou, a full English warming on the sideboard.  Audrey offered to drive her to the Library but Kate insisted on walking—it wasn’t far.  She thanked Audrey profusely for allowing her to stay, to which her friend replied, ‘Anytime, my dear, really .  Let me know how you’re feeling later, alright?’  

She ambled through the streets toward the Bodleian, relishing the cool morning air.  Upon arrival, she found her assistant already at work.  ‘Good morning,’ Nan said cheerily.  Kate returned the greeting and unlocked her office door.  

She’d been so surprised to find that her appointment included a secretary— my very own secretary! —but had quickly found Nancy Perry to be quite indispensable.  She’d secured all the supplies they’d need for storage and re-cataloging and had also taken her through the rest of the Library’s manuscripts so she’d understand how much cross-indexing would be needed to fully integrate Milford’s pieces into the extant collections.  Nancy had been a history student on scholarship a few years ago, and seemed happy to be back in Oxford.  At first, Kate had thought her to be a little mousy and characteristically English—overly polite and too reserved—but had recently noticed another side to her—Nan could be mischievous and sardonic.  They’d taken to laughing together behind his back at some of Sir Lawrence Mallory’s more ridiculous mannerisms.  

Before she’d been in her office more than a few minutes, Nancy brought in a cup of steaming tea, setting it down on Kate’s desk before taking the chair opposite.  ‘I hear you had quite an eventful holiday.’  

Kate hadn’t had the heart to tell her secretary she preferred coffee in the mornings, and figured she might as well get used to it.  She sipped gingerly at the hot brew before responding.  ‘News travels fast.’  

‘ Bad news travels faster,’ Nancy remarked.  ‘Sir Lawrence telephoned.  Are you alright?’  

‘Yes, I’m fine, mostly.  It was rather awful, of course, but I’ll be okay.’  

Thankfully, Nancy didn’t press her for any more information.  ‘Well, we’ve had word from the Pinkertons.  The lorry arrives from London this evening.’  

‘Fantastic!  What do we have left to do?’  They spent the morning finishing a few last-minute items, ensuring their inventory lists were ready and making final arrangements for the arrival of one-hundred and seventy-nine separate items of delicate parchment and paper, bound and unbound documents, and illustrated ephemera .   

Sir Lawrence came by to check on Kate too, and was very solicitous in his concern for her well-being.  He even invited Katherine ( he called her—it had been all she could do to get him to stop calling her Miss DeAngelis or, God forbid, Doctor) to dinner with his wife the following evening, which actually suited Kate just fine.  She would soon have a gift for Lady Mallory, along with some questions she’d like to put to her.  

Audrey showed up in the early afternoon, but Kate was on the telephone with her door closed.  ‘Hello, Mrs. Hartley,’ Nancy greeted her.  ‘I’m sure she’ll be finished soon.’  

‘Mmm, yes, hello, Nan.’  Audrey drummed her fingers on the countertop, peering through the window of Kate’s office door.  Kate was seated at her desk, leaning on her elbows, twirling the telephone cord around her finger and grinning broadly.  Audrey leaned over Nancy’s desk with a shrewd smile, asking, ‘Who’s on the blower?’  

Nancy blinked at her enigmatically.  ‘I’m not certain it would be entirely appropriate for me to tell you,’ she teased.  

‘Al right , Miss Cheshire Cat—keep your secrets.’  

Nancy relented.  ‘A detective, I gather.  I believe it has something to do with this weekend’s . . . adventures.’  

‘Adventures, indeed .  Is his name Morse?’  Audrey asked, her eyes aglow.  

‘That may have been the name I was given,’ Nancy said with an impish grin.  ‘She seemed quite happy to take the call.’ 

Kate’s door opened and she came out to greet her friend.  ‘I just came by to see how you’re feeling, darling,’ Audrey said, kissing the air next to Kate’s cheek.  ‘Nancy tells me the Collection’s due tonight?’  

Kate nodded, smiling absently.  ‘Yes, we’ll have to work late, I’m afraid.  But I’m not planning to trespass on your hospitality again tonight—I'll be alright at my place.’  

‘Alright.  Perhaps some hard work will help clear your head, right?  I’d volunteer to help, but I’d just make a muddle of it, I’m sure.  They barely let me borrow at the Faculty Library these days!’ 

‘Oh, Nan and I can manage just fine,’ Kate laughed.  ‘Sir Lawrence promised us some help, and I’ll put the Pinks to work as well!’  

‘Was that Sergeant Morse on the telephone?’ Audrey asked casually.  

‘Yes, it was,’ Kate could not contain her smile.  ‘He called to tell me they’ve arrested the man who attacked me!  His own sister turned him in, believe it or not.  I may not even have to go to court if he confesses.’  

‘Oh, that’s wonderful! ’’ Audrey gushed, ‘You must be so relieved! ’’  Even Nan joined in the felicitations.  ‘And what else did our Heathcliff have to say?’  

Kate tried to subdue her grin, bringing out the dimple in her cheek.  ‘He’s not Heathcliff.  And he just asked how I was feeling, same as you.’  

‘Mm- hmm .’  Audrey blinked at Kate expectantly.  Nancy had decorously turned back to her desk but was clearly listening nonetheless, uselessly shuffling some papers around.  

‘He may have asked if I was free for dinner,’ Kate admitted, glancing towards the ceiling.  

‘Ah!’   

‘Which I’m not.’  

‘You turned him down?  Oh, poor chap!’  

‘I didn’t exactly!  I mean—I told him I’m busy this week, which is true!  The Collection’s coming, we have to do a complete inventory—and I told Sir Lawrence I’d go to his house for dinner tomorrow.’  

‘Oh, dinner with the Mallorys,’ Audrey rolled her eyes.  ‘That should be very . . . satisfying .’  

‘Ha, ha.  Anyway, I don’t know why you should care so much—you haven’t even met him.’  

‘That’s true, darling, my concern is entirely for you.  It’s you who lights up every time he’s mentioned.’  

‘I do not.’  

‘Do so .  Nancy, back me up—you saw her chatting with our hero—have you ever seen her smile more?’  

Nancy, ever the discreet employee, demurred, ‘I’m not sure I noticed.’  

‘Fibber, you did so!  Well, suit yourself, Kate, darling, but what about tonight?  Michael’s attending some in comprehensible physics lecture this evening and I’m all alone.  Let me take you to Chez André before the Collection arrives.’  

‘Alright, but it will have to be early.  I need to be back here by seven or so.’  

‘Done.  Nan, won’t you join us?  My treat.’  

‘Oh, Mrs. Hartley, that’s awfully kind of you, but I’m afraid I can’t.  I, um, I already have dinner plans actually.’  Nancy was staring determinedly at her desk.  

‘Ah, a hero of your own?’  

‘Maybe,’ Nancy blushed.  

‘See , Kate, everyone loves a lover.’  Audrey took hold of her handbag resting on the counter and started to go.  ‘Well, ta-ta, dears!  Oh, wait, I almost forgot!’  She turned back to Kate, saying, ‘Our gowns are ready, my dear.  Can you come to London, Friday afternoon?  We could spend the night, maybe?  See a show?’  

‘Oh, yes, that sounds lovely.’  

‘Wonderful!   Well, I’ll be back later—no need to dress, Kate!’  She swept from the room.  

After Audrey had left, Kate asked Nancy about her date, but she was not forthcoming with details.  ‘Just someone I know from London—he happens in be in town.’  

‘You’ll be back in time for the Pinks?’ 

‘Oh, yes, of course.’  The girl was still blushing under her pretty blonde bob, and excused herself to make tea and avoid further inquiries.  A few minutes later she returned with a tray, perfectly composed.  

Kate sipped at her cup thoughtfully before asking, ‘Nan, can you teach me how to make tea properly?’  

‘You don’t know how to make tea?’  

Kate shrugged.  ‘It’s all bags in the U.S.’  

‘Dreadful,’ Nan said coolly.  ‘Yes, I could teach you how to make tea properly.’  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Chez André was sparsely patronized at such an early hour of a weekday, but the food was delicious, the wine superb, and Audrey seemed to know the entire staff and clientele.  

They chatted about work and their upcoming trip to London, and, after two glasses of wine had loosened their tongues, Audrey asked, ‘Why are you so reluctant to start seeing this Morse character?  You seem to like him—you said he’s clever and sweet, so what’s the trouble?’  

‘I told you, I—it’s not the right time for that.  I just ended a relationship recently—well, a few months ago, anyway.  It—it was a long time coming, but . . . well, unpleasant, to say the least.’  

And so, over a third and fourth glass of wine, she found herself telling Audrey—in broad sketches, anyway—about Tom.  Not everything, of course—there were only three people on earth who knew all the details of their final denouement—Tom wasn’t even one of them—and it was still at least one person too many for Kate’s liking.  

Audrey was very supportive, clucking disdainfully at all the right moments and offering the occasional ‘ Beastly ,’ or ‘Bastard! ’’ when appropriate.  When Kate had finished, Audrey shook her head, ‘Yeesh, a rake!—like a Richardson villain!’ 

‘I never read any.’  

‘No?  You should.  Hmm, Lovelace, I think, from Clarissa— start with Clarissa .’  Audrey pointed at Kate as though she were assigning reading.  

Kate chuckled.  ‘I always thought of him more like—Henry Crawford from Mansfield , I suppose.  Or Rodolphe Boulanger,’ she sneered.  

‘ Quelle horreur! ’’ Audrey grimaced.  ‘ That bad?  We have to resort to the French ?  Well , darling,’ she mused, sighing, ‘Helen Gurley Brown says we all need to weather one or two Don Juans in our time, but I’m glad you’re shot of him!  And it’s all the more reason to take on someone new, I would have thought.  Cleanse the palette, so to speak.’  

With a closed smile, Kate admitted, ‘The palette has been cleansed, as you so delicately put it.  But I’m just not ready for anything new right now.’  

‘Hmm.  Well, you’ll need a date for the Gala, I should think.’  

‘Why?’  

‘It promises to be a very posh affair—my uncle tells me the Earl of Clarendon may make an appearance, so everyone will be there.  If you’re unaccompanied, you’ll be mobbed— especially in that gorgeous gown we got you.  And the unmarried dons are quite insufferable, almost as a rule!  Real ‘eligibles-but-who- needs -them,’ she said with a laugh.  ‘I could set you up with someone, of course—my friend David, maybe?  He dances ex quisitely, and you know, he’s a homosexual, so there won’t be any awkward misunderstandings at the end of the night.’  

‘No, thanks, I’d rather go stag.  Although—’  She thought about it.  She was already nervous about this event—Sir Lawrence had told her she’d be making a speech—and a companion might help calm her nerves.  ‘Ask me again next week,’ she hedged.  

‘Then again,’ Audrey continued, ‘it might be nice to have someone more town than gown by your side.’  

Kate rolled her eyes and grinned.  ‘Com’on, let’s go—I've got to be back soon.’  

As they were leaving, the real dinner crowd was just trickling in, and Audrey had to stop and say hello to a couple of people.  Kate was introduced to a colleague of hers from Lady Matilda’s and an older couple whom she knew through Michael’s family.  As they were ushered through the door by a uniformed attendant, who was smiling shyly at Kate, Audrey was spotted by another acquaintance. 

‘Why, Mrs. Hartley!’ she was greeted by a short but distinguished-looking gentleman of later years with glasses and greying sandy hair.  ‘How nice to see you here—I don’t believe we’ve met since last spring—Unmarried Mothers, wasn’t it?’  

‘Mr. Bright!  Yes, I believe you’re right, though it’s hard to keep track of Mother’s causes these days.  How are you?’  

‘Oh, fine, fine.’  

‘And Mrs. Bright?’ Audrey’s face softened into concern.  ‘How is she?’  

The man gave a tense smile.  ‘She has good days and bad.  She’s in London now, at Princess Grace, for treatment.’  

‘I see.  Please do give her my best, won’t you?’  She pursed her lips sympathetically.  

‘Of course.  May I be introduced to your friend?’  

‘Oh, yes, of course.’  Audrey pushed Kate out in front of her.  ‘Mr. Bright, may I present Dr. Katherine DeAngelis, my new friend from America.  Kate, this is Chief Superintendent Reginald Bright of the Oxford Police.’  

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Kate smiled, shaking his hand, trying to ignore Audrey’s pointed look.  

‘Doctor, you say?’ asked Mr. Bright with interest.  

‘Oh, just an academic, sir, please don’t call me that!’ she demurred.  ‘If someone has a heart attack, call someone else!’  

Her joke made him laugh—men were always laughing at her jokes—and Audrey jumped in.  ‘It’s actually quite a coincidence running into you here, Mr. Bright—you see, Kate has just had occasion to meet one of your officers!’  

‘Oh?’ the gentleman looked amused.  ‘Nothing untoward, I hope.’  

‘Oh, no—’ Kate said, suddenly nervous.  ‘I—’ she started, but Audrey interrupted, ready to steer the conversation her way.  

‘Kate fell victim to an attack last Friday, Mr. Bright—I'm sure you know all about it—a man was killed, I understand,’ she pointed out, her eyebrows raised.  

‘Ah, yes—the Cartwright case.  That was you, my dear?’  Kate nodded with an awkward smile.  ‘Oh, I am sorry you’ve had such an ordeal, Miss DeAngelis.  I do hope it hasn’t coloured your opinion of our fair city too much.’  

‘Not at all, sir.’  She shook her head, feeling embarrassed.  

‘Oh, no , not at all! ’’ agreed Audrey.  ‘She was treated most kindly by your subordinates, weren’t you, darling?’  

‘Yes,’ Kate murmured.  She could see where this was going.  

‘Excellent, that’s good to hear.’ said Mr. Bright.  ‘And I can tell you that the villain was apprehended at last!  Just this afternoon.’  

‘Oh, we know!’ Audrey continued, her eyes wide.  ‘Yes, one of your officers was kind enough to telephone, right, Kate?’  She had a vice grip on Kate’s elbow to prevent escape.  ‘What was his name?  Morse, wasn’t it?’  She blinked at Mr. Bright expectantly.  

‘Ah, yes, Detective Sergeant Morse.  One of my best and brightest, my dear.  It’s he who found the assailant out.’  

‘Oh, yes?’ Audrey pressed him.  

‘Oh, yes!  A fine officer.  Very fine, indeed.  Brave, honest, clever as they come.’  The pride was evident in his voice.  

‘Oh, my,’ Audrey purred, looking deliberately at Kate, who tried not to smile.  

‘You know, he saved my life once.’  Mr. Bright smiled at the memory.  

‘ Really ?’ Audrey crooned, hand to her chest.  ‘How— heroic!   Isn’t it, Kate?’  She turned to her companion, who tried to affect a disinterested shrug, her voice caught in her throat.  

‘Indeed!’ Mr. Bright agreed.  ‘Yes, quite the hero, actually.  Awarded the George Medal a few years ago—“ Services to the Realm ”—though I’m afraid I cannot divulge the specifics.’  

‘ Gracious .’  Audrey was sincerely impressed.  ‘Well, Mr. Bright, I must say, it’s wonderful to know we have such stalwart protectors at the gate!’  She smiled warmly at Mr. Bright, then continued, ‘But we won’t keep you from your dinner any longer.  Lovely to see you again, though.  Do take care.’  

‘Yes, yes, delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss DeAngelis.  Good night, ladies.’  

Audrey was silent as they drove back to the Library, smiling smugly the whole time.  

♦ V. ♦ 

A little while later, as darkness descended, Kate stood at the edge of Radcliffe Square with Nancy and Sir Lawrence, ready to supervise the arrival and take receipt of the prestigious Milford Collection.  With them was the head of Bodleian security, a Mr. Ward, as well as two University constables.  She took a deep breath to settle her nerves, glad she’d had some liquid courage with dinner.  

The truck pulled to a halt, and as the driver climbed out of the cab, Kate caught the gleam of a firearm at his side.  Agent Blevins was the captain of the operation, older, austere in dress and manner.  He stepped forward to greet Kate, who introduced him to Sir Lawrence and Mr. Ward, all the men nodding stiffly.  They were joined by Agent Carter, a wiry man with long reddish sideburns, at the back of the truck, where Blevins opened the padlocked hatch.  Lounging atop one of the crates inside was the third man, Agent Lloyd, who gave a three-fingered salute as he rose, and smiled broadly when he stepped down and saw Kate standing on the pavement.  She remembered him from before—the roguish grin, the lingering looks.  She greeted him with a polite nod and a small smile.  He was attractive in a familiar, raffish sort of way, with dark hair and broad shoulders.  

The transfer went smoothly, though Blevins insisted that only his agents could off-load the crates from the truck, so it took longer than was strictly necessary.  After all the crates were safely stowed in the Bodleian vault, Mr. Ward shook Agent Blevins’ hand, unofficially taking charge of the Collection’s security, though the Pinkertons wouldn’t leave until Kate signed off on the inventory. 

Kate breathed a sigh of relief as the vault slammed closed—the tension of this impending arrival had weighed on her more than she’d let herself acknowledge.  In her worst imaginings, she’d feared the Collection would be lost—a storm at sea, a fiery crash—and she was grateful the anticipation was over.  She had so much invested in this Collection—so many emotions wrapped up with the delicate parchment pieces, such devotion tucked between the leather bindings of the ancient books.  There in those crates was Doc Milford—her patron, her friend, her father in so many ways, lost so recently—and, in some ways, bits and pieces of her own father, lost so long ago.  She’d seen it safely home, to where it belonged, where Doc had wanted it.  She suddenly felt so light and at ease that she readily accepted Agent Lloyd’s invitation to join him and his colleagues for a celebratory nightcap.  Maybe I do need a palette cleanser , she thought.  

But appealing as he was, Agent Lloyd was not what she was looking for.  Freed from the constraints of duty, these were rough men, prone to coarseness and complaining.  Agents Blevins and Carter seemed to resent being in England, griping about the beer and the weather.  ‘Why the hell do these assholes drive on the wrong side of the fuckin’ road?’ Agent Carter moaned—evidently they’d had a bad drive up from London.  

‘Well, I’m not sure it’s the wrong side,’ Kate tried to explain.  ‘It dates back to Roman times, actually, when you had to keep your sword hand free.’  She thought they might relate to the need to face oncoming strangers with the dominant hand, but they ignored her.  

‘Well, it’s not the fuckin’ right side,’ Captain Blevins grumbled loudly, and Agent Carter responded with uproarious laughter.  She realized with chagrin that, although she was technically their employer until all the papers were signed, these men had no respect for her, her position, or her intellect.  They didn’t care that she could speak six languages or had earned a doctorate and a master’s in less than four years.  They wouldn’t be interested in hearing her piano repertoire or reading her master’s thesis on the music of Pierre Abélard, much less her dissertation on descriptive language for cataloging illustrations, which had won her an award and a brief national renown.  People never expected her to be more than a pretty face.  Sometimes they were confused by her intelligence, unable to reconcile brains with beauty.  Thinking about it made her angry.  

She suddenly regretted her decision to come, and sipped her gin and tonic quickly, the faster to make her excuses.  

Agent Lloyd behaved better, of course, but only because he wanted to flirt with her.  Just to be friendly, she tried to make conversation; he had bought her a drink.  ‘It must be nice to be finished with your assignment.’  

He reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, nodding.  ‘It is,’ he admitted, offering one to her.  ‘It’s nice to see you again, too.’  He did have a winning smile, but she refused the smoke.  ‘These two aren’t the best company.’  He shifted to block the other agents out of their conversation, lighting his cigarette and setting it in the ashtray.  ‘But I’ll be here a few more days, right?  We should get to know each other.’  He leaned close.  

Oh, boy.  ‘You think so?’ she smiled archly.  She knew his type—audacious and bold, used to being found charming.  

‘I do.’  He picked up his cigarette and took a drag, eyeing her.  

‘And what makes you so special, Agent Lloyd?  

‘Please—call me Tony.’  He blew his smoke toward the ceiling through smiling lips.  

‘Alright.  Call me Kate.’  

‘It’s Antonio, actually,’ he continued, leaning on the table.  ‘My real name’s Siringo.’  

‘Your real name?’  

He shrugged.  ‘You know how it is—your name ends in a vowel, everybody thinks you’re mobbed up.  My line of work—that’s not great, so I use my mom’s name.’  

‘Ah,’ she nodded.  

‘So—DeAngelis, huh?  Well, there’s no vowel, but, uh—where are your people from?’  

She sighed.  The banal conversation of the American hyphenate.  It was strange, her countrymen’s urge to classify, since the categories had no real meaning beyond basic tribalism—grouped by heritage, yet more and more divorced from it.  Rootless cultures, adrift from history.  Very proud they might be of their Roman noses, but they had no interest in Roman history — in Virgil or Tacitus or Marcus Aurelius—as though the story of Italy began on the boat over.  Although fleeing as most were from crushing poverty and horrific violence, it made sense to draw a veil over the past.  Her Nonna had been the same way.  She hardly ever spoke of the Old Country, and when she had it was in distant, mythic terms—curses, feuds, monsters.  

And yet what had changed, in the new neighborhood, that was so radically different from the old?  New language, new climate, new continent.  But she’d seen enough on her weekend visits, seen the men in sharp suits and dark glasses during Mass at Holy Guardian Angel.  She’d asked her grandmother who they were, but got no answer—Nonna only pursed her lips, nostrils flaring.  It was Rosalie who had leaned over in the pew, whispering, ‘ Camorristi, ’ a word she’d never heard before.  Her grandmother and uncles were always on edge, caught as they were between the Outfit on one hand and Mayor Daley on the other—like Scylla and Charybdis, Vesuvius and the sea.  And now the neighborhood was all but gone—the Church demolished, the grocery closed, her relatives scattered.  Another veil drawn over another past.  

‘My father’s family came from Salerno,’ she relented.  ‘Yours?’  

‘Piedmont.  Chicago, born and bred, though.  You?’  

She tilted her head, considering.  She was already bored of this conversation, but tempted to trifle with him a little longer.  So she gave him a coy little half smile, purring, ‘ Press’a poco.’   

‘Mmm, you speak Italian?’ he grinned.  

‘ Si.’  She let her eyes get wide.  ‘Parlo molte lingue.’   

‘Brava, bellisima.’   

Kate laughed.  ‘So will you visit la Madrepatria , now you’re in the Old World?’  

He laughed incredulously.  ‘Nah, I’ll leave Europe to the Europeans.  I can’t wait to get back home.’  He continued, excitement in his voice, ‘The Cubs are really gonna do it this year—I’m telling ya, Santo’s on fire!’  

He couldn’t understand her desire to steep herself in history, to dig at the roots of the family tree, to understand where she came from, and maybe find something of herself in the process.  She couldn’t wait to visit her grandmothers’ respective homelands.  Ireland she might be able to manage sooner, Italy would have to wait until after her appointment was over.  But this man was not even curious about his own history, much less anyone else’s.  

And now here she was, in this ancient seat of learning, thousands of miles from Taylor Street, listening to Antonio Siringo from Roseland Heights talk baseball—it wouldn’t do.  

‘Too bad you’re stuck here, huh?’ he laughed, as her silence continued.  

‘I just got here,’ she snapped.  ‘I haven’t even started my work, I’m not going anywhere.’  She gulped the rest of her drink.  ‘Except now I’m going home.’  It was getting late and she was getting cross.  She picked up her jacket and reached for her bag.  

Tony seized her wrist and she winced, but he didn’t seem to notice.  ‘Oh, com’on,’ he cajoled with a smile.  ‘Stay for another.’  

‘I’ve got work tomorrow,’ she insisted, twisting painfully out of his grasp.  ‘I’ve got to get started on that inventory if you’re ever going to get out of here, right?’  She rose, murmuring next to his ear, ‘ Grazie per la bevanda.’   He watched her walk out of the pub, his mouth twisted with disappointment.  

Once outside, Kate drew a deep breath of night air, breathed out slowly.  It was late, and although Sir Lawrence had told them not to worry about being back at the Library early, she did want to make a start on the inventory.  And she had a sudden longing for her own space, her own bed, new as it was.  But at this hour there was not a taxi to be found, even here in the city center.  

Sighing, she resigned herself to walking home.  She was certain she knew the way, and the distance was nothing—Britons seemed to have no perspective of near and far.  The road from Oskaloosa to Chicago was half the length of England, for heavens’ sake.  And she could use the space to think.  

She’d been colder than necessary, she knew, and now felt a little guilty for it.  After all, Tony Lloyd wasn’t so bad.  Kate knew a dozen boys just like him back home—arrogant and insouciant, but mostly harmless.  And the Cubs were having a terrific year, though she had no doubt they would break many hearts before the season was over—they always did.  And though Audrey didn’t think she was the sort, Kate had broken a few hearts over the years.  

Maybe I am Estella Havisham , she thought, made for cruelty, with ice in place of my heart .  Or the Princess Turandot— La principessa di gelo— ice that inspired fire, fire that turned her to ice.  

And what was the Prince’s name in Turnadot?   The one who broke through the ice?  She couldn’t remember— il principe ignoto .  He’d revealed it at the end, thrown himself on the Princess’ mercy— Oh, what was it?   

She was just crossing the river when she heard a car approaching, in that eerie way sound seems to travel in the dark.  Having seen little traffic as yet, she felt a flush of alarm—especially isolated as she was here on the bridge.  She hadn’t completely shed the uneasiness brought on by the probable search of her trunks, and had momentary visions of murderous thieves, brigands set on kidnapping or worse.  Damn Audrey and her gothic novels .  

When the vehicle started to slow, she had a sudden urge to run—but where?  Then she saw, despite the flat light of late night, that the car was red—a Jaguar—with a license plate she recognized.  She stopped.  Sighing, she looked out onto the dark water below her.  There was a thin quiver of mist floating just above the surface. 

Of course, she thought.  Our hero.  The nameless suitor.   

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

If she hadn’t been on the bridge, he might have missed her.  But silhouetted against the emptiness of the Isis, he saw her, recognized her, slowed down.  

He felt decidedly foolish for rashly asking her out earlier.  He hadn’t meant to—he’d only called to tell her about Ellis being captured.  He just thought she’d like to know—as soon as possible.  She’d been happy to hear the news—he could hear her smile through the telephone, and her melodious laughter had filled him with an overwhelming desire to see her again, and a dinner invitation had slipped out.  He was not good at this sort of thing.  

At least she hadn’t said no exactly, just not now .  Or maybe she was just being polite.  Letting him down easy.  Regardless, he was embarrassed and, after her abrupt dismissal of him last night, uncertain of his reception.  

But he couldn’t drive past her, walking alone at this late hour, so far from home.  

He watched her in the rearview.  She hesitated, but he could tell she recognized the car.  She looked out over the river, her face illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the water.  'She walks in beauty, like the night,’ the lines came, unwittingly, to mind.  ‘Of cloudless climes and starry skies.’  

After a moment she started forward again, drawing level with the car.  She leant over, her face appearing in the window, dark hair falling in a curtain.  Her expression was puzzling, mouth tight but eyes aglow—it could have been anywhere between annoyance and amusement.  ‘Would you like a lift?’ he asked.  She nodded.  He leaned over and pushed open the door.  

She climbed in with a murmured, ‘Thanks,’ and he pulled away.  There was a curious half smile about her lips, but he couldn’t interpret it and it only made him more self-conscious.  ‘And all that's best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes. ’  He didn’t even like Byron.  

After some minutes of silence, he spoke—he couldn’t help himself.  ‘You probably shouldn’t be walking by yourself—this time of night.’  He had tried to convince himself her trunks had been searched by Cartwright, if only so he could close the case without any loose ends, but the explanation didn’t satisfy him.  He hadn’t mentioned anything about it in his case notes, justifying to himself that it wasn’t a reliable report—which he felt guilty about.  

‘It’s a good thing you came along then,’ she replied softly.  ‘I couldn’t find a cab.’  

‘Why are you out so late?’  He didn’t mean to sound petulant, but remembered she said she was busy, too busy for dinner.  

‘I told you, the Collection came in tonight.’  

‘Oh, yes, of course.’  Of course.   ‘Did that—did everything go alright?’  

‘Yeah,’ she said with a nodding shrug.  ‘So far, so good.’  She didn’t elaborate, and they descended into silence again—a thick, deafening silence that pressed on him uncomfortably, filling his lungs like a fog.  

She must have felt it too, and eventually stuttered out, ‘And you—um, have you—you've been at work this whole time?’  

‘Oh—yes.  The arrest—’ he trailed off, glancing at her.  She didn’t want to hear about their interrogation of Joseph Ellis.  It was clear he was guilty, but he had little incentive to confess.  It hadn’t been a fruitful day.  

‘Oh, right.’  She briefly squeezed her eyes shut before sighing, ‘I admit, it’s a relief to know he’s off the streets.  I probably wouldn’t be walking by myself if you hadn’t called!’  She cleared her throat and continued slowly, ‘Thank you for that, by the way.’  

‘Of course.’  

After a few more moments of oppressive silence, she suddenly turned to him, blurting out, ‘Do you remember the name of the prince in Turandot? ’ 

‘What?’  Where did that come from? he wondered.  

‘You know—the unknown prince.’  

‘Oh,’ he thought.  ‘Uh, it’s, erm—it’s Calaf.’  

‘Oh, right.  Calaf,’ she repeated.  

He frowned in confusion, glancing over at her.  ‘Why do you ask?’  

She shrugged.  ‘No reason—I just couldn’t remember.  I had a feeling you’d know.’  She was looking at him oddly, her head tilted to one side, and he was thankful they’d arrived at Blackbird Leys.  

He parked and walked with her to the door of her building, wondering if he’d be invited up.  She seemed distracted, fidgeting with her handbag and avoiding his eyes.  At the entrance she turned to him, her hand straying to the nape of her neck.  ‘I should probably say goodnight.’  She smiled at him, the dimple showing in her cheek, and ran her hand carelessly through her loose hair, dark and luxuriant.  

‘Goodnight, then.’  He briefly clenched his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to touch her—that hand, that hair, anything—instead finally reaching for the door handle, opening it for her.  

She took the door from him, holding it as she thanked him, again, for the ride.  

‘Of course.’  He returned her smile, nodded a farewell, and began to walk away, shoving his hands in his pockets again.  

He’d only gone a few steps when she said, ‘Morse?’ and he looked back.  She was leaning on the open door, hands behind her back.  She opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, her smile getting bigger.  ‘I wondered—I mean,’ she said haltingly.  ‘Um, the inventory will take a couple of days, but I thought maybe, if you wanted to come by the Library later—I could show you the Collection.  If you’re interested.’  

‘I am,’ he said, turning to face her.  Very interested.   

‘Friday afternoon, maybe?’ she suggested, shrugging.  Then with an enticing grin, she murmured, ‘I’ll let you touch the manuscripts.’  She bit into her bottom lip, boldly holding his gaze. 

He gave a gasp of nervous laughter, wondering if she was still just talking about parchment and vellum.  In the yellow light outside the building, her eyes glowed like a cat’s, and he felt very much like a mouse, caught in her stare.  The few feet that separated them seemed to stretch into miles and he longed to close the distance.  His fingers twitched inside his pockets.  Her lips parted becomingly and he could see her chest rise and fall with slow breaths as she waited for an answer.  ‘Who could refuse?’ he said finally, his voice hoarse with desire.  

‘Then I’ll see you Friday?’ she asked, smiling coyly.  

‘Alright,’ he agreed.  

‘Good.’  After a moment’s hesitation, she went on, whispering, ‘See you then.’  

She stepped into the building and let the door close behind her.  He watched her through the darkened window as she climbed the stairs, knowing she couldn’t see him from the lighted side, staring shamelessly at her swinging hips and long legs.  When her shoes disappeared around the turn of the staircase, he turned and started for home.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Meanwhile, back in Radcliffe Square, a middle-aged man with dark hair and sharp eyes waits in the darkness clinging to the sides of the Camera. He’s been loitering for some time, unnoticed, slipping skillfully between shadows and watching.  He’s seen the assembled party awaiting the arrival of Milford’s Collection, recognized Larry Mallory and the girl who must be Frank’s daughter.  He’s observed the appearance of the Pinkertons—counted one, two, three armed agents.  He’s watched as his quarry is offloaded into the depths of the Library, helpless to intervene.  And now it is past midnight, and he’s restless and ill-tempered.  At long last, he is joined by another man, features obscured by shadow, whose discomfort is apparent in his shaking hands as he lights up a cigarette.  ‘Well?’ he asks the newcomer, testily.   

♦ 
 

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Chrysography  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

In a modest flat, the operative sits waiting on the telephone, fingers drumming impatiently on the table.   

Finally, the call is answered.  ‘Yes, I need to speak with Colonel Wallis, please.  Code name Charlie.’  After a pause, ‘Yes, like the Checkpoint.  Very clever.’  Charlie’s voice drips with sarcasm.  ‘The Colonel?’   

More waiting; more drumming.   

Then an abrupt answer: ‘What do you have?’  Wallis wastes no time with niceties.  ‘Did you find it?’   

‘No, sir, not exactly.  But I think I’ve found the breadcrumbs.’   

Once the facts have been spelled out, Wallis agrees.  ‘Good, good—yes, that sounds like him.  But what about the message?’   

Charlie frowns.  ‘Whereabouts unknown, sir.’   

‘Well, that doesn’t do me much good.’   

‘Yes, sir, I know that.’  A pause.  ‘I’ll find it.’  How is another matter.  ‘I’m sending you photos of the pertinents,’ Charlie continues.  ‘You should have them soon.  And I think you can expect a visitor in the next few days.’   

Wallis snorts.  ‘Yeah, I figured.’  He hesitates, then asks, ‘What is it?’   

Charlie smirks.  ‘You don’t want to be surprised?’   

‘As a rule—no.’   

A small smile before telling him, ‘Venetsianskiy Kupets.’  

‘Jesus, not you too.  Forget it—is there anything else?’   

Charlie hesitates for a moment.  ‘Well, sir—this policeman might be a problem.’   

‘What do you mean?  I thought that was all cleared up—nothing to do with us.’   

‘Yes, but—he’s still, well, in the picture.  And I’ve been warned he can be quite the thorn.’   

‘Warned?  By who?’   

Charlie’s teeth clench at the Colonel’s solecism.  ‘Erm, a colleague, of sorts—works under Colonel Doleman.’   

‘Doleman?’   

‘Yes, do you know him?’   

‘Hmph, by reputation, anyway—though I think we met at Annenberg’s reception.’   

‘Mm, yes.  Well, his man had some dealings with this Morse character a few years back, found him to be . . . inconveniently tenacious.  Ran afoul of the Old Lady at Special Branch, as well, last year.’  

‘Oh, great.  Can’t you get rid of him?   

A pause before Charlie responds, eyebrows raised, ‘Sir?’   

‘No, no, that’s not what I meant—Jesus.  I mean—can't you put him off?’   

‘Well that’s what I’m trying to say, sir—he's not likely to be put off.  Especially since—I mean, I believe he’s taken a shine.’   

‘Oh, Christ, that’s just what we need.  Can’t you put her off, then?   

Charlie pauses, teeth gritted.  ‘That’s not really my remit, sir.  But I suppose I can try.’  Once again, the how is not readily apparent.  'If I had some sort of diversion . . . ’   

Wallis snorts.  ‘Yeah, where’s Eva Marie Saint when you need her?’   

‘I was thinking more Cary Grant.’   

‘Yeah, no kidding.’   

‘Anyone with a title on payroll?  That might work wonders.’   

Wallis snorts.  ‘Unlikely.’   

‘Better make it a hometown hero, then.’   

A sigh.  ‘I’ll see what I can scare up.’   

After a moment’s consideration, Charlie has an idea.  ‘Actually, sir, I think I know just the man, if you can find him.’   

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

♦ I. ♦ 

The next few days were a blur of activity.  Each and every one of the one-hundred seventy-nine items had to be accounted for and checked for damage as it came out of the crates and into the flat files where the Collection was to be housed.  Kate and Nancy worked tirelessly on the inventory, Nancy even staying late Wednesday evening while Kate rushed out to dine with the Mallorys. 

She’d been looking forward to meeting Beryl Mallory for some time and was keen to make a good impression, but had to rush through a make-shift toilette in the employee bathroom.  In the end, however, her hasty ablutions probably didn’t make a lick of difference.  Lady Mallory was Reserve Incarnate—irreproachably polite but utterly unreadable.  She graciously accepted Milford’s gift but revealed nothing in return, barely admitting she knew him, saying vaguely, ‘Oh, yes, we worked together briefly, I believe, but we didn’t mingle.  It wasn’t encouraged , you know, and the Americans were always a very tight-knit group.’  Kate hadn’t learned anything, and had gone home disappointed.  

She and Nan finished up late on Thursday, with only minimal interruptions from the impatient Pinkertons.  Tony Lloyd made a couple of fresh passes at Kate, but she deflected them firmly and politely, and eventually he stopped trying.  The final papers were signed, and Kate said goodbye to Agent Blevins and the others, shaking hands all around, and smiling graciously at the wink Tony gave her as they left the Library for good.  

‘Whew!’ she breathed as the door to the Division closed behind them, and she was finally able to roll her eyes freely.  Miss Perry was already filling their copies of the completed documents away in a file cabinet.  ‘I’m glad that’s over!’  

‘That’s only job number one, of course,’ Nan replied, pushing the drawer closed with satisfaction. 

‘Oh, don’t I know it!’ Kate laughed.  ‘It’ll be good to make a start on that, I think—at least have a plan of attack—before the weekend.’  They started to gather their things, Kate filling a bag with a few of her own volumes that had traveled alongside the Collection.  

‘You’re going to London with Mrs. Hartley, right?’ Nan said as they began to make their way through the building.  ‘That should be fun.’  

‘Oh, God!’ Kate gasped, stopping suddenly, hand to her mouth.  

‘What is it?’  Nan turned back, concerned.  

‘I forgot!’ Kate said through her fingers.  ‘I invited—that policeman—to see the Collection tomorrow.’ 

‘The Pinkerton?  He seems quite debonair, I must say.’  

‘No, not him!’ she snorted.  ‘You know—from last week.  Geez, was that only last week?’  She shook her head in disbelief, rubbing her forehead.  ‘The one who called, remember?  Morse.’  She tried not to smile too broadly.  

Nan looked doubtful.  ‘What does a policeman want with the Collection?’ she tsked and started towards the exit again.  

‘He’s not just a policeman, Nancy.  He’s an Oxford man.’  

Nancy looked askance at Kate as they stepped into the courtyard, scoffing, ‘He was rusticated, wasn’t he?  Now he gads about the University, nabbing pickpockets?  Hardly a catch, I would have thought.’  

‘I’m not sure that’s fair.’  

‘Mmm, perhaps not.  Anyway—sorry, I have to dash—Goodnight!’  

‘See you tomorrow,’ Kate replied with a wave, heading toward Radcliffe Square.  ‘Goodnight!’  

On the bus ride home, Kate began to wonder if Morse would even remember her invitation.  They’d never set a time, specifically—she hadn’t even seen him since she made the offer outside her building.  And maybe Nan was right—how interested could he be in bits of parchment hundreds of years old?  Not many were, really, and he wasn’t a scholar.  

Back at Blackbird Leys, Kate didn’t see Morse’s car parked anywhere, and wished she’d thought to leave a note earlier.  After eating a light supper and tidying up, she tried the number written on the back of his card, but there was no answer.  She flipped over the card, tapping a finger on the wall, and contemplated trying him at the police station—Castle Gate, it said.  But that seemed awfully presumptuous, and she hung up the telephone without dialing again.  

Instead she put on an Ashkenazy record and settled down to finish her novel, determined to learn the truth about Gipsy’s Acre and poor Ellie’s death—she, herself, was perhaps too inclined to give credence to curses, but that hardly seemed like a Christie device.  She stayed up too late reading the shocking ending and slept rather fitfully, waking full of nervous anticipation.  After dressing with some care, she left for the Library, munching a piece of toast.  

Mrs. Murphy ducked her head out as usual to wish her good morning— Does she just wait by the door listening for noises? Kate wondered—and inquire after her weekend plans.  ‘I’m going to London, actually—shopping and a show.’  Not that it’s any of your business , she added in her head. But she was grateful for her neighbor’s help in securing her belongings, so she put the annoyance aside.  

‘Away again?’ her neighbor pressed.  ‘You certainly don’t let the grass grow.’  

Kate smiled. ‘Well, I’m only here for a year, Mrs. Murphy, and there are so many things to see.’ 

‘Well, I’ll keep an eye on the place for you.’  Kate didn’t really know what her neighbor meant by that, but thanked her anyway before slipping away.  

Not long after lunch, Kate and Nancy were going over plans for the following week when Audrey appeared in Kate’s office to confirm their London excursion.  ‘I’ve got a tutorial at three, but I’ll chivvy the ninnies out on time for once.  I can meet you ‘round the Cam, let’s say, quarter of five?’  Kate agreed, and Audrey continued, eyeing her dress, ‘You look lovely today, my dear—that color’s spec tac ular on you.’  Kate had chosen an emerald-green A-line that showed off her figure and brought out her eyes.  

‘The policeman is expected,’ Nan interjected with a tart smile.  

‘Oh, really ?’ Audrey purred.  ‘No wonder, you sly thing.  Are you just toying with him, Miss Estella?  Or did Mr. Bright’s panegyrics melt that icy heart of yours?’  

Kate’s cheeks dimpled as she laughed, ‘Something like that, I suppose.’  In actuality, she’d decided it would be foolish to try and thwart Fate—it always won in the end, and she’d rather be led than dragged.  

‘And when does Heathcliff arrive?’  

Kate rolled her eyes and tried to stop smiling.  ‘Shouldn’t he be Pip?  If I’m Estella?’ she retorted.  ‘Anyway, he’s just coming to see the Collection.  He’s interested in music.’  

‘Oh, yes, I’m sure,’ Nan said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.  

‘He wants to see the Tallis,’ Kate insisted.  

‘Mm- hmm , the Tallis —it's so fascinating ,’ teased Audrey, examining her nails.  ‘Unless—he does like girls, doesn’t he?  Perhaps I should set him up with David.’  

‘Ha, ha.’  

‘But seriously, good on you for bringing him here,’ Audrey continued.  ‘You'll know right away whether he’s in tim idated by your brilliance.  It’s a problem, I’m sure you know.’   

‘I told you, he’s very smart, he won’t be intimidated.’  

‘Well, maybe not inte llect ually, darling, but sex ually, they always are.  You ’ll have to do the snogging,’ Audrey declared decisively.  

‘But try not to make any sudden movements—you’re liable to scare him off!’ giggled Nancy.  

At that moment a soft knock on the outer door alerted them to a visitor.  They turned as one to look out Kate’s door at the newcomer standing on the threshold.  

♦ II. ♦ 

The abrupt cessation of feminine laughter, coupled with the looks of surprise on their faces left Morse in little doubt that he was interrupting an intimate conversation, likely about him.  Uneasy and a little annoyed, he stood in the outer office as Kate pushed past the others, rushing out to greet him and trying to cover the awkwardness with her movie-star smile.  She was looking really lovely in a deep green that made her eyes leap out of her face.  

‘Hi!’ she said breathlessly, brushing hair behind her ear.  ‘I—I wasn’t sure you remembered.’  

‘I did,’ he shrugged.  ‘I hope it’s not inconvenient—I got off work early,’ he managed, his hand straying up to tug on his ear.  He’d arranged specifically to get off work early, but she didn’t need to know that.  

‘Oh, no, not at all,’ she assured him, her eyes widening.  ‘I, um, I’ve pulled out some of the pieces you might like to see.’  Her smile was so entrancing, but he was embarrassed by the presence of strangers watching them.  She turned around to make flustered introductions of the woman in academic dress whom he’d seen in the hallway the other night—Professor Hartley—and Kate’s secretary, Miss Perry.    

‘This is Detective Morse,’ she finished.  He nodded to her companions.  The secretary quickly excused herself and scurried away, but Mrs. Hartley held out her hand with an imperious smile.  

‘You can call me Audrey,’ she said as they shook hands.  ‘Enchanté, Detective. ’   

‘Indeed.’  He smiled politely, though he didn’t like her sort.  Pretentious, snobbish, too involved with the life of the University, whose society had never accepted him.  

Kate turned to her friend, murmuring, ‘Weren’t you running late, Audrey?’  

‘Oh, yes! ’’ she exclaimed after a pause, glancing at Kate.  She took up her handbag from the desk and continued in an artificial tone, ‘Yes, I’m on my way to a lecture.’  She turned sharply to Morse.  ‘On Wuthering Heights— have you read it?’  He nodded with a small shrug.  ‘And what is your opinion on the character of Heathcliff?’ Audrey asked with that piercing, inquisitive gaze only summoned by practiced instructors.  ‘Is he a hero or a villain?’  

‘Do you need help with your lecture?’ he returned.  

‘Ha!’  Audrey threw back her head with a laugh.  ‘No, no—thank you, Sergeant, I’ll muddle through!’  She held out her hand again, and he took it automatically.  ‘Well, it is nice to meet you, Mr. . . Morse, isn’t it?  Like the code?’ 

‘Yes—it’s nice to meet you, too.’  

But she didn’t let go of his hand, gripping it fast, her narrow, probing look back.  ‘Lonsdale, Kate said—is that right?’  

He nodded.  He knew where this was going.  Oxford is full of spies.   

‘Ah.’  She smiled, releasing his hand.  ‘Well, toodle-oo, Cathy ,’ she called over her shoulder to Kate.  ‘I’ll see you later.’  She flounced out of the room, leaving him alone with Kate.  

She was looking a little embarrassed, and they stood in awkward silence for a moment.  ‘I hope I haven’t come at a bad time,’ he tried.  

‘No,’ she shook her head with a grin.  ‘I’m glad you came.  I thought maybe you’d change your mind.’  

He thrust his hands into his pockets, saying, ‘I couldn’t resist.’  And indeed he couldn’t.  The idea of her had imprinted itself deep in his mind, and he’d spent much of the last few days wrestling with his desire to see her, have her.  He’d been distracted at work, replaying their few interactions over in his head—though thankfully there wasn’t much to be distracted from this week.  He’d even had time to dig further into who might have searched her things, though so far he’d come up short.  The apprentice Georgie had sworn up and down it hadn’t been him, and Davies hadn’t been able to account for the luggage beyond Liverpool.  He’d gone as far as tracking down the Pinkerton agent in charge of the Collection, who seemed confused by his questions but assured him they’d met with no undue trouble during transport.  

But he couldn’t forget her, couldn’t even pretend, so there had been no question of his attendance today.  And he knew full well that his turmoil was at least half fear—dread of the pain and regret he’d risk in a romantic entanglement.  These things didn’t end well for him.  But now he was here, close enough to smell her perfume, and her bright smile seemed to make him feel dizzy.  

She gestured to a side door, saying, ‘Well, it’s all through here.’  She ushered him into a small room, where wooden cabinets of short, wide drawers rose to shoulder height along one wall.  There was a tall work table, a small card catalog, and a couple of desks equipped with typewriters, index cards stacked neatly beside them.  The air in the room felt cool and strangely still, and she explained that humidity controls helped protect the fragile artifacts.  ‘It’s all very fancy,’ she laughed. 

She’d laid out twenty-odd items of interest on the tables, including the Tallis—a hand-drafted manuscript signed ‘T. Tallys ’ in a flourished hand across the bottom of the last page.  The text, a paean to the Virgin Mary, was in English, not Latin as he’d expected, which she agreed made it even more singular—a strange, hybrid piece from a strange, turbulent time.  She showed him printed copies of Tallis’ and Byrd’s 1575 Cantiones and Nicholas Younge’s Musica Transalpina.   And several leaves of illuminated parchment in varying sizes—probably separated from their bindings in the late eighteenth-century, she said—whose beauty took his breath away.  There were gorgeous gilt initials, some inhabited by elaborate scenes and portraits, millefleurs wrought in vivid blues and greens, and funny little drolleries of musicians, angels, and animals.  She was especially proud of a lavishly illustrated book of troubadour songs, which she told him had been made right here in Oxford, not long after the plague years, when people began to demand secular music after drifting away from the Church.  There was also a tenor partbook from Peterhouse College in Cambridge—‘They’re after this one,’ she confided with a mischievous smile, ‘but I won’t let it go.’  

She was as good as her word, and let him touch the pieces, though only after donning soft cotton gloves to protect the delicate material.  She explained the different notation styles present across the pieces, and taught him how to read the square neumes on their four-line staves.  He was impressed by the depth of her knowledge as much as the beauty of the artifacts—to say nothing of the beauty standing next to him, which he found somewhat distracting.  

There were a couple of moments—a lingering look, a trailing finger—when he thought about kissing her.  Or, more precisely, thought about pushing her against the flat files, plunging his hands into her hair, and devouring her.  But that seemed an indecorous manoeuvre under the best of circumstances, never mind while wearing pristine white gloves, so he put the thought aside as best he could.  

‘Oh, and this is my favorite piece,’ she murmured with a small smile, gesturing to a single page of precious vellum, un-illustrated and only half-covered in text, with a splashed stain marring its surface.  Clear as day, three inky paw prints sauntered across the bottom of the page, permanent testimony to feline insouciance in centuries past.  She went on, ‘It’s funny to think of the poor monk whose work was ruined by some naughty cat.  Can’t you just imagine him?—shooing the beast away, only to have it leap up and topple his inkpot!’  Her laughter was contagious.  ‘“Gatto brutto!  Cattivo!”’ she feigned.  ‘Poor man.’  

‘Italian?’  

She nodded.  ‘You can tell by the text,’ she explained.  

‘What do you suppose its name was?’ he asked her.  ‘This naughty Italian cat who lived so long ago?’  

She chuckled, ‘Oh, I don’t know!  Let’s see . . . Calzini, maybe?  Lucifero?’  

‘Not Bombalurina?’  

She threw her head back and laughed.  ‘”Or else Jellylorum”?  No, I doubt the monk had ever read Eliot, whoever he was.’  She paused, smiling.  ‘He grew up in in St. Louis, you know—Eliot, I mean, not the monk!—not too far from Oskaloosa.’  

‘Really?’  

‘Mm-hmm.  I—I love that poem,’ she said softly, biting her lip.  

Imagining those lips against his, he replied, ‘Me, too,’ though his taste tended more towards Eliot’s bleaker works.  Recovering himself, he gestured to the parchment, commenting, ‘It’s remarkable it survived.’  She nodded again, and after a moment moved on, showing him a Ferrabosco madrigal and the oldest item in the Collection, an ancient Norman missal bound in beautifully-tooled leather, circa 1100AD.  When she had shown him everything, he thanked her for the tour.  ‘Really,’ he said, finding himself caught in her gaze again.  ‘Such beauty.’  He wasn’t certain to which beauty he referred.  He found his heart beating a trifle faster than it should.  

She grinned, pleased at his appreciation.  ‘I’m glad you like it.’  

Since the afternoon was drawing on, he asked if she’d like to go for tea, which she accepted readily, saying, ‘Let me get my purse.’  She led him into her office, passing Miss Perry at her desk.  ‘Nancy, would you mind terribly putting those things back for me?’  Miss Perry assented and disappeared through the workroom door.  

As Kate gathered her things, Morse’s eye was caught by a piece of illustrated parchment hanging in an ornate frame, a panel portrait of a nun surrounded by an intricate foliate border, gilded and embellished with vines and scattered flowers.  A pale blue banner across the top labeled the subject as Katerina de Bolonia .  ‘Is this part of the Collection, too?’ he asked, pointing.  

Looking over, she replied, ‘Oh, no, that’s mine, actually.’  

‘It’s beautiful.’  

‘Thanks,’ she said, straightening it a little on the wall.  ‘It was a gift from Doc—Dr. Milford—when I finished my degrees.’  

‘That’s quite a gift,’ he observed.  

‘Y-yes,’ she said carefully, her eyes narrowed.  ‘But it’s not what you’re thinking!’ she added quickly.  

‘I wasn’t thinking anything,’ he objected with a laugh.  

She eyed him critically, sussing out his sincerity.  ‘Sorry,’ she shook her head.  ‘When he died—the papers—well, people make assumptions.  But he was old enough to be my grandfather, for God’s sake!’  

‘I didn’t assume anything, really!’ he defended himself.  ‘You must have been close, though, to merit such a generous gift.’  

‘Yes, we were,’ she muttered, her easy smile faltering.  ‘He—well, he was like a father to me, really.  In lots of ways.’  She sniffed slightly and turned away, pulling the strap of her handbag over her shoulder.  

He hadn’t meant to remind her of sad memories.  ‘I’m sorry.’  

‘It’s fine,’ she said with a dismissive gesture.  

To distract her, he reached out for a book that lay open her desk.  ‘What’s this?’  

‘Oh, that shouldn’t be here,’ she took the book from him, closing it and showing him the spine— Remembrance of Things Past, Volume I, it read in gold lettering.  ‘It’s a first edition—Scott Moncrieff, 1922.’  She placed the book on a small spindle table in the corner where a few others sat.  ‘It’s part of the estate.  Doc left them in his will.  But that reminds me, I need to take these to London.’  She picked up two of the other books and set them aside on her desk.  ‘I'm the executor,’ she explained.  

‘This one,’ she said, motioning him over and carefully opening a large, leather-bound volume lying next to the Proust, ‘was printed right here in Oxford.’  She showed him the title page, which proclaimed, The Holy Bible, Containing the Old Testament and the New, Newly Translated out of the Original Tongues , etc, etc .  ‘1642,’ she said with a satisfied smile, pointing to the Roman  

numerals under the Oxford Press colophon at the bottom of the page.  She cocked an eyebrow at him.  ‘Are you impressed?’  

He blinked a few times, looking at her with a half-smile.  ‘Very,’ he admitted and her cheek dimpled as she tried not to smile.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

He took her to a tea shop off the Broad.  While they waited, she chattered brightly about going to London that evening, to see The Mousetrap and fetch a dress for an upcoming occasion commemorating the Collection.  

‘Do you like London?’  

‘Well I haven’t seen much of it yet—but yes, of course!  I did get to see the Mulliner Book at the British Museum—the Milford name opens doors this side of the Atlantic, too,’ she said proudly, ‘and a William Morris exhibit at the V&A.  He dabbled in illumination himself, and you can really see the medieval influence in his work, especially the textiles,’ she told him.  ‘All that stylized, undulating flora—there are some Morris manuscripts at the Bodleian, actually.’  

'I’d like to see those.’    

‘Maybe next time,’ she grinned.  

The waitress came and set down the tea things.  They paused to pour, but there had been something niggling at him and after a moment, he asked her, his brow crinkling, ‘Those books from the estate—that Bible—are any of them valuable?’  

‘Some of them, yes—the Bible most of all, I’m sure.  Why?’  

‘Well—could someone have wanted to steal that , perhaps?  Thought it would be with your things, rather than with the Collection?’  

She tilted her head at him, chuckling, ‘You never switch off, do you?’  

He looked down, abashed.  ‘It’s a failing.’  

But when he looked back at her, eyebrows still raised in a question, she relented.  ‘Well,’ she gave it some thought, looking out the window of the café, ‘I suppose it’s possible—Doc had his rivals.  Mr. Getty, for sure, the Stammheims in Germany, some Italian count he was always bidding against.’  She stopped, looking off to one side and frowning.  ‘Some Italian count . . .,’ she muttered again.  

‘Do you think he—?’  

‘No!’ she exclaimed, shaking her head incredulously.  ‘Sorry, just something Audrey said.  No, honestly, I can’t imagine any of them resorting to criminal legerdemain—they’re respectable people!  Doc bought most of his pieces through a broker in New York—I can find his name for you if you think it’s important.’ 

‘No, that’s alright.’  He hesitated, but really couldn’t switch off.  ‘Do you happen to remember the name of the company that shipped your trunks?’  

‘I’ll have to look back at my paperwork,’ she said, laughing.  After a moment’s pause, though, she continued, the smile disappearing from her face.  ‘Does that mean you think—someone did search my trunks, then?’  

‘You think so, right?  I don’t know,’ he admitted, ‘I just like to be thorough.  Have you noticed anything missing?’  

She shook her head thoughtfully, looking down at her teacup.  Then, readjusting her shoulders and reaching up to rub the back of her neck, she changed the subject.  ‘So—how did you end up this thorough, always-on detective?’  She leaned on the table and her caught a whiff of her perfume again.  He turned away, which she misinterpreted, persisting, ‘Well, it’s another time, isn’t it?  How do you go from Lonsdale College to Castle Gate Police Station?  Why didn’t you take a degree?’  

He set down his own cup and considered for a moment.  Why should he have to explain himself?  And why did it still cause him such pain to do so?  It was nearly ten years ago now; he had forgotten her—almost entirely.  Forgotten any hope of her anyway.  Almost forgotten any hope of anyone, ever again.  Not that he was entirely blameless—he seemed to drive them all away in the end.  God, what am I doing here? he wondered.  Setting the stage for another romantic fiasco?  Why?  What could he possibly hope for?  A few nights of idle pleasure before the inevitable failure?  He was getting too old for this sort of thing. 

But he knew it was pointless to refuse.  He looked down at his hands, steeling himself.  Then, rolling his eyes, he began, ‘Well, since your friend Audrey is probably running the story to ground right now,’—she gave an apologetic smile of acknowledgement—‘I suppose you can hear it from me.’  He took a deep breath and spoke quickly, ‘When I was up at Oxford I was engaged to be married, but—well, she left me for someone else, and uh, I eventually I lost my scholarship, failed out of school.’  He continued, tugging on his ear, ‘I wanted to get as far away from Oxford as I could, so I joined the Army.’  Kate raised her eyebrows in surprise.  ‘I spent a couple of years in West Germany working in Signals, and when I got back I ended up joining the police force—all I was really qualified for, unfortunately.’  His eyes roamed around the café, embarrassed at revealing such a history to her.  

‘Actually, I was engaged once, too,’ she blurted out into the uncomfortable silence that followed.  ‘We all have our sad stories, right?’  

‘Your bad Wagner associations, perhaps?’ he said, eyebrows raised, just to rattle her a little.  

She looked at him sharply.  ‘Very good, detective,’ she admitted, pursing her lips.  Then she narrowed her eyes and said, still smirking, ‘So—you do like girls, then?’  

He began to color but managed to maintain eye contact.  ‘Yes.’  

‘Just checking.’  She held his gaze, playfully adding, ‘You’re cute when you blush.’  Which of course made him blush even deeper.  He looked down and she giggled.  Then, taking pity on him, she returned to safer ground.  ‘“Signals,” huh?’ she said, leaning on the table and hugging her arms.  ‘Like counterintelligence stuff?’  

‘Codes and ciphers, mostly.’  

‘Yeah, my Dad did that sort of thing, I think, during the War.  Germany, though?  That must have been interesting.  Did you foil any Soviet schemes?’ she teased. 

He laughed.  ‘No, not me.  It was pretty dull actually, and I hated the army.’  

‘Yes, I can imagine—a good Quaker boy!’ she shook her head in mock admonishment.  Then she intoned, in almost perfect Received Pronunciation, ‘“The soldier armed with sword and gun, palsied strikes the summer sun.”’  

He half-smiled, remembering the book he’d seen on her table.  ‘Reading Blake as well as Christie?’ 

‘Well, it seemed appropriate.  I don’t suppose you read many detective stories, huh?’  

‘Not really,’ he admitted with a chuckle.  

‘Do you like being a detective?’ she asked with sincere interest.  

He thought about it, shrugged.  ‘I suppose so.  It’s a pretty grim profession sometimes, but—well, I guess I’m pretty grim myself,’ he acknowledged.  ‘“Born to endless night,”’ he quipped.  

‘I hope that’s not true!’ she objected with a laugh.  ‘That book doesn’t end well, trust me.’  

‘Well, perhaps not.  But I like solving puzzles—I’m good at it.’  

‘I bet you are.’  She leaned her hand on her chin, looking at him across the table.  ‘Your boss thinks so, certainly.’  She explained she’d met Mr. Bright a few days before with Audrey, who knew him slightly through her mother.  ‘He said you saved his life.’  

He shook his head modestly.  ‘No—indirectly, perhaps.  It was nothing—he’s the one who saved my life, actually.’  He told her briefly about the Mortmaigne case—the maze, the tiger, Bright’s timely bullet.  

‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed as he finished.  ‘You must have been terrified!’  

‘Well, yes!’ he admitted, laughing.  ‘Very much so!’  

‘You’re very brave.’  He looked down bashfully, half-smiling at the compliment.  The waitress came to take away their dishes and they began to gather up their things.  He asked if he could take her home but she said she had things to finish up at the Library.  ‘And then I’m meeting Audrey—London tonight, remember?’  

‘I’ll walk you back.’  

She started off in the direction they’d come, towards the Sheldonian, but he touched her arm and jerked his head the other direction.  ‘Let’s go this way—there's something I want to show you.’  

They walked down Cornmarket and he took her into the Union Library, where he escorted her upstairs to see the William Morris murals adorning the gallery walls.  

Upon seeing the vaulted ceiling, she exclaimed, ‘Wow!’ much too loudly for a library, and then slapped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed.  

He mock-scolded her, whispering, ‘Untidy and loud.’  

‘I’m not!’ she hissed, hitting his arm playfully.  Then, ‘Which one is Morris’?’  

‘Um, Tristan and Isolde,’ he replied, looking around to locate the piece.  He pointed and they walked over to look at it.  

‘Beautiful!’ she said after examining it for a few minutes.  ‘It’s funny how subjects ebb and flow in art, isn’t it?  These characters were popular in the Middle Ages, with much older origins, and then here again in the Victorian era.  This must have been done around the same time Wagner was working on his Tristan , huh?’  

‘You seem to know a lot for someone who doesn’t like Wagner.’  

‘Mmm,’ she pursed her lips and looked back at the painting.  

‘The Rossetti pieces are better,’ he acknowledged, directing her gaze to a painting of Lancelot.  

‘But look at the ceiling!’ she gushed, head bent back.  ‘That’s Morris’, for sure!  Wow!’ she said again, gaping at the delicate vines intertwining with the wooden beams that supported the atrium.  ‘Gorgeous,’ she murmured, and he, gazing at her face, had to agree.  With her large eyes and jet-black hair cascading around her shoulders, she rivaled any artist’s muse.  She caught him looking and smiled.  Then she whispered somewhat conspiratorially, ‘Didn’t Rossetti sleep with Morris’ wife?’ 

He laughed quietly.  ‘It’s possible,’ he conceded, thrusting his hands into his pockets.  

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, saying slowly, ‘Perhaps it’s best not to delve too deeply into private affairs from the past.’  She smiled coyly, her dimple appearing, clearing no longer referring to the Pre-Raphaelites.  

He stared back at her, a smile forming on his lips, too.  ‘I couldn’t agree more.’  

She looked around the gallery—they were alone on the upper level.  ‘Thank you for showing me this,’ she breathed, taking a step toward him.   

Her blazing green eyes reached out from under dark lashes, and he could feel the ground start to pitch beneath him, ready to throw him off a precipice.  He knew that if he fell, there would be no going back.  He couldn’t trust himself to be prudent or cautious—not with her.  She was a dangerous woman—a sharpened blade, an open flame.  Yet he found himself leaning closer, reaching for her, ready to fall.  

But then a pair of students emerged from the landing and he turned away, self-conscious.  She persisted, leaning even closer and purring, her eyes burning bright, ‘You don’t have to be scared of me—I'm not a tiger.’  

‘Are you sure?’  What the hand, dare seize the fire?   

Her smile flickered and she stepped back, stung.  He felt a pang of guilt and looked down, slipping his hands back into his pockets.  Clearing her throat, she stammered out, ‘I—I should be getting back.’  

They walked back to the Bodleian and stood together in the quad.  He was inexplicably nervous, despite her rather forward indications of interest.  His fingers strayed to his ear as he asked, ‘Would you like to go out on the river sometime?’  

She beamed at him, nodding.  ‘Yes, I would like that.’  

‘Are you free on Sunday?’  Another nod.  ‘Shall I come by around eleven?’  

‘Alright.’  Her trying-not-to-smile smile brought out the dimple in her cheek.  ‘I’ll pack a picnic.’  He nodded at her, barely containing his own grin.  Before she could tease him about blushing again, he started to walk away, hands in his pockets.  He’d only gone a few steps when she called his name and he turned back.  

Her head was tilted to one side, a smile quirking the corners of her lips.  ‘Rowing on the river . . . that’s usually . . . a romantic endeavour, I believe?’  

He quickly looked down as she unwittingly said his Christian name.  He didn’t hate it.  A romantic Endeavour.  He smiled to himself.  He looked back up at her, still grinning.  ‘Yes, that’s right.’  

Her lips curled into a brilliant smile.  ‘Just checking.’  They lingered a moment longer, until a noisy group of undergraduates poured in from the street.  ‘Bye,’ she murmured and turned towards the north doorway, still grinning.  

He watched her go, and was rewarded when she turned back at the door.  He nodded a farewell, and after she slipped inside, he walked to his car, smiling the whole way.  

♦ III. ♦ 

‘You were completely right, Audrey!  I gave him ample opportunity, and nothing!’  

‘I told you, darling—you’ll have to do the snogging, at least at first.  Englishmen aren’t like Americans.’  

‘What do you know about American men?’  

‘I’ve seen movies .  The American stars are all swagger and certainty—the English are different.’  

‘What about James Bond?’  

‘Exceptio probat regulam, my dear!’ she rolled her eyes.  ‘And besides, that’s fiction—the hyper-masculine fantasies of a second-rate novelist—though I will say that Scot is very sexy,’ she conceded.  

‘He as good as called me a man-eater, too, which wouldn’t be the first time,’ Kate said dejectedly.  ‘I didn’t think he’d be so easily intimidated.’ 

‘Oh, Kate, now, really—look at you!’  Audrey gestured to her friend, standing on the dressmaker’s dais in her gala dress, to which a last-minute button had been added at the back.  The gown was really something special—sheer black chiffon over silky jersey, studded with metallic thread and embellished with rhinestones at collar, cuffs, waist, and hem.  ‘Sean Connery himself would be intimidated!’ Audrey declared.  Kate smirked; she knew how stunning she looked—the fabric clung and slunk in all the right places and the high neck and sheer sleeves contrasted cheekily with the back—daringly open from neck to waist.  

Audrey rose from the overstuffed sofa.  ‘Look,’ she said, taking hold of Kate’s shoulders and looking at her in the three-fold mirror, ‘Michael was terrified of me when I began to pursue him.  They’re taught from a very young age to be abso lute ly respectful and never betray a hint of any thing untoward.  They’re not used to women like us.  But don’t worry, he’ll warm up—he’s clearly interested, so you go on your ro man tic picnic, my dear—and just snog him good and proper !’ she finished, laughing, as the dressmaker returned to undress Kate.  Kate ducked behind the pastel paisley curtain to pull on her own clothes.  As she dressed, Audrey continued from outside, ‘Besides, I had to spend upwards of an hour with that in sufferable Lonsdale man to get that story for you—so you can’t give up now or it will have been for nothing!’  

Audrey had told Kate about her own investigation on the drive down the previous evening.  Audrey worked fast; in the course of a few hours, she had learned much more than the brief explanation Morse had given her.  ‘Once he reminded me, I realized I had heard about it—it's not every day an undergrad challenges another to a duel!’  Morse had played quite the pitiable, love-struck fool, poor thing, and Kate had felt rather guilty hearing the sordid details of such an obviously painful and embarrassing period of his personal life.  She knew all too well the pain of being found wanting, cast aside for grander pastures—she’d been left with a distinct dislike of the lady in question.  

‘Did you know her?’ she’d asked.  

‘Oh, I might have met her, but I can’t remember.  Henry I knew—he used to row for St. Saviour’s, I believe.  Dull as dirt, as I recall, but rich, and well-connected—I hear he’s head of law at one of the Cambridge companies these days.’  

‘But you didn’t know Morse?’  

‘No—but I’m not surprised we never met.  Reece said he ran Bruce Bel borough’s set,’ she said with disgust, ‘and Bel borough was a bastard— still is.  I saw him at a do in town last year, and he got so drunk he broke a window and nearly came to blows with the host!’ she laughed.  ‘Of course, Lady Belborough wasn’t far behind,’ she went on with relish.  ‘But what can you expect from a morganatic match?’ she finished, shaking her head.  

‘Maybe we should find you a title, my dear!’ she continued.  ‘It’s a popular pastime for Americans—shoring up ancient houses.  Baronets are ten-a-penny these days, but I bet we could nab you a viscount, maybe even an earl—I’ll consult Burke’s.  Wouldn’t you like to be a countess?’ 

‘I’m not sure I would, actually, and I have no thoughts of matrimony at present, thank you.’  

‘Ha!  Never say never!’ Audrey declared with a shrug.  ‘Anyway, it appears the diffident detective conceals quite the tragic romantic.  I told I wasn’t far off with Heathcliff.’ 

Kate didn’t answer, just sat quietly in the passenger seat, thinking.  No one escaped youth without tales of heartbreak, of course; she had her own—caused and suffered—but Morse had really been to hell and back, it seemed.  Small wonder, then, he was so cautious.  Le chat échaudé craint l’eau froide.   

Back at the modiste’s, Kate and Audrey’s dresses were carefully wrapped with blue tissue paper and secured in prim cardboard boxes and ribbon.  As they climbed into Audrey’s car, slinging their packages into the back, Audrey asked, ‘Where to now?  What are these errands you need to run?’  

Kate explained as they drove to the first address written in her notebook, which turned out to be a block of upscale flats near Waterloo Station.  

Doc Milford had left, in her care, seven books—a strange selection—for colleagues from ‘the Hut,’ the only location he would ever reveal for his wartime experiences in England.  It was Kate’s job to track these colleagues down, and she was very interested to find out why her mentor had singled them out for such personal gifts.  Besides a few family heirlooms, a couple of small legacies, and the bequest to the University, Milford’s estate had remained largely intact, so it was strange that he had selected individual presents for these specific people.  

‘How curious,’ Audrey mused.  ‘Lady Mallory, really ?  I mean—I suppose everyone was somewhere during the War, but I am surprised.  What do you think it means?’  

‘I haven’t the foggiest!  Doc never talked about the War and neither did Dad.  But it must mean something!  Lady Mallory was less than forthcoming, so I’m hoping I can get more out of one of today’s recipients.’  She held up her little notebook.  ‘You sure you don’t mind waiting?’ she asked as Audrey pulled up in front of their destination.  

‘Not at all—just tell me the tale when you return!’  

As Kate got out of the car, she glimpsed a young man loitering on the steps of the building.  His round face and small eyes looked familiar, and she smiled, trying to place him.  But instead of returning her smile, the man looked away, loping down the steps and hurriedly walking away.  ‘Mr. Crossley?’ she called out with a confused frown, though he was far too young to be her quarry.  The man turned his head slightly but didn’t slow down.  Kate glanced over at Audrey, who was watching with interest, her eyebrows raised.  They both shrugged and Kate mounted the steps, trying to remember where she’d seen him before.  

But despite several applications to the buzzer next to the name V. Crossley , after a few minutes she admitted defeat, shuffling back down the steps and getting into Audrey’s car.  ‘Not home, I guess.’ 

‘Hmm, bad luck,’ Audrey replied.  ‘Shall we try door number two?’  

Their next stop was a large, gated mansion in Regent’s Park, where Kate had to turn on all her Midwestern charm to get inside.  

‘Oh, please, sir,’ she said to the guard, when he told her she’d need to make an appointment.  ‘I’ve come all the way from Oxford and I don’t know when I’ll be in London again,’ she said, purposely lengthening her vowels and battling her eyelashes.  

The guard was game—‘Sounds like you’ve come a lot farther than Oxford, Miss!’  He was a lanky youth with long limbs and open features.  

She grinned, pretending to blush.  ‘Well, yes, I’m from Chicago—what about you?’ she asked, letting her eyes go wide and alluring.  

‘Hey—I’m from South Bend!’  

‘Oh,’ she gasped, biting her lip.  ‘We’re practically neighbors!’  

‘Yeah, I guess so!’  He waffled a moment longer before hedging, ‘Well, let me just see if he’s available, Miss.’  

‘Oh, thank you!’ she gushed.  

As the guard called the main house from his shed, Audrey hissed from behind the wheel, ‘Well, that was deftly done.  You’re quite the minx when you want to be.’  

‘When I have to be,’ Kate admitted, still smiling at the guard.  ‘Give me half an hour.’  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Half an hour, however, did not afford any of the answers she was looking for.  

She was met on the gravel drive by a clean-cut young man who introduced himself as Colonel Wallis’ secretary and escorted her up a grand staircase while chatting pleasantly.  On an upper level of the house, he knocked at a door and opened it, leading her into the Colonel’s personal office—a small room, probably adjacent to his quarters.  Despite her barging in on his Saturday at home, Leonard Wallis didn’t seem so surprised to see the daughter of a long-lost colleague on his threshold. 

He pretended at an affection he didn’t feel, she thought, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, though his manners could not be faulted.  When she gave him Milford’s gift—an early Russian translation of Shakespeare—he assumed an air of surprise, a puzzlement she couldn’t help but feel rehearsed.  The small beige envelope tucked into the book, about which she had harbored an almost insurmountable curiosity, remained unopened in her presence.  She couldn’t be sure, but it felt like she was getting the brush-off, despite Wallis’ amicable gestures.  She didn’t seem to be very good at interrogation.  

But having gotten nothing from Beryl Mallory, and having missed the gentleman in London—and the other fellow in Washington to boot—she couldn’t let another opportunity slip through her fingers.  ‘Sir,’ she pleaded, as he tried to gesture her out the room all too soon, ‘you did know my father, too, right?  Frank DeAngelis?’ she asked the Colonel, giving him an imploring look and mustering misty eyes, which always seemed to affect older men.  

It worked, and the Colonel, rubbing a hand over his jaw with a grimace, showed her to a pair of armchairs next to a bay window overlooking the Park.  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’  

‘No, thanks,’ she said, sitting, though he poured himself a healthy measure of scotch anyway.  

He joined her, plopping down heavily in the chair opposite.  ‘I remember your father well,’ he said, swirling the liquor around in the glass before taking a sip.  ‘You know he was here in England when you were born—’  

‘I know—’  

‘So I was one of the first to drink to your health, Miss DeAngelis.  Milford, too.  We were all together.’  He looked out the window at the city beyond.  

‘I know.’  They were silent for a moment, and then she tried to draw him out with the earnestness of her request.  ‘Colonel Wallis,’ she smiled sweetly, ‘as you know, I was orphaned at a young age.  So of course, I remain very curious to know anything I can of the people my parents were—the people that, as a child myself, I couldn’t have known when they were alive.  And Dr. Milford, too, has had such an outsized influence on my life,’ she continued, hand to her chest.  ‘So I’d love to hear any stories or—information—’ she was beginning to falter, ‘about why—well—’  She stopped, frustrated at his continued silence, and she decided to try a different tack.  ‘Can I be frank with you, Colonel Wallis?’ she peered at him, wondering whether he could be trusted.  

‘Of course.’  He took a swig of his scotch.  

‘Colonel,’ she began again, maintaining eye contact and watching him closely, ‘Douglas Milford didn’t leave many personal bequests.  Why did he leave you one?’  

He stared at her, seemingly lost in thought.  ‘I honestly don’t know, Miss DeAngelis,’ he said eventually.  

She felt exasperated.  ‘Sir, Dr. Milford never talked about what happened here in England, never returned here, and yet it’s the people he knew here that merit such personal gifts?’  He wasn’t showing any reaction, but she persisted.  ‘Colonel Wallis, I had never heard your name before in my life, but it’s you who ends up my little list?’  

‘It’s a mystery, my dear.’  

‘Oh, come on!’ she exclaimed, fed up with his evasive remarks.  ‘You have to know something !  Why did he leave you that book?  Are you interested in Shakespeare?  Do you read Russian?  What’s in that envelope, Colonel?’  Her curiosity was nearly unbearable.  

His steely face seemed to close up even more.  ‘I’m not sure it’s any of your business, Miss DeAngelis,’ he said coldly.  Then, relenting somewhat, he muttered, looking down at his now empty glass, ‘It was the War,’ as though that should explain everything.  ‘Strange bedfellows.’  He shuffled her out not long after.  

Walking back down the staircase of Winfield House, Kate felt discouraged.  

She remembered the blustery winter day Doc had given her this assignment.  It had been threatening snow all morning, and he'd called her into the study after his physician left.  The news was bad, and Doc’s face was serious as he told her the prognosis.  She’d been hoping against hope, not ready to lose him, and had started to cry when it became clear he didn’t have much time left—a few months, the doctor had said, six at the outside.  ‘Kate,’ he’d said—so calmly—his hands enveloping hers, ‘It’s alright.  I’m lucky, really—I have time to say goodbye, put things in order.  But I need your help.’  They’d spent the whole afternoon and most of the evening sequestered in his study, Kate taking tear-streaked notes as Douglas Milford outlined his final plans—and her part in them.  She’d been surprised by some of his intentions, totally shocked by others—had tried to argue until he interrupted, saying with his sardonic smile, ‘I’m a dying man, Katherine—you have to do what I say.’  By the time they’d gotten to the book bequests, it was late, and Kate was too tired, too upset, too stunned to think straight.  She’d written down the names in her notebook—the titles, the addresses, automatically—without even wondering about their significance.  How she wished now she’d made the effort to question him.  ‘You cannot fail me in this, Kate,’ he’d said solemnly, and she’d promised, nodding sleepily before leaving the room, careful to hold back her tears until she had reached her bedroom.  She hadn’t even noticed the silent shroud of snow that had been falling steadily since midday.  

And now she was in England at last, but with few clues and no idea why Doc had left these particular books to these particular people.  She only knew it had to be connected to his war work, and thus her own father.  They’d worked in intelligence, she assumed, or maybe counterintelligence—she wasn’t sure what the difference was.  Codes and ciphers, she thought, like Morse had said.  Doc always loved his puzzles—riddles, games .  Once he had sent her to the store with what turned out to be an encoded shopping list; it had taken her nearly half an hour to sort it out, but his pleased, gleeful smile when she returned with all the right items made it almost worth it. 

She had so wanted to learn something about him or her father or this blank period of their lives, but without opening the accompanying envelopes herself—a clear violation of trust—she was entirely dependent on the recipients’ pleasure.  And so far no one had wanted to reminisce.  

But after the determined reticence of both Lady Mallory and Colonel Wallis, she was more convinced than ever that there was a story here.  She twisted her mouth and resolved to investigate further—the Bible, next, if she could find the beneficiary.  All she had was a name and an address from the forties—and since it was quite likely the woman had married in the interim, Kate wasn’t sure how to find her now.  She’d start with a search of the newspapers—look for a marriage notice.  That would at least give her the right name, though she didn't know where to go from there.  But she had to try.  And such a generous gift must come with a good tale.  

Unfortunately, she had no such tale for Audrey on the drive back to Oxford.  ‘Maybe your policeman can help you untangle the knot?’ Audrey suggested.  ‘Will Heathcliff be escorting you to the ball?’  

‘We’ll see,’ Kate responded, thoughtful.  Maybe he could help .  Then she asked, ‘What do you wear punting, anyway?’  

♦ IV. ♦ 

Sunday morning dawned lovely and temperate—an incomparable end-of-summer day, neither too hot not dimmed by clouds.  

Ideal for a day out, though Morse was wondering what on earth he’d been thinking when he suggested this expedition.  The last time he’d been out on the river was with Claudine, almost a year ago—just before she’d left him.  He’d set himself up for what could be a fraught afternoon.  Dinner, drinks, even a concert would have been wiser.  

But it was too late now, so he made his way to her flat, trying to calm his nerves.  He was about to knock when the door opposite opened and Kate’s neighbor peered out.  

‘You again,’ she said suspiciously as he looked around.  

‘Good morning, Mrs. Murphy,’ he said with a tight smile.  

‘Thought you detectives caught the man who hurt Katie?’  

‘That’s right,’ he said tersely.  

‘So what are you detectin’ now?’ she pried, her eyes narrow.  

Already feeling cross, he was annoyed by the woman’s nosiness, and his temper flared.  ‘Mrs. Murphy,’ he said, turning to face her, ‘did you search Miss DeAngelis’ trunks?’  

‘What?’  The woman was clearly affronted.  

‘The night she was attacked, you had her things in your flat,’ Morse pressed her, eyes narrowing.  ‘ Some body searched them—was it you?’  

‘Well I never!’ she spluttered, her face turning as red as her hair.  ‘Of course not!’  

‘What about your son?’  

‘No!’ she insisted.  ‘Whatever gave you such a notion?  After everything I’ve done for her!’  Mrs. Murphy huffed indignantly, her cheeks flaming, and slammed the door.  

With a half-roll of his eyes, Morse turned back to the door of B-26, took a deep breath, and knocked.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

It really was a perfect day for a river outing—sunny and mild, with sparse fluffy clouds scudding across the northern sky.  

Kate—dressed in pedal pushers and a floral blouse—lounged in the front of the boat, her fingers trailing in the cool water, smooth as glass.  She’d never been in a punt before, telling Morse, ‘Crew was very popular in College—rowing, you know—but the Severn’s too deep for punting.  There's a Severn in Maryland, too.’  She smiled up at him in the stern, doing all the work.  ‘I could get used to this,’ she continued, ‘I feel like Cleopatra.’  She leaned back, savoring the sun on her face.  So much for paddling my own canoe , she reflected with a twinge of guilt.  

When they reached their destination—a picturesque stretch of riverbank dotted with wildflowers and shaded by an enormous oak tree—he helped her out of the boat, taking her basket and holding out his hand.  Stepping onto the grassy bank, she manufactured a small trip so that he had to catch her.  Lingering in his arms, she murmured a thank you and pressed against him.  He hesitated, their eyes locked, but then turned away, and Kate smiled to herself at his continued reticence.  Audrey was right—she'd have to take the reins.  

They spread out the tablecloth she’d brought under the tree and settled down to a light luncheon, serenaded by birdsong and the rustle of insects.  Kate had borrowed the basket from Mrs. Murphy and filled it with her finds from Harrod’s—a real Asti Spumante and sandwiches made with a soft mozzarella and good prosciutto—along with a couple of glasses wrapped in cloth napkins and some fruit.  She popped the wine open with a flourish and filled each glass, proposing a toast to the beauty of the day.  

‘“For summer’s lease hath all too short a date,”’ he quoted.  

‘That’s a little dreary for such a lovely day.’  He seemed a little cross today, on edge, though maybe he was just nervous.  

‘You have something better?’  

‘Well, something in Latin usually impresses,’ she joked, trying to think of something appropriate.  ‘How about . . . Bonum vinum laetificat cor hominis! —Good wine gladdens a man’s heart,’ she translated, poking him playfully in the chest.  

He raised his glass, taking a sip.  ‘Let’s hope so.’  

‘Oh, com’on,’ she cajoled him, ‘this is such an idyllic spot!  So— laetor!   Wait, no— laetare!,’ she corrected herself.    

‘Alright,’ he said with a small smile.  Looking at their surroundings, a gentle breeze ruffling the long grass, he added, ‘It is rather pretty, isn’t it?  Pastoral , even.’  

She grinned.  ‘We used to have a tree like this on the farm,’ she recalled, looking up through the great oak’s branches, ‘but it was struck by lightning—now it’s half-dead.  My uncle says it has to come down, which is a shame.  Who knows how long it’s stood there?’  

‘What kind of farm does your family have?’ he asked.  

So as they ate, she told him a little about it—wheat and barley, mostly, though her uncle had recently made a foray into more-profitable soybeans, along with a few small animal concerns—and about her adolescence, growing up shuttled between three different homes—the farm in Oskaloosa, the small house on Cabrini Street near her paternal family’s salumeria , and Milford’s greystone in Hyde Park—‘There’s a Hyde Park in Chicago, too,’ she explained.  ‘We seem to borrow all our names from Britain!’  Finally, sick of talking about herself, she challenged him, ‘Now it’s your turn—I’ll stop babbling if you start talking!’  

Morse was lying on his side, legs stretched out.  ‘You don’t want to hear about my childhood.’  

‘Yes, I do,’ she countered, but he didn’t respond, and she rolled her eyes, saying, ‘Well, then tell me about now—what do you do for fun around here?’ 

‘I thought I never switched off,’ he teased.  

‘Well you must, sometimes,’ she conceded.  At his continued silence, she sighed, ‘You play your cards very close to the chest, don’t you?’  

‘What do you want to know?’ he asked, looking at her with a shrug.  

‘How about your name for a start?’  

‘I’ve told you my name.’  He turned back to the empty river before them, flowing placidly by.  

‘You know what I mean,’ she persisted.  ‘Your “deep and inscrutable, singular name?”’  

‘Mmm.  It’s singular at least.’  He rolled his eyes.  

‘Oh, please,’ she protested.  ‘It can’t be worse than what my name almost was.’  She reached for a handful of grapes before explaining, ‘Before I was born, my Dad wrote home telling my mother to christen me Lindisfarne !’  

‘After the gospels?’ he chuckled.  

‘Yes!  He’d seen it, I guess—I don’t know where it was during the War—and he thought it sounded like a lovely name for a girl,’ she laughed, her eyes skyward.  ‘Thankfully, Mom did not comply—and in the end he had to settle for the patroness of illuminators.  Thank God I was born on her feast day!’  

‘So what's your middle name?’ he asked, laying back on his elbows and popping a grape into his mouth.  ‘Kells?’  

‘No,’ she laughed, then tsked, ‘Why should I tell you my secret names if you won’t return the favor?’  She paused, then had an idea, venturing, ‘If I guess, will you tell me?’  

‘Alright, yes,’ he agreed.  His self-satisfied smirk told her he clearly didn’t expect the undertaking to succeed.  

‘Is it Rumpelstiltskin?’ she tried, arching her brow.  

‘No.’  His eyes were sparkling in the midday sun.  

She narrowed her eyes at him, considering.  There was something difficult about him that intrigued her.  He was something of a malcontent—not falling for her usual tricks, not playing into her usual games.  She wondered momentarily if he was worth the effort.  ‘It’s not Heathcliff, is it?’ 

He shook his head with a half-smile.  

‘Just checking.’  

‘I’m sure that will disappoint your friend Audrey.’  

She shrugged, acknowledging, ‘She does like things to be literary.’  

‘Is that why she called you “Cathy?”  Casting us as characters?’  He rolled his eyes.  

‘Well, English literature is crowded with orphans to choose from—lately she’s been calling me “Estella,” though now that I think about it, I’m actually more like Pip,’ she mused, frowning slightly. 

‘Estella Havisham wasn’t an orphan.’  

‘Yes, she was,’ she argued.  

‘No, she wasn’t,’ he insisted.  ‘She may not have known who her parents were, but Molly and Magwich were both alive.  For most of the book, leastways.’  

‘Huh,’ she said after a moment.  ‘I guess you’re right.  It amounts to the same thing, though.’  

‘Does it?’  

‘Mmm.’  She paused, listening to the buzz of insects, but she wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily.  She moved closer, resting her hand next to his.  ‘So are you a Grail Knight, then—sworn to protect fair maiden without ever revealing your identity?’  

‘Does fair maiden need protecting?’ he asked, looking up at her.  ‘I’m quite good at that sort of thing.’  

‘I bet you are.’  She smiled coyly at him.  Then, determined to entice him at last, she leaned towards him, murmuring, ‘I’ll have to find some peril to get into, then—I have a feeling I’d quite like being recused by you.’  

He glanced down with a bashful grin.  

‘There aren’t any tigers around,’ she continued, looking around and pretending to search the landscape, ‘but I could throw myself in the river?’  She started to get up, but he grabbed her wrist, sitting up and pulling her back down with a chuckle.  

She flinched, the cuts on her arm still tender, and he immediately let go, held up his hands in apology.  ‘I forgot.’  

‘No, it’s alright,’ she assured him.  ‘It’s not so bad anymore.’  She pulled up the sleeve of her blouse, showing him the half-healed wounds.  ‘The stitches come out tomorrow.’  

He took her arm, running his thumb gently over the raised pink flesh, the angry black sutures.  She felt her heart start to flutter at his touch, but he looked pained, his brow furrowing over her injuries.  ‘This will leave a scar.’  

‘Everything leaves its scar,’ she replied softly.  ‘I’m sure you have scars.’  

He looked up at her, a small smile flickering across his face.  She wondered briefly what marks she would find when she finally undressed him.  ‘I’m sorry this happened to you,’ he said seriously. 

‘I’m not.’  He frowned, but she was sure— Fata viam invenient .  ‘I wouldn’t have met you if it hadn’t,’ she murmured, bending forward slowly and gazing into his clear blue eyes.  ‘I can’t regret that.’  He stared back, his lips parting, and she finally kissed him, their eyes sliding closed.  He raised his hand to her face, stroking her cheek and tangling his fingers in her hair as their kiss deepened.  His lips were so soft, his tongue gently probing, and she put her arms around him, pulling him closer.    

By the time they separated, Kate’s heart was pounding.  Savoring the taste of him on her lips, she purred, ‘I’ve been wanting to do that since the day we met.’  

He laughed softly, flushing slightly.  ‘Me, too.’  

‘Then what took you so long?’ she teased, again pressing her lips to his hungrily.  She felt giddy, reckless.  He responded to her enthusiasm, started to caress her body with tense, eager hands.  The passion in his fingers made her shiver and she leaned back, inviting him to follow.  She might have let him make love to her right there on the riverbank, but after a few rapturous minutes he stopped, straightened up.  

‘We shouldn’t.’  

‘Should we not?’ she replied, her toes curling inside her sneakers.  His lips curved as he looked warily around them at the empty landscape.  That bashful smile of his was nearly irresistible, but she knew he was right—the riverbank might feel secluded, but this was England, not a remote Illinois field, miles removed from another soul.  Besides, she shouldn’t make it too easy.  ‘I guess you’re right.’  She sat up, but couldn’t help grasping the front of his maroon sweater for one more kiss, arduously restrained, almost chaste.  

Then she let go, turning back to the river and trying to calm her racing pulse.  As though on cue, another punt, this one filled with half a dozen undergrads, floated past, interrupting the tranquility with a jangle of pop music from an onboard radio.  They glanced at each other and quickly away, grinning.  

Kate reached for the half-empty bottle and refilled their glasses.  ‘Has the wine gladdened your heart, I hope?’  

‘I don’t think it was the wine.’  

She smirked at him as the noise from the boat faded away.  Then, nervous about his next part, she took a large gulp, the bubbles tickling her nose.  She bit her lip, took a deep breath, and asked, ‘What are you doing next Saturday?’  

He looked sideways at her.  ‘Why?’  

‘Well, um, there’s this big bash at the Library—to inaugurate the Collection.  Would you like to come with me?’ she asked hopefully.  He looked reluctant, and she went on, ‘It’s going to be very swanky—all sorts of bigwigs and . . . well, I feel like such an outsider—I could use someone who knows the scene a little better than I do.’  

He snorted.  ‘I was never part of that scene.’  

‘Oh.’  She was embarrassed by his seeming refusal.  ‘I just—I guess I’m just nervous.  I have to give a speech,’ she fretted, dread starting to build in her stomach.  ‘It’d be nice to have a friend along.’  She looked at him expectantly, biting her lip.  

After a moment, he shrugged again, saying, ‘Alright.  But you should know I’m not any good at parties.’  He tugged on his earlobe self-consciously.  

‘That’s okay,’ she smiled, relieved.  ‘You don’t—I mean, I don’t need a chaperone or anything—just come rescue me occasionally!  Being charming for that long gets wearying.’  

‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said wryly.  ‘But don’t worry about your speech—I'm sure you’ll be brilliant.’ 

She huffed nervously.  ‘I don’t even know what I’m expected to say!’  

‘Keep it short, make them laugh,’ he advised.  ‘And say something in Latin—they'll love you.’  He rolled his eyes again, looking out over the river.  

‘Oh—’ she stopped, checked.  She looked down at her glass, half-empty.  Suddenly her apropos toast seemed horribly pompous.  ‘You think I’m pretentious?’  

‘No—’ he replied, turning back to her sharply.  ‘That’s not what I meant.’  

‘Oh, no?’ she frowned, unconvinced.  

‘No—h-honestly,’ he stammered.  ‘I only meant—well, they’ll be delighted with an American who knows Latin—they all think they’re the only ones initiated into the higher mysteries.’ 

‘You don’t think much of the gown crowd, do you?’ she asked, her brow furrowed.  

‘Not really,’ he admitted.  ‘But I’d be happy to accompany you, if that’s what you want.’  She gave him her most dazzling smile and leaned over to feed him a grape.  

‘It is what I want,’ she breathed, kissing him lightly.  

Soon afterwards they packed up and left.  As they drifted back down the river, she studied him, thinking.  She wasn’t quite sure what to make of him.  He was certainly attractive—handsome, perceptive, courageous—but also contrary, cynical, and perhaps a little too serious.  And shy was one thing—she liked shy, especially after Tom’s overweening vanity—but secretive was quite another.  He’d been much more open with her the night they met, but since then she’d sensed he was on his guard.  He was colder now, though Audrey had been right in saying he’d warm up.  There was a hunger in his touch, in his kiss, which she found quite intoxicating—she wanted more.  But he was going to be a difficult nut to crack.  

Well, she could be difficult, too.  

So when they arrived back at Blackbird Leys and were approaching her building, she put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.  She watched him through her eyelashes as she said slowly, ‘I’m not going to invite you in.’  He blinked but didn’t respond.  ‘Not tonight.’  

‘Alright.’  As she’d hoped, there was a touch of disappointment in his voice.  

‘If I invite you in,’ she said coyly, running her fingers down his arm, ‘we’ll end up in bed.’  She met his gaze and let a charged silence build between them.  Then, with a coquettish smile, she finished, ‘And this was only our first date.’  

‘I took you to tea,’ he countered, which pleased her—she liked some fight.  

‘But you didn’t kiss me,’ she parried, leaning in.  ‘You should have kissed me.’  

‘I should have.’  

‘So—’ she continued, taking her basket from him, ‘I’m going to thank you for a wonderful afternoon—’ she’d slipped into her false accent, ‘— Thank you, kind sir—and kiss you goodbye.’  She did so, long and hard, exerting all her considerable powers of seduction, pressing close and clutching at his clothes.  And then she walked away, leaving him alone on the pavement, piqued and primed.  Turning back at the doorway, she teased, ‘You speak German, don’t you?’   

‘Ein bisschen,’ he said, blinking.  

‘Bekanntlich,’ she murmured.  ‘Die Vorfreude ist die schönste Freude. ’  With a smile she let the door close behind her.  

♦ V. ♦ 

Anticipation might be the greatest joy for some, but the days of waiting to see Kate again were no pleasure for Morse.  She called him a couple of days later and they arranged to meet at the Library on Saturday evening.  But when he arrived at the appointed hour, dressed in black tie, he found the outer room empty.  He stepped hesitantly towards Kate’s office, craning his head, but didn’t see her there either.  The door to the side room was ajar, though, and he could hear movement as he approached.  Pushing it open slowly, he saw Kate standing at one of the cabinets on the other side of the room, filing something away with care.  

He could immediately see why her dress was worth going all the way to London.  It magnified her beauty, hugging her curves and revealing a tempting expanse of bare skin at the back.  As she gently slid the drawer closed, her exposed shoulder blades moved provocatively and he felt a lump of desire rise in his throat.  She turned around, stopping and smiling broadly when she saw him the doorway.  

‘Don’t you clean up nice?’ she said, looking him up and down, her dimple showing. 

‘You, too—I mean, you look—’— divine, ravishing, incandescent— ‘—beautiful.’  

‘Yeah?’ she asked, her hand straying to her hair, intricately twisted up and secured with little jeweled combs.  ‘I thought maybe it was a little too . . . racy? ’  

‘I’m not going to object to that.’  

They approached each other hesitantly, uncertain what to do.  Finally, Morse reached out to take her waist and they embraced.  As they kissed, Morse let his hand stray to the small of her back, felt her sharp intake of breath as his fingertips grazed her bare skin.  Good God, how am I supposed to keep my hands off her all night?   

‘We should get to the party,’ she murmured after a minute.  

‘Should we?’  He wanted her right now.  She giggled, wiping lipstick off his mouth. 

‘Well, I should—I’m giving a speech, remember?’  She moved to break away but he held her, leaning in for another kiss.  

‘One more.’  

‘Lipstick!’ she exclaimed, tilting her head back.  

So he bent to kiss her neck instead—she smelled of lavender and orange blossom, and he could feel her throat hum beneath his lips, enflaming his desire.  With an effort, he stopped himself, though his hands still clutched her waist, holding her close.  

Kate was biting her lip, her eyes shut.  When she opened them, he could see his own passion reflected in their green depths.  Toying with the hair at the back of his neck, she murmured, ‘Tonight.’ 

‘Tonight?’  

She nodded, a small smile on her rosebud lips, and gently removed his hands, slipping out of his grasp.  He followed her back to her office, where she retrieved her evening bag and reapplied her lipstick.  Then they made their way to the Proscholium, where a throng was already gathered, dressed to the nines.  

Morse felt an uncomfortable flutter of nerves as they slipped through the crowd.  There were bound to be people here he didn’t care to see—and who didn’t care to see him.  Why did I agree to this? he wondered.  But he knew why, so he accompanied Kate into the Divinity School, which had been transformed into a ballroom, with several pieces from the Collection on display around the edges of the room.  

Almost immediately Kate was accosted by a middle-aged man with thinning dark hair, a narrow mustache, and a pained expression.  ‘There you are, Katherine,’ he said in a flustered tone.  ‘I’ve been looking for you—there are people you should meet.’  Before she was hauled away, Kate introduced the man as Sir Lawrence Mallory, her boss and Head of the Manuscript Division.  She briefly squeezed Morse's arm before disappearing into the crush.  Morse looked around, grabbed a glass of champagne off a passing waiter, and, already feeling out-of-place, hovered near the windows, examining the crowd. 

He saw Kate’s friend Audrey talking and gesturing dramatically to a large group, one of whom was Dr. Patricia Amory, and he thought he recognized the librarian he’d met during the Page case hovering near one of the manuscript displays.  Kate’s secretary was having a tense-looking conversation with a dark-haired young man in a corner of the room, her interlocutor looking almost as uncomfortable as Morse felt.  He caught a glimpse of Kate being introduced to one of the Council members and a man in a sash who might have been nobility.  And then, to his chagrin, he spotted the boorish don from the Wolvercote heist holding forth to a coterie of admirers.  Morse rolled his eyes and downed the rest of his champagne, moving toward the door to the courtyard.  He was fairly sure the man wouldn’t remember him, but didn’t want to take the chance.  

Outside the air was cool, the sky darkening to a dusty purple around the dome of the Sheldonian.  He stood, hands in his pockets, wondering what he was doing here, surrounded by these posh, pretentious people, wondering whether he was being foolish pursuing Kate—though her whispered promise echoed seductively in his head.  He was pondering the prospect with some pleasure when a voice behind him interrupted his thoughts.  

‘Morse?  What are you doing here?’  He turned around to see Dorothea Frazil standing near the door in a long navy-blue gown, evening bag tucked under her arm and cigarette in hand.  

‘Miss Frazil, what a surprise—Good evening.’  

‘This doesn’t seem your scene at all,’ she said, gesturing towards the ballroom.  ‘Are you working a case?’  Her eyes lit up at the prospect of a scoop.  

‘No, I’m here with a friend.’  

‘A friend?  Morse, are you on a date ?’  She emphasized the last word with an unflattering amount of incredulity.  

‘Is that so hard to believe?’  

She scoffed.  ‘No, I suppose not.  Bully for you, then.  “There goes everyone to the world but I,”’ she quoted.  

‘And what are you doing here, Miss Frazil?  Are you covering the society pages these days?’  

‘I volunteered,’ she said with a roll of her eyes, dragging on her cigarette.  ‘Trying to wangle an introduction to this new curator, the one from America.’  

He smiled.  ‘Oh, really?  What’s your interest there?’  

‘For my series, you know— “The New Women of Oxford.”   The lady pathologist, the latent potential doctor over at Cardinal, that chess champion from Blythe Mount,’ she tallied her subjects, looking at him expectantly.  ‘You haven’t read any of them, have you?’ 

Shaking his head, he apologized.  ‘I’ve been busy lately.’  

‘Hmm, with this date of yours, I presume.  Well, this new librarian would make a great addition—educated, successful, good-looking, by all accounts—and everyone loves an American, so I’m here to make her acquaintance, come hell or high water.’  She peered through the windows as though looking for her quarry.  

‘Well, I’ll make it up to you.  I might be able to assist you with your mission.’  

‘Oh, really?  You know her?’  

‘She’s my date,’ he divulged, enjoying the look of surprise on Miss Frazil’s face.  ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you.’  He jerked his head and started for the door.  

Once inside, Morse scanned the room, searching for Kate.  There she was, standing on the raised perimeter, drawing everyone’s eye in her daring dress.  She was surrounded by well-dressed men, Sir Lawrence showing her off to his fellow peers and the Oxford dons.  Thankfully, Matthew Copley-Barnes was not among them. 

Morse grabbed three glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one immediately to Dorothea, who followed in his wake.  He climbed the stairs and approached the throng around Kate.  She caught his eye quickly and reached out for the drink, allowing him to slip easily to her side.  ‘Miss DeAngelis,’ he smiled, passing the glass to her.  ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’ 

Taking the bait, she made her excuses to the gentlemen around her and followed Morse to a quieter corner of the mezzanine, taking his hand once they’re cleared the crowd.  ‘Oh, well done, thank you.  That was getting to be too much!’  

He squeezed her hand, saying ‘There really is someone I want you to meet.’  He gestured to Dorothea, who was sipping from her own glass.  ‘Miss Frazil, may I introduce Katherine DeAngelis, newly arrived from Chicago and curator of the Milford Collection.  Kate, this is Dorothea Frazil, a friend and editor of The Oxford Mail .’ 

‘How do you do?’ Dorothea said, shaking Kate’s hand, who murmured a greeting in response.  

‘Dorothea would like to do a story about you,’ he told Kate.  The smile on her face froze, and she blinked several times as she looked back and forth between the two of them, her hand straying to the back of her neck.  

‘Only if you’re willing, of course,’ Dorothea said, her eyebrows raised hopefully.  

‘Oh—it's, um—I mean—’ Kate stammered out.  

Morse was confused by her hesitance—Kate hardly seemed the type to shy away from publicity—but then remembered something.  ‘Perhaps she's concerned about the quality of Oxford journalism,’ he joked, turning to Dorothea.  ‘There was a mistake in your article about the Collection last month.’  

‘Oh, no—’ Kate demurred, just as Dorothea objected, ‘Oh, yes?’  

Morse said to Miss Frazil, ‘Oh, yes— there was a discrepancy in the number of languages Miss DeAngelis knows.’  Kate dismissed the idea, shaking her head and laughing.  

‘Oh, dear,’ Dorothea replied earnestly, turning to Kate.  ‘I am sorry—I was relying solely on what I could get my hands on from the Chicago press, I’m afraid.’  For some reason this made Kate’s smile slide right off her face and she took a hasty sip of champagne, Morse noticing that her hand shook slightly.  But Dorothea pressed on, saying formally, ‘“ The Mail sincerely regrets the error.”  And I’d like to make it up to you—I promise you’ll have full review of any forthcoming story before it goes to print.’  

‘Oh—’ Kate began, looking away.  Morse tried to catch her eye—something was clearly bothering her, but then she recovered, smiling, and she said graciously, if a little stiffly, ‘I’d be delighted, Ms. Frazil.  Thank you for the opportunity.’  

‘It’s I who will be doing the thanking, really!  And please call me Dorothea—any friend of Morse’s.’  

‘Yes,’ Kate said with a smile, relaxing.  ‘I’m Kate.’  

Dorothea leaned close to Kate’s ear, whispering loudly, ‘You know you’re here with the cleverest man in Oxford, right?’  

‘That’s quite a bold claim,’ Kate laughed, her eyebrows raised.  

‘I stand by it whole-heartedly.  Quite the gallant as well,’ Dorothea continued, glancing coyly at Morse, who rolled his eyes and looked away.  ‘He saved my life once—or near enough.’  

‘I hear he does that quite often,’ Kate said, her cheek dimpling.  

Suddenly Sir Lawrence appeared at Kate’s side, looking even more frazzled than before.  ‘It’s time!’ he declared in a tense whisper.  

‘Oh!’  Kate’s eyes widened and she swallowed hard, absent-mindedly handing her empty glass to Morse, who murmured, ‘Good luck.’  She flashed him a shaky smile and was dragged away by Sir Lawrence.  

Once they were out of earshot, Miss Frazil grabbed Morse's arm, whispering in a low hiss, ‘Is it true she’s Milford’s only heir?’  

‘What?’ he frowned, looking at her sharply.  ‘I don’t know.  We haven’t discussed finances, funnily enough.’  

‘Sorry,’ Miss Frazil muttered, turning aside.  ‘I can’t exactly ask her, can I?’  

The orchestra had stopped playing and the crowd was starting to settle, turning towards the front of the room, where Sir Lawrence stepped up to a microphone next to the case holding the prized troubadour songbook.  Morse knew Kate was nervous about opening the Collection, but she hid it well; after she was introduced by Sir Lawrence, she mounted the steps to a polite smattering of applause, a picture of poise, the light glinting off her glamorous dress.  

She addressed the assembly in a steady, confident voice, thanking Sir Lawrence and the University Chancellor for the warm welcome of both herself and the Collection of her friend and mentor Dr. Douglas Milford.  She went on to talk about why his collection had come to Oxford, invoking the American legacy in Oxford—Cecil Rhodes’ aspirations of cultural exchange, John Rockefeller’s funding of the new Weston; she pointed out that Rockefeller also founded the University of Chicago, thus forging a connection between this city of Dreaming Spires and the Windy City so many thousands of miles away.  

‘But mostly,’ she continued, drawing them in with a small smile, ‘I believe Dr. Milford chose Oxford to have his name enshrined forever in the greatest library in the world—and also to spite Harvard and Yale.’  This elicited a roll of laughter from the crowd.  Kate waited until it started to fade away before going on.  

‘In truth, these manuscripts,’ she gestured around the room, ‘these beautiful pieces, wrought by the skill of men and women so many centuries ago, were only ever visitors on foreign shores.  Dr. Milford always said an Old World collection belongs to the Old World.  The poet Terentianus observed that books have their own destinies and these books, blown about for centuries by the winds of Fate, have now finally found their permanent home.  And so I hope you’ll join me in celebrating this homecoming by remembering the words of Aeneas, who after years of his own wandering, finally reached the shores of Latium and recognized his Fate: “Hic domus, haec patria est.”’   Then she raised her glass in salutation, concluding, ‘In memoriam Milfordiae! ’’ 

The crowd echoed her toast, breaking into applause and toasting the memory of Douglas Milford.  Looking around, Morse could tell it was as he’d predicted; the assembled guests were all enchanted by Kate’s unaffected, colonial affability combined with her evident erudition—not to mention her good looks and winning smile.  Their approval was obvious, as they smiled and nodded and murmured plaudits to one another.  He watched as Kate stepped gracefully down the steps, led by Sir Lawrence, and was reminded of an earlier part of The Aeneid: ‘Et vera incessu patuit dea.’— ‘And by her walk the goddess was revealed.’  

As the applause died down, Miss Frazil turned back to Morse.  ‘Well,’ she mused, clearly impressed herself, ‘an American Zuleika!  The toast of two continents, with all of Oxford at her feet.’ 

‘Mmm,’ he murmured, his thoughts running along similar lines.  

‘Be careful, Morse,’ she continued, reaching over to straighten his bowtie.  ‘I have no wish to see you fished out of the Cherwell a suicide.’  

He smiled ruefully, half-rolling his eyes as Dorothea excused herself and walked away into the crowd.  

Morse slowly made his way to the front of the room, which was growing louder and more boisterous as the orchestra struck up again and the champagne continued to flow.  There was a large cluster of people around Kate once again, and he hung back, watching as she greeted and smiled and shook hands, nodding, laughing, charming everyone around her, though he thought he saw the flicker of—was that relief?—on her face when she caught sight of him.  He was finally able to sidle up next to her, and she flashed him a dazzling smile and accepted his proffered champagne. 

‘That’s rescue number two, now,’ she laughed, taking a sip, her hand still shaking slightly.  ‘You’re really earning your keep.’  

He couldn’t help but wonder what his keep might entail—the drink was starting to go to his head.  ‘You did well,’ he said, trying not to stare too openly.  

She smirked at him.  ‘I only followed your advice, as I’m sure you realize.’  

He was about to ask her to dance when the young man he’d seen earlier with Miss Perry approached.  ‘Hey, Kate,’ he said in an American accent and she whirled around.  ‘Look at you,’ he continued with a grin, his eyes roving over her body.  

‘Tony!’ she exclaimed, her eyes wide with shock.  ‘What are you doing here?’  

With an expressive shrug, the newcomer drawled, ‘Aw, I figured you were right—I shouldn’t take off before seeing some of the sights.’  

She gave a huff of astonishment, clearly taken aback.  Recovering, she introduced him as Tony Lloyd, one of the Pinkerton agents who had guarded the Collection in transit; he was a handsome man, with an easy smile and an obvious self-assurance.  ‘Hey, nice to meetcha,’ he said, shaking Morse’s hand.  Turning back to Kate, he asked, ‘So, you wanna dance?’  

Morse felt a flare of possessive annoyance at being forestalled.  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Tony asked him with a bold smirk.  

‘She can do what she likes,’ he said tersely, unsmiling.  

‘Great!’ he said brashly, and held out his hand to Kate, though he was still looking at Morse, his gaze challenging.  ‘Whaddya say, babe?’  

She glanced between the two of them, then rolled her eyes, saying, ‘Alright, boys, stand down.  Morse,’—she put a hand on his shoulder—‘I'll be back.’  She leaned over and left a kiss on his cheek before taking Tony’s hand.  

Cocky little sod, Morse thought as he watched her being led onto the dance floor.  He was still looking at them, Lloyd’s arms too close around her and Kate’s smile a little too keen, when Dorothea returned, but only to say goodnight.  She’d accomplished her mission, for which she thanked him, clinking her glass to his, but now she was eager to leave.  

‘Who’s that then?’ she asked, jerking her head derisively toward the dancers.  

Morse explained briefly, feigning indifference, though even he could hear the tension in his voice. 

‘On second thought, Morse, I think I was wrong.’  Dorothea looked at him, her head tilted to one side, examining him with a narrow, concerned look.  ‘I know you’ve been hurt before—it's as plain as the nose on your face,’ she explained, arching her eyebrow, when he frowned at her.  ‘But on second thought, you’re too careful by half.’  Gesturing towards Kate and Tony, she asked, ‘You like her?’  He looked down at his shoes.  ‘I daresay she likes you, too, so don’t overthink it.  Don’t be careful, Morse—be bold .  What do they say—fortune favors?’  

‘Mmm.  They do say that.’  

She patted his shoulder encouragingly and murmured, ‘Goodnight, Morse.’    

‘Goodnight.’  

As his gaze drifted back to the couple, he wondered if he could be bold; he rather thought he must be fated to fail in love, and was not bold by nature.  When the music ended, he watched Tony Lloyd lean close to Kate’s ear, whispering something, saw Kate rebuff him with a tolerant smile, gently pushing him away.  Hardly deterred, Tony raised Kate’s hand to his lips, prompting Morse to roll his eyes and sneer, before Tony finally walked away.  

Kate didn’t return immediately, however, as she was flagged down by Audrey Hartley, and Morse was introduced to her husband Michael, who was much more mild-mannered and less pompous than his wife, and was a physics lecturer at Lovelace College.  The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough, with a flurry of introductions and light conversation, punctuated by dancing and nicely blurred with champagne.  

He had to rescue Kate a third time when she was ensnared by Copley-Barnes, who questioned her about the Norman missal, trying to trip her up.  As Morse had suspected, the medievalist did not recognize him but was irked nevertheless to have his prey extricated.  

As the hour grew late and the crowd started to thin, Sir Lawrence asked Kate to help get the Collection pieces back to their proper places.  She said goodnight to Audrey and the others, then drew Morse aside, asking him to meet her in the courtyard later.  He agreed, and she left with Sir Lawrence, Miss Perry, and the head of Bodleian security.  

He chatted briefly with Michael Hartley and his colleague Pat Amory, who did recognize him, though of course she didn’t like to be reminded of the murder of Dr. Neilsen.  He inquired after her father, who was in good health but had retired from the College completely—Bernard Gould had been given charge of the computing division in his place, which Morse could tell didn’t please her. 

After awhile he made his excuses and drifted away, leaving by the side door and walking around the Camera to clear his head before returning to the quad.  The night was cool, with the first chill pricks of winter in the air.  He leaned against the building and watched as the guests dispersed into the night, their laughter echoing around the courtyard.  

But the courtyard had been empty and quiet for some time when Kate finally emerged from the north door, her heels ringing out on the cobblestones.  She looked around the darkened quad as he emerged from the shadow of the wall.  

‘Finished?’  

‘Yes, finally!’ she said with relief as she walked toward him.  ‘Sorry that took so long—Mr. Ward’s quite the stickler.’   She shivered slightly in her flimsy dress and he took off his jacket to put around her shoulders.  ‘Thanks,’ she smiled, adjusting it.  ‘I forgot my coat—it wasn’t cold earlier.’  Still smiling, she came closer and put her hand on his chest.  ‘Now then,’ she murmured, her eyes glowing green, ‘are you going to take me home?’  He nodded silently and leaned in to kiss her.  They lingered for a moment in the empty square, his arms wrapped around her and the world slipping away.  

‘Shall we?’ she whispered eventually, taking his arm, and they walked in step to the car.  

On the way home, she chattered merrily about the party, recounting conversations with the Earl of Clarendon and the American ambassador, who’d bent her ear with ideas of staring an institute for American studies at Oxford.  She was babbling and a little tipsy but he didn’t mind—less space for him to fill.  Regarding Tony Lloyd she said, ‘He was laying it on rather thick, wasn’t he?  But don’t worry,’ she went on, ‘He doesn’t interest me.  I don’t even know what he was doing there!  Who invited him ?’ she laughed.  

It was late by the time they reached Blackbird Leys, but Kate still put a finger to her lips as they walked down the hallway, motioning toward Mrs. Murphy’s closed door.  She quietly unlocked her flat and they slipped inside.  

She shut the door softly behind them and hung his jacket on the coatrack.  Turning to look at him through lowered lashes, she asked, ‘Do you want a drink?’  

‘No.’  He shook his head, reaching out for her.  

‘Me neither.’  She threw her arms around his neck, and he pulled her close.  As they kissed, he began steering her towards the bedroom.  She tossed her evening bag and keys onto the kitchen table as they passed and started untying his bowtie.  

After a moment, she broke away, going over to the mirrored dresser and kicking off her heels.  He watched her pick half a dozen pins from her hair, shaking it out so it fell in loose, wild curls around her shoulders.  He stepped closer, put a hand on her waist.  Meeting his gaze in the mirror, she gathered her thick tresses to one side, murmuring, ‘Can you undo me?’  

God yes, he could.  He unfastened the buttons at the back of her neck one by one, his fingers brushing against her skin.  Sliding the fabric aside, he bent to deposit a kiss on her neck—another lower, on her shoulder blade, as he ran a fingertip down her spine, making her shiver.  ‘There’s another one at the bottom,’ she breathed over her shoulder.  He shifted closer to her, inhaling the lavender-scented heat coming off her skin, and reached down to undo the last button at her waist.  She leaned into him, and he slipped his hands underneath the dress and over her bare shoulders, pushing the sleeves down as she turned to meet his lips.  

Once free of her arms, the dress, weighted down by its crystal decorations, fell from her body, slithering over her hips and onto the floor.  She stepped out of it and pushed him gently onto the bed, climbing astride and starting on his shirt buttons as his hands wandered over her suddenly all-but naked form.  

Things progressed quickly from there, neither wishing to delay any longer.  When they were finished, he rolled onto his back, breathing hard, and she laid her head on his shoulder, her fingers in the hair on his heaving chest.  ‘I’ve wanted to do that since the day we met,’ she purred, echoing what’d she’d said on the riverbank.  

‘Me, too,’ he replied again, smiling, and put his arm around her.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

They were awoken by the shrill clamor of the telephone coming from the next room.  Kate’s curtained window barely registered the thin glow of a nascent dawn—it was far too early to be awake, especially after such a late night.  

His first thought was that it must be work, before realizing that this was not his bed and that was not his telephone.  

Kate turned over with a moan as the phone continued to ring insistently.  Morse saw her open her eyes reluctantly, blinking sleepily, as he pulled a pillow over his ear.  She briefly touched his arm in a groggy greeting before rolling over and rising grudgingly from the bed.  

His eyes followed her as she shuffled naked toward the living room, grabbing a red silk dressing gown off the back of the door.  They slid shut again as she answered the phone with a mumble, ending its demanding din.  He started to drift off again.  

‘WHAT? ’ he heard her cry from the other room, and his eyes snapped open immediately.  Trouble .  ‘Oh, my God!’ she continued in panicked tones.  ‘How?  What happened?’  There was a pause during which Morse could hear her short, struggling gasps for breath.  ‘Uh-huh.  Okay.  Oh, fuck!’ she sobbed.  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way.’  

By the time Kate hung up the telephone and turned around, bleary eyes wide with shock, Morse was already half-dressed and leaning on the bedroom door frame, rubbing sleep from his eyes. 

‘What’s happened?’ he mumbled, but she was too distressed to register the question. 

‘Oh, my God,’ she exclaimed again, her hand grasping at her throat, breathing in great heaving gulps.  ‘I have to go!’ she exclaimed and tried to push past him, but he grabbed her shoulder, arresting her movement.  

‘Tell me what’s happened.’  

‘Somebody broke into the Library—into my office!’  She was in a state of shock, but the policeman in him switched on, cool and controlled: Mens aequa in arduis .  

‘Alright—it’s alright,’ he soothed, kissing her forehead.  

‘No, it’s not!’ she exploded, wrenching out of his grasp and rushing towards the dresser.  She rummaged in a drawer for some clothes, close to tears, sobbing, ‘Oh, Jesus!  Oh, shit!’   

‘Calm down,’ he implored, following her into the room and reaching for the remainder of his clothing.  But she wasn’t listening.  She threw her robe onto the bed and began to dress quickly.  Even under the circumstances, he couldn’t help but admire the beauty of her naked body.  This wasn’t how he’d imagined spending the morning after.  He wanted to shut the door, draw her back into bed—forget about everything and enjoy her again.  

As he pulled on his trousers, he asked what had been taken, who had discovered the break-in, who was there now, but she didn’t have any information about such practical concerns.  ‘Nancy just said someone broke in, the place is a mess, she’s called the police, but—I have to get down there right now! ’’  She wriggled her feet into a pair of loafers and pulled her hair back into a tangled ponytail, peering at herself in the mirror over the dresser.  Last night’s makeup had left dark smudges under her eyes, and she started to wipe at them with a tissue, whimpering.  

He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, stilling her.  ‘Kate, listen to me.’  His measured, forceful tone—the one he used on uniforms and hysterical witnesses—finally broke through her frenzied state and she looked back at him through the mirror.  ‘I’m the police, remember?’ he said steadily.  ‘We’ll go together, we’ll find out what’s happened.  But you need to calm down and you need to think clearly.’  He held her gaze in the mirror as he bent to kiss her neck softly.  He felt her relax a little, lean against him.  ‘You shouldn’t arrive looking like this.’   

She looked beautiful, actually, but in a somewhat disheveled, definitely post-coital sort of way that would not impress the constabulary.  She managed a small smile.  He turned her around and kissed her deeply, his hands cradling her face.  He wanted to do much more, but instead he continued, ‘I’m going to go change clothes, but I’ll be back in ten minutes.  Alright?’  

She gave a halting nod, her breathing starting to slow.  He collected the rest of his belongings from the bedside table and started for the door.  She saw him out, still tense but settled for the moment.  ‘I don’t know how you can be so calm—time like this.’  

‘It’s my job.’  He kissed her again and closed the door behind him.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

In a dank room nearby, on the outskirts of Eynsham, a middle-aged man sits at a table, chewing on his thumbnail, deep in thought.  Things have gone pear-shaped somehow—again.  He has what he’s wanted, right here on the table, but he’s no closer to what he needs.  He's frustrated, confused, and feeling the first tingles of panic.  His usually unflappable veneer is starting to crumble and his hand, when he lowers it to the table, is shaking.  He balls it into a fist, wills it to stop.  He glares down at the musty books on the table—he'll inspect them later, tear them apart if he has to.  There must be something .  But now—first—above everything else, now he has a body to get rid of.   

♦ 
 

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Sgraffito  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

‘Jesus fuck , Leonard!’  His bellow makes the telephone buzz.  ‘How could you let this happen?’  

‘Look, if you’d like this operation done differently, I suggest you get over here and run it yourself!’   

A pause, as Wallis’ interlocutor composes himself.  ‘Would you like me to do that?’  His voice is dangerously calm again.   

Wallis doesn’t answer, his jaw clenched hard.  No, he would not like that.   

‘What’s being done to recover them?’ the man on the other end hisses.   

‘The police—’   

‘Oh yes, that’s just what we need.  For the police to find them and start investigating.’   

Wallis sighs, runs a hand over his face, remembering his agent’s warning about that persistent detective.  ‘Look, they were just . . . breadcrumbs, anyway,’ he mumbles.   

‘Yes, and if Chanticleer follows them more adeptly than you have?’  Wallis remains silent.  ‘How close is your agent to finding it?’  Wallis doesn’t answer and the man snorts.  ‘That’s what I thought.’   

‘There’s no way he can, either,’ Wallis insists.  ‘There's just nothing there!  Maybe we were wrong.’  

‘Are you willing to risk that?’  He barely pauses before answering his own question.  ‘I’m not.  So what are you going to do now?’   

Rubbing at the knot of tension in his forehead, Wallis admits, ‘I don’t know.’   

A world-weary, frustrated sigh is the response.  ‘God dammit, Len,’ he says quietly and hangs up.  

Wallis drops the receiver back in its cradle but doesn’t move.  He is not used to failure and doesn’t like it.  Then again, he didn’t ask for any of this.  How has he allowed himself to be drawn into this nonsense again?  His new position at the Embassy strictly forbids this kind of thing.  And he’s not cut out for this sort of work—these clandestine operations, these silly, elaborate schemes to accomplish barely significant aims.  He prefers to cut through red tape and damn the consequences.  He is at heart a military man, used to following orders, but this—this bullshit— is not what he signed up for.  And he’s under no obligation to follow orders from him , anyway.    

What does he care about the success of this stupid mission?   

Disillusioned and disappointed, Wallis slumps back in his chair with a deep sigh.   

He needs a way out.   

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

♦ I. ♦ 

By the time Morse returned, Kate was ready and waiting outside her building.  ‘You left this,’ she told him, holding out his bowtie.  

‘Thanks,’ he muttered, stuffing it into his pocket and heading for the car.  At this early hour of a Sunday, the complex was hushed and empty, with only the birds astir.  Kate had changed into a matched outfit of checked wool and tidied her hair into a loose knot at the back of her neck, but she was still wide-eyed and pale with shock.  He didn’t know what to say to calm her, so they were both quiet as he drove into town, Kate twisting her fingers nervously in her lap.  

As he pulled to a halt on Catte Street, Jim Strange approached from the direction of the Bodleian.  Morse got out as Jim called, ‘Mornin’, matey.  They finally get hold of you?’  

‘Erm, not exactly.’  He’d heard his telephone ringing as he came down the hallway and had rushed to unlock the door, but was too late to answer it.  

Strange was puzzled.  ‘Then how—?  Oh.’  He stopped short when he saw Kate climb from the other side of the car.  Blast , Morse thought.  

‘Hi,’ Kate said uncertainly, looking between the two of them.  

‘Right,’ Strange coughed after a moment, ‘You’d better get in there.  I’m off to get the guv.’  

‘Would you like me to go?’ Morse asked, but Strange shook his head.  

‘S’alright—‘xpecting me—didn’t know where you were,’ he said pointedly.    

As Strange walked past him down the street, Morse leaned over, muttering, ‘She needed a ride.’ 

‘You say so,’ Jim muttered back, his eyebrows raised.  

Kate was clearly anxious to get inside and had already started off towards the Library.  He caught her up but suggested it might be best if they arrived separately.  She only glanced at him and nodded mutely so he hung back, hands in his pockets, watching her progress as she turned into the courtyard.  He had the distinct feeling he wouldn’t escape a tongue-lashing over his involvement with Kate, even though it was all above board.  He’d done everything right and still somehow ended up in the wrong.  His jaw clenched, after a few minutes he followed her into the Library.  

Scene of Crime were already buzzing around Kate’s office and Morse spotted her down the hallway, deep in conference with Sir Lawrence and Miss Perry, nodding earnestly as she listened to the latter’s narrative.  

He asked to be briefed by PC Benson, who was standing guard over the scene.  Thankfully, the door to the Collection room hadn’t been forced, but the offices were not as secure.  ‘Looks worse than it is, though,’ Benson continued, jerking his head toward the door, ‘Only a couple things nicked, ‘parently, though it’s a mess in there.’  Pointing past Kate and the others, he went on.  ‘Window at the end of the hall was broken—sometime ‘tween two and five.  Alarm didn’t go off—don’t know why.  Still trying to reach the head of security, but the guard on duty didn’t hear a thing.’ 

‘Who discovered it then?’  

‘Blondie over there,’ he replied, jutting his chin towards Kate’s group.  ‘Some big to-do here last night ‘parently—’ Morse’s lips tightened, ‘—she left her coat, came back this morning, stumbled on it.’ 

‘What’s been taken?’ he asked, though he thought he could probably guess.  

‘Just some old books—belong to the looker over there.’  He gestured in Kate’s direction.  ‘Isn’t she the one from that murder case, couple weeks back?  The American?’  

Morse grimaced.  ‘Yeah, thanks.’  The books from Milford’s estate, he presumed—someone had been after them for awhile, it would seem.  The search of Kate’s luggage, Cartwright’s attempt, now a break-in—he wondered momentarily if her flat had been searched, too.  But why?  Antiquarian books were valuable to an extent, but not enough to justify such extremes.  It didn’t make sense—they must be more than what they seemed.  ‘Why isn’t Robbery here?’ he asked.  

The constable shrugged.  ‘Big case, I ‘spose.  Nothing else on.’  Morse nodded and dismissed him. 

With a glance over at Kate, Morse stepped into the room, which was indeed a mess.  The inner office window had been broken and the desks and file cabinets ransacked.  Some of the drawers had been forced open, and the floor was littered with splinters of wood, shards of glass, crumpled paper, and other detritus.  The typewriter from Miss Perry’s desk had been smashed—stomped on, by the look of it, bent typebars jutting out this way and that.  He leant into the smaller office where they were still looking for fingerprints.  It was just as messy as the outer office and he noticed the portrait of Saint Katherine was missing as well, its nail hanging empty and forlorn from the wall.  

They didn’t find any prints.  When they were finished, Morse went inside to examine the scene more closely.  The spindle table that had held the stolen books was broken, and he crouched down to right it, propping it against the wall.  His eye was caught by a glint of gold just behind the file cabinet nearby, and when he looked closer, he realized it was the ornate frame that held the painting of Kate’s patron saint—it hadn’t been taken after all, merely fallen from the wall in the midst of all the chaos.  He fished it out from its hiding place and stood up, picking off bits of dust.  

That made even less sense—surely this single piece of parchment was worth more than any of the books, possibly combined.  He looked around the rooms, thinking.  A lot of chaos for such a small take .  All this mess seemed like overkill.  Everything was in disorder, but if only the books were missing it was all for show.  For whose benefit? he wondered, tapping his thumb against his mouth.  

Kate appeared in the doorway, arms hugged against herself.  When she saw what he was holding, she rushed forward, eyes wide with relief.  ‘Oh my God!’ she sobbed, grabbing it from him. She clasped it to her chest and threw her head back in gratitude.  When she squeezed her eyes shut, tears rolled down her cheeks.  ‘Oh, thank God.’  

‘It was behind the cabinet,’ he explained, pointing.  ‘It must have fallen.’  He leant forward to inspect the empty nail, giving Kate some time to compose herself.  After a moment she sniffed loudly and set the portrait on her desk.  He reached into his jacket for a handkerchief.  

‘It’s always falling,’ she lamented, taking it from him.  ‘The nail’s bent.’  

‘Milford’s books?’ he asked, and she nodded soberly, wiping her nose.  ‘At least it wasn’t anything from the Collection,’ he offered and got another nod, accompanied by a half-hearted smile. 

‘I know you’re right,’ she said with a sigh.  ‘It’s just—I failed him.’  Her face started to crumple, and she bit into her lip to keep from crying again.  

He wanted to reach out to her, hold her, tell her she was wrong.  But wary of the many eyes in the vicinity, instead he stuffed his hands in his pockets and said quietly, ‘I’ll get to the bottom of this.  I promise.’  

Her green eyes were bright with tears.  ‘But you can’t promise that,’ she said, her voice catching.  Dabbing at her eyes, she continued with a shake of her head, ‘I know you’re just trying to help.’  

Morse heard voices from the hallway; Thursday and Strange had arrived.  ‘Are you ready?’ he asked carefully, gesturing towards the office door.  She took a last swipe at her nose and nodded, pressing her lips together to calm herself.  As he took her elbow to steer her out of the room, she looked up at him with glowing, grateful eyes.  He had to look away.  

His superior was talking to Constable Benson, but turned as Morse and Kate appeared.  ‘Miss DeAngelis,’ Thursday greeted her, taking off his hat.  ‘I’m sorry to see you again under these circumstances.’  She smiled glumly and introduced Sir Lawrence Mallory and Miss Perry, who were loitering awkwardly nearby.  

‘Is there somewhere we can speak more comfortably?’ Thursday asked.  

‘Sure, yes,’ Kate murmured, gesturing back the way they’d come.  ‘This way.’  

Miss Perry had made tea, and passed around mismatched cups as they settled into the cozy staff lounge.  Morse smiled a thank-you at her as he unbuttoned his jacket and took a seat at a small table next to Strange.  Sir Lawrence perched next to Kate on the sofa, patting her shoulder solicitously, and Thursday sat down across from them in a wooden armchair of Scandinavian design.  After seeing everyone right, the secretary made for the hall, but changed her mind and stayed, hovering in the doorway.  

‘Miss DeAngelis,’ Thursday began gently, ‘what can you tell us about the books that were taken?’ 

She took a deep breath as though to speak, but then faltered, her shoulders slumping.  ‘Not a lot, I’m afraid,’ she admitted with a sigh.  ‘They belonged to Dr. Milford, my—my patron.  They were for, um, colleagues, I think—or anyway, people he knew from the War.  Here in England.’  

‘They were valuable?’ asked Thursday.  

With a half-shrug, she explained, ‘Sure, I guess—first editions, some of them.’  Her brow furrowed, she counted them off on her fingers, ‘Let’s see—a Poe, a Proust, um, a nineteenth-century Chaucer, and an Oxford Bible from the 1640s—that's worth a fair bit, I bet.’  She cleared her throat and Morse could tell she was trying not to look at him.  He was trying not to stare himself, but kept stealing glances nevertheless.  ‘One of them was in Russian,’ she added.  

‘Which one was that?’ Morse asked; he didn’t remember anything like that.  

With a lightning quick glance in his direction, she stuttered out, ‘Oh, um, a Shakespeare— Merchant of Venice , I think, though I—I don’t read Cyrillic.’  

‘I thought there were only four missing.’  Strange had been keeping track.  

‘Well, yes, that’s right.  Oh!’ she exclaimed, realizing the confusion.  ‘I already delivered the Shakespeare.  Sorry.’  

‘So there were others?’  A nod.  

‘Delivered to whom?’ Morse wanted to know.  

She looked over at him.  ‘Um, a man in London—some military attaché at the Ambassador’s.’  

‘The American Ambassador’s?’ asked Sir Lawrence, and she turned to him, nodding.  ‘Well, he was here last night, wasn’t he?’ Sir Lawrence continued suspiciously.  ‘Was the attaché?’  Everyone turned back to Kate, who shook her head, not speaking.  

Miss Perry piped up from the doorway.  ‘The Ambassador’s office asked for an invitation—Mr. Annenberg’s keen to foster inter-Anglo educational endeavours.  Apparently.’  She crossed her arms self-consciously as everyone’s gaze shifted abruptly to her.  

‘So how many were there?’  Morse kept his eyes on Kate.  

‘Seven,’ she told him, glad to have a solid answer.  ‘I delivered three, so—oh!  I—I have it all written down!’  She suddenly remembered and grabbed her handbag from the table, withdrawing a small leather notebook.  As she was flipping to the proper place, a bookmark slipped from its pages, and Miss Perry leant forward to retrieve it.  

‘Here,’ Kate said, thrusting the open notebook towards Morse.  He took it, their eyes and fingers lingering for the briefest moment, and he glanced down at the page—a list, written in a smooth, fluid cursive, some entries already neatly crossed out.  

He skimmed it quickly, frowning briefly before asking, ‘May I—can we get a copy of this?’  

‘Sure.’  Their fingers brushed again as she took it back and held it out to Miss Perry.  ‘Nancy, would you mind—?  Nancy?’  

Miss Perry looked up, startled, and reached automatically for the proffered notebook.  ‘Sorry,’ she excused herself.  ‘Yes, of course.’  She cleared her throat and turned to go.  ‘I can use the machine in the workroom,’ she explained to no one in particular.  Morse watched her leave, his eyes narrowed.  

Thursday asked Kate and Sir Lawrence to go through the events of the previous evening.  Morse snuck a glance at Kate, but she addressed herself directly to the Inspector and made no mention of his presence at the Gala.  He half hoped Sir Lawrence didn’t remember him—they’d barely been introduced, after all, and the man had been distracted—strained, almost jumpy.  He wondered if that was unusual.  

‘Anyone suspicious hanging about?’ Strange interjected.  

‘Suspicious?’ Sir Lawrence balked, affronted.  ‘Our guests last night included some of the leading lights of the University.  The Earl of Clarendon was in attendance—I hope you’re not suggesting His Lordship—’   

Thursday held up a palm to placate him.  ‘Just a routine question, Sir Lawrence.  Did you see anyone who—shouldn’t have been here?’  

Sir Lawrence shook his head, still glaring at Strange.  

‘Miss DeAngelis?’ Thursday asked, turning to her.  ‘What about you?’  

Kate had been staring at her hands, a frown on her face.  ‘Well,’ she said, biting her lip, ‘there was—I’m sure it’s not important,’ she trailed off, flustered, but with Thursday’s encouragement she told him about the sudden appearance of Tony Lloyd.  ‘I mean, I don’t think—it wasn’t suspicious, exactly—just—odd.’  Her eyes darted quickly to Morse’s and away. 

‘And this Lloyd fella—he was security for the Collection?’ Strange inquired.  When Kate confirmed this with a nod, Strange looked at Morse with a knowing look.  Usually an inside job .  Morse frowned, his hand straying to his earlobe.  

‘But those books weren’t part of the Collection!’ Kate backtracked.  ‘I honestly can’t      think—’  

‘Do you know where we could find Agent Lloyd this morning?’ Thursday interrupted calmly.  

‘No,’ Kate shook her head, looking as though she regretted bringing it up.  

‘The Pinkertons were staying at the Amber Lodge on the Botley Road,’ Morse announced, surprising everyone. 

‘How d’you know that, then?’ Strange asked him, taken aback.  

He crossed his arms, shrugging, ‘I was pursuing inquiries.’  

‘What inquiries?’ Thursday asked, a note of irritation in his voice.  

‘Cartwright,’ he replied simply.  Thursday peered at him, his jaw clenched, clearly wanting to know more—how a closed murder case suddenly connected to a very open and very high-profile burglary.  But he would not ask in front of civilians, and turned back to their witnesses.  

Morse glanced at Kate, trying to gauge her reaction.  She stared at him with a momentary frown of vexation.  Then she recovered, pursing her lips and turning her attention deliberately back to the Inspector.  Perfect.   He hadn’t meant to keep it from her—he’d spoken with Agent Blevins for all of five minutes, didn’t see Tony Lloyd at all—hadn’t even thought to mention it.  But now it looked like he’d done it in secret.  

Thursday continued with the questioning.  Sir Lawrence recounted putting away the display pieces with Kate and Miss Perry, under the supervision of the head of Bodleian security, John Ward. 

‘And where is Mr. Ward this morning?’ asked Thursday.  

Sir Lawrence frowned.  ‘I couldn’t say.’  

Strange spoke up.  ‘Attempts have been made, sir, but we haven’t been able to reach him.’  

Thursday turned back to his sergeants with a significant look before turning back to the sofa.  ‘And what time would this have been?’  

‘That was just getting on midnight, I think,’ Kate told them, her gaze darting to Morse again before shifting to Sir Lawrence, who verified the timing.  

‘Yes, that’s right, I left at about quarter-past, I suppose.’  

‘You went home, Sir Lawrence?’ Thursday asked.  

‘Yes,’ he replied, a little brusquely.  

‘Just for the record, sir, can anyone confirm that?’  

The peer frowned.  ‘My wife had returned home some time earlier, I’m afraid.  I didn’t wake her.’  His curt tone made it clear he did not appreciate the question.  

Thursday let it go.  ‘Of course, sir.  And you, Miss DeAngelis?’  

‘Um, yeah, I—I went home too.’  

‘And can anyone confirm that?  Just for the record,’ he explained, nodding to Sir Lawrence.  

Morse watched as Kate blinked a couple of times, trying not to look over at him.  Swallowing, she gulped out, ‘Um—,’ and licked her lips.  ‘I—Well . . .’  Morse cringed inwardly—she was a terrible liar.  Not that she should have to lie—this was ridiculous.  It wasn’t anyone’s business but theirs—they hadn’t done anything wrong.  But her evasiveness was making Thursday suspicious; he leant forward almost imperceptibly.  Kate was starting to shift uncomfortably in her seat.  Well, he wasn’t going to sit there and let her twist— 

‘Yes.  I was with her.’  Everyone in the room turned toward him, except Kate, whose gaze dropped like a stone as the colour rose in her cheeks.  He’d never seen her blush before.  

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Thursday said coolly, ‘I see.’  Morse saw his jaw clench and knew he was in for a scolding for sure.  Sir Lawrence was also frowning at him, probably recognizing him for the first time.  Strange applied himself determinedly to his notes.  

‘I see,’ Thursday said again before clearing his throat and turning his attention back to Kate.  ‘Miss DeAngelis, can you think of anyone who would want to steal these books?’  Kate shook her head with a slight shrug, her cheeks still flushed.  ‘Can you tell us anything else about them—what is their significance?’  

Kate laughed sadly, saying, ‘Well, that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?’  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

After Thursday had finished his preliminary questioning, he thanked the witnesses for their time and asked them to remain on the premises for the time being.  Sir Lawrence escorted Kate out of the lounge and Thursday conferred with his sergeants.  

‘Something odd about all this,’ Thursday said with a frown.  ‘The whole place turned over just to pinch some old books?’  

‘There’s more to it than meets the eye,’ Morse agreed.  

Thursday nodded and started issuing orders.  He’d head for Ward’s residence and asked Strange to track down the Pinkerton agent.    

Turning to Morse, Strange asked, ‘What do you make to this Lloyd fella?’  

Morse shrugged, uncertain.  ‘Private security,’ he said derisively.  ‘Arrogant.’  

‘Do you think he could be involved?’  

‘Maybe,’ he replied.  ‘Like she said, it was odd , him turning up.  The Pinkertons are armed, so be careful.’  

‘Aye, aye,’ Strange acknowledged.  

‘Morse, you start in on this list,’ Thursday charged.  ‘Old books—seems more your line than anyone’s.’ 

Morse nodded.  Eyebrows raised, he said pointedly, ‘The first name on that list is Beryl Mayhew Mallory.  I met her last night—she's Sir Lawrence’s wife.’  

‘Didn’t mention that now, did he?’ Strange observed, before heading for the door.  ‘See you back at the Nick.’  

‘Sergeant Morse, a word?’  Bracing himself, Morse hung back as Strange left the room.  Once they were alone, Thursday said quietly, ‘You were here last night?’  

‘Yes, sir.’  

‘I don’t appreciate being made to look a fool, Morse,’ he grumbled, ‘Why didn’t you mention that before?’  

Morse didn’t reply, since Thursday knew full-well why he hadn’t—to avoid this exact conversation.  ‘I didn’t see anything,’ he finally shrugged.  

‘This seems to be something of a habit for you, sergeant,’ Thursday growled.  ‘How many times do I have to tell you?  Sleeping with a witness!’  

‘She wasn’t a witness,’ he retorted, bristling, ‘She was a victim, remember?  And we closed that case.’  

‘And it looks like that was rather premature, now, doesn’t it?’  Thursday’s temper flared.  ‘Did you do that on purpose, just so you could try it on with her?’  

‘I didn’t know this was going to happen!’ he protested.  He’d been curious, suspicious, maybe—but he wasn’t clairvoyant.  

‘You really need to find another way to meet women—and let’s hope a witness is all she is now.’ 

‘She has an alibi,’ he said through clenched teeth.  

‘Yes, a perfect alibi—in bed with a policeman!’ Thursday erupted.  ‘But what if she’s mixed up in it?  It’s called the honey trap, Morse—how can you be so foolish?  I need you on this case, but you can’t be if you’re involved with her!’  

‘Sir, no—I'm not involved.  She invited me to a party,’ he said with a shrug.  ‘It was just a—a fling.’  Thursday glared at him but he maintained the lie.  ‘It won’t interfere,’ he insisted.  

‘It better not, Sergeant.  You better tread so lightly on this one I think you’re floating!’  Thursday angrily shoved his hat on his head and stormed from the room, stopping short just outside the door.  With a black look back at Morse, he cleared his throat and tipped his hat, nodding, ‘Miss DeAngelis,’ before starting down the hallway.  

And Kate stepped softly into the empty doorway of the lounge.  Of course.   

‘I have that list you wanted,’ she mumbled, holding out a folded sheet of paper without quite meeting his eye.  

‘Thank you,’ he said carefully, taking it from her and wondering how much she’d overheard. 

Certainly she’d heard enough.  ‘Just a fling, huh?’ she said, her jaw jutting out defiantly.  

He hesitated a fraction of a second too long.  ‘I’m sorry you had to hear that.’  

‘So, last night was last night and that’s all there is?’ she challenged, her voice rising.  ‘I didn’t think you were the sort,’ she finished under her breath.  

‘Kate—’ he stopped, stepped forward to close the door, glancing up and down the empty hallway.  Turning back, he tried to explain.  ‘I had to say that.  He’ll take me off the case.’  

‘Oh, I’m sure.’  She rolled her eyes.  

‘I can’t investigate you if we’re—’  

‘You don’t need to investigate me!’ she flared.  ‘I’m not mixed up in it—how can he think that?’  She gestured angrily toward the hallway.  

‘I’m sure he doesn’t, really.  He’s—he’s angry with me.’  

‘Cause you make a habit of sleeping with witnesses?’  She crossed her arms, green eyes flashing fiercely—she’d heard everything, then.  

‘That’s not true.’  Only that once .  

‘Women throw themselves at you all the time, I bet.  Damsels in distress.’  She glared at him indignantly.  

‘I—’  He thought of all the times he’d found himself in bedrooms and boudoirs—a stuck window, a tricky zipper, bedside vigils kept beside willing women.  I am half-sick of shadows, he remembered reading.  And truly he was—after all he’d been though, he longed for something more, something real.  ‘Sometimes,’ he admitted, shaking his head.  ‘But he’s exaggerating.’  

She hesitated, her eyes wary, assessing his credibility.  ‘So—what was last night?  You think it was a mistake?’  

‘No,’ he almost laughed, and felt his face grow warm thinking how much he’d enjoyed himself—enjoyed her.  How much he wanted her again.  ‘Do you think it was?’ he asked cautiously, risking a glance at her.  

She shook her head and stepped closer to him, her eyes aglow.  ‘I didn’t think we’d have to tell our bosses about it the next morning—,’ she huffed ruefully, ‘but no.’  

‘I didn’t want them to think you were hiding anything.’  

‘I know.’  She laid a hand on his chest, gazing up at him through dark lashes.  ‘So if it wasn’t a mistake, can I see you again?  Tonight?’  

He couldn’t say no to her—and didn’t want to.  ‘Well, we need to be—discreet,’ was the most he could manage, his gaze darting to the door.  

‘Mm-hmm, discreet,’ she murmured, her hand slipping to the back of his neck.  

‘I mean for now.’  

‘Sure, okay.’  She leaned against him, tilting her face to be kissed.  

‘Kate—’  

‘The door is closed,’ she breathed, her lips hovering next to his.  

‘I’m on duty.’  

‘I won’t tell.’  She covered his mouth with her own and he momentarily forgot where he was, clutching her close and abandoning himself to the savor of her lips, the feel of her body under his hands.  ‘Will I see you later?’ she asked when they parted.  

He nodded, croaking out, ‘Yes.’  

She smiled, her cheek dimpling.  ‘Come by anytime.’  She broke away and made for the door.  

‘Wait—’  He recovered himself and quickly looked over the now-crumpled paper Nancy had produced, frowning as he reached the end:  

• Beryl Mayhew Mallory

  Savile Rd, Oxford  

  H. Arendt  

• Leonard Wallis

  Winfield House, London  

  M/Venice   

• Rob. Currier

  Langley, VA

  J. Suckling  

• Victor Crossley

  Waterloo, London   

  Chaucer   

• Alex. O'Connell

  Coburn Gardens, Cheltenham   

  Rem./Things Past   

• Georgina Tolliver (née)– married?

  Last known–Shaston Mill, Eynsham   

  KJB   

• Xopher Foxley

  Last known – Oxford?   

  Rue Morgue   

He needed clarification on a few of the entries, then asked whether she knew any of the recipients. 

‘I’d never heard of any of them before—but I met Colonel Wallis last Saturday, and Lady Mallory a few days before.’  

‘You said you delivered three?’  

‘Yes—Mr. Currier in D.C.,’ she pointed to the entry, ‘but he wasn’t in—I had to leave it with his housekeeper.  And I tried to see Mr. Crossley in London, too, but no-go.’  

‘And the others?  Do you know who they are?’  

‘No.’  

‘I do.  Well, two of them, leastways.’  

‘What?’ Kate gasped.  ‘H-how?  Who?’  She grabbed at the list in his hand.  

‘Alexander O'Connell,’ he tapped the paper, ‘was my instructor in Signals.  He’s high-up in Government Communications now—cryptographer, during the War.’  

‘Well, he was probably in the same place as Doc!’  

‘Yes . . . the Golf, Cheese, and Chess Society . . .’ he trailed off.  

‘Huh?’  

He shook his head in response.  ‘And you’d have had a devil of a time tracking down this last.’  He indicated the final name.  

‘Why is that?’  Her eyes were wide and excited.  

‘Christopher Foxley’s been dead for over a decade.’  Then he frowned, tugging on his earlobe.  ‘But he can’t have been working in intelligence,’ he said, almost to himself.  

‘Why not?’  

‘Because he was here in Oxford—he was a police inspector.’  

‘What does that mean?’ she asked eagerly, searching his face.  

‘I don’t know,’ he said, his eyes narrowing.  He ran his index finger over his lips, thinking.  Then suddenly he realized how long they’d been sequestered alone in this room—she had rather captivated his attention, but he had things that needed doing.  He started for the door.  ‘Listen, I need to talk to the others—we should—’  His hand was on the doorknob, but he changed his mind, turned around and kissed her again, hard and fast.  ‘I’ll see you later,’ he told her, his hand on her cheek.  

‘Okay,’ she said breathlessly, and he opened to door to find Miss Perry leaning against the wall opposite, examining her nails.  

‘The Inspector said you wanted to see me,’ she said with a smirk.  ‘Are you two quite finished?’  

‘Nancy!’ Kate hissed, looking a little flustered as she stepped out the room.  ‘Cut it out!’  

‘Yes, thank you, Miss Perry,’ Morse said unsmilingly, and gestured her into the room.  ‘The constable will take you home,’ he said to Kate, pointing to Benson milling around in the hallway.  Kate mouthed Bye and offered a little wave and a smile before leaving.  He only watched her go for a second.  

He was glad Thursday had sent him the secretary, though—he, too, must have seen her odd reaction to Kate’s list.  He told Miss Perry to sit and asked several careful questions about the evening before and that morning’s discovery, all of which she answered impeccably, her pale brown eyes never leaving his.  

Finally, watching her closely, he said, ‘I saw how you reacted when you saw that list.’  

She blinked.  ‘What do you mean?’  

‘You recognized one of the names, didn’t you?’  

‘Well, yes.’  He waited.  ‘Lady Mallory, of course.’  

‘Of course.’  He paused, watching her through narrowed eyes.  ‘No one else?’ he pressed.   

‘No,’ she said resolutely.  

‘Last night I saw you with that Pinkerton agent—did he come at your request?’  

‘No,’ she repeated.  ‘No, I was quite surprised to see him, actually.’  

‘What were you two talking about?’  

‘Is that relevant?’ she asked, folding her hands in her lap.  

‘We like to be thorough.’  

She smirked at him again.  ‘He was looking for Kate, naturally.’  With some relish, she added, ‘None too pleased by your appearance, I’m sure.’  All innocence, she asked, ‘ Is that relevant?’  

‘Thank you, Miss Perry,’ he said a false smile.  With a dismissive gesture he told her she was free to go, but stopped her as she reached the door.  

‘Oh—Did you find your coat this morning?’  

‘Yes, thank you.’  He couldn't be sure, but he thought she’d taken a fraction of a second too long to answer.  

‘And where was it?’  

‘Here in the lounge.’  When he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her, she elaborated, ‘We did our makeup in here,’ and pointed to a large mirror hanging on the wall before leaving the room.  

Sir Lawrence wasn’t much help either, treating him with a coldness he could only assume stemmed from some patriarchal defense of Kate’s honour.  He was most concerned with what the press might learn of the theft and impatient to have his staff allowed to put things right again.  But Morse persisted, pulling out Kate’s list.  

‘Your wife received one of these books?’  

‘Yes, that’s right.  What of it?’  His nerves were starting to fray.  

‘She worked with Milford during the War?’  

‘Yes,’ he said testily.  

‘As did you, I believe?’ he pushed.  

Sir Lawrence hesitated.  ‘We were in the same place, yes, but we didn’t work together, per se .  That’s really all I should say about it—official secrets, I’m sure you understand.’  

‘Mmm.’  Morse leant back in his chair.  He’d need to talk to Beryl Mallory directly, and preferably before her husband could alert her to his inquiries. 

♦ II. ♦ 

But Kate was way ahead of him.  She’d shaken off her constable escort immediately, saying, ‘I really just need some air, I think, and some breakfast.’  

Truly, she was famished, but upon reaching a small café, she suddenly changed her mind and headed instead for the Mallory’s, knowing it was her only chance to see Beryl Mallory alone.  She’d realized that despite her intimate acquaintance with the lead investigator, she couldn’t rely on Morse to tell her everything.  How had he known where Tony Lloyd was staying?  And what did he know about the others on her list?  Well, she refused to be kept in the dark about this, so she’d have to do some digging of her own.  

As she walked through the crisp morning air, she fought through a confusing tangle of emotions.  This latest development was frightfully upsetting.  Doc’s warning to her echoed ruefully in her ears— You cannot fail me in this , he’d said.  But she had failed him and now might never learn the story behind the work he and her father did during the War.  She felt tense and a little nauseated—though maybe she was just hungry.  Morse had promised to solve the theft, but he was just being a gentleman—she knew it was entirely possible that those books were gone forever.  

But, oh , what a gentleman.  Thinking about Morse made her head spin.  Last night had been . . . heavenly.  Despite his protestations of disliking parties, he’d been a great date—attentive and amiable and erudite—conversing easily with the Hartleys and their friends, holding her close on the dance floor.  His flash of jealousy at the arrival of Tony Lloyd had been endearing and a little electrifying.  And when they’d gotten back to her apartment . . . she’d not been disappointed by his ardor last night, however distant he’d been this morning.  Not that she could blame him—she hadn’t meant to get him into trouble.  Last night he’d been generous and gentle—maybe a little too gentle, though that last kiss, in the Library—she touched her lips, remembering—had left her heart racing.  So she was determined to be discreet, if that’s what it took, and firmly resolved to be perfectly appropriate and aloof—in company anyway.  In private, she planned to be just as generous—she wanted to draw him out, unhinge him, push him past the barriers he erected around himself.  This morning’s chaos was certainly not how she’d intended to follow up such a wonderful evening, she reflected with chagrin.  

What she’d overheard from his boss did bother her a little.  She had her own past, of course, but didn’t particularly relish the idea of being the latest in a string of crime-related conquests—the current damsel in distress.  Of course, if she was honest, she had to admit she, too, had rather thrown herself at him, but she was no one-night stand.  

On top of everything else, she felt guilty for mentioning Tony Lloyd—she couldn’t really think he had anything to do with what happened, and he wouldn’t thank her for sicking a police detective on him like some sort of nark.  Where they came from, the police were as likely to be the perpetrators of violence as anybody else, and were not above planting evidence to make a case stick.  Just because she half-trusted Morse didn’t mean she trusted anyone else on the Oxford police force, her idealized vision of England notwithstanding.  

By the time she reached the Mallory’s front door, her stomach was rumbling, but she ignored it and rang the bell.  She was greeted by the housekeeper and shown into a morning room, decorated in blue and pale yellow, where Lady Mallory was seated at an elegant Queen Anne desk.  

Taking off her reading glasses, she said with some surprise, ‘Katherine?  What are you doing here?  Where’s Sir Lawrence?’  

‘He’s still at the Library, ma’am.  I—I wanted to talk to you.’  

‘To me?  Whatever for?’  She replaced the cap of her pen and set it aside.  ‘What’s happened?  The way he rushed out this morning, I feared—’  

‘Yes, but it’s alright,’ Kate interrupted in a rush.  She didn’t mean to be rude, but was feeling rather dizzy and knew she didn’t have a lot of time.  ‘The Collection’s fine.’  

‘Oh, well, that must be a relief, my dear.  Would you like to sit down?’ Lady Mallory suggested, as Kate leaned shakily against a side table.  ‘Are you quite alright?’  

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she replied, sinking gratefully onto the sofa and trying to tune out the pleas of her empty stomach.  ‘Lady Mallory, I’m sorry to be so forward but I need to know—please—why did Doc Milford leave you that book?’  

‘What book?’  

‘The Arendt book—I gave it to you last time I was here!’  

‘Oh—that book.  Why, I—I don’t really know.  What even made you think of it?’  

‘Because the rest of the books are gone!  They’ve been stolen and I want to know why!’  

‘Good heavens, girl, why would I know anything about that?’ she said with a frown.  

‘You got one of them!’ she jumped to her feet, frustrated by the continued evasion.  ‘Why?  You worked with him during the War, right?  What—’  Kate blinked slowly as her vision began to restrict—she'd stood up too fast and now slumped back down in a rather embarrassing heap.  ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, as Lady Mallory called calmly for the housekeeper.  

‘Mrs. Stevens, would you bring Sir Lawrence’s breakfast in here?’  

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t,’ Kate demurred.  

‘Nonsense, it appears you need it more than he.’  

A covered tray, accompanied by the tantalizing aromas of bacon and coffee, was brought in and she gratefully grabbed a piece of toast.  ‘Thank you very much, Lady Mallory,’ she said in between bites.  

She snorted lightly.  ‘Young women who nearly faint in my front parlor call me Beryl.  Now what is this all about?’  

Careful not to speak with her mouth full, Kate chewed her toast quickly and was about to explain the nature of the discovered theft when the doorbell rang and Morse appeared in the doorway.  Shit.   She’d hoped for longer with Lady Mallory and, from the surprised scowl on his face, she could tell Morse was not best pleased to find her in the living room of his witness.  She shifted uncomfortably under his glare, but didn’t move to rise or leave.  She had every right to be here, so she took another bite of toast.  

‘Lady Mallory,’ he began after introducing himself without looking at Kate, ‘I’d prefer to speak with you alone.’  

‘Oh, let her stay,’ Beryl said with a dismissive gesture.  ‘I assume you’re both here about the same thing.’  

‘I don’t know why Miss DeAngelis is here,’ he replied with a pointed look in her direction, ‘But I have some questions about your connection to Douglas Milford, during the War.’  

‘Yes, yes, sit down.’ Lady Mallory said impatiently.  ‘I really don’t understand what all this fuss is about.’  

‘There’s been a serious theft, Lady Mallory, and I’d appreciate your cooperation.  I understand if you’re uncomfortable divulging certain details,’ he continued, ‘and as I’ve said, I would prefer to speak with you in private.’  He threw Kate a significant look, his blue eyes flashing.  She couldn’t help but notice how cute he looked when he was angry.  She bit back a smile and looked down at her lap, but was determined to stay.  

‘Stephens said you gave away my breakfast!’  Sir Lawrence’s petulant voice suddenly boomed down the hall, startling Kate and causing Lady Mallory to roll her eyes.  Stepping into the room, he continued, ‘Damned strange story, my dear—’ but stopped short upon seeing the last two people to leave the Library now comfortably ensconced in his sitting room.  With a disapproving look at Morse, he surrendered and plopped down heavily in the chair next to his wife’s.  

‘I really would prefer—’ Morse started.  

‘I don’t care what you prefer, Sergeant, I have nothing to hide!’ exclaimed Lady Mallory with a frown.  ‘Get on with your questions!’  

Kate saw Morse’s jaw clench—he did not like being spoken to like that, countermanded by a disdainful and snobbish middle-aged woman.  To save him, she blurted out, ‘Tell us what you did during the War!’ which at least succeeded in gaining everyone’s attention.  Americans were always excused bluntness—it was expected.  She snuck a glance at Morse, who looked away.  Oops.  She bit her lip and looked down, starting to feel a bit guilty for throwing a wrench into the works.  

Lady Mallory narrowed her eyes, looking back and forth between them with a knowing stare.  Damn it.   She was supposed to be being aloof.  Luckily, Lady Mallory addressed herself to Morse, telling him, ‘I worked at a small facility . . . near Milton Keynes.’  

‘Beryl!’ Sir Lawrence scolded through gritted teeth.  

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Larry, everyone knows!’  Beryl Mallory sighed deeply, her eyes closed in a fit of frustration.  

‘I don’t,’ Kate said softly after a pause, her brow furrowed.  

Morse spoke up, explaining quietly, ‘The Government Code and Cipher School ran wartime cryptography and counterintelligence out of an estate in Buckinghamshire.’  He looked to Beryl for confirmation, eyebrows raised.  

Beryl gave a small nod of acknowledgement.  ‘I was only a transcriptionist.  I had just finished school—on the continent—spoke several languages, wanted to do my bit.’  

Then the Americans had arrived, she told them, and in early ‘42, she’d been assigned to a group working under Milford, then a captain in the U.S. Army.  ‘I only worked with them for a few months, I don’t see how it can have any bearing on anything that happened this morning—which was what , exactly?’ she inquired imperiously.  

Morse glanced at Kate but she let him take the lead—he was the professional.  As he explained the theft of Doc’s books, she bit her tongue to keep from interrupting.  

‘How could this have happened, Sergeant?’ Lady Mallory frowned.  ‘Weren’t you at the Library last night?’  Next to her, Sir Lawrence shifted in his seat, still glowering at Morse.  

‘The theft occurred between two and five this morning,’ Morse snapped.  ‘I wasn’t there then.’  

Lady Mallory smiled benignly.  ‘Apparently not.’  

‘Why did Douglas Milford leave you a bequest, Lady Mallory?  He left very few gifts, I understand,’ he glanced again at Kate, who nodded in affirmation.  

‘I have no idea,’ Beryl said with a serene shrug. 

‘Were you lovers?’ Morse asked point-blank, clearly trying to ruffle feathers.  

But instead of being offended, Lady Mallory erupted into a bark of laughter.  ‘No,’ she said decisively. 

Morse narrowed his eyes at her, but it was a fairly convincing denial and Kate knew it was the truth—Doc was a lifelong bachelor.  Changing tack, Morse asked to see the book in question.  

Lady Mallory got up and opened a desk drawer, rummaging for a moment and pulling out the book Kate had given her.  Replacing her glasses to confirm its identity, she handed it to Morse.  

‘Why do you think he left this to you?’  

‘I suppose he thought I’d like it.’  

Morse examined the book, which Kate had already done. It wasn’t old, nothing special, really, except that Doc had gotten the author to sign it during one of his dinner parties.  Morse flipped through it, but Kate knew there was nothing there.  After a moment, he handed it back to Lady Mallory.  ‘What were you working on?’ he asked her.  ‘Milford’s team?’  

Beryl Mallory pursed her lips and looked at Morse over the rim of her glasses.  ‘If you know anything at all about the GC&CS, you know I can’t tell you that .’  

Morse rolled his eyes slightly.  ‘Well, what can you tell me?  Who else was in this group?’  

‘Oh, now let me see.  Your father was there, my dear,’ Beryl said with a nod in Kate’s direction, ‘And a man from Boston named—oh, Willis, I think?  And a chap called Currier—like the engraver.’ 

‘Did anything unusual happen during the time you were working with them?’  

Lady Mallory paused, reflecting.  ‘Not that I recall,’ she said finally, ‘but it was more than twenty-five years ago—I'm not sure I’d remember.’  

‘What were they like?’ Kate asked tentatively.  

Beryl turned to her.  ‘Like?’  She gave it some thought.  ‘Well—and I mean no offense, Katherine—the Americans were all rather—cavalier.  Too optimistic, I suppose— green .  They hadn’t been at it for years.  What do you call them—Johnny-come-latelies?’  She pursed her lips before continuing.  ‘They were all very gung-ho—eager to make their marks in a field full of brilliant men—and women.  Oh, they were pleasant enough, I suppose—at first, anyway.’  Beryl frowned slightly, tilting her head to the side.  ‘But you know, now I think about it, things rather—changed—after a while.  Soured, I’d say.’  

‘What do you mean?’ Morse asked.  

‘Well, after a couple of months, they seemed to have a falling out, rather turned on each other—bickering, sniping at one another.  I remember one morning I arrived to find the Captain having a terrible row with Currier—nearly foaming at the mouth, both of them.’  She huffed out a laugh.  ‘You know what Americans are like.  No offense, my dear,’ she repeated, nodding at Kate, who felt a frown flicker across her face.  

‘Do you know what it was about?  Or what precipitated it?’ Morse asked, his eyes flashing momentarily to Kate’s.  

‘Haven’t the foggiest.  It isn’t as though we were chummy.  “Do not talk at meals, do not talk in transport”—you know.  A short time later, we were all reassigned,’ she finished with a shrug.  ‘I haven’t thought about it in years.’  

‘Do you know when that was?  This falling out?’  

She thought.  ‘Not exactly.  Although I remember I’d been reading about Saint-Nazaire, if that helps.  Such a Pyrrhic victory, in some ways,’ she clucked sadly.  

‘Mmm.’ Morse made a note and pulled out the list Kate had given him.  ‘I’d like to ask about the others to whom Milford made bequests.’  Beryl nodded for him to go on.  ‘Did you know Alexander O'Connell at Bletchley?’  

‘Oh, yes, Alex!’ she replied, smiling over at her husband.  ‘Yes, we know him, don’t we, dear?  We all worked with him.  Wonderful man, so affable.’  

Morse smiled in agreement.  ‘And Victor Crossley?’  

‘Hmm, Crossley— Crossley .  Sounds familiar.’  She turned a questioning gaze on her husband.  

Sir Lawrence grunted in response.  ‘Yes, I think he was working on the Colossus.  Computing machine,’ he explained.  

‘Any idea where he is now?’ Morse asked, and Lady Mallory shook her head.  

Sir Lawrence, however, begrudgingly offered, ‘Foreign Office, I believe.’  When his wife looked at him in surprise, he shrugged, ‘One hears things.’  

‘Thank you.  What about—,’ Morse checked his list, ‘Georgina Tolliver?’  

The couple thought, but neither could remember anyone by that name.  

‘And does the name Christopher Foxley mean anything to either of you?’  

It didn’t.  ‘Should it?’ Sir Lawrence asked.  

‘He was a police inspector here in Oxford during the War.’  

Beryl smiled blandly.  ‘We don’t generally socialize with members of the constabulary—yesterday evening notwithstanding.’  Turning to Kate, she continued, ‘Katherine didn’t tell us you were a police detective.  I assume you met during that unfortunate incident last fortnight?’  

‘Yes,’ Kate admitted nervously, her eyes darting to his and back.  Lady Mallory looked back and forth between her two guests again, making them both uncomfortable.  The woman was too perceptive by half.  

‘Is that everything, Sergeant?’ she finally relented, her voice even.  

‘Yes, for now,’ Morse said, closing his notebook and tucking it into his jacket pocket.  ‘Thank you for your time, Lady Mallory.’  He rose, and nodded to her husband, ‘Sir Lawrence.’  

‘And are you leaving too?’ Beryl asked Kate, an astute smile playing about the corners of her mouth.  ‘Or will you stay and eat Sir Lawrence’s luncheon as well?’  

‘Oh, golly, no—I’m so sorry,’ Kate stuttered out embarrassingly.  ‘I really didn’t mean—’  

‘I know, my dear—I'm only teasing you.’  Beryl’s strange smile persisted.  ‘Besides, I daresay Sir Lawrence can stand to skip a repast or two.’  Sir Lawrence huffed in annoyance, but his wife calmed him with a look.  ‘I imagine the sergeant would be more than willing to take you home,’ she continued, her words dripping with innuendo.  Kate felt her face grow warm.  Morse was looking at the carpet, his jaw tense, making her feel even worse.  She’d erred in coming here, she knew, and he was bound to be angry with her.  She’d have to find a way to get back in his good graces.  

♦ III. ♦ 

On the way to the car, Morse fumed silently.  Thus far, this case was not going well.  He’d been utterly astounded to find Kate in the Mallorys’ sitting room— What was she doing there?   He’d sent her home, not chasing after witnesses on her own.  This wasn’t how innocent people behaved.  Good God , he thought with dismay, maybe she is involved .  He stole a glance at her, trying to detect any dishonesty, but she was staring at him with those vivid eyes of her and he had to look away. 

He reached down to open the passenger-side door, still avoiding her gaze.  But before he could start the engine, she put a hand on his arm and said, ‘Morse, please—I’m sorry.  I—I know I shouldn’t have come.’  Another quick look at her revealed nothing but sober, shame-faced sincerity. 

‘Then why did you?’ he said through gritted teeth, his hand still on the key.  

She shrugged eloquently.  ‘I—I wanted to talk to Lady Mallory.’  

He sighed and turned to her.  ‘You can’t go around questioning people.’  

‘I know,’ she conceded.  ‘I just—’  She stopped and briefly shut her eyes.  ‘I don’t want to be left in the dark.’  

‘In the dark?  What do you mean?’  

‘Well you’re not going to tell me anything!’ she said accusingly.  ‘It’s my case and I deserve to—’  

‘No, it’s my case!’ he interrupted, exasperated.  ‘You’re not a policeman, you can’t interfere!  I’ll be taken off the case—is that what you want?’  

‘No, of course not!’ she protested, ‘But I want to know what’s going on—I have to know!’  

‘I’ll keep you informed.’  

‘But you won’t!   You didn’t tell me you’d seen the Pinkertons, you didn’t tell me about Bletchley,’ she complained, then closed her eyes again, trying to calm herself.  ‘Look, this is important to me.’  

‘I know.’  

‘No, you don’t know!’ she erupted.  

‘Then tell me!’ he retorted angrily.  ‘I don’t like being in the dark either!’  

She sighed deeply and turned to look out the window.  ‘Doc was more than just—’ she stopped.  ‘Ever since my parents died, he’s been—’ she tried, but halted again.  Finally she managed, ‘My family’s not rich and—well, he gave me so much over the years—piano lessons, trips, clothes, gifts, he paid for my college!  And he never asked anything in return, except this— and I screwed it up.’  He could see tears start to form in her eyes and his ire began to dissipate.  

He swallowed and said softly, ‘I understand,’ but she shook her head, her eyes shut.  

‘No.’  She turned to him, biting her lip and looking serious.  ‘Listen, you can’t tell anybody about this, okay?’  Morse frowned, not knowing what to expect, but nodded.  ‘He was my father.’  

‘What?’   

‘No, I don’t mean—not by blood!’  She shook her head again.  ‘He—Doc didn’t have a family of his own,’ she explained, ‘He, um—well he was—’ she paused uncomfortably, searching for the right word.  ‘A Mattachine?  You know, um, a homophile.’  She looked sidelong at him and he murmured understanding— Not Lady Mallory’s lover, then .  ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘a few months before he died, he—he adopted me.  Legally—he was my father.’  Morse blinked a few times, waiting.  ‘But nobody knows except me and the lawyers—my family would be extremely upset if they found out.’  Morse nodded, nonplussed.  Kate slapped a hand over her mouth as the tears started to flow.  ‘You see, he loved me!’ she wept.  ‘He loved me like a father, and this is how I repay him!’  

‘You haven’t done anything wrong,’ he said, sincerely hoping it was true.  He wanted to reach out for her, but was daunted by the melodramatics.  

‘But I have!’ she returned, sniffling and pulling out his handkerchief.  ‘I should have delivered those books ages ago—if I had, this wouldn’t have happened!  But I got—distracted.  Put it off.’  Morse knew he was the distraction, at least partly.  He had to fix this for her.  

‘We’ll get them back, Kate,’ he assured her.  

‘Maybe.’  She half-smiled, rolling her eyes.  ‘Maybe not.’  

‘Listen,’ he urged, leaning foward, ‘you’ve got to tell me everything you know about this list.’ 

‘I have!’ she insisted in a pleading tone, slumping down against the window.  ‘Doc didn’t tell me any thing—and I was too stupid to ask!’  She briefly recounted the terrible day Milford had made her executor—managing to hold back all but a few tears—and confessed to the terrible curiosity she’d suffered about the mysterious gifts, eager to learn something about her father—her fathers.  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed suddenly, sitting up straight.  

‘What?’  

She flapped her hand excitedly at his sleeve.  ‘There—there were envelopes!  W-with the books!’ 

‘What are you talking about?’  

‘He left notes!  For the beneficiaries!  I didn’t open them, but—’ she suddenly looked very sheepish.  ‘Well, I was going to.  No one would talk to me!’ she contended, ‘not Lady Mallory, not Colonel Wallis—so, I—well, I took them home—the ones I hadn’t delivered.  I—I was going to steam them open,’ she admitted guiltily. 

‘You still have them?’ he asked, and she nodded eagerly, green eyes aglow.  

‘They’re at my apartment!’ she said.  The excitement in her voice made him grin as he turned the key in the ignition.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

When they got to Blackbird Leys, Kate wanted to open the envelopes right then and there, but Morse told her he had to take them to the station.  She was obviously disappointed but heartened by his promise to tell her everything when he returned.  Her mouth twisted into a pouty smile, she reluctantly surrendered four cream-colored envelopes to his custody.  

Before leaving, he asked if she had any photographs of Milford.  She pointed to the shelf above the sofa, where there was a framed photo of a grey-haired man smoking a pipe and looking askance at the viewer.  He smiled but explained, ‘I meant from the War—or thereabouts.’  

‘Oh, of course.’  She pulled out a large photo album from one of her trunks.  While she was searching through it, he looked at the other photos lined up on the shelf, realizing with a pang that she’d actually been orphaned twice.  Her filial relationship to Milford explained some of her dogged but inappropriate determination to get to the bottom of this business.  

‘Here we go,’ she said and motioned him over to look at an assortment of old photographs from the War era.  Some were of her family on the home front—one of her at her christening, all dark hair and wrinkled features, in the arms of a beautiful, smiling young woman—and a few taken, probably illegally, at Bletchley Park.  As she turned a page, however, they discovered a blank spot in the album, which she swore had not been there before.  ‘The album was full,’ she insisted, meaning something, indeed, had been taken during the search of her things.  

‘What was it of, do you remember?’ Morse asked, but she couldn’t recall.  

‘Probably Doc or my Dad, like the others,’ she replied, gesturing to the other pictures on the page, one of which Morse tucked into his notebook, as it had both a younger Douglas Milford and Kate’s dad Frank in it.  ‘Why would someone take that?   That and nothing else?’ 

Morse shook his head, speculating, ‘Perhaps it was of something someone didn’t want seen.’  

It was apparent that the discovery of another theft disturbed her, but she tried to shake it off, smiling as she kissed him goodbye and offering to make dinner.  He tried to tell her not to bother, but she shrugged, ‘It’s no trouble—I like to cook.’  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Back at Castle Gate, Morse found Sergeant Strange at his desk.  Tony Lloyd was present and accounted for at the Amber Lodge.  ‘Cocky bugger, that’s for sure,’ Strange commented.  

‘Mmm,’ Morse agreed.    

‘Asked ‘bout you,’ Strange said casually.  

Morse turned to him with a sneering frown and Strange went on, sniggering, ‘Wondered why it was me and not “that uptight cop from last night.”’  Morse’s frown deepened, but not at the insult—he was almost certain Kate hadn’t mentioned he was a police officer.  ‘Asked ‘bout your girl, too.’  

‘She’s not my girl,’ he said sharply.  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t him interrogating you?’  

Strange chuckled.  ‘Pretty dodgy ‘bout last night—says he was gate-crashing, but that hardly seems likely—bash like that.  No real alibi—says he left ‘round ten, went to some pub, and turned in early.’   

Inspector Thursday had not fared as well with his quarry.  John Ward was not at home, and his landlady hadn’t seen him since the previous morning, which did not look good.  A search of his flat hadn’t turned up anything suspicious beyond an envelope of crisp bank notes.  

‘I found a similar stash in Cartwright’s wallet,’ Morse reminded them.  

‘What are you thinking?’ Thursday asked.  

‘I think someone paid Cartwright to steal Miss DeAngelis’ trunks from the warehouse,’ he explained.  ‘That's why he was there in the first place.  When that went awry, perhaps the same person employed Ward to try again.’  

‘Who?  Why?’  

‘Well, I don’t know,’ he admitted, ‘but Milford was a cryptographer, right?  Perhaps there’s something hidden in one of those books.  A message, maybe?  In code?  Something someone doesn’t want found.’  

‘Mmm.  How did you have occasion to question the Pinkertons before?’  Thursday hadn’t forgotten.  

‘I wanted to know if they’d had any trouble en route.  They hadn’t.’  

‘Get anything out of Mallory’s wife?’ Strange asked, and Morse told them what little he’d learned.  When he produced the envelopes Kate had given him, Thursday asked with some suspicion how he had come by them.    

‘She remembered after you’d left,’ Morse intimated, which was, after all, technically true. 

♦ IV. ♦ 

When the knock on her door finally came, Kate was curled up with Bishop and Brahms, but immediately jumped up to wrench open the door for Morse.  All day, she had tried to keep herself busy, not dwell on her failure or what Morse might be doing, even taking tea with Mrs. Murphy just to get her mind off things.  But she was so eager for news, she couldn’t help launching into a barrage of questions, pausing only to ask if he was hungry.  ‘I wasn’t sure when you’d be back, so I only made pasta.’  

But he immediately threw cold water on her enthusiasm by sighing, ‘Kate, I can’t stay.’  

She stopped short in her bustling and turned to him, shoulders slumping.  ‘What?  Why not?’  

‘I’m on call,’ he explained.  ‘You have to leave a number and I—well, I couldn’t give them yours.’  He winced slightly.  ‘I’m sorry.’  

She looked down at her feet.  ‘Oh.’  

‘I only came by to fill you in.’  

‘Oh,’ she said again, offering a resigned smile.  ‘Thanks, I guess.’  She leaned back against the kitchen table and crossed her arms.  ‘So what did the notes say?’  

Morse opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind, instead swallowing hard, his hand straying to the back of his head.  ‘You—’ he said hesitantly, ‘you could come to my place—if you wanted.’  

She looked up at him, a spark of hope in her chest.  ‘Yeah?’  He nodded with a bashful shrug.  ‘Okay,’ she smiled.  

A short time later they were at the door of his apartment, Kate cradling a dish of food, a tote bag over her shoulder.  Morse paused uncomfortably, his hand on the key.  ‘I wasn’t expecting company,’ he warned.  

‘It’s alright,’ she laughed.  ‘I’ve seen a bachelor pad before.’  She was curious to see where he lived—how he lived.  It could say a lot about a person, so it was with some interest that she stepped over his threshold and looked around.  

It was smaller than her place, and quite austere, reflective of a disciplined, uncluttered mind.  There were very few personal effects—no shelf of photos to reveal social or relational connections.  Books, newspapers, and records lay haphazardly across the surfaces of the room.  His bookshelves—mostly poetry and the Classics, Kate noted—were disordered but his record collection was hyper-organized, which made her smile.  Only minimal furniture, and none of it too comfortable-looking.  Several empty bottles and beer glasses were on the kitchen counter, and a still half-full glass of amber liquid sat next to the record player, which currently held Strauss’ Salome .  The door to the bedroom was ajar, and she could see the edge of an unmade bed and some clothes on the floor.  

Morse seemed to be watching her carefully from the corner of his eye, trying to gauge her reaction, not embarrassed, exactly, but clearly uncomfortable to have a guest—as though the room itself might betray him somehow, reveal too much.  

She asked if he had bowls, which he did, though there wasn’t much else in his cabinets.  ‘I have wine,’ he suggested, and as she doled out cold chicken penne with tomatoes and green beans, he uncorked a bottle of red and poured two generous glasses.  

Over dinner, she was full of questions.  He told her that, upon closer examination, he’d come to suspect Doc’s envelopes had been opened—and resealed—before, which surprised her, and she was even more surprised by him asking what she knew about her secretary.  

‘Nancy?’ she said incredulously.  ‘She’s great!  She wouldn’t do anything like that!’  

‘Mmm,’ he said noncommittally.  ‘Well, I copied out what the notes said—I knew you’d want them verbatim,’ he said with a smile.  

At first he only picked at his dinner, but he must’ve liked it, as eventually he polished off the whole portion.  She was a good cook—everyone said.  She stood and tried to clear away the dishes, but he stopped her, rising himself and saying, ‘Let me do that at least.  Thank you for dinner.’  

‘Sure,’ she grinned.  While he busied himself at the sink, she covered the leftovers and put them in his refrigerator.  ‘It doesn’t seem like you get many home-cooked meals,’ she teased.  ‘Or many meals at all,’ she continued, staring skeptically at the contents on his fridge.  

His hands wet, Morse jerked his head towards the coatrack, directing her to his jacket pocket, where she found his notebook, a ribbon marking the current page.  His writing was cramped and messy, but with effort, she deciphered it, reading Doc’s notes aloud.  They were brief and cryptic.  

To the police inspector Foxley, Doc had written “Dear sir– Please accept this gift as a token of my esteem.  I remember you enjoyed conundrums and sincerely hope you find Monsieur Dupin entertaining.  P.S.—You were right.”   

‘Right about what?’ she asked, but of course Morse didn’t know.  He said he’d asked the Information Room to cross-reference Christopher Foxley’s cases with the names on Kate’s list.  Lady Mallory’s memory of the St. Nazaire attack put the remembered argument in late March of ‘42, but he’d expanded the search a year on either side, just to be safe.  

O'Connell’s note read, “Alex– S ouvenez-vous nos contretemps sur cette traduction?” which even Morse had managed to translate accurately with his smattering of French, though they were both at a loss as to what it actually meant.  

‘What do you know about that translation?’ Morse asked her, ‘What would they have argued about?’  But she just shrugged—she’d only ever read the Recherches in the original French.  

‘Do you think that was the argument Lady Mallory overheard?’ she speculated.  

‘Hard to imagine anyone “foaming at the mouth” over a linguistics debate—outside of academia, anyway.  Besides, he was arguing with Currier, not O'Connell.’  

‘True,’ she conceded, she mouth twisted in a frown.  She returned to the notebook.  

Doc had written most extensively to Georgina Tolliver.  Without detailing specifics of any kind, he offered an apology of sorts.  “Miss Tolliver– You do not know me, but you have often been in my thoughts as I approach my day of judgement.  I am heartily sorry for the secret injury I’ve done you and your family.  This Bible is old and valuable.  Keep it or sell it, as you wish, as restitution for my iniquities.  And remember: the earth shall disclose her blood, and shall no more cover her slain.”   ‘“Slain”?’ she said with some alarm.  Then, ‘That sounds Biblical.’  

Morse nodded.  ‘Isaiah.’  

‘Hmm.  “Secret injury?”’ 

Morse shrugged, no wiser than she.  ‘Something obviously happened here in 1942.  Something he felt he needed to atone for.’  

To Victor Crossley, he had written only, “Vulpis venient.”  Frowning, Kate tried to remember.  ‘Fox?  Isn’t there a fox somewhere in Chaucer?’  Crossley had been to receive the book of Tales , after all. 

Morse knew.  ‘Nun’s Priest’s,’ he reminded her.  ‘The rooster and the fox.’  She nodded, remembering, but even so, Kate could glean no further meaning from this missive or any of the others, which was disappointing.  She’d been sure the answers would be there.  

‘Do you think it’s possible there was something concealed in those books?’ Morse asked, his crystalline blue eyes narrowing.  ‘A hidden message?’  

‘Well, not one that I could find!’ she admitted.  ‘But I’m no expert.  He did like puzzles, so yes—it’s possible.’  

They talked a little while longer and finished off the wine, but what they both really wanted was each other, so at a certain point Kate, referencing Proust— ‘je me suis couché de bonne heure,’— decided they, too, should retire early.  She got up and walked to the bedroom, turning in the doorway and murmuring, ‘Are you coming?’  

They made love, more slowly, with little of the urgency of last night.  She was quite pleased to be able to unhinge him a little, making him moan and shiver with pleasure.  Afterwards sleep took them quickly—it had been a long and complicated day and for the moment they were both sated and safe from the vast awfulness of it all.  

♦ V. ♦ 

Morse woke early, startled by the awareness of unfamiliar movement in his room.  He opened his eyes to see Kate, wrapped in his discarded shirt, crouched in the corner, furtively rummaging through his clothes.  Alarmed, he blurted out, ‘What are you doing?’ and she sprang up, dropping his trousers, and turned around, looking guilty.  Then she smiled and arched her eyebrow, holding up his wallet and warrant card.  ‘It just says “ E . Morse.”’  

‘You’re cheating.’  He sat up in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes.  

‘I’m in vest igating,’ she retorted.  ‘Your birthday’s coming up,’ she observed, playfully tossing the wallet to him.  Leaning against the dresser, she thoughtfully tapped her lips.  ‘Hmm . . . Is it Edward?  Edgar?’  The unbuttoned shirt barely covered her bum. 

He shook his head.  ‘Come here.’  

‘Oh, right, far too ordinary—it’s an ineffable, effable, effanineffable name,’ she recited, stepping over to the bed.  He took hold of her hips and pushed the shirt out of the way, kissing her belly, the hollow under her ribs.  ‘Is it . . . Englebert?’ she laughed.  ‘The composer-cum-crooner?’  

‘Thankfully, no.’  He ran his hands over her thighs and around to her bare bottom.  

‘Ethelred?’ she tried, tangling her fingers in his hair.  ‘Like the Saxon king?  The Unready?’  

‘You won’t guess,’ he murmured, his lips against her skin, ‘but I think you’ll find me quite ready.’  She giggled as he pulled her down into bed. 

Awhile later they rose and she managed to cobble together breakfast from the meager supplies on offer.  Over French toast and tea, she somehow convinced him to let her accompany him to London.  It was neither appropriate nor discreet nor wise, but she was very persuasive and warned he mightn’t even be admitted without her.  

‘They barely let me in, they’re not going to let you in—not to question an American diplomat in the American embassy!  You have no jurisdiction!  I’ve already met him, though, he knows me.’  

She had a point.  ‘But what about the Library?’  

‘Oh, Sir Lawrence called yesterday—said not to bother coming in today—they're still cleaning up.  So I’m completely free to assist you in your investigations.’  

‘You’re not to assist me in any way,’ he reminded her, shaking his head.  ‘I told you, you can’t interfere.’  

‘Well, I’ll get your foot in the door, anyway.  Colonel Wallis will see me again, I’m sure of it.  And once we’re in, I won’t say a word, I promise.’  Morse looked at her skeptically.  ‘Well, okay, maybe not,’ she admitted, laughing, ‘but I promise I’ll be good.’  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Colonel Wallis did agree to see Kate at the Embassy in Grosvenor Square, but was not pleased to see a guest in tow.  When Morse introduced himself, Wallis looked for a moment as though he might toss them both out, but Kate jumped in to assuage him.  

‘Oh, Colonel,’ she said with a conciliatory smile, ‘I know it’s . . . unusual to have a British policeman here, but I’m afraid we need your help.  I know you’ll help us, right?’  She was good at asking questions in a way that left no option but agreement.  Morse knew himself how hard it was to say no that smile, those eyes.  

The Colonel sighed and gave in.  ‘I can give you ten minutes,’ he said, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk.  ‘What do you want?’  True to her word, Kate kept quiet, just turning expectantly to Morse.  

He thought Wallis seemed nervous, fidgeting with a pen and drumming his fingers on the desk.  So Morse peered narrowly at the man as he took out his notebook, hoping to keep him off balance.  Their conversation was terse and tense.    

Yes, Wallis had received a translation of Shakespeare from Milford’s estate.  No, he didn’t have it here.  No, he was not aware the other bequests had been stolen.  ‘Why would I be aware of that?’ he said sharply.  When Morse asked what the accompanying note had said, Wallis shifted uncomfortably in his chair, muttering, ‘It was in Russian.’  

‘And you don’t speak Russian?’  

‘No.’  Then he huffed, ‘I suppose you do?’  

‘Actually, yes.’  Morse’s eyes narrowed.  ‘Why would Milford leave you a book you can’t read?’  

‘I don’t know,’ Wallis shrugged, leaning back in his chair.  ‘He was an asshole.’  Kate objected to this, puffing out a breath indignantly before regaining her self-control and pursing her lips into silence.  

Morse ignored her.  ‘Do you remember an argument between Milford and Robert Currier sometime in the spring of 1942?’  

‘No.’  

‘Or what such an argument might have been about?’  

‘No.’  

‘Can you think of any reason why Milford might have wanted to contact anyone from Bletchley after all these years?’  

‘No,’ he said a third time, ‘and that’s really all the time I can spare you, Sergeant.’  He leaned forward, pressing a button on his telephone and placing his elbows on the desk.  ‘I’m very busy.’  An aide came striding into the room after a perfunctory knock and, without much further ado, Morse and Kate were swiftly shown the door.  

As they walked out of the Embassy, Kate asked, ‘What do you think?’  

‘He’s definitely hiding something.’  He glanced back up at the modernist building, with its checkerboard windows and giant looming eagle, thinking.  ‘Com’on,’ he said, gesturing towards the car.  ‘Let’s go.’  

They left Mayfair and drove south over the river to Waterloo, Kate’s face glued to the window as they passed famous buildings and landmarks.  When they arrived at the Foreign Office headquarters, she reluctantly agreed to wait in a nearby park while Morse went alone.  ‘I know you’d like to meet him, but this time, it’s likely they won’t let you in,’ he explained.  

And even he was met with coldness and suspicion at the reception desk.  When he showed his identification and explained his errand, the secretary merely snapped, ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to make an appointment.’  

He adopted his most authoritative voice and stature and snapped back, ‘This is police business and I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important.  Will you please see if Mr. Crossley is available?  Thank you.’  The woman gave a great, put-upon sigh and glared at him, but reached for her telephone nevertheless.    

Finally, he was escorted to a conference room off the main lobby and told to wait.  After a short while, a tall man with slick dark hair and sharp features entered the room through a different door.  He introduced himself as Victor Crossley and continued with a slight frown, ‘What is this about, Sergeant?  I haven’t much time to spare.’  

Morse told him about his bequest from Dr. Douglas Milford.  

‘Who?’ Crossley asked, brow furrowed.  

‘An American academic, sir, he worked as a cryptographer here in England during the War—the same location as you, I believe—Bletchley Park.’ 

Crossley snorted, arching an eyebrow.  ‘So much for official secrets, eh?  Have a seat.’  They sat across the small table and Crossley continued, joking, ‘A bequest, you say?  Please tell me it’s money.’ 

‘No, sir, I’m afraid not.  It was a book.’ 

‘It was a book?  It’s not anymore?’ he quipped, before saying seriously, ‘I’m not sure I understand—why are the police involved?’  

‘It’s been stolen, along with the other items he left.’  

'Ah,’ Crossley said.  ‘And you’ve come to interrogate me?’  He chuckled softly.  ‘Well, I can’t say I remember anyone named— Milford , you said?’  He frowned again, trying to place the name.  Morse pulled out Kate’s photograph and passed it to Crossley, hoping to trigger a memory.  The man peered at it with keen eyes, but eventually pressed his lips together and shook his head.  ‘No, I’m sorry—he looks vaguely familiar, I suppose,’ he allowed.  ‘It’s definitely Bletchley, though—I recognize the room.  We used to play cards in there, when we could find the time.  You know, photography was strictly verboten on-site—this is technically contraband, I’m afraid.  I should confiscate it, but—well, I suppose I can let it slide.’  With an artful smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he passed the photo back to Morse.  ‘Why did he leave me a book?’  

‘Well, sir, I was hoping you could tell me.’  

Crossley huffed out a breath, at a loss.  ‘What book?’ he asked, his brow knitted.  

Morse double-checked the list to verify that Crossley was the intended recipient of the Chaucer.  

He looked surprised.  ‘Well, that’s apropos, anyway.  I dabble in translation, you see, and Middle English is my specialty—Chaucer, Gower, Langland.  It’s a wonder he remembered that—remembered me at all .’  He tilted his head to one side, confused.  ‘Why did he—who else received bequests?’  

Morse asked about the others, but Crossley explained his division never included any Americans.  Of the names on the list, he only knew Alexander O'Connell.  ‘Well, everyone knew Alex!  He's still working in cryptography, I believe—holding the line against the Russkies.’ 

‘I thought that’s what you did,’ Morse commented.  

Crossley smiled blandly.  ‘A war of many fronts, Sergeant.’ 

Morse asked him where he’d been Saturday night and Sunday morning.  Crossley sighed, somewhat annoyed, but reported he’d gone to the theatre earlier— ‘High Diplomacy,’ he elaborated—and then went home.  ‘But no , before you ask, I’m afraid no one can confirm that.  I live alone.’  Upon request, he produced the ticket stub from Westminster Theatre with the proper date.  

‘I’m afraid I haven’t been much help to you, Sergeant, but if there’s nothing else—I do have a schedule to keep.’  

Thanking him, Morse rose to shake hands and depart.  Crossley requested to be keep informed if the book was recovered and then showed Morse out of the conference room, pointing him back towards the lobby.  

♦ VI. ♦ 

Morse found Kate reading on a park bench and related his fruitless conversation with Victor Crossley as they walked back to the car.  There was still time to go to Cheltenham to see Alexander O'Connell, and Morse wanted to drop her back in Oxford, but she protested.  ‘Oh, please let me tag along—I’ll drive myself bananas if you just abandon me in Oxford!’  

She could tell he was getting irritated with her continued interference, though, his eyes growing flinty, so she tried to mollify him, scooting over and slipping her arm through his.  ‘I know you don’t need me in Cheltenham,’ she said quietly, running a finger down the inside of his sleeve.  ‘You barely needed me here in London, I know, but . . . well—’  She bit her lip.  Kate had never been one to hide her feelings, so she threw caution to the wind and carefully twined her fingers into his.  He stiffened at the intimate gesture, but she held fast.  ‘I like you,’ she said simply, blinking up at him.  ‘We don’t have to talk about the case—we can talk about other stuff, normal stuff.  And I don’t have to come with you to see Mr. O'Connell—you can drop me at a café or something.  But I could keep you company—if you like.’  

His striking blue eyes had softened again, but he looked at her warily—her frank admission had caught him off guard and seemed to make him nervous.  It was rather heartbreaking, actually—had no one ever been so up-front with him?—but she knew she’d need to watch her step or she’d send him rabbiting into the hills, like Nancy had warned.  She found she didn’t want that at all.  

He withdrew his hand from hers and turned the key in the ignition.  ‘Do you ever take no for an answer?’ he said, rolling his eyes, but there was a small smile at the corners of his mouth.  

‘Not if I don’t have to,’ she replied, beaming.  

‘You don’t mind being stuck in a car for hours?’  

‘I’m an American,’ she shrugged.  ‘I love road trips.  And I’ve never been to Cheltenham—I could pay my respects to Brian Jones.’  

‘Who?’  

Kate giggled, shaking her head, then quickly leaned over and kissed his cheek, lest he take offense.  ‘A musician—from Cheltenham.  He died recently.’  He was so adorably oblivious to anything modern.    

‘Gustave Holst was from Cheltenham,’ he remarked, steering back into his own territory as he pulled out into traffic.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Safely ensconced at a tea shop in the Promenade, Kate settled in to wait for Morse.  She had a book to occupy her and a pot of oolong and some almond cakes to sustain her.  On the way to town, they’d talked about music—of course—and other things, but naturally they’d returned to the subject of the case eventually.  He told her about his time in Signals, some of the work he’d done in Germany, and a previous case in which a former cryptographer had solved his own murder from beyond the grave, leaving Morse a trail of breadcrumbs to follow.  

‘And you think Doc’s done something similar?  Left behind a message?’  

Morse shrugged.  ‘If he has, the most likely recipients would be Foxley or O'Connell.’  

In the teashop, Kate was distracted from her novel by thoughts of the case, wondering what Doc might be trying to communicate.  Something he needed to atone for , Morse had said .   His note to Georgina Tolliver seemed a confession, and mentioned injury, blood, slaying—but she couldn’t for a second believe Doc guilty of murder!  

She was lost in thought, staring out the window, when the waitress approached the neighboring table and she found herself suddenly riveted.  

Kate’s head snapped to attention as the girl said, ‘More tea, Mr. O'Connell?’  

The table’s occupant, a spectacled man of later years and slight stature, waived her away with a friendly, ‘No thank you, Rosie.  But if you have any more of those petit fours . . .?’  

‘Oh, I’m afraid not, Mr. O'Connell, we’re all out.’  

‘Ah, well,’ he replied.  'C’est la vie.’   

Kate could hardly believe her ears.  She looked down at her plate, where the last cake in the shop sat next to the crumbs of one she’d already eaten.  It seemed too lucky to let pass, but could it be him?  There could be a dozen O'Connells in town.  

‘Excuse, me, sir,’ she mumbled, a little nervous, after the waitress departed, ‘but I couldn’t help overhearing—’  The man in the glasses turned as she held out the plate.  ‘You can have this one if you like.’  

‘Oh, no, miss, I couldn’t—’ he refused.  

‘Oh, please, really—my eyes were bigger than my stomach!  I’d hate to see it go to waste.’  

He continued to demur so Kate made a bold bargain.  ‘Why don’t we split it?  If you wouldn’t mind company, I hate having tea alone.’  It was a lie, but no matter.  A brief flicker of doubt crossed the man’s face but he finally accepted, and even stood to pull out a chair as she shifted over to his table.  

‘I'm Kate,’ she smiled.  

‘Alex,’ he replied with a half-bow, before sitting back down.  It was him!  

As they enjoyed their divvied cake and exchanged mundane pleasantries, Kate’s mind was racing.  She was shocked at her own audacity, and though she knew she shouldn’t interfere, how could she not?  She had to keep him here until Morse returned—but how?  Should she contrive some way to distract him from leaving?  Or was it better to come clean and just ask him to stay?  She wondered whether Doc’s message was intended for him, and what the connection might be between his bequeathed book and the note Doc had left.  An argument about translation.  Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself saying, ‘Cakes like these always remind me of Proust—the memory of his aunt’s madeleines.’  

He paused mid-munch, blinking at her a few times, his eyes large behind his wire-rimmed glasses.  ‘It’s very odd you should mention that, young lady,’ he said with a frown, brushing crumbs from his fingers.  

Shit.   A misstep—no good ever came from being called young lady in that tone of voice.  Now he was suspicious of her.  But how could he know anything about it?  He couldn’t have seen Morse—there hadn’t been time.  She didn’t know what to do.  Lord, I’m terrible at this! she thought.  

Mercifully, at that moment the door chime rang out and Morse entered the shop, looking confused to find her in company.  But when he recognized her companion he gave a small, disbelieving shake of his head, the corner of his lips curving into a half smile.  Alex O'Connell had noticed the newcomer, too, and was clearly disturbed by the arrival of a vaguely-familiar face into an already strange situation.  

‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded, eyeing them both suspiciously.  ‘Who are you?—I know you.’  This last was to Morse.  

Morse swiftly approached and held out his hand.  ‘Yes, sir, you do.  Private Morse, as was, 11th Signals Regiment.  We met at Catterick Camp in 1960.’  O'Connell absently shook his hand, still peering at him with wary eyes.  

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked slowly.  

‘I’ve come to see you, sir.  You weren’t at your Benhall office, but I see my—associate—has tracked you down.’  He nodded at Kate, who had slumped gratefully against the back of her chair, before reaching into his jacket for his warrant card.  ‘Detective Sergeant Morse, now, Thames Valley.’ 

O'Connell looked somewhat astonished by this development, but sat when Morse gestured towards the chair, pulling out a handkerchief and mopping his brow as Morse pulled up a seat.  

‘Well, that’s a relief, I suppose,’ O'Connell mused.  Addressing Kate, he went on, ‘It’s not often beautiful young women contrive to have tea with me.  I thought maybe you worked for Boris—thank goodness you’re with the police.’  

‘Oh, no, sir,’ she corrected him, ‘I’m not with the police—I work for Sir Lawrence Mallory.’  

‘One of Larry’s girls?’ he frowned, confused again.  ‘But you’re American.’  

‘Yes, sir, I’ve just come from Chicago,’ she explained, glancing at Morse, who didn’t stop her.  ‘With Douglas Milford’s estate.  I’m Katherine DeAngelis—Frank DeAngelis’ daughter.’  

‘Oh, my,’ he gulped, removing his glasses to polish them with his handkerchief.  ‘I see.’  

‘I’m sorry for the deception, sir, really—but when I heard your name, I—well, I didn’t know what to do.  We need to speak with you.’  She looked around, wondering if they should adjourn to someplace more private, but the café had emptied out with the last of the day’s petit fours, and besides, these were hardly official secrets.  

Morse must have felt the same way, since he launched right into an explanation of their errand.  As he did, Kate beckoned to the waitress, who brought more tea and a few sandwiches.  ‘I think Milford may have been trying to communicate something, and I think it’s likely you were his intended target,’ Morse concluded.  

O'Connell had leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled before him.  ‘Hence the Proust reference, I presume,’ he said, looking at Kate, who was pouring tea.  

‘Yes,’ she admitted, wincing.  

‘Do you remember an argument you may have had with Milford about that?’  

‘Well, goodness, Sergeant, that was a long time ago.  We weren’t allowed to talk about anything important, of course, so we’d find ourselves discussing the most frivolous things,’ he chuckled.  ‘If I recall correctly,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘we debated the relative merits of a linguistic versus a literary approach to translation.  Dynamic versus formal equivalence.’  A small frown flickered across his face.  ‘Hmm,’ he murmured, looking off to the side before quickly adding, ‘Are you interested in traductology?’  

‘I can’t say I am, particularly,’ Morse demurred.  Kate shrugged slightly, shaking her head.  

Despite their lack of interest, however, O'Connell continued enthusiastically.  ‘There’s an exciting line of study coming out of France these days— Messieurs Vinay and Darbelnet—and of course Catford, out of Edinburgh—he's a proponent of the linguistic approach.  Fascinating fellow, Professor Catford—I met him at a conference a few years ago—do you know he can correctly identify a person’s birthplace merely through his speech—a real Henry Higgins, if you will!’  He chuckled at his own joke.  

Before O'Connell could get any more involved in his subject, Morse interrupted him.  ‘Can you think of any reason why Milford would want to contact you after all these years?  Or what about?’  

‘What?’ O'Connell blinked, still lost in his own thoughts.  ‘Why—no.  I haven’t thought about him in years before today.’  Again he removed his glasses to polish them.  

Morse asked about the others on Milford’s list.  Like the Mallorys, O'Connell drew a blank on Georgina Tolliver and DI Foxley and he barely remembered the other Americans—though he did remark on Kate’s father, ‘I saw Frank a few times after the War, else I’m sure I’d have forgotten him, too.  Of course, that was before . . .’  He trailed off with an embarrassed glance at Kate.  ‘I was so sorry to hear of his passing, my dear.  It must have been difficult for you.’  Kate smiled a thank-you, looking down at her hands.  

He vaguely remembered Victor Crossley, remarking, ‘I’ve seen him once or twice.  Just in passing, you know.’  

‘Are you aware of any falling out between the Americans—sometime in the spring of ‘42?’  

‘Oh, heavens, no—we didn’t work together, you know—different projects altogether.  The only reason I knew Milford so well was our shared background in academe.’  

Morse had a few more questions, and Mr. O'Connell seemed to relax a little, smiling warmly and wishing them both well as they said goodbye.  ‘You know, I do remember you, actually,’ he said, shaking Morse’s hand.  ‘The aptly-named Signalman Morse.  You were quite the tenacious analyst, as I recall.  Clever .’  

Morse looked down, flushing at the compliment.  ‘Thank you, sir.’  

‘You enjoy your work as a policeman?’ he inquired.  

With a diffident shrug, he replied, ‘Yes, most of the time.’  

‘Hmm,’ said O'Connell, peering at him with his magnified eyes.  ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure.’  Turning to Kate, he shook her hand as well.  ‘Miss DeAngelis.  Delightful to meet you, my dear.  Take care.’  

♦ VII. ♦ 

As they drove back to Oxford, Morse kept glancing at Kate out of the corner of his eye.  

‘What?’ she finally asked, somewhat warily.  

‘Nothing,’ he shook his head.  Then, ‘It seems I did need you in Cheltenham after all.’  

‘Well—it was just a coincidence, really.’  

‘You got him to stay.’  

‘Yeah, and he thought I was a spy!  How horrible!’  

‘And you coaxed our way into the Wallis’ earlier.  Impressive work for your first day as an investigator,’ he teased.  ‘Not that I approve, of course.  How do you do that?’  

She smirked, her eyes dancing playfully.  ‘I’m very hard to refuse.’  

‘I’d noticed,’ he said wryly, with a smirk of his own.  

She thought about it, eventually shrugging, ‘I don’t know—I've always been able to persuade people.  Comes from being an orphan, I think.  After my parents died, everybody felt sorry for me—treated me differently—especially at first.  After awhile, I don’t know—I guess I learned to deflect the pity—and keep the perks!’    

‘I must have missed that lesson,’ he joked.  He was sure it helped that she was young and beautiful. 

‘I’m good at reading people, I think,’ she went on.  ‘If you can tell what a person wants, then you can turn it to your advantage.  And since most people want the same things, really, it’s pretty easy.’ 

‘And what do people want?’  

‘Attention, mostly,’ she said.  ‘Interest shown in something they enjoy.  Like Mr. O'Connell back there—if you’d talked to him for five minutes about traductology’ —she said the word as pompously as possible in her false accent—‘he would have invited us home for supper!’ she said with a laugh.  ‘Some people want to feel useful or important,’ she continued thoughtfully, ‘Sir Lawrence, for example, loves to be in dispensable.  Or acceptance—to feel like they belong—to a group or an idea or a conversation even.’  

He did not bother asking what she thought he wanted.  He wanted her— her affection, her desire, her face transformed with pleasure.  He knew it, and he was sure she did too—after all, she’d rather quickly resorted to physicality when he’d needed convincing.  As he’d feared, Kate had worked her magic all too quickly on him.  She was good company and he found her fascinating—dynamic and unpredictable.  And she was so easy to talk to; her candor was infectious.  He found he didn’t mind being under her spell.  ‘That’s very perceptive,’ was all he said.  

‘Mmm.  Of course, flattery will open most locks very easily.  After all, you catch more flies with honey . . . right, Honey? ’ she tried.  Morse cringed at the saccharine epithet.  She saw his reaction and chuckled, ‘Not Honey , then?’  

‘No, thank you.’  

‘Should I call you Vinegar ?’ she asked archly.  

He rolled his eyes.  ‘Just Morse is fine.’  

‘Alright, just Morse ,’ she laughed—a tinkling sound so sweet he couldn’t help but grin himself.  She peered at him with narrowed eyes for a moment before beginning her guessing game again—and she’d had time to think about it.  ‘Is it Biblical?  Ezekiel or Ezra or Eleazar?’  

Still grinning, he shook his head.  

‘Historical, then?  Eustace?  Erasmus?’  Another head shake.  ‘Eusebius?’  

‘No—you’ll never guess, you might as well give it up.’  

‘Trying to scare me off, huh?  Well, “my courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”’ 

And indeed, she spent most of the rest of the trip throwing out ever-more-ridiculous names, most of which made him laugh, and some of which made him almost thankful for his own.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

He dropped her off at Blackbird Leys with a promise to return, and headed back to the station to make his report, which he worded very carefully to avoid any mention of Kate’s presence.  The Information Room had completed his request; they’d found but one match between DI Foxley and the other names on the list—an imperfect one at that—although it was highly suggestive. 

He was gathering his things to leave when the call came through—a luckless fisherman had pulled a gruesome catch from the Isis and reluctantly, he and Strange headed out to meet Dr. deBryn on the riverbank near Godstow.  

The body was fresh, at least—Max contended it hadn’t been in the water any more than forty-eight hours.  ‘Weighted down as he was, he really shouldn’t have surfaced so easily,’ Max said casually, as Morse averted his gaze to the sun, declining on the opposite horizon.  ‘Your angler must have been very determined.’  PC Benson was interviewing the poor man some way up the bank, as other uniforms fished an overcoat filled with stones from the water.  ‘Quite the persistent piscatorial pursuit,’ Max said, indulging his gallows humor.  

‘Suicide, then?’ Strange asked.  

‘Oh, no, sergeant, no such luck.’  Max pointed a gloved finger to the man’s neck, the skin bloated and bruised purple with the marks of strangulation.  ‘At first blush, I’d say he was taken from behind with a ligature of some sort.  I’ll know more once I’ve got him on the slab.’  

‘Any identification?’ Morse inquired, forcing himself to look.  

‘No wallet that I’ve found, though I haven’t searched thoroughly.  Perhaps you’d like to have a look?’ Max gestured to the body, raising his eyebrows at Morse, whose stomach turned.  The pathologist loved to tease him about his squeamishness.  The corners of his mouth curling, Max relented, offering up a bit of tarnished metal.  ‘There was this.’  Strange looked over his shoulder as Morse smeared away some river muck to reveal a silver badge, etched with the seal of the Bodleian Library, the word ‘Security’ underneath.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

He called a little before eight.  ‘I only have a minute,’ Morse told her in a rush.  ‘A body’s turned up, I’m afraid, and it’s just been confirmed—it's John Ward.’  

‘What?’ Kate gasped.  ‘The security head?’  

‘Yes.  Look, this is murder case now, so—I’m sorry, but I’ve too much to do here—I won’t be by later.  And—well, all joking aside—this is much too serious for you to have any more involvement.  No more burgeoning investigator, alright?’  His tone of voice left her in doubt as to the gravity of the situation.  

‘Oh—yes, a-alright,’ she agreed.  She could feel the worry start to grip at her throat. Morse hurriedly said goodnight and hung up.  Kate replaced the phone in its cradle, her fingers already trembling, and immediately checked the locks on her windows and door.  Good God , her mind racing.  How could this be happening?  Was she in danger?  There was a murderer on the loose!  

Could it be one of the people on her list?  One of the people she’d spoken to?  The thought made her shiver.  To be that close to a killer—she couldn’t bear the thought.  The skin on her forearms had barely healed, and here she was all over again.  

What a horrible end to a lovely day.  She’d had such a nice time with Morse, the seriousness of their errands aside, but now she felt sick with fear and jumped at every sound.  She heard Mrs. Murphy come home and call out to her son for help with the groceries, and considered going herself just to distract from the feeling of panic she couldn’t quite keep at bay.  Her neighbor had a sympathetic ear, after all, and having tea with her yesterday hadn’t been so bad, despite the nosy prying into her personal life.  But she didn’t think she could control her emotions sufficiently and had no wish to make a spectacle of herself in front of the local gossip.  

How she wished Morse were here to comfort her, make her feel safe.  She climbed into bed with her heart beating too fast, knowing she’d never be able to sleep.  She only tossed and turned anxiously, alert to every clunk and creak from outside or upstairs.  She was still wide-awake when she heard a light tapping at her door, well past midnight.  She almost thought she imagined it—but no, there it was again, soft and tentative. 

Fear pulsed through her as she gripped her covers to her chest.  Assassins don’t knock , she reminded herself.  Nervously, she crept barefoot into the living room and switched on the light, breathing hard.  He must have seen the glow under the door, for she heard him call out quietly, ‘Kate?  It’s Morse.’  Relief flooding her veins, she rushed to the door, shoving the chair she’d wedged under the handle out of the way.  

He was standing in the hallway, his eyes wide and round in the darkness.  ‘I know it’s late,’ he said earnestly, ‘I just—’   

But he didn’t get a chance to finish before she grabbed his tie and hauled him gratefully into the apartment.  

As the locks clicked home, across the hall—unseen and unheard by the distracted pair—the door opposite closed silently on well-oiled hinges.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Meanwhile, Ward’s death barely registers on the assassin’s conscience.  His life is about balance, keeping one side in check against the other.  It makes for a precarious, tense existence—it makes a man hard.  And with this careful harmony beginning to teeter, desperation is beginning to creep into his actions.    

Besides, Ward was an idiot, drawing such unnecessary attention to the theft with his exaggerated theatrics.  And the threat to go to the police himself without further remuneration was foolish—fatally foolish.  Not that the books have been worth the effort anyway—there’s nothing there.     

The girl , he thinks.  Frank’s daughter, she must be the key .  

♦ 

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Volvelle  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

‘Great job, agent.  You really came through.’   

Charlie is surprised by the praise, but stutters out, ‘Well—t-thank you, sir.’  Twisting the telephone cord around her fingers, she continues doubtfully, ‘I thought you’d be disappointed, since the key doesn’t seem to fit the lock, so to speak.’   

‘Aw, never mind about that.  I’ve got someone on it.’  The Colonel sounds less tense today, almost relaxed, which makes Charlie suspicious.   

‘Oh, really?’  Charlie’s mouth twists into a frown.  ‘Whom?’   

There’s a pause before Wallis responds, ‘Don’t worry about it.’  Then, ‘What else do you have to report?’  

Still dubious, Charlie nevertheless continues.  ‘Our man in Oxford isn’t too pleased—didn’t expect to be involved in a police investigation.  He’s rather put-out.’   

‘Well, that’s hardly our fault!  We’re paying him well—what the hell else does he want?’   

‘I’m just reporting it, sir,’ Charlie says testily.  It doesn’t take long for his moods to change.  She’ll be glad when this assignment is over.  

‘Uh-huh.  Didn’t work, I take it?’    

Charlie huffs.  ‘No, sir.  It did not .’   

‘Do we even need him anymore?’   

‘Unlikely.  Should I cut him loose?’   

‘Yeah, you may as well.  Thank him for his service to the country and all that.’   

‘Alright, sir,’ Charlie smiles, doubtful their man will need much more than his stipend in gratitude.  

‘Anything else?’   

‘Sir—’ she begins carefully, ‘I’d be quite concerned about this detective if I were you.  If we’re to resolve this quietly, he’s going to be a problem.  He’s not likely to be satisfied without a convincing solution.’   

Wallis grunts.  ‘Yeah, that’s the impression I got.’   

‘Did he come to see you?’   

‘Yeah.  Smug little prick.  Any ideas?’   

Charlie ponders momentarily.  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ she says with a sigh.  ‘We need his DCI to rein him in . . . or better yet, take him off the case entirely!’   

‘Can that be done?’   

Charlie shrugs.  ‘I’m not sure how.  We can’t really be seen as interfering ourselves.  His involvement with her might do the trick, but they’re keeping it quiet now.’   

Wallis snorts.  ‘Yeah, they seemed pretty cool when they were here.’   

‘They?’ she says abruptly.  ‘Wait—he brought her— to the Embassy?’   

‘Yeah.’   

‘To an interrogation?’ Charlie chuckles incredulously.  ‘How stupid of him!’  She shakes her head, smiling slyly.  ‘What a fool—she must have him completely wrapped around her finger!’   

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

♦ I. ♦ 

The next morning, Morse woke to find Kate nestled against him, her breath warm on his shoulder.  He smiled and let his eyes slide shut again, savoring the peace and pleasure of a shared bed.  He wanted to surrender once more to slumber, curl up with her and sleep away the morning, but all too soon, Kate’s alarm clock buzzed harshly from the bedside table. 

With a groan, she stirred and rolled over, reaching out automatically to shut it off.  Turning back to him and rubbing her eyes, she mumbled, ‘Morning.’  

Smiling sleepily, he returned, ‘Good morning.’  

‘Mmmm,’ she moaned, stretching her limbs under the covers.  ‘It’s too early.’  He stroked her bare shoulder as she snuggled up against him again.  ‘Can’t we just stay in bed today?’ she whined into his chest.  ‘Forget about everything else?’    

‘Would you like that?’ he murmured.  

‘Yes!’ she laughed, looking up.  ‘Wouldn’t you?’  

He reached over to brush a strand of hair off her cheek.  ‘Yes.’  He kissed her gently as she put her arms around his neck.  

‘Thank you for coming over,’ she said, blinking drowsily at him.  

‘I can’t seem to stay away.’  Last night, he’d tried to stop himself a dozen times as he climbed the stairs and walked down the hallway, telling himself he shouldn’t wake her, shouldn’t feel such an overwhelming need to see her.  They’d spent most of the last two days together and yet he found he craved her presence still.  He’d stood in front of her door a full five minutes trying to talk himself out of his desire.  But finally—inevitably, irresistibly—he’d raised his hand to knock.  

‘I’m glad,’ she breathed, kissing him again.  They held each other close, clutching and caressing, wrapped in a delicate bubble of bliss.  

But tempting as it was to while away the morning with her, Morse knew they had to stop.  ‘We’ll be late,’ he said, tearing himself away with effort.  

‘Oh, so what?’ she complained, pouting prettily.  ‘I don’t want to go out there.’  

‘Out where?’  

‘There!’ she laughed, jerking her head towards the bedroom door.  ‘Out there it’s just one terrible thing after another—a real Ilias malorum .  I like it better in here,’ she purred, nuzzling into his neck.  

He tilted her chin up to kiss her again.  Even in the weak morning light, her green eyes sparkled like jewels.  ‘Me, too.’  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

In the end, they were only a little late. 

As he hastily drove her to the Library, she asked him tentatively about the case.  ‘Do you know who killed him?  Mr. Ward?’  

‘Not yet,’ he admitted.  ‘Most likely whomever hired him to steal Milford’s books.  And probably hired Cartwright, too.’  

‘Is it one of the people on my list?’  

‘Not necessarily,’ he hedged.  But he was suspicious of several of them—even the man she’d missed in Washington might be involved somehow.  He should try to contact him.  

She bit her lip.  ‘How did he die?’  

He hesitated before replying, ‘You don’t want to know.  Really, Kate,’ he explained, glancing over at her, ‘the less you know about it the better.’  

‘Okay,’ she sighed.  ‘You’re probably right.  But you’ll let me know what’s going on, right?’  

‘Yes.  Don’t worry, you won’t be in the dark.’  

She was quiet again until he pulled to a stop in front of the Bod, when she turned to him, her face serious.  ‘Am I in danger, Morse?  Really—please tell me.’  

He had to be honest.  ‘I don’t know.’  She wasn’t comforted, obviously, so he tried again.  ‘There’s no reason to think so—whoever is responsible, he got his graft.  Ward’s murder was just trying up loose ends.’  She looked slightly heartened, if a little disturbed.  ‘Look—try not to dwell on it, alright?  Just be careful, and don’t do anything . . . reckless.  What time do you get off?  I’ll pick you up.’  

‘That’s not very discreet, is it?’ she smiled slightly.  

‘I don’t care.’  He leaned over to kiss her goodbye.  She opened the door but turned back, her eyes wide with concern.  

‘You’ll be careful, too?’ she said quietly.  

‘Yes,’ he promised.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Morse rushed to the Thursday’s residence and found Win just on her way out.  ‘Fred!’ she called over her shoulder, ‘Morse!’  Shrugging her coat over her shoulders, she chided gently, ‘Late today.’  

‘Yes, sorry,’ he stammered, trying not to blush.  

‘Nobody’s perfect,’ she assured him.  As she tied a scarf around her hair, she told him, ‘Had Joanie for dinner on Saturday.  She asked after you.’  

‘Oh?’ he said, somewhat surprised.  He hadn’t seen much of the DCI’s daughter recently, and their relations had become increasingly strained since she’d turned him down yet again—not to mention that trouble with the Humbolt children.  He’d barely thought of her lately—how could he think of Joan Thursday when he had Kate DeAngelis to occupy his mind?  It was incredible he’d once fancied himself in love with her.  ‘And how is Miss Thursday?’  

‘She’s good, I think— busy .  Still trying to sort out the Cranmer residents.’  

‘Mmm,’ Morse nodded, tight-lipped.  He rarely thought about survivors, content to leave the aftermath to others.  He’d brought the wrong doers to justice—or something like it, leastways—and left it at that.  ‘Well, send her my best.’  

‘I will,’ Mrs. Thursday smiled before heading down the front path, leaving the door open for him. 

Thursday appeared on the threshold, already hatted and ready to go.  ‘Late today,’ he echoed his wife.  

‘Sorry, sir.’  

‘Much in?’  

‘We found John Ward,’ he told his superior with a grimace.  

On the way to the station, Morse informed him of the fisherman’s grisly catch of the day.  ‘We’re to see deBryn at ten o’clock.’  

‘That certainly changes things,’ Thursday grumbled, frowning.  ‘Christ— any closer to ferreting out your hidden message?’  

‘No, sir.’  

‘You question the people on that list?’  

‘The ones I could find,’ Morse nodded.  ‘I’ll try ringing the other American today, but we’re still trying to locate the second woman.’  

‘You reckon on any likelies?’  

‘The attaché at the Embassy was quite cagey, as was the Foreign Officer—and neither have decent alibis for the time in question.  But I don’t know—could be any of them—or none.’  

‘That’s not your most helpful assessment.’  

‘Early days,’ Morse defended himself.  

Thursday grunted.  ‘Not with a fresh corpse on our hands it isn’t.’  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Once at the station, Morse filled the others in on what the Information Room had dug up about DI Foxley’s old case—with the discovery of John Ward’s murder, Morse had entirely forgotten to tell Kate about it. 

Though they’d found no link between any of the names of her list, they had found a case involving an Eliot Tolliver from the right time period, which couldn’t be a coincidence.  

In early spring of 1942, the young man, listed as a native of Eynsham and an employee of ‘Station X,’ had been found dead in a flat near Cowley, gunshot wound to the head.  Evidence at the scene and the post-mortem pointed to suicide, though it appeared Foxley had harboured doubts, as the case had not been closed for several weeks.  No further notes survived, but it was enough to set Morse’s mind to speculation.  The identical last name, coupled with the cryptic note Milford had left for her, meant he had to track down the woman he presumed to be a relative of this unfortunate young man—Georgina Tolliver.  

Strange had been out to her last known address—Shaston Mill, Kate’s list noted—the previous afternoon, but found only a derelict house, its lower floors boarded over, unoccupied for years by the look of it.  Morse found no listing for that name in the Oxfordshire directories, so he put in a call to Somerset House to determine what her married name might be.  Since Morse only had one name and a no real date range, the man on the line in London was annoyed, but promised to get back to him.  ‘Might be a day or two, though, sir,’ he continued.  ‘Some of those records have already been packed up for transfer.’  The Register General’s Office would be moving to St. Catherine’s House in the new year.   

A little later, Morse and Thursday headed to Max’s lab, where the pathetic corpse of John Ward lay naked on Max’s table, covered chest-down with a sheet.  Max, in his bowtie and apron, was waiting for them.  

‘Inspector,’ he began, nodding to them in turn.  ‘Morse.’  

‘Morning, Doctor,’ Thursday returned.  ‘I hope you’re going to tell me this gent went for a midnight stroll and lost his footing.’  

‘Asphyxia, I’m afraid,’ Max told them, eyebrows raised.  ‘Hyoid fracture, conjunctiva in both eyes—points pretty plainly to strangulation.’  With a sardonic look, he added, ‘Sorry to disappoint.’ 

Thursday nodded grimly.  

Max leant over the table to point with a gloved finger.  ‘Pattern of the ligature marks would indicate an attack from behind.  There are still some sisal fibers embedded in the skin.’  

‘Rope?’  

‘Mmm.  Wrapped a few times ‘round and twisted in the back.  Man of his size—’ Max gestured to the body, once clearly a large, powerful man, only a little past his prime, ‘—would have taken a good deal of strength, but not a good deal of time.  He was conscious,’ Max continued with a sigh, ‘as evidenced by the marks around his neck and, uh, bits of his own skin under the fingernails.’  Max finished with a pained frown.  

Morse grimaced, looking away.  

‘Last meal,’ Max went on, ‘Vienna sausages, cheese—gouda, if I’m not mistaken—and copious amounts of champagne.’  

Stomach churning, Morse allowed, ‘That would accord with what was on offer at the Gala.’  

‘Time of death?’ Thursday asked, acknowledging Morse’s observation with a glance.  

‘Hard to say precisely,’ Max admitted.  ‘Tempest-toss’d thirty-six to forty-eight hours, I’d say, and the pooling of blood within the body would indicate he was dead at least a few hours before being dumped.’  

‘He was last seen shortly after midnight Sunday morning.’  

Max considered.  ‘I would venture he didn’t live to see the dawn.  His effects—’  He indicated a metal basin on the side counter.    

But there was nothing useful among the water-logged contents, unfortunately, and the detectives said their goodbyes.  Max nodded a farewell, respectfully re-covering the deceased’s face and shoulders with the pristine white sheet.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

At lunchtime, they adjourned to the Lamb and Flag, Morse for a pint or two of his favorite lager and Thursday for his sandwiches—Tuesday, luncheon meat.  It was good to see him eating his sandwiches again—Morse had never been sure what the trouble was between man and wife at the Thursday household, but whatever it had been seemed to have been assuaged by the dire events at Wicklesham Quarry.  Nothing like deadly peril to bring about a swift end to a lover’s quarrel. 

Halfway through their break, they were interrupted by Dorothea Frazil, who sat down uninvited with a glass of bourbon and a lit cigarette, remarking, ‘Thought I might find you gentlemen here.’  She’d tracked them down on the hunt for a statement about the Bodleian theft—and whether it connected to the body dragged last evening from the river.  They gave her the official line—privately-owned items stolen, connection under inquiry—which hardly satisfied her.  ‘Hmm,’ she said, pursing her lips and leaning back in her chair as she dragged on her cigarette.  

‘That will have to do for now, Miss Frazil,’ Thursday cautioned.  ‘Any avoidance of speculation in print ahead of a formal statement would be appreciated.’  

With a slight roll of her eyes, she turned to Morse.  ‘I take it you didn’t see the thief absconding with the loot, did you?’  

Morse scowled at her, hoping she’d curtail any talk of his presence at the Gala in front of Thursday.  ‘No.’  

With a knowing smirk, however, she continued—she didn’t know about Kate’s involvement in the case, after all.  ‘Did you enjoy yourself on Saturday?’ 

Morse felt Thursday’s glance out of the corner of his eye, so he shrugged nonchalantly.  ‘It was a party.’  Be bold , Dorothea had said—but now was not the time.  

Dorothea frowned, confused by his reaction, so he swiftly changed the subject before she could say anything that might betray his deeper affection for Kate.  ‘Could you see what The Mail has on file regarding a suicide in Cowley in 1942?’ he asked.  Dorothea was still frowning, but now she one eyebrow raised in intrigue.  ‘It’s to do with the case.’  

‘Why is it I always seem to be helping you and not the other way around?’ she said pertly.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Arriving back at the Nick, Morse did a quick calculation of the time difference between Oxford and Washington, D.C. before placing an international call, in an attempt to reach Robert Currier—the first recipient of Milford’s bequests.  Waiting to be connected, he twisted his pen between his fingers, clicking the top impatiently.  But, just like Kate, Morse had missed Currier, as the woman he finally reached, her voice scratchy with distance, reported that he was out-of-town—called away on urgent business, leaving no date of return or forwarding number.  

Sighing, Morse thanked her anyway and hung up, just as Strange came thumping down the stairs and plopped down at his desk.  Without meeting Morse’s eye, he cleared his throat and mumbled, ‘Chief wants you,’ before turning awkwardly back to his own work.  

Morse looked at him with a frown, but rose and donned his jacket before making his way to Bright’s office, knocking before entering.  Bright was standing at the window, surrounded by a swirl of cigarette smoke from an ashtray on his desk.  ‘Sir?’ Morse asked.  ‘You wanted to see me?’  

‘Yes, Sergeant, sit down.’  Morse undid his lower button and sat as Bright turned and reached for his cigarette.  ‘I’ve just received a rather troubling call from the American Embassy,’ Bright said sternly.  

Blast.   

♦ II. ♦ 

Meanwhile, at the Library, Kate was feeling distracted and strained, still jumping at every noise and eyeing everyone around her suspiciously.  Sir Lawrence wasn’t on her list, but his wife was—could they be involved?  They hardly seemed like criminals, but she didn’t know whom to trust anymore.  Sir Lawrence had always seemed so harmless—silly and self-important—but now Kate thought his arrogance seemed tinged with something darker.  And why had Morse asked about her secretary Nancy?  Kate would never have suspected her or anything, but now, with the crimes piling up and her nerves ajangle, she couldn’t help but observe her assistant closely as they went about their work, trying to suss out any guilt or ill intent.  Finally, as Kate was peering at her warily as she typed out a catalog card, Nancy had had enough.  

‘What is it?’ she snapped, her pale eyes stormy with annoyance.  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’  

Abashed, Kate looked back at her own work, muttering, ‘Sorry.’  But then, emboldened by her mounting anxiety, she blurted out, ‘Did you open the envelopes Dr. Milford left with those books?’ 

‘What?’ Nan huffed.  ‘Of course not.’  She frowned, offended.  ‘Why would you even think that?’ 

‘Oh, never mind.  I’m sorry.’  

Her assistant sighed.  ‘It’s alright.  We’re all on edge I suppose.’  She bit at her thumbnail, betraying an uncustomary nervousness.  ‘What does your detective say about Mr. Ward?’  

‘He’s not my detective—and not much.  They're investigating, I guess.’  

‘Are you sure he’s up to it?’  

‘What do you mean?’  

‘Well, I—he’s awfully distracted, isn’t he?  With you involved?  Maybe it would be better if—oh, never mind.’  

‘No, what?’ Kate said, her eyes narrowed dangerously.  ‘What were you going to say?’  

‘Well, just that—’ Nan pursed her lips before saying in a rush, ‘Well, maybe someone else should be in charge.  Someone who can focus solely on the case, dispassionately.’  

‘Well, it’s a good thing it isn’t up to you , then, isn’t it?’ Kate retorted, her temper flaring.  Nancy stared back at her defiantly.  ‘I need a break,’ Kate said through clenched teeth, rising from the table and stalking out of the room.  

In the staff lounge, she made herself some tea, already feeling bad for snapping at Nancy, who had taught her how to brew the beverage in proper English fashion, after all.  Sighing, she slumped onto the couch, rubbing at a knot in her forehead.  She couldn’t let all this swirling suspicion cloud her judgement.  She needed all the friends she could get.   

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Audrey arrived at lunchtime with a flurry of questions regarding the events of Saturday night—both personal and professional.  ‘I came by yesterday and they told me what happened.  Have lunch with me and you can fill me in on all the details,’ she ordered.  ‘Including your Heathcliff,’ she added in an undertone as she steered Kate toward the door.  

So over Indian takeaway—which Kate had never had before—in Audrey’s office at Lady Matilda’s, Kate told her friend the good news—Morse—and the bad—just about everything else.  

‘This is all getting quite ominous, Kate—I'm telling you, be ware of any Italian counts!’ Audrey warned.  

‘Audrey, what do you know about spies?’  

‘Spies?  Like Mata Hari, cloak and dagger, KGB-type stuff?  Not much.  I’ve read Kipling, of course, and that Conrad about Greenwich Observatory.  The Ashenden stories.  That’s about it, I’m afraid.’  

‘Nothing more recent?  Any Graham Greene?’  

Audrey adopted an apologetic moue.  ‘I’m afraid my knowledge of literature ends somewhat abruptly in the ‘30s.’  She shrugged.  ‘I’ve seen movies, of course, though I doubt they’re very accurate.  The aforementioned Scotsman, Arabesque , that Hitchcock with the plane and the cornfields.’  After a pause, she continued, gesturing at Kate with her fork.  ‘Is that what your farm looks like?  All flat and dusty and dead?’  

‘That was filmed in California,’ Kate said dismissively.  ‘They got the flat part right, anyway, but if our fields looked like that field, we’d be in trouble.’  

‘Why are you asking about spycraft, anyway?’ Audrey asked, digging around in her cardboard container of tikka masala .  ‘You’re not thinking of defecting, are you?’  

‘Of course not!’  

‘Well, you did say you wanted to learn Russian.  Whatever for?’  

Kate shrugged.  ‘I don’t like reading literature in translation—it’s never the same.  Like looking at the back of a tapestry.  You can make out the picture, sure, but it’s always going to be—backwards.  I want to read Anna Karenina frontwards—the right way 'round.’  

‘Mmm, yes.  I never read translations,’ Audrey agreed, between bites.  ‘But then I never have to.  So why the interest in secret agents?’  

‘Well not so much that, I suppose—Morse thinks Doc might have left behind some sort of message, like a, a secret code or something.’  It sounded so silly when she said it out loud.  

‘Oh, well, some of Michael’s colleagues know about that sort of thing—codes and codebreaking.  It's all mathematics, apparently.  Algorithms .’  She shuddered.  ‘But wouldn’t Dr. Milford have told you about it?  Why all the secrecy?’  

‘I guess he didn’t want me to know.’  Kate picked at her food, somewhat glum.  

‘Well— you knew him better than anyone, right?  If any one’s going to sniff out a secret message, it’ll be you .’  

‘But I looked!  I mean, I flipped through every single page of those books, trying to figure out what they meant.  And now they’re all gone anyway,’ she lamented.  

Audrey gave it some thought, chewing pensively.  ‘Well, what would Sergeant Cuff do?  Or Inspector Bucket?— he was awfully good at winkling out secrets with that fat forefinger of his.’  Audrey held up her own index finger, frowning at its decidedly bony appearance.  

‘Yeah, and Mrs . Bucket helped!’ remembered Kate, still stung by Nan’s comments.  

‘Observation,’ Audrey continued thoughtfully, tapping her finger against her chin, ‘Thorough observation of every detail—that seems to be the requisite for all successful sleuths.  That and the sine qua non of ex cep tional intelligence—in literature, leastways.  In reality— excepting your Heathcliff, of course— I'm afraid that quality is sadly lacking in Her Majesty’s inspectorate.’  

‘He’s not Heathcliff,’ Kate insisted.  

‘It’s always some picayune detail that solves the crime—some small, overlooked clue,’ Audrey went on, ignoring Kate’s comment.  ‘And a tiny quirk of personality that reveals the villain in the end.’  Her eyes were wide with excitement.  ‘Who are our suspects?’  

‘All the people on that list, for starters.  And anyone else who knew Doc during the War, I suppose.’ 

‘Let’s begin with the list—do you have it?’  Kate dug through her purse and pulled out her notebook.  

They spent the rest of lunch discussing the perceived psychology of Kate’s suspects, which unsurprisingly didn’t get them very far.  But during the course of their conversation, Kate made an important discovery—possibly the crucial discovery—the small, overlooked clue.  She couldn’t wait to tell Morse about it, and considered calling him at work— Would that be more discreet or less? she wondered—but she really wanted to see his face when she showed him, so in the end she waited for the day to drag to a close.  At least her excitement made it easier to be kind to her colleagues. 

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

When Kate climbed into Morse’s car a little after five, she was grinning ear to ear.  She leaned over to kiss him, but stopped when she saw the look on his face.  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked with a sudden frown.  

He couldn’t bring himself to deflate her buoyancy just yet.  ‘Never mind.  What has you so cheerful?’ 

‘I found something,’ she announced excitedly, her easy smile returning quickly.  ‘You were right—Doc did leave a message behind, and I think I found it!’  On the way home, she explained, reaching into her handbag for her notebook and proudly producing her discovery.  It was a heavy paper bookmark, covered front and back with horizontally-written letters—a seemingly random string of beautifully-calligraphed capitals. 

‘It’s definitely Doc’s work—he used to practice letters just like these—but never like this— just a chain of letters!  It must be code, don’t you think?’  

‘I suppose so,’ Morse admitted, glancing over at it.  

‘I must have put it my notebook as I was packing up the books,’ she told him.  ‘I remember thinking, “Huh, that’s weird,” but I was so busy with everything else I forgot all about it!’  

‘Which book was it in?’  Morse asked, unable to contain his curiosity.  

‘It must have been the Proust, ‘cause look—’  With her fingernail, she pointed to the top of one side, where, perpendicular to the other letters, ‘A. O’C.’ was written in a tiny hand.  ‘Alex O’Connell!  So you were right about that as well!’ Kate gushed.  

She spent the rest of the drive regaling him with how she’d rediscovered the piece with Audrey Hartley.  He remained mostly silent, not wanting to burst her bubble with his bad news.  When they got to her flat, she turned to him, admitting with a grin, ‘I know you need to take the original, so I made a Photostat for myself—not that I could make heads or tails of it!  So here—’  She held out the trophy, offering it to him with pride, her eyes still shiny with excitement.  ‘Your evidence, Detective.’  

He gave her a small smile, then turned aside.  ‘You should turn that in Sergeant Strange.  He’s in charge now.’  

‘What do you mean?’ she said, the smile sliding from her face.  

He sighed deeply, slipping his hands into his pockets.  ‘I’ve been taken off the case,’ he said quietly. 

‘What?!  W-why—what happened?’  

He sat down on her sofa before continuing, running his hand over his chin.  ‘Leonard Wallis rang the station this morning, talked to Chief Superintendent Bright,’ he explained.  ‘I shouldn’t have brought you to London.’  He wanted to be mad at her, resent her interference, blame her for the earful he’d gotten from Thursday—but he couldn’t.  He’d let himself be talked into it.  

Her eyes wide with shock, she sank slowly down beside him, shoulders slumping.  ‘Oh, no,’ she whispered, not looking at him.  ‘Oh, God , Morse, I’m so sorry.’  

‘It isn’t your fault.’  

She looked skeptically at him.  ‘Kinda seems like it is.’  

A brief smile flashed across his lips.  ‘Maybe it’s for the best.  I mean, now we—’   He stopped, looking away.  That ‘we’ sounded too presumptuous, too soon, but he couldn’t help himself—he was falling for her, fast.  Ever since he’d met her, he’d found himself drawn deeper and deeper into her orbit—captivated by her energy, her temper, her beauty.  The very circumstances of this conversation revealed how much sway she already had over him.  But—professional consequences aside—he hardly minded.  She was worth it.  His thoughts strayed back to that morning, lingering in bed, their eyes locked as their bodies moved together—sparks of the only kind of magic he believed in.  He risked a glance at her, wondering if she’d felt the same thing.  

She was watching him.  ‘No more need for discretion, you mean?’ she said softly, her lips curving into a smile.  

He shrugged, trying not to betray the intensity of his feelings.  

‘But it’s all my fault!’ she lamented, shaking her head.  ‘Maybe if I talked to Mr. Bright—’ she tried.  

‘Kate, no,’ he interrupted.  He could see the cogs of her mind turning.  ‘Don’t.’   

‘But I met him—he liked me!  I could convince him to—’  

‘No,’ he warned her again.  ‘Please—don't interfere.’  

She pursed her lips, shrugging noncommittally.  ‘But can Detective Strange decode that message?  You’re the one who can do that!’  

‘Kate, I’m serious.  Swear to me you won’t try and do anything else.’  

‘Swear?’ she smirked.  ‘I thought you Quakers didn’t believe in oaths—Only yea or nay—and anything more cometh of evil?  Isn’t that how it goes?’  

‘I’m not a Quaker.’  

‘You always are what you’re raised,’ she argued.  ‘You’ll never be anything else.’  

She was right about that, anyway.  Morse didn’t ascribe to any religion, and yet he did seem to cling to some of his mother’s teachings—truth, fair-dealing, simplicity.   

Then her head snapped up and she blurted out, ‘Is it a virtue name?’  

‘What?’  

She peered at him curiously.  ‘My friend Charity was—well, a Friend .  All her brothers and sisters have virtue names—do you?’  

He rolled his eyes slightly before responding.  This again?   ‘Very good,’ he acknowledged. 

She grinned.  ‘Earnest?!’ she ventured.  

‘No.’  He rubbed his forehead, getting annoyed.  

But she didn’t notice, casting around for more.  ‘Uh . . . Equality?’ she guessed doubtfully.  He shook his head and sighed.  ‘Enterprise?’ she laughed.  ‘Endurance?’  She dissolved into giggles.  

‘Stop it!’  He didn’t mean to snap at her, but she was getting too close and he was in no mood for this, anyway.  Recovering slightly, he said under his breath, ‘Not everything is a game.’  

‘I know that,’ she frowned, chastened.  After a moment of silence, she went on, ‘So I guess that means I’m back in the dark, huh?’  

‘Is that all that matters to you?’    

‘Of course not,’ she retorted.  ‘But you know how important this is to me—I don’t think I can take not knowing what’s going on.’  

He sighed again, sorry for his slip of temper.  Rubbing his hands on his trouser legs, he tried to lighten the mood.  ‘Well, I hope you won’t start using your considerable wiles on Jim Strange now.’  She laughed and shook her head.  ‘I’ll tell you what I know.’  

She poured them drinks as he filled her in on the Tolliver suicide in ‘42.  

‘What do you think happened?’ she asked.  

‘Well, I don’t think it was a suicide, for one thing.  Thanks,’ he added, as she handed him a glass of whiskey.  

‘You think he was—murdered?’ she said, joining him on the sofa again.  

‘DI Foxley thought so, and the note Milford left for him said “You were right.”’  

‘And his note to Georgina Tolliver said he’d done her an injury!’ she exclaimed, her eyes growing wide.  ‘You don’t think—’  She stopped, unable to say the words.  

‘I think it’s possible Milford was responsible for Eliot Tolliver’s death,’ he said as delicately as possible.  

Standing quickly, she started pacing around the room.  ‘No,’ she said emphatically, letting out a dubious huff.  ‘No!  That can’t be—why would he do that?’  

Morse had thought about that.  ‘Is it possible—they were lovers?’  

‘I don’t know!  I have no idea!’ she cried with an angry shrug.  She took a deep breath to try and calm herself, reaching up to rub her temples.  ‘I mean, I guess so, but it’s not possible that he killed him!  Doc wouldn’t hurt a fly!’ she insisted.  

He’d expected this reaction; he tried to explain, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.  ‘Sometimes we don’t know people as well as we think we do,’ he said carefully.  

‘No, you’re wrong,’ she said matter-of-factly.  

‘How else do you explain it?’ he wanted to know.  

‘I don’t know!  Isn’t that your job to figure out?’  She whirled to face him.  ‘Except I guess it’s not now,’ she sneered at him.  ‘It’s not even your case anymore!’  

He stared at her in cold silence and she crossed her arms defiantly.  ‘I know,’ he said finally.  Thanks to you , he wanted to add.  

‘Well, I hope Jim Strange is better suited to the job!’ she snapped.  

Anger thrummed through his veins.  Before he could retaliate and say something he’d regret, he rose quickly and made for the door.  ‘I’m going home.’ 

‘Morse, no —’ She changed tack quickly.  ‘You don’t have to go.’ She dropped her arms in defeat and turned toward him.  ‘I—I’m sorry I said that—I just—’  She looked up at the ceiling, her face screwed up in frustration.  

‘It’s fine,’ he told her, even though it wasn’t.  He wrenched open the door, muttered a bitter ‘Good night,’ and walked out, slamming it behind him.  

But by the time he reached the bottom of the staircase, his anger had ebbed, and he was already regretting his decision.  He knew it must be upsetting, to have Milford’s character thrown into sharp suspicion like that.  And though he didn’t have any specific reason to think Kate was in danger, he was worried about leaving her alone after everything she’d been through.  He spun around and was halfway back up the first flight before his pride got the better of him and he stopped.  Sighing, he shoved his hands into his pockets and slowly retreated back to his own building.  

♦ III. ♦ 

Ugh, men! Kate thought, slumping back onto the sofa and glaring at the closed door.  Such delicate creatures!   Women were expected to forgive—forgive and forget—every last slight, every condescending comment, every unwelcome advance—but bruise a man’s ego—heaven forbid!  She rolled her eyes, teeth gritted in frustration.  

But after a few minutes of slowly sipping her drink, she started to feel guilty.  She knew she shouldn’t have said that—thrown his dismissal from the case back in his face like that.  Especially since it’s my fault, anyway , she thought, cringing.  Shit.   

She probably shouldn’t have wheedled her way into London with him in the first place, she realized.  Morse could have figured out how to question an Embassy employee without her—it was his job, after all!  Who did she think she was?  She shouldn't have meddled.  And now because of her, the case— Doc's case—was materially worse off.  She was sure Jim Strange was a fine detective, but Morse had the skills and experience to solve this case.  Now a murder might never be solved, all because of me! she chastised herself.  Stupid!  She rubbed at the knot of tension developing between her eyes. 

And God, she’d known at the time she was pushing her luck!  She knew she shouldn’t have done it!  Why was she never following her own good advice?  And why did she still have these childish outbursts of temper?  She had to learn to control herself better.  

Then again, how could Morse think Doc was a murderer?  She shook her head and let out a loud huff of annoyance.  She’d known Doc practically her whole life—there was no way he could be a killer.  Doc was not a violent man—he was gentle and sensitive and kind—he'd marched against the War during the summer of ‘68, for Christ’s sake!  Morse was wrong, she was sure of it. 

But she needed him back on the case.  She threw back the rest of her drink and grabbed what was left of Morse’s.  She had to do something to fix things.  She’d make it up to him, somehow.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

So the next morning, with some trepidation, Kate climbed the many concrete steps leading to Castle Gate Police Station, a low, modern building of buff-colored brick.  

She hoped she’d be able to see Mr. Bright—and rather hoped she wouldn’t run into Morse.  She knew he wouldn’t approve of her efforts this morning, but she was sure it was the right thing to do.  She had broken this, and now she would fix it—she hoped.  

She’d dressed in something demure and a little girlish, with a Peter Pan collar, to remind Mr. Bright of her naïveté when it came to matters of law and investigation.  She planned to play the penitent and ‘fess up to her part in Morse’s dismissal with true contrition and humility.  She was heartily sorry— toto corde paenitet —for having screwed up the case, and not just because she’d seriously damaged the chances of getting it solved.  Now she’d put her regret to good use.  If she played her cards right, that would give Mr. Bright the opportunity to be the benevolent despot, magnanimously grant clemency, and put Morse back on the case.  Mercy was the mark of a great man, after all, and Mr. Bright wanted to be a great man.  

It wouldn’t be easy, she knew, but she had to try.  This would be her penance.  Taking a deep breath, she crossed her fingers for luck and pulled open the glass door.  

After only a brief delay, the stern-looking policewoman manning the front desk showed her into a wood-paneled office where Mr. Bright rose from behind a large desk to greet her.  

‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Bright—or, I’m sorry, should I call you—’ she glanced back at the name painted on the frosted glass door, ‘—Chief Superintendent?’  

‘Mr. Bright serves just fine,’ he replied with a tight-lipped smile—his opinion of her had obviously fallen since they’d met at Chez André, but he still motioned her into a leather chair in front of the desk.  ‘What can I do for you this morning, Miss DeAngelis?’  

Kate cleared her throat, a little flustered, but determined.  ‘Well, sir, I—I came by to bring in something I found yesterday, but I—’ she paused, gesturing toward the door with a slight turn, implying this was new information to her, perhaps just learned in the hallway.  ‘Well, I understand Detective Morse has been taken off the case?’  

‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ Bright said in a somewhat steely tone.  

She gulped and bit her lip, looking down at her hands in her lap.  ‘It’s because of me, isn’t it?’ she asked solemnly.  ‘Because I went with him to the Embassy?’  

‘Yes, Miss DeAngelis,’ he replied with a note of censure in his voice, ‘it is.  It was completely inappropriate—quite upset the gentleman being questioned—Colonel, uh—’ he hesitated, casting around for the right name.  

‘Wallis, sir,’ she supplied.  

‘Quite so,’ Bright said brusquely.  ‘Colonel Wallis did not appreciate being interrogated on police business with a civilian present—and the owner of the stolen property, no less,’ he blustered officiously.  ‘Flagrant misconduct!  Frankly, Sergeant Morse is lucky not to be facing further disciplinary action.’  

Kate said a silent prayer of thanks that Mr. Bright seemed ignorant of her further involvement with Alex O’Connell in Cheltenham.  ‘I see,’ she said quietly, hoping the sincerity of her compunction was apparent.  The moisture that glistened at the corners of her eyes was only half-manufactured.  She proceeded to explain—discreetly—how she’d come to be so intimately involved, telling Mr. Bright Morse had taken pity on her distress over the case and reluctantly agreed to let her to accompany him.  She expressed genuine remorse for her part in the fiasco, and—with only a touch of hyperbolic hysteria—concern that now the case might be ruined forever.  ‘It’s all my fault!’ she cried, allowing a fat tear to topple onto her cheek.  

When Mr. Bright saw her self-reproach and tears of repentance, his tone softened and he came around the desk to place a hand on her shoulder.  She almost had him.  Crying always worked.  

‘I assure you, Sergeant Strange is a perfectly capable officer,’ he said gently.  ‘The case is in good hands.’  

She sniffed slightly and pretended to be placated.  Then she produced the bookmark she’d discovered with its coded message and handed it to Mr. Bright.  ‘Well, then I guess he should have this.  It’s a cipher Doc—Dr. Milford—left behind.  It’ll need to be decrypted, of course, but it’s terribly important, I should think.  Does Sergeant Strange have any experience in cracking secret codes like this?’  She let her eyes go big and credulous, blinking at Mr. Bright with shiny, hopeful eyes.  

As she’d anticipated, Mr. Bright frowned and hesitated before answering, opening and closing his mouth a few times.  There, she thought.  That should do it.   

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

That morning, after attending to a report of battery—domestic nature, victim declined to file charges—Morse returned to the station to be summoned unexpectedly back to Bright’s office.  Bracing himself for further reprimand, he went at once, but the news Bright had was wholly unforeseen.  Though, when Morse had the full details, not very welcome.  

Later that evening, he returned to his flat, and, feeling petulant, put on a Wagner recording—the Götterdämmerung .  He hadn’t been home more than a short while before there was a knock on his door.  Looking out the peephole, he sighed and frowned, steeling himself before opening the door.  

‘Hi,’ Kate greeted him, tilting her head with a small, uncertain smile.  

He let her in, but did not return the smile.  Trying not to look at her, he shut the door and leant against it, arms and legs crossed.  

‘I thought you might come by,’ she tried, but he remained silent.  ‘Look, Morse, I’m sorry for what I said last night.  I was upset by what you said about Doc but—I understand you have to go where the investigation leads you.’  She took a deep breath before continuing, ‘I still think you’re wrong, but if you are, I’m certain you’ll get to the truth.  And—and if you’re right . . . well, I guess I’ll have to come to terms with that.  But I’m really sorry I lashed out.’  She gave her speech with all the appearance of true contrition, looking up at him from beneath those long eyelashes, but he was determined to resist her charms.  Still, being in close proximity to her always seemed to make his heart beat a trifle faster than it should.  

She bit her lip momentarily, looking unsure of herself.  Then she held out a leather-bound book to him, trying to catch his eye.  ‘Here—I thought you’d need this to start decoding that message,’ she said, her eyes glowing softly.  ‘It’s the Proust— Remembrance of Things Past?   Same edition and everything, but, um, be careful with it—I wasn’t exactly supposed to take it out of the Library,’ she admitted with a half-smile.  ‘Broke my oath.’ 

Slowly, he moved from the door to take the volume from her, but still refused to meet her eye.  She blinked a couple of times, twisting her mouth with disappointment.  ‘O-kay,’ she said, her lips pursed.  ‘What’s the matter with you?’  

‘You went to the station this morning?’  It was barely a question.  

‘Y-yes,’ she replied slowly, her chin jutting out a little.  

‘You talked to Bright.’  

‘Yes,’ she said again, a note of impatience in her voice.  ‘I convinced him to reinstate you.’  

‘You said you wouldn't do that,’ he said through clenched teeth.  

‘Look, it was my fault you got kicked off—I fixed it,’ she shrugged, as though it were nothing.  

‘I specifically asked you not to.’  

‘I would have thought a ‘ thank you’ was in order!’ she huffed, rolling her eyes slightly.  

‘I won’t thank you for interfering yet again,’ he bristled.  

‘I’m trying to help!’  

‘Well, you’re not!   Why did you do that?’ he seethed.  

‘You need to be on this case, Morse,’ she argued.  ‘I need you on this case!’  

‘Why?  What is that so important?’  

‘I want it solved, of course!  You know that!’  

‘You just want someone you can manipulate,’ he sneered.  ‘A catspaw in the investigation.’  

‘What?’ she fumed.  ‘What are you talking about?  Have I ever given you reason not to trust me? 

‘You’re not acting very innocent!’  

‘I helped you!  I’ve told you everything!’  

‘So you say—is this all just a game to you?’  He was raging now, livid with her.  

‘No, of course not!’  

‘Then why does it feel like you’re trying to play me?  Why can’t you leave it alone?’  

‘You know why!’ she returned with equal heat.  

‘Is that why you went to bed with me?  Just to keep your nose in?’  

He had gone too far.  Eyes ablaze with fury, she slapped him across the face.   

In the shocked hush that followed, she let out an angry whimper, whirling away and grabbing her handbag as she rushed for the door.  Wrenching it open, she turned, tears threatening, and all but shouted, ‘Beryl Mallory says she’s remembered something.  You should go and see her.’  And then she stormed out, slamming the door hard behind her.  

Still furious, Morse suddenly hurled the book she’d brought him at the closed door, though it didn’t make him feel any better.  Then, remembering her admonition, he retrieved it from the floor, feeling a sharp pang of guilt when he saw he’d broken the spine of the antique book.  He tossed it onto the table; she was right about that, leastways—he would need it if he was to decipher the message on that bookmark.  Sighing deeply, he stood, hands on the back of his head, frustrated with himself and her in equal measure.  

After a few minutes he dropped his arms and went to pour himself a large dose of whiskey, holding the cool glass to the side of his face, which still stung a little.  He’d probably deserved that.  He didn’t really believe the things he’d said—he was just angry.  But nor did he completely trust her—she'd gone against his express wishes, and the presumption of speaking to his superior without his knowledge grated on his pride.  

Well, that’s that, then.  Easy come, easy go.   He could never be with someone so controlling, so calculating—such arrogance was unbecoming in a woman. 

But despite all that, he already missed her.  He’d missed her the previous night, too, tossing and turning in bed alone, and tonight, as his fury ebbed, he lay sleepless and ashamed in the dark, recriminating himself for his harsh words.  

♦ IV. ♦ 

Bastard! Kate thought as she rushed down the hall, her fist stifling imminent sobs.  At least she was able to hold off crying until she was well out of earshot.  But once outside Morse’s building, despite pausing to take in great heaving gulps of calming night air, she felt hot tears spill out over her cheeks. 

So he’d turned out to be an anti-hero after all, cruel and contemptuous.  Audrey was right—he was Heathcliff.  Another cad.  How could he say such things?  She’d thought maybe they had something special.  Angrily, she wiped her tears away and made her way back to her apartment.  

Unfortunately, Mrs. Murphy was taking out her trash just as Kate came blubbering down their shared hallway and Kate, in her weakened state, could not resist pouring out some of her heart to her kind-hearted—albeit very nosy—neighbor.  She didn’t reveal everything—certainly nothing to do with the case—but she ended up maligning Morse perhaps a little more than was warranted, just to make herself feel better.    

Mrs. Murphy was very supportive, inviting Kate in for a slice of cake and a cup of tea.  ‘I’ll even Irish it up for you, ducks,’ she offered with a wink.  Kate was tempted, but didn’t relish spending the next half hour getting grilled about her newly broken heart.  So she politely refused, thanked her for her kindness, and slipped into her own apartment.  

Tossing her purse onto the table, though, she went straight to her own bottle of gin in the cupboard, pouring herself a very stiff drink.  Then, glancing at the clock, she decided to call home—it would be expensive, but she needed to hear a friendly voice.  Waiting to be connected, she leaned against the wall and twisted the stiff cord around her fingers.  Luckily, she caught Mary Anne at lunchtime, so she had a bit of time to talk.  

Kate had written to her cousin about her burgeoning relationship with Morse, but now, sliding onto the floor, she unloaded to her about this disappointing development, along with the escalating crimes that were coming fast and thick.  Mary Anne listened sympathetically, offering all the right comforts and condemnations.  

‘Well, I guess an English accent doesn’t guarantee a gentleman, huh?’ she scoffed when Kate had finished with her tale of woe.  ‘Forget him, Katie, he’s not worth the trouble.’  

‘But the worst part is now I won’t have any idea what’s going on with the case—he'll shut me out for sure!’  

Mary Anne snorted.  ‘Since when have you let a man tell you what you can and can’t do?  Or anybody , for that matter?  Why don’t you just figure it out yourself?’  Mary Anne was not one for sitting idly by.  

‘I can’t—it's dangerous.  I told you, a man’s been killed , I can’t go nosing around on my own.’  Kate drew her knees up to her chest, suddenly feeling vulnerable.  

‘Well, then find somebody to help you.’  

‘Who?  The police won’t let me near it now.’  

‘So there’s nobody in the whole of England you can ask?’ Mary Anne challenged her—she never let Kate play the helpless maiden.  

Kate was about to bemoan her distinct lack of options when a light bulb went off in her head.  ‘Actually—maybe there is someone!’  

‘‘Atta girl—that’s better.’  They chatted for a few minutes more, with Mary Anne giving updates on farm and family.  Mary Anne’s troubled brother Matty had spent another night in the drunk tank last weekend and a windstorm had finally finished off the roof of the old horse barn.  It was oddly comforting to hear about the ordinary woes of the McGallagher Farm, far-removed from the dire and deadly problems Kate faced in England.  Eventually, they said goodbye and goodnight, and Kate hung up and went to bed, her head aswirl with forming plans.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

And that’s how Kate found herself on the ‘wrong’ side of the road the next morning as she drove a black Bentley, borrowed from Audrey, down the Botley Road toward the Amber Lodge, where Morse had said the Pinkertons were staying.  She wasn’t sure Tony Lloyd was still in town, but it was worth a shot. 

And she was in luck—the girl at the front desk looked her up and down with a rather jealous look when she asked for Mr. Lloyd but snapped over a bellhop who escorted her to an upstairs room.  ‘Thank you,’ she said, dismissing the young man, and when she knocked, she heard Tony call out from inside, ‘Yeah—‘S’open!’  

She turned the handle and leaned in hesitantly.  Tony was lounging on the bed in an undershirt, cigarette dangling from his lips.  When he saw her, he jumped up, stubbing out his cigarette and reaching for the shirt hanging over the bedpost.  ‘Kate!’ he said with surprise.  ‘What are you doing here?’  

‘I, um—were you expecting someone?’ she asked, gesturing to the hallway.  

‘No,’ he said quickly, flashing that winning smile as he buttoned up his shirt.  ‘Certainly not you— what, uh—what do you want?’  He hastily ran a hand through his unruly hair.  

Kate glanced around the smoky, untidy room.  ‘Nice place,’ she commented.  

‘It’s alright,’ he shrugged.  ‘You’re paying for it.’  

‘The estate is paying for it,’ she corrected him, then noticed a suitcase lying open and half-filled on the luggage stand.  ‘Are you leaving?’  

‘Oh!  Uh, yeah, I thought I might shove off soon.  You know, back home.’  

‘Uh-huh.  You’ve seen all the sights, then?’ Kate said, her eyebrow arched skeptically.  

Tony huffed out a short laugh, looking sheepish.  

What is he still doing here? Kate wondered, her eyes narrowing briefly, before turning purposefully to face him.  ‘Well, I hope you might be willing to stay on for a few more days,’ she said.  ‘I’d pay you, of course, since what I have in mind is outside the scope of your original assignment.’ 

‘You wanna hire me?’ he chuckled—for some reason he seemed to think this was funny.  ‘What for?’ 

‘I need help—doing some investigating of my own.’  

‘What about that cop of yours?’  

‘He’s not my cop.  And I don’t wanna talk about it.’  

‘You know I’m not really much of a detective,’ Tony said with a puzzled grin.  ‘Really more of a lover than a fighter,’ he continued suggestively.  

Kate rolled her eyes.  ‘You’ll do.  How much for a few days’ worth of work?’  

‘For you?’ he asked, eyebrows raised.  

‘This is strictly professional, Tony,’ she warned.  ‘I’m not looking for any sweetheart deals.’  

‘You sure?’ he said, his insouciant grin back.  ‘We could work out somehow pretty sweet, I bet.’ 

‘I’m serious.’  

‘Well, in that case,’ he relented, ‘I’m expensive.’  

‘I can afford you,’ she said dryly.  

‘Yeah, I suppose you can,’ he replied knowingly, his eyes narrowing.  Kate felt the smile melt off her face—he’d seen the stories in the Chicago press, no doubt.  

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read,’ she said sharply.  

‘Oh, I don’t,’ he assured her, affecting a casual nonchalance.  She wasn’t sure she believed him.  ‘So what’s the job?’ he continued, not giving her a chance to respond.  

She explained what she wanted to do, and, for a handsome fee, Tony agreed to help her.  ‘When do I start?’ he inquired.  

‘How’s right now?’  

‘Mmm, you work fast,’ he commented, leaning close.  ‘I like that.’  

Kate rolled her eyes, maneuvering out of the way.  Oh boy, she thought with a smirk.  He’s a real live wire.   

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Meanwhile, Morse was back on the case and, even though irritation still simmered in his veins, he did as Kate had—rather hotly—advised and rang up Lady Mallory, who invited him to call before lunch.  When he arrived at the house and was shown into the morning room, Beryl Mallory was waiting.  

Over tea, she told him what she’d remembered—an episode that had taken place not long after the argument she’d overheard between Currier and Milford.  She’d arrived at Bletchley early one morning, keen to catch up on some transcription work she’d been lax about completing.  Bustling onto the workroom hut in the hour before dawn, she’d found Douglas Milford seated at her station, wearing her headphones.  

‘What was he doing?’ Morse asked, his brow furrowing.  

‘Well,’ Lady Mallory considered, ‘from what I could tell, I believe he was making a copy—wire recording was the medium most in use at the time, and it looked like he was transferring a sound recording from one spool to another.’  

‘Was that allowed?  I would have thought the secrecy—’  

‘Well, no, not strictly,’ she interrupted him, slightly abashed.  She cleared her throat slightly and continued, ‘I did rather feel I’d stumbled on something untoward.  He must have felt the same way, actually, as when he saw me standing there—rather dumbstruck, I’m sure—he immediately rose and tried to block my view of what he was doing.  We stood there for a moment, awkward and embarrassed both, and then I muttered some excuse and scurried away.  When I returned later in the morning, he had cleared everything away and pretended it hadn’t happened, which was fine by me—I was only nineteen, and not about to accuse an officer of anything improper.’  

‘Do you think it was—improper?’  

‘Well, probably.  I did casually mention it to Lieutenant Currier—you know, just fishing for information—but he didn’t bite.’  

‘What was he copying?’  

‘I have no idea—no way of knowing from where I was.’  

Morse paused briefly before continuing.  ‘Do you think Milford could have been involved in anything—illegal?  Passing classified information to some other party?’  

‘A spy?  Goodness!’  Lady Mallory was taken aback, but on further deliberation, admitted, ‘Well, I suppose it did happen.  And it was odd , whatever he was doing.  But I can’t imagine him the type, myself,’ she concluded with a haughty shake of her head.  

‘Why do you say that?’  

She thought.  ‘He always seemed very—patriotic.  A man of honour.’  

‘Mmm,’ Morse nodded, his eyes narrowing.  He wasn’t so certain—if Milford had been involved with some sort of espionage activity, it might help explain Eliot Tolliver’s death. 

‘Of course,’ Lady Mallory continued after a moment of reflection, ‘a man of his ilk would have been—vulnerable.’  

‘You knew of his—preferences?’  

Lady Mallory looked askance at him.  ‘Most of the men there had no qualms pawing at anything in a skirt, but not him.  It wasn’t difficult to guess why.’  

‘Do you think he might have been—involved—with anyone in that manner, at Bletchley?’  

‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ she replied.  ‘Fraternization was highly discouraged, of course, and discretion is of the highest value to men like him—you saw what they did to Mr. Turing.’  

Morse nodded.  ‘Thank you, Lady Mallory.’ 

‘You’re welcome, Sergeant.  I’m sorry I didn’t recall it before, but you know how hazy memories become after such a long time.’  

‘Indeed.  May I ask—’ Morse continued, fiddling with his ear, ‘Did you receive a letter from Milford, along with the book he left you?’  

‘There was a note , if you must know—very brief.’  

‘What did it say?’  

She pursed her lips, annoyed at the intrusion, but then shrugged.  ‘All it said was "Vielen danke.”’  Morse was far from fluent, but having spent time in West Germany, he knew the meaning of the phrase: Many thanks.   

‘That’s all?’ he asked, disappointed.  

‘That’s all,’ she repeated.  

‘Do you still have it?’  

‘I believe so,’ she ventured, rising and going to her desk.  After a moment of shuffling around in a drawer, she drew out a pale linen-coloured envelope, identical to the others, and handed it to him.  He examined it, but there was nothing beyond the message she’s already relayed, and he handed it back with a nod of thanks.  

‘When you were at Bletchley,’ he tried, ‘did you know a young man called Eliot Tolliver?’  

Lady Mallory thought, her brow wrinkling.    

‘He committed suicide in March of ‘42.  Here in Oxford,’ he said quietly, hoping it might jog her memory.  

It worked.  ‘Oh!  Yes—I do remember that, though I couldn’t have come up with the name.  Poor fellow.’  

‘What can you tell me about him?  What happened?’  

‘Well, I didn’t know him personally , but something like that gets around, of course.  It was the strain, I suppose,’ she surmised with a careless shrug.  ‘It was awfully nerve-wracking, you know, the pressure to get things done right, done quickly—knowing what rested on our success.’  

‘You didn’t work with him?’  

‘No.’  

‘What about Milford?  Would he have worked with Mr. Tolliver?’  

‘I don’t think so—I believe he was working on the Colossus machine, if I recall correctly.  But they probably knew each other.  The gentlemen tended to socialize closely—liquor, cards, that sort of thing—if only to escape the overwhelming forces of femininity stationed there.’  Lady Mallory’s eyes sparkled with remembered mirth.  

‘Well, thank you for your time, Lady Mallory,’ Morse said, starting to rise.  ‘You’ve been very helpful.’  

‘Of course,’ she returned, rising as well.  ‘Always willing to do right by the Peelers,’ she said somewhat sardonically.  

Morse began to leave, but before he made it out of the room, Beryl Mallory asked him, ‘But where’s your partner this morning?’  

With a frown, Morse turned to reply, ‘Sergeant Strange is pursuing other lines of inquiry.’  

Lady Mallory smirked saucily.  ‘I meant Miss DeAngelis.  My husband tells me she took the day off—I thought perhaps she was assisting you.  After all, it was her I told about my recollection.’  

‘Miss DeAngelis,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘is not part of this investigation.  If in future you have something pertinent for us, please report it directly to the proper authorities.’  

With an impudent smile, Beryl Mallory nodded and waived him out of the room.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

After a quick stop at her apartment and a hurried, reluctant introduction to her inquisitive neighbor, Kate and Tony drove out to the village of Eynsham, finding it without much difficulty.  But they did have to stop and ask for directions to Shaston Mill, the last-known address of Georgina Tolliver—the final person on Kate’s list, to whom Doc had bequeathed the old Bible.  She parked her borrowed car on the High Street and they split up to cover more ground, Kate approaching the elderly gentleman outside the green grocer’s while Tony headed for the post office.  

The man examining squash on the outside display doffed his cap and smiled politely, if a little suspiciously, at Kate.  Small-town people were always wary of outsiders—it was the same way in Oskaloosa.  But he helpfully pointed her in the right direction of the house, though unhelpfully added, ‘Nobody there, love,’ in a thick accent.  ‘Not for years.’  All additional questions went unanswered, the man maintaining ignorance with a begrudging shrug.  Kate’s usual appeal seemed useless against him.  

Shoulders slumped in disappointment at their seemingly wasted errand, Kate went in search of Tony.  But as she approached the quaint stone building boasting the Royal Mail standard in the window, she saw Tony leaning casually on the countertop chatting with the woman behind it.  She seemed quite taken with her handsome American interlocutor, playing with the silver chain around her neck and twirling a strand of hair between her fingers.  Kate decided to hang back and let Tony work whatever charms he could uninterrupted.  She waited outside the shop, perching on a low stone wall that surrounded an adjacent field, which was full of autumn wildflowers.  

It was a picturesque village, the street lined with neat buildings representing a variety of eras.  This was more what Kate had pictured as her quintessential English existence—a small, old-fashioned hamlet, filled with eccentric characters and small-time happenings.  A St. Mary Mead—perhaps even including a perceptive, elderly spinster who saw everything and remembered more.  But even in St. Mary Mead, Kate reflected, evildoing lurked just under the surface.  Given the terrible events of the last few days, Kate couldn’t help but wonder what wickedness might be bubbling beneath the surface of her seemingly serene surroundings.  Old grudges, bitter rivalries, half-remembered slights and secrets.  

A few minutes into her reverie, Tony emerged from the dim interior of the post office.  ‘Hey, there, how’d it go?’ he asked, squinting in the bright September sunshine. 

‘I’m sure I didn’t fare as well as you,’ she replied.  ‘Another conquest?’  

He smiled as they walked back to the car.  ‘She seemed eager to help.  Gave me all the village gossip on these Tolliver folks.’  

‘Oh, yeah?’  

‘Uh-huh,’ he said proudly.  ‘Seems your Georgina owns the place, but she’s abandoned it entirely, though she hasn’t sold.  Used to live there with her brother, till he died—suicide,’ he remarked dismissively. ‘Parents went when they were young.  But get this—the lady in there,’ he jerked his head back the way they’d come, ‘says nobody ‘round here believes the suicide story—they reckon he was murdered!’  He looked pleased with his detective work, waggling his eyebrows with enthusiasm.  ‘How’s that for a scoop?’  

‘Oh,’ Kate said indifferently, reminded of Morse’s suspicions of her own dear Doc Milford.  

‘“ Oh ?”’ Tony returned, leaning on the top of the car.  ‘Geez, I thought that was worth more than an “Oh.”’  

Kate shook her head, trying to rid herself of unwanted thoughts.  ‘I just mean—well, what does a village gossip know, anyway?’ she said with a sneering attempt at nonchalance.  

Tony peered at her curiously.  ‘You already knew that, didn’t you?’  He was better at reading people than he let on, Kate realized.  

‘Maybe,’ she shrugged.  ‘Anyway, it’s all supposition.’  She bent down to open the driver’s side door.  

His mouth twisted with irritation, Tony climbed in beside her.  ‘You know, sugar—if we’re going to work together, you have to tell me these things.’  

‘Don’t call me that,’ she said as she started the engine, ignoring the rest of his comment.  

They drove out to Shaston Mill anyway, finding it easily enough with the locals’ directions, but the house was boarded over and half-hidden in overgrown shrubs and ivy.  Tony suggested breaking in to do some reconnaissance, but Kate couldn’t see the point.  They were about to return to Oxford when Tony gestured into the distance toward a stone building nearly obscured by large trees.  ‘What’s that, you think?’  

Upon further investigation, they discovered it was the actual mill of Shaston Mill—a low, crumbling edifice, its stones green with age and algae, built right against the bank of a reed-clogged mill race.  The water wheel was still clinging to the side of the building, but barely, blades missing like broken teeth.  The warped wooden door opened surprisingly easily, and they found themselves standing in a cool, damp room where the sound of moving water echoed up eerily from the darkness of a short staircase leading downward.  

As Tony looked around, investigating the corners of the building, Kate ventured halfway down the worn steps, stooping to avoid the low lintel and peering into the darkness.  She could just make out the interior works of a watermill—moist stone, rotten wood, and rusty cast iron—and various large apparatuses whose purpose she could only guess.  The smell of the river was strong—moldy earth and decaying organisms—and somewhere water dripped slowly onto the floor.  

‘This place must be ancient,’ she observed, her voice echoing off the clammy stone.  ‘Two hundred years, I’d guess—at least!’  She turned back to Tony.  ‘Isn’t it neat?’  

He shrugged, unimpressed and frowning.  ‘Looks like someone’s been here.  And not two hundred years ago—recently.’  

Kate looked around the upper level of the millworks.  ‘What do you mean?’  

Tony shook his head uncertainly.  ‘I dunno—look—’ he pointed to the dirty floor, ‘There’s thick dust in the corners, but not here in the center.  And the dust on the windowsills has been disturbed, too,’ he added, gesturing.  ‘Some of these footprints aren’t ours.’  

‘I thought you weren’t really a detective,’ Kate grinned, and then shrugged.  ‘Just kids, probably.  Teenagers—looking for a place to drink or smoke or screw.’  

Tony chuckled, smiling slyly at her.  ‘You’re probably right.  Wouldn’t be my first choice for a hot date, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers, right?  Private, at least.’  He had sidled up next to her and now slipped a hand around her waist.  ‘Whaddaya say, Kate?’  

‘I’d say you’re crazy!’ she laughed, elbowing him away.  ‘Come on, Tony, let’s go.’  

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he teased, giving her a scout salute and following her obediently out of the mill.  

As Kate drove back to Oxford, she told him a little of her plans for the following day—London, she’d decided—and asked Tony to come with her.  She wanted to meet Victor Crossley herself, and also planned to stop by Somerset House, where she might be able to get a lead on where Georgina Tolliver was now, since she clearly hadn’t lived in her family’s house in years. 

When they arrived at Tony’s hotel, he insisted she come up for a drink and, against her better judgement, she accepted.  As she’d feared, once alone in his room, his advances proved much harder to deter.  He kept after her, trying to convince her to stay for another drink, stay for dinner, stay the night.  Kate tried to remind him she wanted to keep things professional, but he wasn’t keen to take no for an answer.  ‘Why not?’ he reasoned, pulling her toward him, ‘Now that stuffed-shirt cop is out of the way . . .’  He leaned forward to kiss her, but she ducked out of the way and finally made her escape, leaving him dissatisfied and disgruntled—but by no means dissuaded.  

Back in the safety of her own apartment, Kate pondered her options.  Tony was right, at least—Morse was out of the picture.  She bit her lip with a pang of regret—she kind of missed him—but that’s the way it was.  And she knew she couldn’t just go blundering off half-cocked on her own—but if she couldn’t keep Tony’s roving hands in line, she’d need a new arrangement.  

By the following morning, Kate had made a slight change to her plans, but she appeared bright and early at Tony’s door, ready for the London train.  Tony was only half-dressed and as she waited for him, she asked casually, ‘Aren’t you going to bring your gun?’  

‘Um, wasn’t gonna,’ he replied with some surprise.  ‘Didn’t plan on needing it.’  

‘I think you should,’ she said decisively.  ‘You never know.’  

Tony gave her a puzzled smile, but retrieved his gun and holster from a dresser drawer, tossing them onto the chair next to his jacket. 

Excusing himself, he ducked into the bathroom to finish getting ready.  Though he wasn’t gone more than a few minutes, by the time he emerged, the room was empty.  Tony rolled his eyes and dropped onto the bed in frustration and confusion—this woman was harder to pin down than an eel on ice.  Kate was gone, and—he suddenly realized with a shocked double-take—so was his gun.  

With a muttered curse, he leapt up and raced down the hotel staircase and out the front door, but only just in time to spot the tail-end of Kate’s borrowed car, kicking up a tail of dust as it raced down the gravel drive.  

♦ V. ♦ 

Morse arrived at the station that morning to find a pair of messages on his desk—one from Dorothea Frazil, asking him to come round her office, and one from the civil servant at Somerset House, with information about the marriage of Georgina Tolliver; in early 1952, she’d married an engineer called Henry Lewes of Hemel Hempstead.    

Picking up his telephone, he put in a request to the Information Room to track down an address for the Lewes family.  Then, reluctantly, he turned back to the work he’d abandoned the previous day.  

So far, he’d had no luck transcribing the coded message on the bookmark.  He knew it had to be a Vernam cipher—each letter assigned a number, with the difference between the ciphertext number and the key number resulting in a new number, and thus the decoded letter—but the Proust proved not to be the correct text.  He’d started at several likely points within the novel, but his efforts only resulted in gibberish.   

Running his thumb over his mouth, he thought back to the note left for Alexander O’Connell— arguments about translation— maybe he should get his hands on the original French . . . I’m sure they have it at the Bodleian , he thought with some chagrin.  

For now, he gave it up and went to see Miss Frazil.  Though she was busy finalizing the Sunday edition, she shooed the junior editor out of her office promptly when Morse arrived.  Lighting up a cigarette and leaning back in her chair, she told him she’d dug up a little about Eliot Tolliver’s death.  At the time, it had been reported as a commonplace suicide, but as time dragged on and the inquest was delayed, Dorothea’s old mentor Sid Mears had grown suspicious, citing an anonymous source within the force that something more sinister was suspected.  In the end, though, Tolliver’s death had been ruled self-murder, and the story had fallen out of the press altogether a short time later.  A tragic end to the life of a local lad of good prospects, but unremarkable against the larger backdrop of endless war.  

‘Sister kicked up a fuss,’ Dorothea told him.  

‘Georgina?’ Morse asked with interest.  

‘Mm-hmm, that’s right.  Land Girl out in Herts, apparently.  Turned up at the inquest protesting in the strongest possible terms that her brother would not have killed himself—insinuated some malfeasance on the part of the police—called them all “bloody rotters” in open court.  Anyway, here’s everything I could find.’  Dorothea handed him a brown manilla envelope of news clippings related to the case.  ‘You owe me, as usual.’ 

Morse smiled an acknowledgement as he opened the envelope and began leafing through the articles.  After a pause, Dorothea continued, eyebrows raised as she flicked ash into the tray on her desk.  ‘I haven’t heard from your librarian yet.’  

‘She’s not—’ he began with irritation, but gave it up.  ‘I’m sure you will.  She’s had other things on her mind.’  

‘What—this theft?’ Dorothea guessed.  ‘Is she involved?  Is she a master criminal?’  

Morse didn’t respond, knowing he shouldn’t reveal too much to the reporter.  

Dorothea took the hint, but didn’t let the subject drop.  ‘I take it from your reaction the other day things didn’t go very well Saturday night.  What—did she leave with the dancing Pinkerton?’  

‘The world would spin a lot more smoothly if people minded their own business,’ he said sharply.  Dorothea Frazil might be a friend, but he couldn’t stand her tendency to invite herself into his affairs.  

‘Alright, don’t get snappy,’ she retorted defensively.  ‘I did just do you a favor, you know.’  

‘Thank you for this,’ he conceded earnestly, holding up the folder.  ‘I do appreciate it.’  

With a roll of her eyes, Dorothea waved him out of her office.  As he left, though, she offered a final barb, muttering, ‘Shame, though.  You seemed very well-suited.  Hope you didn’t do anything stupid.’  

He scowled over his shoulder at her before stalking out, hands in his pockets.  But as he made his way down the winding stairs outside the Oxford Mail offices, his thoughts were rueful and perturbed; Dorothea’s words had the ring of truth.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

By lunchtime, the Information Room had tracked down a telephone number and address for the Lewes family of Hemel Hempstead, so Morse tried to contact Eliot Tolliver’s sister.  His call was answered by a young girl who proved to be Georgina’s daughter Jackie.  After her initial alarm at being contacted by the police had been alleviated, she informed Morse that her parents were on holiday in Margate, not due back until the following day.  

‘What is this concerning, please?’ she asked him in her most grown-up voice.  

Morse told her it would be best if he just spoke directly to Mrs. Lewes, and asked to have her mother call back as soon as she could.    

‘I’ll give her the message, but she’s not going to like it,’ Jackie warned.  ‘Hates the police, she does.  Says all coppers are bastards.’  Then she quickly added, ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t mean no offense—something to do with her brother, I think, my uncle—he died during the War.’  

‘I see,’ Morse replied, pressing his lips together.  So Georgina’s ire at the botched results of the investigation had not dissipated, even after more than a quarter century.  He wondered if he could help her gain some sense of closure if he solved this case—or if he was just tearing open old wounds that would never heal.  

After saying goodbye to young Jackie, Morse turned his attention back to the coded message on the bookmark, hoping he could find some answers within the stream of random letters.  But try as he might, he could not find the right passage in Remembrance of Things Past to unlock its mysteries.  The key just didn’t seem to fit the lock.  

♦ VI. ♦ 

Meanwhile, Kate disembarked from the train at Paddington Station.  Tony’s gun bounced against her hip inside her purse, its weight comforting.  Who needed a man when she had cold steel at her side?  Not that she anticipated needing it, of course, but the knowledge of its presence instilled her with confidence.   

She was leery of using the Tube, for fear of getting lost, so she hailed a cab to take her to Victor Crossley’s residence, hoping she was might be able to catch him before work.  

But once again her applications to the buzzer received no response from Crossley’s apartment; she’d have to try back later in the day.  

So instead she made her way to the grand Georgian quadrangle of Somerset House, glancing up at the bronze statues in the center as she passed—Neptune and some king decked out in Roman dress.  Eventually, she managed to locate the Register General’s office within the imposing, soot-stained building.  She approached the counter with a smile and made her request, somewhat apologetically, as she had nothing specific to go on.  

The clerk seemed puzzled, blinking at her through wire-rimmed spectacles before stammering, ‘“ Tolliver ,” you said?’  

‘Uh-huh, that’s right,’ she nodded and she spelled the name aloud for clarification.  ‘Georgina.’  

The clerk paused, frowning.  Finally, he said stiffly, ‘I must say I am reticent to fulfill your request, miss.  I must ask—what is your interest in this family?  Have you any connection to the Oxford police?’   

With a flush of embarrassment, Kate realized she must be just a few steps behind Morse.  ‘Oh!’ she said lightly, ‘Not really, but I know they’re trying to find her too.’  She saw no point in prevarication, so she continued, ‘I’m supposed to deliver a bequest to her, but unfortunately the item’s been stolen.  So we’re both trying to contact her!  I guess they beat me to it, of course,’ she finished with a laugh.  ‘But it’s a matter of public record, isn’t it?’ she further pressed, furrowing her brow with wide-eyed innocence.  

The clerk pursed his lips but eventually relented, flipping through several folders on the side of his desk before consulting one in depth.  ‘Miss Georgina Tolliver was married the nineteenth of March, 1952, to Mr. Henry Lewes of Hemel Hempstead.’  He shut the folder decisively before adding, ‘Is there anything else I can assist you with?’  

After noting the information in her notebook, Kate asked how she might be able to track down an address, to which he advised consulting the local library’s directories.  She thanked him for his help and left.  

After a quick lunch out and an afternoon wandering the halls of the National Gallery—a new exhibit of German expressionist watercolors—Kate returned to Victor Crossley’s building to wait.  Settling down on the steps, she pulled out a book, but it wasn’t too long before residents began arriving home.  A couple of them asked if they could help her, but she demurred, saying simply she was waiting for someone, and went back to her book.  She wondered if she would see the familiar-looking young man who’d been there before, when she’d visited with Audrey, and whether she’d be able to place him.  She was sure she’d seen him somewhere.  

But he failed to appear, and finally, she saw a tall, slender man of late middle age approaching—he was well-dressed in a tweed suit and pinch-front fedora, newspaper tucked under his arm.  With dark hair and a long nose, he matched Morse’s description of her target.  Before he could notice her, she rose quickly and called out, ‘Mr. Crossley?’  

He looked up, slightly startled.  Peering at her doubtfully, he said, ‘Who are you?’  

Descending the steps, Kate held out her hand.  ‘I’m Katherine DeAngelis, sir.  I’m here on behalf of the estate of Dr. Douglas Milford.’  With a raised pitch, she turned the statement into a question, hoping he would remember his conversation with Morse.  

He was already shaking her hand but smiled as the memory slid into place—a strange, stony smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.  His hand was as cold and dry as his demeanor.  ‘Ah, yes—the mysterious bequest.  Deuced odd and all—did they find it?’  

‘No, sir, I’m afraid not.  But I thought maybe you could help me track it down.’  

He stared at her for a moment.  ‘Are you an inquiry agent, as well as executrix?’ he drawled with a hint of suspicion.  

She huffed out a laugh, blinking abashedly under his gaze.  ‘No, not really.  I’m just trying to glean any information I can about Dr. Milford—a-and my father,’ she stammered.  

‘I see,’ he said smoothly.  ‘Miss—DeAngelis, you said?’  

‘Mmm, yes,’ she nodded.  

‘You must be Frank’s daughter,’ he noted, unsmiling.  

‘Yes!’ she exclaimed, happy he remembered.  Maybe she was finally getting somewhere.  

‘Well—I guess you’d better come in.’  His lips curled into an unconvincing expression of welcome as he gestured her up the front steps, pulling a pass key from his pocket.  

She didn’t like his cool detachment or that phony smile, but if he was willing to talk—about her father, no less—then she’d put up with a little incivility.  ‘T-thank you, she stuttered, mounting the steps and proceeding him through the door.  

As they made their way up a tiled staircase and down a hallway, she could feel him staring at her, making the skin on the back of her neck prickle uncomfortably.  She was just starting to have second thoughts as to the wisdom of this plan when he stopped and unlocked a door, waving her into a modestly-furnished flat.  Suddenly uneasy, she stopped, considering.  But this was what she’d been hoping for after all, so she smiled awkwardly, squeezing her purse to reassure herself, and stepped over the threshold.  

‘May I offer you something to drink?’ he asked, hanging hat and coat on a rack near the door.  ‘Cup of tea?  Glass of wine?’  

‘Oh—um, n-no thank you,’ Kate stammered out.  ‘I, uh, I can’t stay long.’  Almost as soon as the door closed, she suddenly had a sickeningly familiar feeling wash over her and desperately wished she was elsewhere.  She remembered stepping into her apartment after her trip to Stratford, that distinct awareness of intrusion, invasion.  Standing in Mr. Crossley’s front hall, she had the same sensation, her skin tingling uncomfortably.  She wondered—no, she knew , abruptly, irrefutably—that Victor Crossley had been in her apartment that weekend.  

Her mind started to race with the implications and possibilities—had he also searched her trunks?  Stolen the single photograph from her album?  Why?  Could he be responsible for—but no, she was she just overreacting.  Right?  Kate felt her stomach tighten as Crossley turned around to face her, motioning her into an armchair in the parlor.  

‘Oh, really?’ he asked, his stony smile back.  ‘You seemed quite eager.’  

‘Oh,’ she repeated stiffly, ‘well, I—I have an appointment,’ she lied.  ‘Back in Oxford.’  

He blinked at her, clearly aware there was no such errand.  ‘Then we shall have to converse quickly.  Please sit.’  Dumbly, she did so, not knowing what else to do.  It’s fine , she assured herself, Just get out as soon as you can—besides, you can defend yourself.   She clutched her purse in her lap. 

‘So, what did you want to talk to me about?’  

‘Oh—gosh, I hardly know where to begin,’ she muttered, unable now to remember even the rudiments of her mission.  

‘Perhaps like Alice, you should begin at the beginning,’ he said flatly, staring at her.  ‘And go on till you come to the end.’  

She smiled self-consciously, taking a moment to put her thoughts back in order.  Clearing her throat, she asked, ‘Do you remember Douglas Milford?’  

He nodded slowly, which was a surprise—apparently his ignorance with Morse had been feigned.  ‘Well, he left you a book—an edition of Chaucer.’  

‘Yes, I know, the police told me,’ he drawled.  ‘I’m an aficionado of late medieval poetry—even published my own translation of some of the Tales. '  

‘Oh, really?  Which ones?’  Kate was interested despite her unease.  

‘Knight’s, Franklin’s, Reeve’s, Nun’s Priest,’ he listed, clearly proud.  

‘Nun’s Priest’s?,’ she repeated, her brow knitted.  

‘Chanticleer and the fox,’ he added, as though she needed a reminder.  

‘Yes, I—I know,’ she muttered, deep in thought.  The proud rooster tricked into the jaws of the cunning fox.  Kate remembered the note Doc had meant for him— Vulpis venient: The fox is coming.   She wondered who was the fox and who was the rooster.  Crossley?  Doc?  Somebody else?  Was Doc’s message a warning or a threat?  And either way, what did it mean?  

Crossley continued to stare at Kate with a look she did not care for—almost predatory. Well, that’s appropriate , she thought—Crossley’s whole manner was rather vulpine.  

Then something else sprang to her mind—a hazy memory from language tutorial . . . Chanticleer the rooster relating his own tale—death, prophesied in dreams, the assertion that murder— mordre— was so loathsome it could never be concealed for long.  God would not suffer it to be hidden, Though it abyde a yeer, or two, or thre—mordre wol out .  

And Doc had written ‘The earth shall disclose her blood—no more cover her slain.’  To Georgina Tolliver—whose brother Morse was convinced Doc had murdered.  But no—was it him ?  Had Crossley killed Eliot Tolliver?  

Her thoughts were scattered and dark with suspicion but one thing became inescapably clear: she had to leave.  Now.   

Her heart thumping, she swallowed hard and rose hastily, grasping her purse in front of her like a shield.  ‘Well, I really have to get going,’ she said in a rush.  

‘Oh, yes, how late it’s getting,’ Crossley said sardonically.  ‘And you have that appointment,’ he added softly, his icy stare boring into her.  

‘Yes, I do,’ she said firmly, squaring her shoulders.  ‘They’re expecting me,’ she threw in, for good measure.  

‘Of course,’ he replied coldly, unconvinced.  He stood.  

She couldn’t quite meet his eye, and a rush of fear flooded her veins.  

She had a brief moment of panic thinking he might try and detain her—but luckily he escorted her to the door without any attempt at constraint.  ‘Good night, Miss DeAngelis,’ he said with a nod of his head.  ‘Perhaps we shall meet again.’  

‘Oh, yes, perhaps,’ she squeaked, attempting to smile, before hightailing it down the hallway.  

She hastened out of the building as fast as she could, barely stopping to decide which direction to take as she burst out the front door.  In a fog, she hurried down the darkening street, barely aware of her surroundings.  She rubbed at her shoulders to try and rid them of the tension that had sprung up in the last half hour.  Was she crazy?  Surely she was just being irrational—letting her imagination get the better of her.  How she wished Morse was with her to figure these things out—he'd know what to do, what to think.  As it was, she was flummoxed and frightened—but no matter.  She’d gotten out, after all, and now she just needed to get back to Oxford—back home. 

She’d go straight to Morse—whatever had happened between them, she needed to share her suspicions with him.  She owed him an apology anyway—she shouldn’t have slapped him.  Such a bratty, dramatic thing to do.  Biting her lip, she wondered whether he’d forgive her.  Probably he would—men usually did when she did bratty or dramatic things.  She hoped so.  Maybe—maybe they could even give it another go.  She suddenly had a very strong desire to be with him again, rely on his wisdom and advice, feel safe in his arms.  She shivered, and not just from the chill that had begun to set in.  

She glanced at her watch and realized she could just make the early train.  Quickly, she hailed a taxi and climbed in, without sparing even a backwards glance at the street, swiftly filling up with shadows. 

But even if she had looked back, she probably would not have noticed the men—either of them—who were following her.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

By the time she arrived back at Paddington Station, Kate felt much calmer.  She managed to find the proper track quickly enough, barely glancing at the grand Victorian glass arches far above her, stained purple in the evening sun. 

She was just settling into her seat, feeling relieved and looking around at her fellow passengers, when all at once her blood ran cold.  For there, several rows away at the end of the car, was someone strangely familiar to her.  A man with a round face and small eyes was watching her out of the corner of his eye.  Too late, he quickly looked away, but Kate had already noticed and was sure she recognized him.  It was the young man she’d seen weeks ago on Mr. Crossley’s front steps!  What is he doing here?   

And as she stifled a gasp, it suddenly dawned on her where she’d seen him before that—why he’d looked so familiar then.  She remembered standing in Trinity Church, in Stratford, gazing up at the memorial bust of Shakespeare, when a stranger approached— this stranger—and made some offhand comment questioning its fidelity.  At the time, she’d assumed he was hitting on her, but now— Jesus Christ, who the hell is he?  How long has he been following me?  Since Stratford?  Before?  

Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out everything else.  Automatically, she rose and bolted for the door, pushing past the travelers still boarding the train.  Making for the relative safety of the main concourse, she looked over her shoulder nervously, only to see that the stranger had disembarked as well and was fighting his way through the crowd to get to her.  

Luckily for Kate, the 5:15 from Reading had just arrived to dislodge her passengers, all eager and excited for a night on the town, and the crush of people prevented the stranger from making much progress.  Still, he tried, and time seemed to slow to a crawl as she watched him struggle.  What did he want from her?  Well, she wasn’t sticking around to find out.  

In a panic, she whirled around to dart away, only to run smack-dab into another familiar face—Victor Crossley, standing impassively just past the end of the track, looking almost amused at her frantic flight.  He put a hand on her shoulder to arrest her getaway.  

Kate flinched at his touch, but was preoccupied by the stranger’s sudden pursuit, throwing another glance over her shoulder—he was still coming, a look of unconcealed alarm now spreading over his face.  

With an anxious whimper, she pleaded to Crossley, ‘Help me!  That—that man is following me!’ 

Calmly, Crossley looked over her shoulder at her pursuer, his jaw clenching.  ‘Who is he?’ he asked with a frown.  

‘I don’t know,’ she babbled, ‘he just—he was on the train and—and I saw him at your place—and—and before—’  

‘Alright, steady on,’ he soothed.  He peered at her strangely before saying decisively, ‘You should come with me.  I have a car—I'll take you back to Oxford.  There are things you need to know.’ 

‘What?  No, I—’ she blinked wide eyes at him.  ‘What things?’  

‘That’s why I’ve come.  You deserve to know the truth—about your father.’  

‘W-what do you mean?’ she swallowed hard.  

He smiled tightly.  ‘Let’s just say you have no idea how deep this rabbit hole goes.’  Kate was tempted, her breath coming in great, heaving gulps as she wrestled with the distasteful options before her.  ‘Come with me,’ Crossley said again.  He held out his hand, and Kate hesitated, wary and distracted, but intrigued. 

She didn’t trust him a jot, suspected him of terrible things, but surely— surely she was being unreasonable.  It was ridiculous—preposterous, really.  

And she really wanted to know what he knew.  About the past, her father, Doc.  

With another backwards glance, she saw the stranger was getting close.  

She took Mr. Crossley’s hand.  Better the devil I know.   

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

It had been nearly forty-eight hours since Morse had seen or spoken to Kate—but he couldn’t afford to ignore the injured party of his case anymore.  He needed to mend some fences—which probably meant he’d have to apologize.  He knew he should anyway, but the thought made him uneasy and a little annoyed nevertheless.  Still, part of him looked forward to seeing her—hoped to see her bright eyes light up with mirth instead of the furor he’d last seen.  

So, his nerves a little frayed and his heart beating a little too fast, he stopped by the Bodleian on his way home, on the thin pretense of searching out a French copy of the Proust.  But when he slipped into the employee area of the building, he found Kate’s office empty and dark.  Nancy was just closing up the workroom and stopped short when she saw him standing there, her mouth open, eyes wide.  

‘Hello,’ Morse said politely, ‘Is Miss DeAngelis in?’  

‘Erm.  No.’  Nancy wouldn’t quite meet his eye, and he suspected she’d been told something of their quarrel.  ‘She—’  But then Nancy stopped and closed her mouth, as though she’d thought better of continuing.  ‘She took the day off,’ she finally finished in a rush.  

‘Ah.  Well, thank you.’  He was about to leave but hesitated, for there was a strange, conflicted look on the secretary’s face, as though some internal battle was being waged in her head.  ‘Are you alright?’ he inquired with a frown.  

‘Yes of course,’ she said quickly, recovering her composure as she stepped over to her desk and began to collect her things.  

Still frowning, Morse said goodnight and excused himself.  There was something peculiar about Nancy Perry that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.  

Back at Blackbird Leys, after his repeated knocks went unanswered, Kate’s neighbor, Mrs. Murphy, opened the door opposite.  When she saw it was him, she huffed, ‘You got a lot of nerve, coming here, after what you done to our Katie.’  

Does Kate blather about her personal life to everyone?   His patience already growing thin, he whirled on the woman.  ‘And what is it I’m supposed to have done?’ he said irritably.  

‘Oh, I heard all about you, mister,’ the old woman said knowingly.  

‘Right,’ he replied, rolling his eyes.  ‘Do you know where Miss DeAngelis is?’  

Mrs. Murphy snorted primly.  ‘Found someone else to spend her time with—nice-looking young man.  Very dashing.  American.  Hope she’s with him now.’  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

But of course, Kate is not with an exciting new gentleman suitor, American or otherwise.  At that moment, she’s unconscious, hands hastily bound with rough rope, jostled insensibly in the boot of a car, as Victor Crossley speeds down a darkening byway.  

♦ 

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Illumination  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

‘What?!’ Charlie cries, her usually cool veneer vanishing.  ‘What do you mean “taken” ?  I thought our man was on her?’   

‘Went sideways.  She spotted him—got spooked.  Ran right into his clutches.’   

‘Oh, Lord,’ she whispers, her eyes wide with shock.   

‘I thought your man was on her,’ Wallis says accusingly.   

Charlie turned aside with a chagrined sigh.  ‘She gave him the slip, apparently.’   

‘Jesus.’  She can hear his eyes rolling through the telephone.   

‘Do you know where he’s taken her?’ Charlies asks, her hand on her throat.  ‘What’s the plan for her recovery?’   

There is a short pause before Wallis says brusquely, ‘There is no plan.’   

‘Sir?’ she says incredulously.   

‘You said yourself we can’t interfere.’   

‘We can’t just abandon her—’   

Wallis sighs deeply.  ‘Look—you recovered the message, we decoded it—it’s almost over.  You got my instructions?’   

Charlie hesitates before answering.  She can’t believe her ears—this can’t be how it ends.    

‘I did.’  

‘Then retrieve the recording ASAP, bring it to me here in London, and you’re done.’   

‘But, sir—’   

‘It’s clear she doesn’t know anything—maybe Crossley will realize that and let her go.’   

‘Let her go?’  She huffs out a disbelieving laugh.  ‘Are you serious?  You know that’s not going to happen.’   

‘Maybe that cop will find her—he's supposed to be a smart fella, right?’   

‘That’s a lot of maybes for a woman’s life,’ Charlie objects through gritted teeth.  ‘Can’t we do anything ?’   

There is another pause, longer, while Charlie waits, astonished at the willingness with which Wallis is leaving Kate to her fate.   

‘It’s out of my hands,’ he finally says.  A sudden, flat click signals the finale of the conversation.  And perhaps Kate DeAngelis’ life.   

Charlie stands dumbfounded, gaping at the telephone in her hand, now emitting the dull tone of an empty line.  She might be relatively new to this type of work, but she hasn’t quite expected such callousness, such cavalier cruelty.   

She’s been warned; John Dempsey told her she was likely to get blood on her hands—if not on her shoes—but still, she is appalled.  This isn’t in the national interest—in defense of the realm.  Is she really expected to sit back and do nothing?   

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Meanwhile, back in London, Colonel Wallis looks up from his desk to the man lounging in the armchair near the bay window, slowly smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.  Despite the man’s blank expression, Wallis can feel his judgement boring into him.   

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

♦ I. ♦ 

Morse stayed up late into the night, waiting.  He’d told Mrs. Murphy to have Kate ring him, but his telephone remained stubbornly silent.  She was probably still too angry with him.  He hardly blamed her.  The more he ruminated on their last conversation, the more he found to remonstrate himself with.  

In fact, he hoped she was still too angry.  The alternative was what Mrs. Murphy had insinuated—that Kate was with Tony Lloyd.  That thought left him with a sour feeling that came suspiciously close to jealousy.  

The next morning, as he headed for the station, he found himself veering into Kate’s building, almost automatically, to see if she’d returned home—was in fact partway up the staircase before he changed his mind.  He didn’t want his knocks to go answered again—and didn’t relish another confrontation with Kate’s bothersome neighbor.  If she wanted to see him, she’d have called.  Maybe he’d try again later.  

On the way into work, he stopped off at a bookstore to purchase a French copy of À la Recherche du Temps Perdu— hoping it would prove a better tool to decode Douglas Milford’s mysterious message than Scott Moncrieff’s English translation.  As he browsed the shelves, his thoughts strayed back to Kate.  She was a challenge—a puzzle.  And he liked puzzles, but her temperament—impulsive, headstrong—was intriguing and irritating in equal parts.  She should not have spoken to Bright after he’d told her not to, although he was begrudgingly impressed with her results.  At least now his superior realized just how persuasive Kate could be.  

But she made him doubt himself—he, a man of conviction, who was usually so sure of the right move.  Now, he found himself second-guessing almost everything—and wondering whether he hadn’t done something stupid, as Dorothea had intimated.    

Did he want her back?  Did he want her out of his life for good?  She’d surely upset the delicate balance of his solitary existence: work and— well, work mostly —with music and puzzles and poetry to fill the lonely gaps.  Now—he wasn’t sure what he wanted from Kate anymore.  He only knew he wanted to see her again—and did not want her to be with Tony Lloyd.  

So it was somewhat of a surprise when he walked into CID, paperback tucked under his arm, and saw none other than the Pinkerton agent himself sitting in the chair next to Morse’s desk, his knee bouncing impatiently.  Morse stopped short as Strange appeared next to him.  

‘There you are, matey,’ he greeted him, then jerked his head in Tony Lloyd’s direction.  ‘Look what the cat dragged in.  Been asking for you every five minutes since I got here.’  

Morse frowned in confusion as they came down the steps.  Lloyd jumped up to meet them with a sense of urgency.  

‘Hey,’ Lloyd said awkwardly, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt.  

‘Hello,’ Morse returned, his eyebrows raised.  

‘Listen—’ Lloyd lost no more time to niceties, ‘Was she with you?’  

‘What?’ Morse blinked.  ‘Who?’  

‘Kate ,’ he said anxiously.  ‘Do you know where she is?’  

Morse paused.  ‘No,’ he admitted.  ‘Do you?’  

Lloyd blew out a tense breath, running a jerky hand through his hair.  ‘She’s missing.’  

‘What are you talking about?’  

‘She’s gone—went to London yesterday—never came back.  She’s missing ,’ he repeated with a hint of desperation.  ‘And nobody’s doing anything!’   

That last hardly seemed fair—he'd just gotten here, after all.  Morse looked at Lloyd, assessing him.  Surely this arrogant, self-sure man would rather eat glass than come here, to him, for help.  He must be seriously concerned.  A small seed of anxiety took root in the pit of his stomach.  

‘When did you see her last?’ he asked, trying to affect a nonchalance as he tossed his purchase on the desk, unbuttoned his jacket, and sat down.  He gestured Lloyd back into his seat and Strange took his own chair nearby, listening.  

‘Yesterday morning,’ Lloyd replied, which roiled the sour, jealous feeling in Morse’s stomach a little before Lloyd continued, ‘She came by my hotel to pick me up—I was supposed to go with her.’ 

‘To London?’  A nod.  ‘What was she doing in London?’  

Lloyd huffed anxiously.  His knee was bouncing up and down again.  ‘I dunno—she said something about a summer house or something like that—and she wanted to track down some guy.’ 

‘“Some guy?”’ Morse repeated scornfully.  Lloyd wasn’t being very helpful.  

Exasperated, Lloyd exclaimed, ‘Listen, buddy, I’m not the fucking detective here, alright?  You’re the detective, so—I dunno—detect her!’  

‘What makes you think she’s in danger?’ Morse asked.  Surely he was worrying over nothing—Kate was a grown woman, perfectly capable of taking care of herself.  Although—given all that had happened . . .   

Lloyd was clenching his jaw.  ‘She—she doesn’t know what she’s mixed up in,’ he said, avoiding Morse’s gaze.  

‘And you do?’ he replied, his eyes narrowing dangerously.  

Lloyd half-shrugged, still looking away.  Then he sighed.  ‘Look—I don’t really.  I just—she's in trouble, man—we gotta find her.’  

Morse glanced over at Strange, whose face confirmed Morse’s worst suspicions.  John Ward had disappeared—and turned up dead.  If Kate was entangled in the same thing— 

The small seed of dread began to grow.  

‘And you just let her walk into this trouble alone?’  

Lloyd barked out a laugh.  ‘“Let her”?’ he snorted.  ‘Have you ever tried to tell that girl what to do?’ 

Morse pursed his lips, but pressed on.  ‘You said you were supposed to go with her.’  

Lloyd grimaced, turning aside as he admitted, ‘She—she tricked me—skipped out on me.  Stole my fucking gun, too,’ he added under his breath.  Strange snorted at this embarrassing confession, covering it with a cough when Lloyd glared at him.  ‘It’s not funny,’ he scowled.  

It wasn’t funny, though Morse was somewhat relieved to hear Kate had armed herself—it should keep her safe, unless . . .  He felt a sudden stab of pain in his right hip, where he’d been shot himself—part of the bullet was still there, lodged deep inside, and, all these years later, it still ached on cold days.  Suddenly he couldn’t help imagining a bullet ripping through Kate’s flesh into muscle and bone— No, he stopped himself.  It won’t come to that.   It couldn’t . 

Besides, she’d probably just decided to stay the night in London—might be back home even now.  He’d check.  

‘What were you doing with her?’ he continued, even though he dreaded the answer.  

Lloyd shrugged uncomfortably again.  ‘She hired me.’  

Morse’s eyes narrowed.  ‘Then why would she leave you behind?’  

Lloyd shifted awkwardly in his chair, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket.  ‘I dunno.’  

But Morse could make a guess.    

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Kate was not back home.  Mrs. Murphy hadn’t seen her since the previous morning either, when she’d left early, presumably for Lloyd’s hotel.  The older woman continued to treat Morse with scornful disdain, but he was in no mood to tolerate her rudeness.  He curtly revealed the reason for his visit, telling her brusquely that Kate had been reported missing.  She then turned rather maudlin, insisting she’d known something was wrong—‘Felt it in my bones!’ she claimed—though she had nothing to contribute on a practical level.  Morse left as quickly as he could after securing her promise to contact him if she heard from Kate at all.  

As he hurried back to his car, worry starting to churn in his stomach, he was startled by a voice nearby.  

‘Sergeant Morse?’  He glanced over to see Nancy Perry emerging from the late morning shadow of the building.  

‘Miss Perry?’ he said, turning around with surprise.  

‘She’s been abducted,’ she said bluntly.  

‘What?’ he replied with a vexed frown.  

‘I believe you heard me.’  

Morse felt his throat start to tighten.  ‘By whom?’  

‘By the villain of the piece, of course,’ she responded, one eyebrow arched.  ‘ Crossley ,’ she continued, as though it should have been obvious.  

‘How do you know this?’  

‘She was seen,’ she said simply.  

‘By whom?’ he asked again, his teeth clenched.  

‘Does it matter?’ Nancy blinked placidly.    

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, frustrated with her obfuscation.  ‘For whom do you really work?’ 

She shrugged noncommittally.  ‘An interested party,’ she replied evasively.  ‘But you’re wasting time—you’ve got to find her before she ends up like that idiot guard.’  

‘Where is she?’  

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted with a small shake of her head.  ‘But you’d better find out.’  She started to leave.  

‘Wait!’ he called after her.  ‘What is this all about?’  

‘Don’t you know?’ she returned, frowning.  ‘You have all the pieces.  And I thought you were supposed to be so clever.’  She peered at him strangely, then took a hasty breath and said, ‘Just find her, Sergeant.  Don’t—don’t lose her to death’s dateless night.’  Then she walked away.  

He rolled his eyes at her back—he hated all this clandestine tomfoolery.  But as he watched her go, the small seed of fear began to blossom.  He had no intention of losing Kate like that, but if Nancy was on the level, he didn’t have much time. 

♦ II. ♦ 

Kate had briefly awoken the previous night, knocked about in a tight, dark space with no memory of how she came to be there.  She dimly remembered leaving the train station with Victor Crossley, turning down a side street, then—nothing.  Nothing but pain and blackness.  She tried to move but her wrists were restrained and her head swam with every rocking movement.  Pain ebbed and flowed through her temples, making her head feel alternately very large and very small.  It grew and shrank and grew again as she felt consciousness start to slip away again.  She tried to hold on, tried to keep a grip on some semblance of awareness, but a wave of nausea overtook her, and she had to surrender, letting the pain drag her down into numb oblivion.  

She dreamed she was Alice, wandering through Wonderland—first a mere ten inches high, then growing so tall she could no longer see her own feet.  Large and small, small and large, floating in a feverish haze.  And then Nancy Perry and Colonel Wallis were having a tea party, Tony Lloyd sprawled on the table between then, fast asleep.  Nancy was ripping pages from a book and spreading them with butter before handing them to Colonel Wallis, who stuffed them into his mouth with great relish, the tablecloth tucked into the collar of his uniform.  

‘Stop it!’ she scolded her secretary.  ‘You’re ruining that book!’  

But Nancy just looked at her indifferently, explaining, ‘It’s the best butter,’ and handing Kate a dripping sheet.  

But when Kate looked down, it was Doc’s bookmark she was holding, with its unintelligible string of fancy inked letters.  ‘I can’t—’ she began, ‘—I don’t know how to read this,’ she lamented.  

‘Then read how you know,’ Nancy told her.  ‘It amounts to the same thing.’  

‘Not the same at all,’ Kate muttered under her breath.  ‘I don’t understand.’  

‘Then you shouldn’t talk!’ Wallis grunted abruptly through a mouthful of paper.  Suddenly Tony jerked awake and started singing, except what came out was a deep, operatic bass, accompanied by a whole orchestra of sound— Fidelio , if she wasn’t mistaken.  He hadn’t sung but a few bars, however, when Victor Crossley, dressed all in red and sporting a twisty villain’s mustache, emerged from the sidelines, overshadowing the table and yelling, ‘Off with his head!’  

But it wasn’t Tony he came for, it was Kate, and though she started running, her feet stayed firmly in place and Crossley snatched her easily, spinning her around and plunging his fist straight into her chest.  The pain was agonizing, and she watched, terrified, as he drew out her heart, whole and beating, and held it before her.  It was made of ice, and already melting into a pale blue puddle on the floor.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

When Kate woke again, she was cold and the ground was hard beneath her.  The air was heavy with the ozone-tang of wet stone, mixed with earth and mildew.  Somewhere, water dripped steadily onto rock.  Suddenly, even with her eyes still closed, she knew exactly where she was.  Indeed, when she blinked open her eyes, bleary with salt and sleep, she found herself amidst of forest of decrepit machinery, barely visible in the hazy light filtering down from the top floor of Shaston Mill. 

Her head pounding, she shifted uncomfortably on the damp floor and heard a voice in the darkness.  ‘“Won’t you walk into my parlour?’”   

Painfully, she turned her head towards the sound.  Victor Crossley was there, sitting in the dark and waiting for her to awaken.  Groggy and hurting, she could only mumble, ‘What?’  

Gesturing around them, he continued, ‘“It's the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.”’   His eyes pierced through the half-light, shiny and beetle-black.  ‘Just imagine my surprise, sweet girl, when the very fly I’ve sought to snare came wandering right into my web?’  

Her hands still bound, Kate struggled to sit up, ignoring a surge of nausea.  ‘What do you want?’ she said hoarsely.  

He bent over her, menacingly close.  ‘I want the recording Milford made.  Where is it?’ he hissed. 

Kate had no idea what he was talking about.  But even in her confused and possibly concussed state, her brain foggy and dull, she knew she shouldn’t admit it.  So she tried not to recoil and kept her lips pressed tightly closed. 

Crossley sneered at her, and turned away, rising.  ‘You’ll tell me sooner or later.’ 

Carelessly, he picked up her purse, lying on the stairs, and began to go through its contents.  ‘Well, well, well,’ he laughed mirthlessly as he pulled out Tony’s pistol.  ‘Aren’t you full of surprises?’  He turned and dangled it from his finger, taunting her.  ‘This isn’t the Wild West, my dear.  There’s no cavalry coming to save you.’  Tossing the gun and purse aside, he reared towards her again, looming threateningly.  

Grabbing her chin forcefully, he squeezed her cheeks, and looked at her closely, his face only inches away from hers.  Cold fear shot through her veins as she saw the pure, blank cruelty in his face.  ‘Sweet creature.  How brilliant are your eyes ,’ he intoned.  Then he pushed her head back, slamming it against something hard.  ‘I’ve never killed a woman before,’ he told her, his eyes stony.  Moving his hand down to tighten uncomfortably at her throat, he continued, ‘I expect it’s very much like killing a man—only easier.’  Glancing down salaciously, he added, ‘Though maybe I’ll keep you around for awhile—I could find all manner of use for you.’ 

Kate whimpered pathetically, but eventually Crossley let go of her, pushing her face away. 

‘“I’m sure you must be weary, my dear,”’ he quoted.  ‘I’ll leave you to consider your circumstances.’  He mounted the stairs, taking her things with him, and closed the trap door at the top, plunging her into total darkness.  

Raw panic screamed through her body and brain.  Fuck, fuck, FUCK!  Frantically, she twisted her wrists back and forth beneath the rope, trying to loosen the knots, but try as she might, she couldn’t make any headway.  

She let a cascade of fear wash over her, threatening to overwhelm her—then stopped and desperately tried to put it aside—she's good at that, she could do it.  She had to think clearly.  He must be searching the rest of her belongings right now—he'll find the Photostat of Doc’s bookmark.  Is that what he wants?  Will he be able to work out the cipher?  What was this recording he asked her about?  

Crossley was pacing the floor above her, his steps echoing around the sunken chamber.  But then she heard the unmistakable sound of the warped door opening and closing on ancient hinges—and could just make out a car engine starting.  He really was leaving—but for how long?  

She had to act fast.  She felt her way over to the stairs and crawled as high as she could, her head bumping painfully against the wooden door when she reached the top.  With all her might, she tried to push it open, bracing against the steps and pushing with her arms, her back, her shoulders.  But the latch head fast, and it seemed like he’d dropped something heavy on top anyway—she could barely budge it, no matter how she tried.  She succeeded only in hurting herself when her feet slipped out from under her and she fell hard, with a yelp of pain, onto her hips.  

Frustrated, she banged on the door above her, screaming and crying, but she knew it was no use.  Shaston Mill was too far removed from civilization for anyone to hear her.  She gave up and scooted down the stairs, hot tears streaming down her cheeks.  

Reminded of her fever dreams, Alice’s words spring to mind—‘Come, come, there’s no use crying like that!’  But she couldn’t seem to stop the tears the flowed down her face.  Much like Alice, she was always giving herself good advice, and then always ignoring it.  She never should have hatched this stupid scheme—what a fool she’d been! 

Disney’s cartoon Alice sang in her head, ‘That explains the trouble I’m always in . . . I went along my merry way, and I never stopped to reason—should have known there’d be a price to pay, some day. Some day . . .’     

And now I shall never get out!   When you’re lost, she knew, it was good practice to stay where you are, until someone finds you.  But who’d ever think to look for me here?   She was on the outs with Morse and Tony Lloyd had to be sore at her—it might be days before anyone even noticed she was missing.  She took a few deep breaths to try and calm herself.  Think, Kate, THINK!   

If she could her hands free, that would be a start, she decided.  Surely there was some thing, some where in this room full of equipment and contraptions, that she could use to cut through the rope.  She began to feel her way around the space, bumping her head and knees and elbows against various unforgiving surfaces.  Finally, she found a broken slab of stone protruding from God-knows-what piece of millwork.  Frantically, she started the grind the rope binding her wrists against it, though every time she slipped, her skin scraped painfully against the rough stone until she was sure to be bloodied.  Still, she kept at it.  

As she worked, she tried to clear her head and think logically.  She was only useful to Crossley if she knew where his quarry was—which of course she didn’t, having no knowledge of any recording.  But if he figured out she was clueless, she realized, he’d just kill her.  Like he killed John Ward.  Whimpering, she decided she was thankful Morse hadn’t told her how Ward had died—she didn’t want to know what was in store for her.  

So she’d have to pretend she did know what he wanted, and try to bluff her way out.  Unless she could escape on her own, of course . . .   

Finally, with a last rasp against the stone, the strands of the rope gave enough for her to stretch and twist free.    

Although it irritated her already-stinging skin, she tried to rub some feeling back into her hands, wondering distantly who that stranger at the train station might have been—why he’d been following her.  Oh, how she wished she’d had the guts to confront him instead of running like a coward!  

With a remorseful sigh, she began to explore her cell more thoroughly.  Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and she could just make out the objects that surrounded her.  Not that the huge shapes meant anything to her, but at least she could avoid them as she stumbled around. 

She needed a weapon.  Crossley had taken her gun—Tony's gun, she thought ruefully—but there might be something lying around she could use to defend herself when he inevitably returned. 

She searched and searched, losing all track of time, but in the end all she could find was a short length of rough wood that had probably fallen from the ceiling.  But just in time, as suddenly she heard the hum of an automobile outside once again.  Clutching her makeshift bludgeon, she crouched behind one of the large dark shapes near the steps and waited, trying not to shake from nerves or cold.  

She heard whatever heavy object Crossley had placed on the door shifted out of the way and the creak of the hinges as he opened it.  She held her breath and made ready to strike.  If she could only knock him down for a second—just long enough to dart up the stairs, make a break for it— 

A bright light broke through the darkness, temporarily blinding her.    

‘Miss DeAngelis?’ Crossley called as she blinked, her eyes watering.  She heard him come down the steps and carefully close the door behind him.  Shoot , she thought, Bad luck! —and she needed all the luck she could get.  

‘I’ve brought you something,’ he continued, his voice calm, even friendly, as though she were a favored guest and not a prisoner.  ‘Where have you got to?’ he muttered, looking around.  

She couldn’t waste another second.  The moment his back was turned, she flew from her hiding spot and swung the wooden block at his head.  But she was weak, and disoriented by the bright light, and he easily ducked to avoid the blow.  

The effort caused her to stumble and by the time she regained her footing he was ready for her.  He grabbed her forearm and, almost gently, wrenched the board from her damaged hands, a look of amused pity on his face.  

She thought he was going to strike her—smash the board across her face, and she flinched in anticipation, but he merely tossed it aside and looked at her, his lips pursed.  

‘You’ve hurt your hands,’ he remarked, gesturing.  Kate looked down at the scratches, the blood smeared across her palms.  ‘Would you like something to eat?’  

From his coat pockets, he pulled a bottle of beer and a sandwich wrapped in brown paper.  He held them out to her and Kate’s stomach betrayed her by rumbling loudly.  

Almost against her will, she grabbed the sandwich from his hands and tore into the wrapping.  She devoured the food, with barely a thought to poison or drugs.  She hadn’t realized how famished she was.  

Crossley sat down on the steps, setting the bottle down next to the lantern at his feet.  He seemed pleased to see her eating, though his smile never really reached his eyes.  As she ate, he said conversationally, ‘I don’t want to hurt you, you understand.  I just want the recording, and then I’ll let you go.’ 

She slowed her chewing, pretending to consider.  

He leaned forward on his knees and continued, ‘I’m not sure you really understand what’s at stake here—where you’ve chosen to plant your loyalties.  You precious Dr. Milford—’ he couldn’t keep the note of derision out of his voice—‘was a nasty man.  You don’t owe him anything, my dear.’ 

She swallowed hard, waiting.  

He smiled, trying to draw her in.  ‘He and his— associates— have ruined my life.  You have no idea, do you—what they’ve done?’  

She was irked by his slanderous assertions and stared at him coldly, but decided it was best it keep him talking.  She shook her head.  

He hesitated, peering at her in the watery light spilling from the lantern.  Finally, he seemed to come to a decision.  ‘We all worked at Bletchley, you know—myself, Milford, your father, Wallis, Currier.  Important work, during the War.  “For King and Country”—or, “President and Country” I suppose,’ he chuckled.  With a casual shrug, he said. ‘It just happened that I was also working for someone else.’  

He settled back on the stairs.  ‘I had principles, you see.  I believed in something,’ he explained, clenching his fist in affirmation.  ‘Something larger than me or them or any of us—larger even than the War.’  

It dawned on her what he was talking about.  ‘You were a spy?’  

‘I suppose I was,’ he murmured, smiling slightly, ‘though I never thought of myself as such.  Not then, anyway.  The Russians were our allies , you see—they were all that stood against the Nazis in the east.  And the losses they sustained—’  He shook his head sadly, jaw clenched.  ‘Unimaginable .  And we were doing nothing to help them!’ he snapped, and even after so long, the anger in his voice was evident.  ‘But I did.  I’d been approached years before—at University—and I was asked to bring them what intelligence I could, to help them anticipate the enemy’s moves.’  

With a sickening feeling, it dawned on Kate that perhaps he was only telling all her this because he had already decided to kill her.  Maybe tonight.  Suddenly she wasn’t very hungry anymore, and she slumped to the floor in a dejected heap. 

Crossley barely noticed.  ‘They found me out—or, rather, some silly sod found me out and decided to sing.  Bloody fool,’ he spat under his breath, shaking his head.  

‘Anyway, rather than simply turn me in—which at least would have been honorable—I could have accepted that . . .’  He trailed off for a moment before resuming his tale.  ‘Your friends did far worse.  They forced me into a servitude I’ve been toiling under ever since.  A dangerous servitude—a slavery ,’ he said with an angry hiss.  ‘Forced to betray my beliefs, betray those who trusted me!  Forced to become—someone I never wanted to be.’  

His voice was soft now, with a desperate earnestness she found disconcerting.  

‘And that recording is my only way out, don’t you see?’ he implored.  ‘I could be free again.  But if it falls into the wrong hands—I'm a dead man.  I won’t pay that price for something I did so unwillingly.’  

Kate couldn’t muster a word in response, only staring back at her captor in fear and puzzlement. 

‘You must know where Milford squirreled it away, right?’ he coaxed, sliding off the steps and coming toward her.  ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?  To see that it falls into the wrong hands?’  

She drew back from him as he approached, wide-eyed and blinking.  

‘Why do you insist on such foolish loyalty to such unworthy men?’ he said in a hushed tone.  ‘Don’t you understand—’  

‘I don’t believe you,’ she interrupted defiantly.  ‘I don’t know about the others, but Doc would never do that.  And neither would my father.’  

‘Oh, your father most definitely would, my dear,’ he hissed angrily.  ‘He was my contact—the go-between for me and that snake Currier.  Why do you think he was always coming to England, you silly little girl?  A junior academic?’ he said derisively.  His sympathetic play beginning to slip, the rage beginning to show through again.  He stopped, struggling to recompose himself.  Once he had, he continued silkily, 'That is, he played the part, until—well, you know. ’  He looked at her, his eyebrow arched.  And then he blinked and cocked his head to the side, a strange half-smile playing about the corners of his lips.  ‘Or maybe you don’t know.’  

‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.  Something in his tone made her afraid of the answer.  

He went on, relishing her reaction.  ‘Frank—your father—he had second thoughts about the integrity of the operation—using me for the ends of a man like Robert Currier. ’  Once again, the name came out in a hate-filled hiss.  Crossley straightened up, his hands behind his back.  ‘Let’s see, it would have been—autumn of ‘52, I believe,’ he said, his head tilted back in concentration.  ‘Frank told me it was the last time he’d play the messenger—he’d had enough.  Decent chap, your father—in the end.  And indeed, I never saw him again.  Currier couldn't have any loose ends, after all, mucking up his ambitious rise to the top.’  He stared down at her coldly.  ‘ Shame about your mother, though.  Sloppy .’  

‘What are you talking about?’ she rasped, the air suddenly very thin.  

‘Well, he had them killed, of course.  Car accident, wasn’t it?’ he tsked.  ‘Not quite accidental, my dear.’  Kate’s head started to swim, and she could feel the half-sandwich she’d just eaten starting to rise.  ‘So you see, Katherine,’ he said softly after a moment, crouching down and holding her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye, ‘You owe them nothing .  Nothing but rage and vengeance.’ 

She almost fainted outright.  It wasn’t true.  Couldn’t be true.  How could that be true?  

Crossley released her, leaving her reeling in place, and walked back to the steps.  He opened the beer bottle and held it out to her, but she could only shake her head and look away.  If she opened her mouth to speak, she was sure she’d vomit. 

He shrugged and replaced the open bottle on the step, saying, ‘I’ll leave you now, my dear, but first—’  

He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a piece of fresh rope.  She barely resisted as he re-bound her wrists.  ‘Don’t try that again, or I shall have to bind your feet as well,’ he warned.    

He slowly climbed the steps, pausing at the top.  ‘What a strange world we live in, eh?’ he offered sadly, and let the door close behind him. 

Kate stared, unseeing, into space.  She couldn’t quite wrap her brain around what she had just heard.  Her mind rebelled—refused to accept the words Crossley had spoken.  The minutes slid slowly by.  And left alone in the dark with her thoughts, they strayed unbidden, back to that terrible night. 

She’d been angry with her parents, who had left her behind to go to— God, it was Doc’s party , she realized, her stomach churning.  She’d stomped upstairs without saying goodbye, mostly ignored her cousin Frankie, sent to babysit, and been sullen and cross all night.  She’d fallen asleep late, her weariness finally overcoming her petulance, but had woken, suddenly, in the middle of the night.  She’d thought she heard her mother calling her, but the house was silent and still.  Barefoot and cold, she’d padded down the hallway to her parents’ room but found it empty, found Frankie snoring softly on the living room sofa.  The grandfather clock, ticking solemnly into the night, showed half-past three.  Where were they?  They never stay out this late.   

She was still pondering her cousin’s inert form, wondering whether to wake her, when the knock came at the door, startling her and jerking Frankie awake.    

Much of what happened afterwards was a blur.  The policeman—large and looming—who broke the news, her cousin’s tears and protestations, Kate’s insistent screams as the strange woman from social services tried to take her out of the house.  None of it had seemed real—intense, but insubstantial, like a nightmare she couldn’t wake from.  All her memories seemed cloudy and were strangely muffled, as though she’d had cotton stuffed in her ears.  The only sound that broke through the fog was that damn clock, tick-tick-ticking away, deafening, louder than she’d thought possible.  Counting out the new seconds of a life irrevocably altered.  Carefully delineating the Before from the After .  

And then the awful hours of waiting at the orphanage, sick with fear but strangely numb to grief.  It was only when she heard her Nonna’s voice in the hallway, yelling and cursing at the staff, that she’d succumbed to tears herself—running out to meet her and collapsing into her grandmother’s arms.   

And now, Kate was crying again, sobbing gallons of tears, so much she thought she might drown in them.  Hugging her knees to her chest, alone in the cold, damp darkness, it didn’t seem such a bad way to go.  

♦ III. ♦ 

Tony Lloyd told them Kate had borrowed a car from some ‘lady prof,’ so Morse visited the Hartley residence to see if maybe Kate had stayed overnight with them.  Like Mrs. Murphy, Audrey Hartley seemed well-informed of their quarrel, greeting him rather coldly, her mouth pursed, but was shocked to hear why he’d come.  Unfortunately, she’d not seen hide nor hair of her American friend since passing off the keys to her Bentley. 

‘You weren’t worried when she didn’t return it?’ he asked her.  

‘Well, no,’ Mrs. Hartley admitted, her face reflecting Morse’s own growing alarm.  ‘She—she said she might need it a couple of days—and, well I’ve been so busy with don rags this week . . . it didn’t even occur to me to worry!  Oh Lord , is she really missing?’  In a rare moment of frailty, she leaned against her stunned and silent husband, who put his arm around her.  ‘Darling, what have I done?’ she lamented dramatically.  Recovering quickly, she turned back to Morse with an air of hopeful disregard.  ‘No!  She must have stayed on in London, that’s all!’  

‘You did that a few weeks ago, didn’t you?  Where did you stay?’  

‘The Dorchester,’ Audrey responded with evident relief.  ‘That’s where you’ll find her, I’m sure.  All this fuss for nothing,’ she said with a shaky smile.  

‘Let’s hope so,’ Morse replied.  ‘You—you don’t happen to have a photo of her, do you?’  

Audrey did—just a snapshot of the two of them at the Bodleian Gala, but it would do.  Michael Hartley promised to let the station know if they heard from Kate, and Morse left him to attend to his wife.   

He located their Bentley in a car park near the train station, where the ticket master remembered selling Kate a return ticket to London early Friday morning.  ‘Seemed a mite jumpy to me,’ he remarked.  ‘Kept looking over her shoulder.’  Probably on the lookout for Tony Lloyd , he thought. 

There was nothing for it but to follow her to London himself.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Kate had not, unfortunately, stayed on at the Dorchester.  Morse showed her picture to the doorman and a few clerks to no avail, and no one by her name had been registered there.  

His next stop was Tony Lloyd’s ‘summer house’—where the clerk at the General Register also remembered the pretty American who’d inquired about Georgina Tolliver.  And a few tenants of Victor Crossley’s building—the address of which appeared on Milford’s list—also recalled her loitering on the steps the afternoon before.  

Morse managed to persuade the building superintendent to let him peek around Crossley’s flat—‘Queer fish, that one,’ the man observed with a scowl as he turned his skeleton key in the lock on Crossley’s door. ‘What’s he done?’  

‘Maybe nothing,’ Morse replied tersely, though Miss Perry’s warning echoed in his head.  ‘I just need to see if anyone’s home.’  

But the flat was empty, with no evidence of Crossley or Kate.   

He did find, however, the missing books—or what was left of them, leastways.  Strewn carelessly on a table in the bedroom were the ruined remains of Proust, Poe, Chaucer, and—most tragically—the ancient Oxford Bible.  Pages torn from bindings, leather covers split open and slashed to ribbons.  Well, I guess we can close the file on that one , he thought grimly, gathering the remnants of the books to take back to the station as evidence.  Crossley had clearly been looking for something concealed within them.  Had he found what he was looking for?  

Morse questioned several people at Piccadilly Station, the logical point of arrival and departure, but even a beautiful woman like Kate had slipped past the notice of attendants amid the hustle and bustle of London commuters. 

 With no other leads or ideas, Morse had no choice but to return to Oxford, the seed of anxiety in his gut now a full-blown flower of dread.  He was worried sick—convinced that Kate had, as Miss Perry said, been abducted by Victor Crossley, who was not only responsible for the theft of the books, but undoubtedly the murder of the thief John Ward as well.  It was entirely possible Crossley had a similar fate in store for Kate.  

Thinking about her—languishing somewhere, scared and alone—was almost more than he could stand.  And the worst part of it was— it was all his fault .  If he hadn’t been so harsh with her, she never would have ended up in this kind of danger.  Never would have resorted to hiring Tony Lloyd, never would have had to ditch him and strike out on her own, never would have confronted Victor Crossley by herself.  

And in the back of his mind was the thought he didn’t dare think—that he was already too late.  That she was already dead, that he’d failed her.  Like he’d failed so many others.  

He thought back to their last morning together—how he’d felt with her beneath him, surrounding him.  How could he have turned against her so quickly?  Damn his intractable, resentful petulance!  What a fool he’d been! 

Now, he might have lost her forever—to death’s dateless night, like Nancy Perry had said.  And for what?  She’d bruised his ego, disobeyed a request.  She’d only been trying to help.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Back at the Nick, Morse deposited the ruined books in the evidence room and slouched into Thursday’s office, where Jim Strange was giving a report of his activities to the DCI, who had come into the station despite it being a Saturday.  Strange had been hard at work on the Ward investigation, tracing the guard to a gambling ring run by a local toff named Martin Gorman, who’d been marginally cooperative—admitting that Ward had been a frequent player at his tables, as had Robbie Cartwright, whose bad luck had pushed him deeper and deeper into debt.  When Strange asked about others associated with the case, he'd discovered that Victor Crossley had been an occasional player as well. 

This hardly came as a surprise to Morse, who, disheartened, gave his own report, useless though it was.  The picture was becoming clearer—Crossley had recruited Cartwright and then Ward over cards, murdered Ward for some reason or other, and subsequently destroyed Milford’s books. 

But what did it matter?  They were still no closer to locating Kate.  Morse leaned forward in his chair, running a weary hand over his face.  

‘I’d try telling you to go home,’ Thursday said, ‘but you won’t.’  Morse looked down; his superior knew him well enough.  Thursday tried anyway, urging, ‘Good night’s sleep, fresh eyes in the morning—might do you good.’  

But Morse shook his head.  He wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep anywhere, and he didn’t want to have to walk past Kate’s dark, empty windows.  

Instead, when the others left, he returned to work, hoping to find some way to track her down.  By the light of his yellow desk lamp, he pored over the case files on Cartwright and Ward, rereading notes and combing through the victims’ effects.  Hypothesizing that perhaps Crossley was holding Kate hostage in the same place he’d killed Ward, he tried to determine where Ward’s body might have been dumped.  He called the morgue to elicit Max deBryn’s opinion on the matter, but the doctor had long since gone home.  Morse left a message and kept at it himself, pulling out charts and cartographs of the river and surrounding countryside.  

Finally, in the waning hours of the night, he gave in and closed his eyes— Just for a few minutes —falling asleep at his desk.  

In his dream, he was in a semi-familiar forest, moonlight sinking through the bare branches of the trees.  He was searching—for Kate, he knew—but couldn’t find her.  Several times he thought he saw her—caught a flash of her in the distance, slipping between the dark trunks—but by the time he reached the place, peeking behind a tree or ducking into a hollow—she was gone.  And there was something else moving in the woods as well.  Something stalking them both.  He caught glimpses of something large—stealthy and strong.  He thought he heard the low rumble of a predatory growl—and woke with a start, a crick in his neck and a small pool of spittle on the map in front of him.  

Jim Strange was standing next to his desk—he'd come to help even on a Sunday—but stepped back as Morse jerked awake.  As Morse wiped his face and tried to rouse himself, Strange said with a jerked head toward Thursday’s office, ‘Someone here to see you.  Said you called.’  

Running his hand through his hair and rubbing sleep from his eyes, Morse rose and donned his jacket, entering Thursday’s office to find a strange woman sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette, her legs and arms crossed, her face hard.  She introduced herself as Georgina Lewes, Eliot Tolliver’s sister and the last person on Kate’s list, who’d been unaccounted for thus far.  

He and Thursday tried to be civil, but her attitude was unapologetically hostile.  Though she’d come all the way to Oxford nevertheless, which belied an enduring hope for some sort of answers about her brother’s death.    

When Thursday told her about Milford’s bequest, she became annoyed, her face creasing into well-worn frown lines.  ‘What do I care about that?  I don’t want anything from that man.’  

‘Did you know him, then?’  

She huffed.  ‘We met—at the inquest.  Tried to apologize to me, so I know he knew more than he let on.  But that bastard Foxley wouldn’t lift a finger to find out what happened to my brother,’ she said with increasing bitterness.  It was a moot point anyway, since the Bible had been ripped to shreds.  

Morse asked her about her brother’s death, which she was only too happy to talk about, though her maligning of the Oxford police force at every turn rankled him.  She knew of a few of the principals involved, it seemed, through her brother’s letters, though she did not seem to have any knowledge useful to the current circumstances.  

After a few minutes Strange popped his head into the office again, muttering that Dr. deBryn had arrived.  Morse excused himself, apologizing for her wasted journey.  She huffed again, as though such a thoughtless outcome was only to be expected. 

Leaving Thursday to finish up, Morse slipped out of the office to greet Max, swiftly drawing his attention to the Thames charts on his desk and asking if he had any insight as to where John Ward’s body might have been dumped.  Max demurred that he was no expert in river currents, but of course would offer whatever help he could.  

Adjusting his glasses, Max leaned over the maps and began to mutter to himself about time and temperature variations.  Strange and Morse looked on, Morse wishing the doctor could be a little more expeditious in his assessments, his hands clenched into fists behind his back.  They were running out time—every second they spent here was a second Kate was in danger.  

Georgina Lewes emerged with Thursday from the office, shrugging on her coat, as Max continued his perusal, ticking off various locations upriver from where Ward had been found.  ‘Port Meadow . . . Yarton Mead . . . Chill Brook . . . Swinford . . .’ 

Mrs. Lewes abruptly halted her progress towards the steps, her head cocked over her shoulder.  

‘What about Swinford?’ she asked, her eyes narrowed.  

They all looked at her.  ‘We’re trying to track down a missing girl—kidnapped by Victor Crossley, most likely,’ Thursday explained quietly.  ‘Do you know it?’  

‘Of course—we grew up there—at Shaston Mill.’  

‘I thought Shaston Mill was in Eynsham,’ Morse frowned.  

‘In the vicinity, yes, but it’s closer to Swinford.  The old mill race runs right into the Thames—or used to, anyway.’  

Morse quickly turned to her, asking, ‘Did Victor Crossley ever visit there?’  

She shrugged.  ‘Probably.  Eliot worked with him quite closely—he liked to invite people out to the country.’  As the men looked at each other, Georgina continued, pulling on her gloves, oblivious to the import of this revelation.  ‘I haven’t been out there in years—too many memories.  Though I couldn’t bear to sell.  Been in the family since Victoria.’ 

♦ IV. ♦ 

Sometime during the night, Kate must have fallen into a weepy, exhausted sleep, though she had no recollection of doing so.  

She dreamed she was back in Illinois, in the woods near the farm, surrounded by bare ash and cottonwood.  It was deathly cold and old snow crunched under her feet.  Dusk was falling and she was hopelessly lost, but Kate had to keep going—she could hear footsteps behind her and knew she had to get away.  But whichever direction she turned, no matter where she tried to hide, the footsteps kept after her, closer and closer, sometimes seeming to be all around her all at once.  

She jerked awake, wearier than ever, and all-too-soon realized her predicament was no dream.  She could hear Crossley’s footsteps above her, and they echoed back and forth in her cold prison.  Her restless sleep on the cold, hard floor had left her stiff and sore, and the rope around her wrists, tied more tightly this time, had numbed her hands overnight.  But she didn’t care.  

Crossley was going to kill her, she knew.  

He wouldn’t have divulged the things he told her last night if he intended to let her go alive.  Last morning on earth , she thought remotely.  And this wet, chilly room was to be her death chamber.  Would he leave her body here, she wondered, to be discovered decomposing weeks from now?  Or dump it in the water like he had John Ward’s?  Would that be her Fate?  To float, insensate, down the river, like Milais’s Ophelia or La Jeune Martyre of Delaroche?  

Her throat was parched, so she helped herself to the flat beer he’d left on the steps, hoping it would make her tipsy.  Last meal.   

As she sipped awkwardly with her bound hands, though, she grew less and less indifferent to her impending death.  In fact, she grew more angry at her captor than anything else.  The things he’d said—why did he have to disturb the peace of her final hours with such awful revelations?  That she was an orphan only because of events that had taken place here, thousands of miles from her home, when she was nothing more than a squalling infant. 

And now she was to be shuffled off by her father’s former colleague, into whose subtle web she’d willingly wandered.  

Fate was a cruel mistress. 

Why couldn’t he have just killed her quickly, and left her in ignorance?  

Some part of her still clung to the hope that it was all a lie—a damned lie—after all, who could believe a man in his situation?  Perhaps he was only trying to trick her into giving up information. . . information she didn’t even have.  Maybe . . .   

But it hardly mattered anyway.  Not anymore.  He was going to kill her.  All it meant was that her last moments in this life would be that much worse—tormented by painful, deep-seated doubt.  

Loathing seethed through her.  God dammit . 

Weak and disheartened as she was, she decided she would not go gentle into that good night.  She’d fight like hell, even if it was only to make things difficult for him.  She finished off the beer, savoring the feeling of lightheadedness it rendered her.  

All too soon, she heard the latch being dragged back from the trap door.  

Crossley paced in front of her for a few minutes as Kate watched him, silent and wary.  Would he do it now?  How?  Would it hurt?  

After a moment, he stopped in front of her and spoke sharply.  

‘This cryptogram you carry for Alex O’Connell—what is it?  Some sort of confession?  Some insult to add to my injury?’ 

Driven by her bottled bravado, she sneered at him.  ‘You must not be much an intelligence officer.  Figure it out yourself.’  

‘Damn it, girl, what does it say?’  

‘Did you kill John Ward?’ she demanded, figuring she was doomed anyway—she might as well know all she could.  ‘What about Eliot Tolliver?  Is he who found you out all those years ago?  Is that why you killed him?’  

‘Tolliver was a foolish child!’ he exploded, looming over her threateningly and making her regret her outburst.  When it came to it, she really didn’t want to die.  ‘It’s their fault he died—if they hadn’t trapped me—’  Crossley stopped himself, tried to regain his composure.  Kneeling down, he grasped her chin again, forcing her to look at him.  

‘You really don’t know anything, do you?’ he said with a sneer.  ‘Pity.’  He stared at her for a moment or two, and then let go, pushing her aside and standing up to stalk toward the far side of the room.  He stood there for some time before sighing softly, ‘Well, my dear, I had hoped you would help me.’  He drew something from his pocket, and continued, ‘But I see now you can’t.’  As he turned around, Kate saw he’d pulled out another length of rope.  Slowly, he began twisting the ends around his fingers, approaching her with measured steps.  ‘I am sorry.’  

It was happening again.  Just like in the alleyway—a killer, coming toward her, bent on murder.  And just like in the alleyway, she froze.  All her courage, all the rage she’d mustered, seemed to drain away as she watched him come closer and closer.  

But suddenly— No!  She wouldn’t let it happen again.  Not like that.  

Gritting her teeth, Kate cried out and sprang up, rushing toward him, which surprised him enough to throw him off his stride.  She barreled into him with her shoulder as hard as she could, which wasn’t very hard, but it was enough.  With a muffled ‘Oof!’ he stumbled a little and she grabbed her chance to run.  He’d left the overhead door unlatched this time, and Kate careened up the steps, tripping slightly and catching herself awkwardly with her bound hands.  Crossley lunged for her and she felt a hand wrap around her ankle, but she kicked out hard and thought she connected with something important, eliciting a growled oath. 

She tried to scramble up the rest of the steps—and, indeed, almost made it.  

But before she reached the top, he was on her again.  He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked painfully, pulling her sideways off the staircase.  She struggled and squirmed, trying to kick or scratch any part of him she might damage, but it was no use.  He was bigger, stronger, and practiced at violence.  

All too easily, Crossley managed to get his rope around her neck.  She could feel the fibers start to dig into her flesh as he began to twist and tighten.  Kate tore at it as best she could with her tied hands, but could barely get a single finger underneath, which did nothing to enable her breathing.  Sharp pinpricks of light startled and burst in her vision as she started to lose consciousness.  

She was going to die.  

Sancta Maria, she prayed, her eyes watering as her thoughts strayed toward oblivion, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae.   At least she would see her parents again . . . 

And then suddenly Crossley’s grip relaxed and Kate fell forward, barely catching herself before her face hit the cold stone floor.  Coughing and gasping, she was only dimly aware of the cacophony behind her.  Her vision still fuzzy, she turned her head to see Morse— Morse! —grappling with Crossley on the steps.  Kate could hardly believe her eyes—he'd come for her!  

Her relief was short-lived, however, as she realized Crossley was getting the upper hand.  Staggering to her feet, Kate grabbed the nearest thing to hand—the empty beer bottle—and swung it as hard as she could at his head.  

With her wrists tied tightly and still dizzy from the attack, however, the blow went wild, and she missed, smashing it against Crossley’s shoulder instead.  But it was still enough to throw him off balance and allow Morse to regain his feet.  Crossley whirled around and angrily backhanded Kate hard across the face, sending her sprawling to the floor.  She let out a cry as her elbow and knee collided hard with the stone.  

The impact knocked the wind out of her and when she recovered and looked back toward the stairs, the fight continued.  Morse was struggling to bring Crossley to heel, but with a final, well-placed blow that pushed Morse backwards off the stairs, Crossley managed to disentangle himself and disappear up the steps.  

In the brief moment of calm that followed Crossley’s flight, Morse seized Kate, gathering her into a bone-crushing embrace—squeezing her so hard she thought she might pass out.  Beyond her aching ribs, she was suddenly keenly aware of her filthy clothes and ripped stockings, the blood crusted onto her fingernails, the dirt matted in her tangled hair.    

He was calling out to someone over his shoulder, but she found she couldn’t focus on his words.  The relief of seeing him, having his arms around her again—the sheer relief of being alive —was somewhat disorienting.  

Turning back to her, Morse hurriedly smashed his lips against her forehead and then he was gone, leaping up and racing up the stairs, leaving her on her knees, reaching out toward him with a gasp.  

‘Look after her!’ she heard him yell.  

Almost immediately, another figure darkened the open doorway, a strange little man in glasses and a bow tie.  

As he moved gingerly down the stairs, Kate recoiled.  ‘Who the hell are you?’ she rasped.  

‘Dr. deBryn—Max,’ he replied.  ‘I’m a friend of Morse’s.’  

‘Oh.  Yes,’ she said, abashed.  Morse had mentioned him in passing.  ‘Sorry.’ 

‘Quite alright,’ he nodded.  ‘Let’s get you up into the light so I can have a look.  Can you walk?’ 

Kate was still shaking and a little woozy, but she found she could.  Max helped her up the stairs and plopped her down on a rickety chair.  He dug in his bag for a moment, drawing out a lethally-sharp medical knife, and began to slash through the rough rope at her wrists.  Kate looked around, blinking in the sunlight streaming through the cloudy windows, and noticed her own purse sitting on the dusty table next to where she sat.  As soon as the doctor had finished cutting her free, she thanked him hoarsely and grabbed for it.  Its weight was comforting and she was grateful to have something normal to cling to in the wake of her brush with death.   

The doctor began prodding at the wounds on her head with some cotton gauze, asking her questions about how she was feeling, who the Prime Minister was, and so on.  But Kate had trouble answering, distracted by the noise of the chase continuing outside.  

Max paused in his ministrations, assuring her in a quiet voice, ‘He’ll be alright.’  

Kate glanced up at his kind, serious face, chewing on her lip.  It dawned on her how lucky she was—how had they found her?  And just in time, too . . . She felt her lip start to tremble, on the verge of overpowering tears.  

But suddenly, Kate snapped to attention at the sound of a car engine bursting into life, wheels screeching in the gravel.  She sprang from the chair toward the door, ignoring Max’s protests behind her. 

She leaned against the door frame momentarily, still faint, but she couldn’t stop—Crossley was getting away!  

She couldn’t see Morse anywhere, but there were more officers outside, streaming out of the main house some distance away—Tony Lloyd among them.  As Kate watched, Crossley’s car nearly ran down one of the constables, who dove for cover in the tall weeds.  

A sudden swell of blind anger surged through her body.  Crossley couldn’t escape—not now.  He had too much to answer for—Eliot Tolliver, John Ward, Cartwright’s death, too—and he had too many answers she needed—about her parents, her patron, her past.  No.  That wasn’t going to happen.  

Before she even realized what she was doing, Kate drew Tony’s pistol, letting her purse fall to the ground and aiming for the car, now bumping over the rough terrain on its way to the road.  Her cousin Matty had taught her how to shoot—years ago now—but muscle memory returned as she pointed the barrel steadily at the left rear tire, closing one eye to zero in on her target.  

With a slow outward breath, she squeezed the trigger—and hit home.  The car veered suddenly off course, but Crossley didn't slow down.  So she fired again, succeeding this time in shattering the rear window of the fleeing vehicle.  

Suddenly someone grabbed her wrist sharply, and she turned to see Mr. Thursday beside her, his face grave and surprised.  He wrenched the gun from her hands, his jaw clenched tightly.  Kate didn’t resist, blinking back the tears that were suddenly returning to her eyes.  Without the weight of the gun, though, her hands began to shake, followed by her arms and legs, and then her whole body was seized by shudders.  All of a sudden, her knees began to weaken and she started to swoon.  Several of the policemen around her stepped forward but Morse was there first.  He caught her before she fell, supporting her as her legs gave out.  

‘Come on,’ he whispered gently, wrapping his arms around her, ‘Let’s get you out of here.’  

Kate turned gratefully into his chest, letting him steer her toward one of the police cars.  

♦ V. ♦ 

On the way into Oxford, while Morse kept a weather eye in the rear-view mirror, Max deBryn continued to tend to Kate, cleaning the wounds on her neck and hands with stinging peroxide and applying a sharp-smelling salve.  He diagnosed acute shock, prescribing, ‘A stiff drink and a good night’s sleep should set you right.’  He dug into the depths of his bag again.  ‘I can help with the former,’ he muttered, pulling out a flask and holding it out to her, ‘but the other will have to wait— “Miles to go, ” I’m afraid.’  

Kate gratefully took a few swigs of brandy.  The liquor burned her raw throat, but not unpleasantly. 

‘When you’re ready,’ he continued, digging further into his bottomless bag, ‘take this.’  He opened a bottom of pills and withdrew one.  ‘It’ll help you sleep—deeply.  You won’t dream.’  She secured it in her purse with a nod.  

‘Thanks,’ she said, handing back his flask.  ‘You don’t happen to have a hairbrush in there, do you?’ she asked ruefully.  It hurt her throat to talk, and her voice sounded rough and raspy.  

He didn’t, but a length of twine served well enough to pull her tangled tresses into a messy ponytail, which would have to do for the nonce.  

Back at Castle Gate Police Station, Kate then had to face the tedious hours of a police debriefing, answering endless questions and telling her story over and over again.  She carefully avoided any mention of what Crossley had said about her parents—what business was it of theirs?  And of course, if she told them, she’d have to say the words out loud, would have to think about it, and she wasn’t ready to do that.  

The ports and airports were being alerted to the fleeing Victor Crossley, and everyone assured her he’d be caught before long.  

By the end she was dog-tired, achy, and longing to return home.  When they finally told her she was free to leave, she was escorted to the elevator area, where Tony Lloyd was loitering.  

‘Hoped I’d be seeing you before I left,’ he grinned at her.  ‘How are you feeling?’  

‘Lucky,’ she said honestly, her throat still scratchy and sore.  ‘Listen—I’m sorry I ran out on you, stole your gun.’  

‘’S’alright,’ he said with a shrug and his winning smile.  

‘I’m told it was you who reported me missing,’ she said, trying not to cough.  Tony looked down, tapping one shoe against the other uncomfortably.  ‘Thank you.’  

‘Aw, don’t mention it.  I’m just glad you’re safe.’  

‘I mean it, Tony— thank you .’  She hugged him briefly, kissing him on the cheek.  Glancing down the short set of stairs, she saw Morse watching them, though he quickly looked away when caught out.  ‘How much do I owe you?’ she asked Tony.  

‘Oh, forget about it—I got paid.’  Kate frowned in confusion, to which Tony shrugged, ‘Nancy’s people.’  

‘Ah,’ Kate said.  She’d been told something about her secretary being involved—Morse had been right about that, too.  

‘Anyway,’ Tony said, starting to back away.  ‘Look me up when you get back to Chi-town, huh?’  He pointed at her, clicking his tongue.  

‘Alright, I will,’ she returned.  ‘Hey, good luck to the Cubs.’  

‘Ah, they’re fallin’ apart,’ he said with chagrin.  ‘Ever since I got here they can’t seem to pull out a win.’  

‘Then you’d better get back soon.’  

‘Yeah,’ he laughed.  ‘Hey, see ya, kid,’ he said with a wink and turned to leave.  

‘Goodbye.’  After Tony’s departure, Kate drifted over to Morse’s desk.  He was still conferring with his colleagues, and Kate nodded her greetings to each of them in turn.  Morse drew her aside to talk, keeping his voice low.  

‘I’ve asked Constable Benson to take you home,’ he told her.  

But she was having none of that.  Not bothering to match his volume, she objected, ’I don’t want to be alone!’  It had been a very traumatic couple of days and there was no way she was leaving without her hero.  They hadn’t had a single moment alone together.  

With a quick glance at the officers waiting for him, he took hold of her shoulders.  ‘Go to Audrey’s then—yes?  I’ll find you there later,’ he added in an undertone.  His face, his blue eyes—stormy with concern—implored her to obey.  

She didn’t want to.  But this whole mess was all due to her stubborn defiance in the first place.  After a tense moment, she finally acquiesced with an obstinate sigh.  ‘Fine.’  But first— 

She looked around at the other men standing around—Mr. Thursday and Jim Strange and even Mr. Bright with his glasses and cigarette, others she didn’t recognize.  She knew Morse wouldn’t like it, but— What the hell— boldly, she pulled his neck down and kissed him long and hard in front of everybody.  His hands automatically found her hips and just for a moment, they were alone in the crowded room.  

When he pulled away, she murmured, ‘I’ll see you later, then?’  He nodded, stunned and blushing. 

She bobbed her head at the astonished officers and allowed herself to be pulled away by Constable Benson.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Morse watched her leave, his face warm.  He could feel his colleagues’ eyes boring into him, and he knew he must be bright red with embarrassment, but he couldn’t help but smile a little.  

After she was gone, Bright broke the awkward silence.  ‘What a— spirited young woman.’ 

Morse looked down, unable to meet their gaze.  

Bright continued, turning to Thursday, ‘Did she really fire on the getaway car?’  

Thursday nodded, muttering, ‘Decent shot, too.’  

‘My, my,’ replied Bright, eyebrows raised to the ceiling.  ‘You’d do well to watch your step, Sergeant,’ he added to Morse with a cheeky smile.  

♦ VI. ♦ 

Audrey was overcome with relief to see her friend at her front door, even escorted by a uniformed officer, and only too happy to fuss over her for the next few hours.  

She didn’t press for too many details, for which Kate was grateful—she wasn’t ready to relive the past forty-eight hours again.  Not so soon after the rigorous questioning she’d already sustained at the police station.  Instead, Audrey ran Kate a hot bath of lilac-scented bubbles and ordered her housekeeper, Mrs. Pegg, to bring tea and soup.  ‘And pudding!’ she bellowed down the hallway as an afterthought.  ‘Sugar always helps,’ she said sagely.  

She sat with Kate awhile, brushing the dirt and tangles from Kate’s hair.  ‘I do believe your life is too much like a novel, darling,’ she lectured.  

‘You almost sound jealous,’ Kate said sarcastically.  

‘Not at all ,’ her friend assured her.  ‘I had no idea you’d actually end up held captive in a dungeon!   You may have cured me of my literary fantasies for good .  I was so worried about you, Kate.’  There was a pause before she added, ‘That detective was, too.’ 

Kate smiled slightly.  ‘You mean Heathcliff?’  

Audrey pursed her lips in response, properly chastened.  ‘I suppose I was wrong about him.  A proper Valancourt, it seems.  Is all forgiven, then?  Your little spat?’  

Kate didn’t have to answer, as Mrs. Pegg swept in with a tray of delicious-smelling food, and Kate realized how hungry she was.  Audrey left her to soak and eat.  The chamomile tea and chicken soup were warm and soothing, and the chocolate trifle was heavenly rich and smooth.  While she ate, she deliberately kept her mind clear and cloudless—not willing to touch any of her recent memories.  Instead, she focused on enjoying the food and breathing in the fragrant steam, which helped ease her still-raw throat.  By the time she was finished, she felt almost human again.  

After her bath, Audrey insisted she take a nice, long nap, though Kate was still wired and too restless to sleep.  And she wanted to be awake when Morse arrived.  In the end, she did doze a little, lulled by the luxurious coverlet and fluffy pillows in the guest suite.  

But she woke with a start not long after, frightened by dark dreams.  The golden sunlight squeezing through the gap in the curtains told her it was probably only mid-afternoon.  She’d hardly slept at all.  She’d need Max’s pill to get any real rest.  

But she didn’t want to risk nodding off again—she hoped Morse would arrive soon—so she donned the clothes Audrey had left out for her—wide-legged pants and a smart blouse of mulberry silk—though since they didn’t wear the same size shoe, Kate was stuck with the ones she’d worn.  At least the mud and scuff marks had been mostly erased by the capable Mrs. Pegg.  

She crept quietly down the stairs, as the house was hushed and still.  At first she couldn’t find anyone, but when she peeked into the library she found Michael Hartley, smoking a cigarette and enjoying a glass of scotch.  

He was surprised to see her, but warmly invited her to join him for a drink.  ‘Audrey’s gone out, I’m afraid—just for a bit.  She had to finish up some work before Monday.’  

‘I hope I’m not bothering you,’ Kate said roughly, her speech still somewhat painful.  

‘Not at all,’ he said casually, handing her a generous glass and retaking his seat.  ‘Though you won’t find me very good conversation—I've got to catch up on this reading.’  He held up a thick monograph.  

‘In that case,’ Kate said, an idea striking her, ‘may I play your piano?  Audrey said you have a Broadwood?’  

‘Of course.’  Michael temporarily abandoned his journal reading to show her to the music room. 

Once alone, she sat down carefully and slowly slid back the polished lid, reverently running her fingers over the glossy keys.  It had been so long since she’d played—too long.  Tentatively, she tried out a few chords—C minor, A minor, B-flat diminished.  It was a beautiful instrument, old and infrequently played, but regularly maintained—only a little out of tune.  It would do.  She hoped playing might bring its usual catharsis.  

She ran through some Hanon, just to warm up her fingers, and started with something easy, some short Satie pieces she could pour some real pathos into.  

She didn’t know many pieces by heart, though, so having run through those, she slipped off the piano bench to investigate its contents.  Flipping through the forgotten music, she found a battered volume—who knows whose—entitled 50 Classical Piano Favorites, thumbed through it, and—though it was mostly beyond her abilities—decided to try out the first movement of Pathetique .  It seemed appropriate.  She fudged and slurred her way through the difficult passages, faking the right hand entirely throughout the allegro section , but it at least it gave her an excuse to bang on the keys to release some of her pent-up emotion—the pain, the fury, the stale fear that continued to course through her.  

She chuckled softly to herself as she finished—screwing up on the last chord to boot.  How awful!   A performance like that would have made any of her teachers cringe.  

There was Mrs. Janikowski while her parents were still alive, who used to slap her wrists with a baton when she wasn’t holding them right.  Doc had hired the best instructor in the city for her monthly sessions—a middle-aged bombast who played for the symphony orchestra and got himself fired when Doc walked in on him fondling her fourteen-year-old thigh.  After that Doc had found a female student from the Musical College to give her lessons; Paulette had taught her to play with passion and fire, and had largely avoided overt criticism of Kate’s technique.  And then of course Tom had been her teacher—in so many ways.  But they’d all agreed on one point: she didn’t listen, didn’t follow directions—totally ignored tempo and dynamic markings, never took criticism.  She always thought she knew best.  

What an idiot I am , Kate thought, swallowing hard.   

She could recite the kings and queens of England from William the Conqueror, spout quotes and aphorisms in half a dozen languages, converse on Aristotle, Aquinas, Kierkegaard, and Kant, even hold her own discussing Einstein, Darwin, or Freud, but—really—she was an utter fool.  Too confident in her own wisdom and too stubborn to take anybody else’s advice.  It had gotten her into trouble over and over again in her life, and this time—it had almost cost her life.  

God, what a year.  She had been through much in the last twelve months, but nothing so traumatic as what she’d just narrowly escaped.  She felt humble and small, and almost overwhelmed with gratitude for every breath she took, despite her sore throat and scraped hands.  

But the Beethoven had done its job and she felt a little better.  She flipped a little further into the book, finding something a little lighter—the first Arabesque— and soon lost herself in the lilting sighs of Debussy’s graceful glissandos.  She’d played the piece as part of her master’s repertoire, so her execution was much better than her previous endeavor.  She only made a few mistakes, which pleased her—maybe she hadn’t entirely lost her touch.  

She turned the page to find one of her favorites—she’d always liked the sad pieces.  They’d been the only outlet for melancholy during her teenage years, as sulking was not tolerated on the homestead.  And the Raindrop prelude had been Doc’s favorite, too—though she couldn’t bring herself to dwell too much on that.  So she started in on the lovely, almost childish melody, which belied the deeper, darker undertones of the second theme—hints of things forever gone, lives out of reach.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

When Morse arrived at the Hartley’s Victorian residence, Mrs. Hartley was just pulling up, too.  ‘Good afternoon, Sergeant,’ she said pleasantly.  He seemed to have been forgiven for quarreling with Kate.  As they walked up the path together, she told him, ‘Our patient has been bathed, fed, clothed, and put to bed.  We should let her sleep a little longer, I think, but if you’d care to come in for a drink?’  

It was not foremost of the things he wanted, but he was not going to leave without Kate, so he accepted.  

When Mrs. Hartley opened the door, the air was filled with beautiful music coming from the back of the house.  Michael Hartley came into the hall to greet them.  

Tilting her cheek to receive a kiss from her husband, Audrey tsked, ‘She ought to be asleep.’  

‘I know,’ Michael replied.  ‘She must be exhausted, but—well, I believe she’s very anxious to see you ,’ he finished pointedly, shaking Morse’s hand.  

‘Mmm,’ his wife said, hanging up her coat on the rack.  ‘Well, come on, then Sergeant—I'll show you the way.’  

But Michael forestalled her with a look and a slight shake of his head, putting a light hand on her arm.  Audrey looked at him for a moment and then pouted, ‘Fine.’  With a flamboyant gesture towards the back of the house, she flounced out of the hall, throwing, ‘Just follow the music,’ over her shoulder.  

‘That’s her—playing?’  The piece was lovely—Debussy, he thought—dreamy descending lines and intertwining melodies.    

Michael nodded.  ‘I’m sure you can find your way out when you’re ready,’ he said delicately.  ‘Take your time.’  He nodded his goodbye and followed his wife into the parlour.  Morse was grateful to him for affording him time to greet Kate alone.  

He found her in a dimly-lit room paneled in dark wood and damask.  The only light came from the brass lamp shining on the glossy grand piano, where Kate sat, engrossed in her playing.  As he peeked through the arched doorway, she finished the Debussy, paused for a moment, and turned a page in the book resting on the stand.  

She hadn’t noticed his entrance and before he could say anything she’d started the next piece, a heart-breakingly beautiful Chopin prelude that started out simple and serene but grew darker, full of longing and loss.  

He'd been right about her proficiency—she was very talented.  Her playing, while perhaps not technically perfect, was imbued with feeling and passion.  He stood transfixed, as she made her way through the piece, her fingers dancing across the keys with fervent energy at the climax, and wringing every ounce of poignancy out of the final passage.  

And then she was finished, the sound of the last chord hovering in the air like humidity.  ‘That’s beautiful,’ he breathed.  

Kate jumped up from the bench, turning toward the door with a squeak that turned into a cough.  ‘Don’t do that!’ she scolded, hand on her chest.  Her voice was hoarse and scratchy.   

‘I’m sorry—I—’  

‘How long have you been there?’  

He shrugged.  ‘I didn’t want to interrupt.  It was—beautiful,’ he said again.  

‘I’m out of practice,’ she said stiffly.  

He shrugged again, shaking his head.    

‘And the piano’s out of tune,’ she continued, as though her playing needed excuses.  

Morse didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to act to help her.  He thought of Joan Thursday after the Wessex Bank fiasco—how she’d reacted.  He didn’t want Kate to flee as Joan had.  He longed to hold her, kiss her, comfort her, but—  

That kiss at the station—she’d had been frustrated and overwrought—probably still in shock.  He couldn’t go by that.  Had they made up?  Had she forgiven him?  He didn’t know.  So he stayed where he was, hovering in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, staring at her in silence. 

‘I’m sorry I slapped you,’ she blurted out suddenly.  

‘I probably deserved it.’  

‘You did, kind of.’  

‘I’m sorry.’  They were quiet again.  Finally, he asked, ‘Are you alright?’  

She nodded silently, though her lips were already starting to tremble.  

‘Kate—’  

She stumbled toward him and into his arms, dissolving into tears.  He held her fast, his arms wrapped tightly around her, so he could feel the harsh spasms that shook her body.  He let her cry into his chest for a few minutes, kissing her still-damp hair.  It smelled of honeysuckle and lilacs.  

‘I should have listened to you,’ she sobbed.  ‘I’m so sorry!’  

‘It’s alright, it doesn’t matter now,’ he assured her.  ‘All that matters is you’re safe.’  It was his fault, anyway—if he hadn’t been so stupid and cruel, driven her away, this never would have happened.  He’d almost lost her—forever.  The thought made him feel queasy.  

Finally, her sobs subsided and she raised her head, blinking up at him, her eyes framed by wet lashes. 

He took her tear-streaked face in his hands.  ‘Are you alright?’ he asked earnestly.  ‘Honestly?’  She bobbed her head shakily.  He wanted to kiss her, desperately, but she was weepy and red-faced and she turned away to wipe her nose.  

‘Will you take me home?’ she sniffed, and he nodded.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Upon arriving in Kate’s hallway, there was the inevitable encounter with Mrs. Murphy, who burst forth from her flat in a flurry of excitement and concern.  

‘Praise the Lord!’ she exclaimed, hand on her chest and eyes cast heavenward.  ‘I prayed to Saint Anthony you’d be found, Katie—and you were!  Oh, thank God! ’  Mrs. Murphy enveloped Kate in a clumsy embrace, eliciting a gasping wince from Kate.  

Morse put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, gently separating her from Kate, but she barely noticed.  ‘What happened to you, dear?’ she fussed, her eyes wide.  ‘Was it awful?  Was it that American gent?  You can’t trust American men, but then I’m sure you know that.  Are you alright?  Oh, you poor soul!’  On and on she prattled, and Morse could see Kate faltering under the barrage of questions. 

‘Mrs. Murphy,’ he said sternly, interrupting the constant flow of chatter.  ‘I’m sure in future she wouldn’t mind answering some of your questions, but right now, Kate really needs some rest—she's been through quite a lot.’  He started to usher Kate towards her own door.  ‘I’m sure you understand.’ 

‘Oh!’ Mrs. Murphy squawked in surprise.  ‘Oh, yes, of course, how silly of me.’  She started to blush at her thoughtlessness, but couldn’t help offering a final stammered, ‘But have you eaten?’ before Morse successfully got Kate inside.  

A soothing hush descended as they gained the privacy of her flat.  With a deep, relieved sigh, Kate leaned back against the closed door for a minute, her eyes closed.  

‘She’s a bit much, isn’t she?’ he offered, watching her carefully.  ‘Vying for Britain’s nosiest neighbor.’ 

Kate half-smiled, opening her eyes.  ‘She’s just a lonely widow.’  She sighed again and ran a weary hand over her eyes and forehead.  ‘She—her husband was a POW.  In Burma.’  She looked at him pointedly—they both knew the significance of that.  ‘Died of some God-awful tropical disease just a few years after he got back.’  Staring at the floor, she continued thoughtfully, ‘She says he was never the same after—that he never left that jungle.  Not really .’  

He could guess what she was thinking.  Would she ever really leave that damp and chilly millworks behind?  Would she ever be the same?  He wanted to say something to allay her fears, but what could he offer?  He’d had enough traumatic experiences himself to know—they all left their marks.  

‘You can stay, right?’ she asked him, biting her lip.  ‘You’re not on call?’  

‘I—I gave them this number—I hope that’s alright.’  She nodded.  He knew they wouldn’t call him in anyway—Bright had told him not to come in the following day either.  

‘Would you like some tea?’ he asked, gesturing toward her kitchenette.  

‘I’d rather something stronger,’ she replied, coming over herself.  ‘But you don’t have to—’  

‘It’s alright—I don’t mind.’  He motioned her over to the sofa.  ‘Sit.’  

‘You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves, you know.’  

‘I’m not,’ he lied, then busied himself warming milk and adding a healthy dose of whiskey and a little sugar.  Their silence grew awkward, but he didn’t know what to say to her—couldn’t tell how she was faring.  

When he brought her a mug of steaming milk punch, Kate was curled on the sofa, staring into space, lost in her own thoughts.  She accepted his offering gratefully, carefully taking a sip.  ‘Mmm,’ she murmured, cupping it in her injured hands.  

He slipped onto the cushion beside her, but still wasn’t sure how to proceed.  What could he say to make things better?  Eventually, he stuttered out, ‘I—I know it must be . . . hard— but—’  

‘Give it time, right?’ she interrupted, echoing what he’d said to Joan Thursday two years before. ‘Time heals all wounds?   Except it doesn’t of course,’ she said bitterly.  Staring into her drink, she went on.  ‘It didn’t heal Mr. Murphy’s.  Or Georgina Tolliver’s.  Or yours, or mine.  Time scars it over for awhile . . . until something tears it open again.’  She looked lost for a moment, and on the brink of tears.  

‘Kate, please—’  He couldn’t stand to see her like this.  

‘I’m fine, never mind,’ she muttered, shaking her head.  She took another sip.  ‘Don’t worry about me.  I know you’re right, really.  Life goes on.’  With a heavy sigh, she continued in a slow, measured tone.  ‘I’ve had a lot of . . . bad things happen to me, Morse, but I know—life goes on.’  She sniffed, smiling wistfully.  ‘Gran used to say—“You can cry tonight, but there are chores in the morning.”  On a farm, you’re too busy to brood.  So that’s what I’ll do now—keep myself busy,’ she nodded.  ‘I’ll be alright.’  

‘You won’t leave?’ he asked quietly.  ‘Go home?’  

‘No,’ she said with surprise, looking up.  ‘Of course not.’  

‘You wouldn’t rather be back there?  With your family—your grandmother?’  

She smiled wanly.  ‘She died last year.’  She downed the rest of her drink in a large gulp.  

‘I’m sorry.’  He was always blundering onto misfortune.  

‘It’s alright,’ she said softly, setting down her mug on the coffee table.  ‘That’s what happens, isn’t it?  People leave.  You have to cherish them while they’re around.’  She moved closer and twined her fingers into his.  Looking into his eyes, she leant close and kissed him softly.  

He brought his hand up to her face, gently stroking her cheek.  He remembered Thursday had once said something similar to him.  As he gazed into her face, he saw strength behind those fragile green eyes.  He realized, despite her outward appearance of soft femininity, Kate was tough—her mettle tempered by tragedy—just like his own.  

‘Can we just go to bed?’ she whispered.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

In the bedroom, he undressed, leaving on his under clothes.  It hardly seemed the time for carnal pleasures.  Just to hold her would be enough—to feel her warm and breathing and alive in his arms. 

Still, he could not help watching as she undressed carefully, wincing a few times.  His heart ached at the myriad scrapes and bruises that marred her beautiful body.  To his surprise, she slipped between the sheets without a stitch on, and immediately began to make amorous overtures to which he could not help but respond.  

Pulling at his shirt, she teased, ‘Why are you still wearing so many clothes?’  Her voice was husky, seductive in his ear.  

‘I didn’t think—Kate, we don’t have to.’  

‘You don’t want to?’ she blinked at him, running her fingernails down his arm.  

‘It isn’t that,’ he groaned.  ‘You’ve had—quite an ordeal.  I don’t want to take advantage.’  

‘You’re not,’ she insisted, snaking a foot around his leg.  ‘I want to.  I—I wanna feel something—good.’  She slipped her hand down and began to coax him into action.   

He groaned again.  ‘Do that again and I won’t be able to stop.’  

‘“Oh, trespass sweetly urged,”’ she purred, kissing him lightly.  She did it again, and again, and he readily gave into their desire.  

Keenly aware of her injuries, though, he took great care not to hurt her, gently pressing his lips against the scratched skin of her neck and each of her many bruises.  He kissed the marks on her forearms, now pink and raised, that attested to the events that had brought them together.  

She’d been through so much in such a short time.  

He let his hands roam appreciatively over her body, savoring the electric hiss of skin against skin along with the sighs and gasps of pleasure his efforts received as he lavished her with ardent attention.  

Only when he was satisfied she was satisfied did he pursue his own release, and she eagerly wrapped her limbs around him.  

After, as they lay together, still entwined, she looked up at him, biting her lip, ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.  

He huffed— As if she needed to thank him for — 

She took his meaning and smiled wickedly.  ‘No, I don’t mean—well, thanks for that , too,’ she said, squeezing his bum, ‘But I mean . . . thank you—f-for saving my life.’  Her lip began to tremble again, her eyes wide and earnest.  

He blinked, not knowing quite what to say.  Rolling off her, he muttered, ‘You don’t need to thank me—it's my fault you were there in the first place.’  

‘No, it’s not,’ she insisted, snuggling up against him sleepily.  ‘It’s most definitely my fault.  I was such an idiot.’  

‘If it wasn’t for—’ he began to argue, but stopped, seeing that her eyelids were already drooping closed.  Then suddenly she started awake and sat up.  ‘What is it?’  

‘Just a second—’  She rose from the bed and ducked out of the room, returning with a glass of water and the pill Max had given her.  ‘He said it would stop me dreaming,’ she explained with a shrug.  ‘I—I don’t want to—’  

‘Of course.’  She slipped back into bed and he held her close, cradling her body against his.  

Sighing contentedly, she settled into his embrace.  ‘You rescued me, Morse,’ she said drowsily.  ‘I was in peril—and you came for me.’  

‘Get some sleep.’  

‘You were so brave,’ she went on.  With a dreamy sigh as she drifted into sleep, she murmured, ‘I think you’re the bravest man in the world.’  

He knew that wasn’t true.  If he were truly brave, he’d utter the words that hovered on his lips—had been dangling there all day, all week, despite his best efforts at detachment.  He’d tell her how he felt—about the intense emotions that had taken hold of his heart.  But he couldn’t.  ‘No, I’m not,’ he muttered ruefully.  

But she was already asleep.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Morse dreamt he was back in the woods, though this time he found Kate easily enough, perched on a stump dressed like a Russian snow maiden, in embroidered hat and mittens, her boots crusted with snow.  Fat snowflakes fell onto her loose dark hair and her cheeks were pink with cold.  She smiled broadly at him as he approached, and he saw there were icicles clinging to her long lashes.  How long has she been sitting out here in the cold? he wondered.  He’d found her as fast as he could.  He reached out to touch her face, but her skin was as unyielding as marble and so cold it burned his fingertips.  He recoiled, his hand snapping back.  She was no longer smiling, but lifted a face full of earnest concern to him.  ‘What happens next?’ she asked.  

He woke with a start to see thin morning light creeping through the curtains.  Beside him, Kate was obviously dreaming, despite Max’s assurances—her breath ragged and strained, her brow furrowed.  A low whimper escaped her lips.  

Stroking her shoulder, Morse whispered, ‘It’s alright, Kate—it’s alright, you’re safe.’  He murmured soothingly and eventually her breathing became soft and even again.  He brushed a strand of hair off her face, watching her sleep. 

When he’d found her at the mill, his relief had been sharp, visceral.  He couldn’t help but take pleasure in seeing her breathe—she was warm and vital and safe .  He wanted so much to kiss her, hold her, make love to her again—but she needed her sleep.  So instead he carefully drew the bedclothes up around her, tucking them over her bare shoulder—the mornings were getting chilly.  Such a change from the sweltering heat of the day they’d met, only a few weeks before—that last gasp of a dying summer. 

What a difference a few weeks could make.  In the weather—in a life.  

A month ago, he hadn’t even known she existed.  A passing mention in a newspaper article, quickly forgotten.  Now—now . . .   

She’d burst into his life like a summer storm—fast and fierce—working her way into his heart like a thunderbolt.  Why did he always have to fall so quickly?  She made him feel like maybe it wasn’t too late for him—like maybe the rusty hinges of his heart could be coaxed into working again.  He was enamored of her, completely.    

But his dream came back to him—what would happen next?  He was no good at this sort of thing—dangerous criminals he could handle, but love?   He couldn’t help but feel it was all temporary—that his contentment with Kate would only last until—until what?  Until he messed it up, most likely.  Until his churlish nature drove her away.  At most, until she left Oxford for good, to return home.  

Resignedly, he kissed her forehead and rose from bed.  

Closing the bedroom door quietly behind him, he put on some water for tea.  The early morning sunlight streamed through Kate’s living room window, illuminating the row of books lined up against the wall, a tall stack on either end to hold them up—as there were no bookshelves in her semi-furnished flat.  Waiting for the kettle to come to a boil, he crouched down to inspect them.  There were classic novels, and tomes of philosophy, history, and natural science, some in their original languages.  Atop one of the stacks was a handsome, leather-bound volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. 

Kate had been very upset when they’d told her at the station about the destruction of Milford’s books, and had made Morse promise not to forget to charge Crossley with criminal damage, too—once he was arrested.  

Sipping his tea, he went to examine the shelf of photographs above the sofa.  Family and friends, he knew, the people who cared about her.  He recognized Douglas Milford, and her parents on the church steps, thought the older photograph might be of her grandmother.  Loved ones lost to—what had Miss Perry said?— death’s dateless night . 

What was that from?  

Something started to coalesce in his mind—his eyes were drawn back down to Kate’s books, thinking hard. 

Miss Perry had been giving him a clue . . .   

Arguments about translation , Milford’s note had said.  ‘Traductology’ Morse muttered under his breath, remembering their conversation with Alex O’Connell.  

♦ VII. ♦ 

When Kate finally awoke, she was alone, her apartment quiet.  The light blinking through the curtains was bright and mature, but she was still groggy and bone-tired.  She let her eyes slide closed again but immediately gasped awake, suddenly alert with fear.  For that brief moment, she’d been back at the mill—the cold permeating her bones, the unpleasant smell of wet stone and mildew clogging her nostrils.    

Sighing with relief to find herself at home in bed, she nevertheless shivered under the blankets.  She’d never get back to sleep now.  At least Max’s drugs had worked—she’d slept soundly, blissfully undisturbed by dreams.  

Turning onto her side, she wondered where Morse was.  The pillow was cold, and his clothes were gone.  She bit her lip.  He’d probably had to go into work.  Maybe he’d left a note.  Slowly, she rolled over and rose from bed, slipped on her silk robe, and padded softly into the other room. 

But he hadn’t left a note—hadn't left at all.  He was there, sitting at her kitchen table, totally engrossed in the book and notebook he had before him.  She smiled sleepily, glad to see him, glad not to be alone.  ‘Morning,’ she mumbled.  

He looked up, his blue eyes wide and welcoming.  ‘“The lady stirs,”’ he smiled. 

She huffed out a laugh.  ‘Barely!  I can’t believe I slept so late.  Max has good drugs—didn’t dream at all.’  She rubbed at her eyes, still gummy with sleep.  

He offered a tight-lipped smile, looking back down at his work.  

‘What has you so captivated?’ she asked, stifling a yawn.  

His eyes lit up.  ‘I think I’ve got to the bottom of it.’  She shook her head, not understanding.  

‘Milford’s code,’ he explained.  ‘I found the key.’  

‘Really ?’  She eagerly rushed to the table, leaning over his shoulder.  ‘What does it say?  How did you figure it out?’  

‘I’ve almost finished the transcription, but it was never the Proust at all—’  

And Morse spelled out the solution to her.  Milford’s note had pointed not to any of the books he’d left behind as the key to the code, but to a sonnet—Shakespeare's 30th, to be precise: “When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up remembrance of things past . . .”   

Charles Scott Moncrieff, the first English translator of Proust’s lengthy and influential work, had chosen his title from the poem, despite it not being anywhere close to the original À la recherche du temps perdu , which ought more faithfully to be rendered In Search of Lost Time .  

Scott Moncrieff’s reason for choosing his title were, ironically, also lost to time—perhaps that was what Milford and O’Connell had argued about.    

The message, once decoded, revealed in meager half-sentences, the real story of Eliot Tolliver’s death.  The young man had discovered that Victory Crossley was smuggling decrypts out of Bletchley to the NKVD and brought this dangerous knowledge to his older and wiser friend, Frank DeAngelis.  Lacking any proof, however, the American unit plotted to entrap Crossley in an unsanctioned sting operation, using young Tolliver as a lure.  But the plan had gone awry, and Crossley had killed him.  Rather than turn the whole affair over to military authorities, Robert Currier had convinced them all to stage a suicide and, in return for their silence, run Crossley as a double agent against the Soviets.  Milford expressed guilt and shame at having hidden the truth all these years, especially from Tolliver’s family.  His message ended with ‘Tell them I’m sorry.’  

As proof, he offered up a wire recording, secreted away all these years, of the operation as it had unfolded.  They’d planned to use it against Crossley at the time, but it ended up being their guarantee of his continued cooperation.  Milford had made a private copy—presumably Beryl Mayhew Mallory had caught him in the act—and hidden it against a time when the truth could come out.  Hidden it where Alex O’Connell could eventually retrieve it, bringing Crossley to justice and peace to the Tolliver family.   

All this time, it had been concealed in the frame containing the illuminated portrait of St. Katherine, given to Kate by Dr. Milford, transported unbeknownst to her back to Oxford, and currently hanging on the wall of her Bodleian office.  John Ward’s ransacking had come so close to Crossley’s intended quarry.  

As Morse finished decoding, Kate listened, open-mouthed, her eyes growing wider.  When he had finished, all she could manage for a moment was, ‘Golly.’  

Setting down his pen, Morse raised his eyebrows in agreement.  ‘I wonder if it’s still there,’ he mused. 

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’  

‘Well, I suspect your secretary may have already retrieved it,’ he confessed.  ‘I’m sure that’s what her mission was.’  

Kate slumped down in her chair, depressed and somewhat embarrassed.  ‘I can’t believe she was a spy,’ she muttered, shaking her head.  It made her very uncomfortable to think someone had infiltrated her workplace—her social circle.  She’d thought Nancy Perry a friend.  ‘Who was she working for?’  

‘I’m not sure,’ Morse frowned, his eyes narrowing.  ‘Someone who knew Milford left something to find.  Robert Currier in Washington, maybe?’  

‘Well, regardless,’ Kate sighed, her mouth twisted in a frown, ‘we’d better go check.’  

It didn’t take much to convince him, and a short time later they were standing together at her desk, looking down at the brown paper backing of the frame, which bore neat and careful slashes that exposed the interior.  Aside from the manuscript, the frame was empty.  

Nancy had taken her leave as well as the recording, offering only a note of thanks and contrition—and relief that Kate had survived.  ‘Thanks to the clever policeman, I suspect,’ the note quipped, evoking Nancy's impertinent smirk to the last.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

But Kate couldn’t leave it there.  

They drove out to Cheltenham to pay a visit to Alex O’Connell.  The coded message had been intended for him, after all, and Morse was convinced he must have had a hand in its translation.  After a brief interval, they were escorted into his office, where Mr. O’Connell welcomed them warmly, inviting them to sit down and offering drinks.  

Accepting a glass of cognac, Morse wasted little time.  ‘We’re here to ask you about Milford’s recording.’  

‘What’s this then?’ O’Connell blinked confusedly.  

‘The recording Douglas Milford left for you to find,’ Morse pressed.  ‘Did you find it?’  

O’Connell peered at him without responding, and Kate could see Morse’s jaw clench in frustration.  She could tell he wasn’t going to get anywhere with such a confrontational approach, so she stepped in.  ‘Mr. O’Connell,’ she said, smiling sweetly, ‘We know you must have riddled out the solution to that message—after all, who else could have?’  

'I assume you did, since you’re here,’ O’Connell interrupted, with a penetrating glance at Morse.  ‘I see you haven’t lost your touch.’  Placated a little, Morse’s jaw relaxed.  ‘But I’m afraid this whole affair rests in the hands of other agencies.’  

Kate and Morse looked at each other.  ‘Nancy Perry didn’t bring it to you?’ Morse asked him.  

O’Connell smiled slightly.  ‘She doesn’t work for me.’  

‘So . . .,’ Kate tried, brows furrowed.  ‘You don’t have it, then?  The recording?’  She felt inexplicably disappointed.  

O’Connell turned to her.  ‘Why?  Would you like to hear it?’ he asked sardonically.  

‘Well, no— it's just that—’  

‘Then what’s the problem?’  

‘It’s evidence,’ Morse objected stridently.  ‘A man was murdered trying to retrieve it—Miss DeAngelis was almost killed as well!  A lot of trouble was gone through to decode that message, find that recording.  Where is it now?’  

‘I’m not in a position to say,’ O’Connell said stiffly.  

‘It belongs with the police,’ Morse persisted.  ‘There’s a case to prosecute against Victor Crossley—’ 

‘Oh, do you have him in custody?’  

Morse’s jaw clenched again.  They all knew O’Connell’s affectation of bland curiosity was utterly feigned.  ‘We will,’ Morse insisted after a strained silence.  

‘Hmm,’ was O’Connell’s only comment.  

Kate could sense Morse’s growing irritation, but she realized they weren’t going to get anything out of this man—he’d never reveal anything he didn’t have to.  After a moment of increasingly uncomfortable quiet, she touched Morse’s arm, rising from her chair.  

‘Well, Mr. O’Connell,’ she said archly, ‘Thank you for your time.’ 

‘Of course, Miss DeAngelis,’ O’Connell returned convivially, getting up to shake their hands with a staunch refusal to acknowledge the awkwardness.  With a resigned huff, Morse stood up and started to stalk toward the door.  

‘Before you go, Sergeant—’  O’Connell came around his desk, stopping him.  'I read your file since last we spoke.  Quite an impressive record.  And of course, I do remember your contributions in Signals.  There’s a place for a man of your talents here in Cheltenham.’  

‘No, thanks,’ Morse replied, his teeth gritted.  

O’Connell sighed.  ‘That’s too bad.  Young men these days—don’t seem to think what they owe their country.’  

‘I did my service,’ Morse reminded him.  ‘And I’m a policeman.’  

He turned unexpectedly to Kate.  ‘What about you, Miss DeAngelis?’  

‘Me?’ she squeaked, caught off-guard.  

‘Yes.  I read about you as well.  Certain types of operations—you’re just the sort of woman we’re looking for.  With the proper training, of course.’  

Kate gave a strained bark of nervous laughter.  ‘I don’t think so.’  She’d had quite enough excitement. 

‘Pity.’  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

On the way back to the car, Kate threaded an arm through Morse’s.  She could feel the irritation comes off him in waves.  

‘That recording should be in police custody,’ he said through gritted teeth.  

‘I know.’  

‘Without it, all we have is a coded message and your testimony.’  

‘I know.’  They continued on in silence.  ‘Do you think Nancy was working for the Americans, then?  Maybe they have it,’ Kate suggested as they approached Morse’s Jaguar.  

‘You can’t take anything these cloak-and-dagger types say at face value,’ he returned petulantly, opening the door to let her in.  

As they drove back to Oxford, a cold, sullen drizzle started to fall, matching Morse’s mood.  By the time they reached Blackbird Leys, he was decidedly grumpy and it was all Kate could do to coax him up to her apartment for dinner.  

‘We’ll just have to let it go,’ she advised as she handed him a heavy pour of whiskey.  

‘Let it go?’ he huffed in disbelief.  ‘How can you say that?  He almost killed you!’  

‘I’m not saying we should let Crossley go—just the recording .  It looks like we might never get our hands on it.’  She put her arms around him, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck.  ‘But it doesn’t matter,’ she said, trying to mollify him.  ‘Once you catch him, he’ll stand trial, and the evidence you have will be enough.’  Smiling, she added, ‘You know how persuasive I can be.’  

With a slight roll of his eyes, Morse had to smile, despite his bad temper.  Yes, he did know.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

But in spite of all her assertions to Morse about letting go—staying busy, moving on—a profound depression descended on Kate like a fog—the kind of thick London fog she’d read about in newspapers that caused people to wander onto railroad tracks and tumble off bridges and embankments. 

The obfuscation and denial they faced at every turn was insulting, and every day that Victor Crossley remained at large an injury.  But mostly, she couldn’t forget the dreadful allegations he had made regarding her parents’ death—which she hadn’t confided to a soul—not Morse, not Audrey, not even Mary Anne back home.  Had Crossley been telling the truth?  In her more optimistic moments, she was sure he’d only been trying to manipulate her, stabbing at wounds he knew would hurt.  But she couldn’t quite dislodge the deep-seated uncertainty that threaded through her brain, clouding her serenity and tainting her memories.  

She found herself in a deep, dark jungle of doubt, which she wasn’t sure she could ever escape.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Crossley has sent the usual signal.  He’s been laying low for days now, and he needs help.   

He isn’t sure if the son-of-a-bitch will show, but there he is, the glow of his cigarette preceding him as he emerges—calm as you like—from the gloom of the dingy warehouse where Frank used to meet him.   

Crossley doesn’t mince words.  ‘You have to get me out of the country—the States.  You owe me.’  

‘You’re a wanted man, Vic,’ scoffs Currier.  ‘Conspiracy, larceny, criminal damage—not to mention murder.’  He takes a long drag on his cigarette, his gaze fixed on Crossley’s face.  ‘The U.S. government doesn’t employ murderers.’   

‘Like hell it doesn’t!’   

‘Why don’t you try your other friends,’ Currier suggests with the shadow of a smile.  ‘I hear they’ve got George Blake set up in a swell apartment overlooking the Moskva.  Surely you’d merit   

as much.’  He stubs out his cigarette on the filthy floor and begins to walk away.   

‘God dammit, you know I can’t do that!’ Crossley yells after him.  ‘Don’t you think I’d rather go to them, you bloody bastard?  They’ll kill me!  What choice do I have?’   

Turning around briefly, Currier shrugs eloquently.  ‘There is always a choice.’   

♦ 
 

Chapter Text

Chapter 8:

Epilogue: Picardy  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

Back in London, the agent known as Charlie is ushered into the Colonel’s office with great dispatch.  

‘Do you have it?’ he asks, stepping out from behind his desk.   

Charlie draws a small cardboard box from her coat pocket.  Inside is the spool of stainless steel wire that logs the final night of Eliot Tolliver’s life.  With only the slightest hesitation, she holds it out to him, her lips pursed.   

Colonel Wallis immediately marches across the room to hand over the prize to a man leaning casually against the far window, whom Charlie hasn’t noticed—he is very good at being unobtrusive.    

The man is of indeterminate age, unremarkable features, and impenetrable expression.  He languidly snuffs out his cigarette in an ashtray on a nearby table and opens the box, checking its contents before tucking it carefully into his jacket.  

With the ghost of a smile, he murmurs to Wallis, ‘See you stateside, Len.’   

Wallis grunts, unsmiling.  ‘Not if I see you first.’   

The nondescript man laughs—a raspy, rusty sound that makes it clear how rare it is.  ‘You won’t.’  With a nod of thanks in Charlie’s direction, he strides nonchalantly out of the office.   

After a moment of awkward hesitation, Wallis stomps back to his desk, withdrawing a bottle and two glasses from the bottom drawer.  He pours and slides a glass across the desk, inviting her to sit.  ‘Well, that’s your assignment done,’ he mutters as she sits down, ‘so I guess your secondment is over.  All’s well that ends well, huh?’   

Charlie takes the glass, staring back at him without answering.  Wallis clears his throat, embarrassed.  At least he has the good grace to be ashamed , Charlie thinks.   

‘I am, of course, sincerely glad she’s okay,’ he maintains.  With an attempt at light-hearted confidence, he scoffs, ‘I told you that detective would see her right.’   

Charlie takes a sip in silence, glancing out the window.  He doesn’t need to know about her hints to Morse.   

Wallis gives it up.  ‘You did well, agent,’ he says honestly.  ‘Thank you.’   

She smiles in acknowledgement, pleased despite herself.  ‘What about Crossley?’ she asks, taking another sip.   

Wallis half-rolls his eyes.  ‘It’s taken care of, I guess.’  He jerks his chin towards the hallway and their departed guest.  ‘He’s got channels.’   

‘That detective won’t stop looking,’ she reminds him.   

With a shrug, Wallis dismisses her concern.  ‘He won’t succeed.’   

‘You don’t think we owe him an explanation?’   

‘Hell no!’ Wallis chuckles.  ‘The less said the better.  It’s all over—let sleeping dogs lie.’   

Charlie looks down at her drink, swirling it with a thoughtful frown.  Wallis might be content with that, maybe even the man from Washington.  But Charlie knows Morse is no sleeping dog—he’s a loose end.   

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

♦ I. ♦ 

Over the next week, Morse tried hard to cheer Kate up, taking her to the movies—some Cukor film set in Alexandria that wasn’t half-bad—even dancing at the Moonlight Rooms one night—something he never did.  

But despite Kate’s best efforts to move past her experience, and his best efforts to help her, still—she could not banish her melancholy.  Finally, one night, Morse discovered why. 

He awoke to find her absent from bed.  Rising, he found her instead perched on the windowsill in the living room, one knee drawn up to her chest, staring out with a serious, sad expression.  Framed against the window and drenched in moonlight, with her hair falling in tangled waves around her solemn face, she looked like a Waterhouse nymph—soft and dreamy.  The thin strap of her nightgown had slipped off her shoulder.  

‘Kate?’  

She looked over.  ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’  

‘What’s the matter?’  

‘It’s nothing,’ she said, looking out again.  

‘It’s something.’  He came up next to her, leaning against the wall, and waited.  

Eventually, she sighed.  ‘Something Crossley told me.’  

He paused, considering.  ‘I wouldn’t put stock in anything he said.’  

‘I know.’  She swallowed.  ‘I’ve tried not to—but . . . I can’t stop thinking about it.’  

He led her away from the window, sitting her on the sofa and fetching a glass of water.  ‘Tell me.’ 

Somewhat haltingly, she told him of Crossley’s contention that her parents had been killed on Currier’s orders—possibly with Milford’s collaboration.  That the car accident that had made her an orphan hadn’t been an accident at all.  

He listened to her worries, but shook his head decisively when she had finished.  ‘They couldn’t have orchestrated a car crash.’    

‘Couldn’t they?’ she said skeptically.    

In the back of his head, Morse couldn’t help but remember the death of Adam Drake, the brilliant young prodigy done in by a jealous lover and a severed brake line.  But he wasn’t going to share that with Kate. 

‘They died on the way home from one of Doc’s parties!’   She shook her head, biting her lip.  ‘And after—h-he could have forgotten all about me, but he didn’t!   What if there’s a reason?’  She stood up, restless, returning to the window and leaning back against the sill.  ‘What if it was guilt?  What if—’  She paused, closing her eyes with a frown.  ‘He felt guilty enough about Eliot Tolliver’s death to put that whole elaborate scheme into action.’  Looking at Morse with frightened eyes, she whispered, ‘What if the only reason he took me in was because he felt guilty about—’  She couldn’t say it.  Turning away, she tried to restrain her tears.  ‘Maybe everything he did for me was just motivated by shame.’  

Morse rose and followed her to the window.  ‘You shouldn’t think like that.’  

‘Why?  Because it’s not true—or because it is true and I can’t handle it?  Am I an orphan because of what happened here in Oxford all those years ago?’  Her lip started to tremble, and her green eyes were shiny in the moonlight.  

He held her shoulders, looking her squarely in the face.  ‘Have you ever had reason to suspect such a thing before?’  

She hesitated before answering.  ‘No.’  

‘Then you’re only thinking it because Crossley suggested it.  He’s hardly a man to be trusted—he was trying to get into your head, rattle you.’  

‘Well, it worked,’ she retorted.  ‘And like you said, sometimes you don’t know people as well as you think you do.’  

‘But I was wrong about that—Milford didn’t kill Elliot Tolliver.’  

‘But he covered it up!  Isn’t that almost as bad?  What else was he capable of?’  

She turned away, staring out into the night.  ‘How can I—’ she began, but had to stop to collect herself.  ‘He left everything to me, Morse.  I’m his only heir.  He adopted me in part to prevent anybody contesting the will.’  

‘I’d worked that out myself,’ he admitted.  When she frowned at him, he shrugged, ‘Something Dorothea said.’  

‘Oh, great , yeah, she would know!’ she wailed, the tears finally breaking over her cheeks.  ‘It was in all the papers back home.  Along with all sorts of un true implications,’ she continued heatedly, ‘That I was his love-child, that I was his mistress!  It was awful.’  

‘I’m sorry.’  No wonder she wasn’t too keen on speaking to the press.  

Kate vehemently wiped away her tears with the balls of her hands.  After a moment she said in a rush, ‘How can I live off of his money if he’s responsible?’ 

Morse had no answer for that but to hold her, slipping his fingers into her hair as she struggled to contain a fresh onslaught of tears.   

But the wheels in his brain had already started to turn, trying to work out how he might get answers about her parents’ death. 

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

A couple of days later Kate surprised him by announcing her intention to go to London.   

‘What for?’ he asked.  

She shrugged.  ‘I thought maybe—the Natural History Museum?  See the Beagle collections.  

I—I just need a change.’  

‘You’ll be back?’  

‘Of course,’ she assured him, leaning over to kiss his cheek.  ‘Just for the day—don’t worry.’  

He looked over at her, a little doubtful, but she’d seemed a little more sanguine since confessing her doubts to him, and he was happy to think that maybe she’d turned a corner.  

So he drove her to the station to see her off.  She’d dressed carefully that morning and looked very pretty, wearing that emerald-green dress again, the one that brought out her eyes.  The lacerations on her neck had nearly healed, and she’d become very adept at hiding them with high collars and silk scarves—today's featured a busy geometric pattern in gold and pink.   

He found he didn't want her to leave.  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to come with you?’  He could take the day off from work, he supposed.  

‘No, no, that’s alright,’ she smiled.  ‘Thanks for the offer, but actually, I’d like to go alone.  I’ll see you tonight.’  

♦ II. ♦ 

But Kate didn’t go to see Darwin’s specimens or Dippy the Dinosaur or any of the other attractions at the British Museum’s Natural History branch.  

‘Colonel Wallis?’ she asked with a firm rap on the door.  

He was seated at a large, solid-looking desk, scribbling with a fancy pen.  ‘Yes?’ he said without looking up.  Kate didn’t respond and when he finally glanced toward the door, he did a double-take and rose from his chair quickly.  

‘Miss DeAngelis—how—’  He cleared his throat and tried to smile.  ‘How did you get in here?’  

‘Well, to tell you the truth I lied a little.  May I sit?’ she asked, gesturing to the pair of armchairs looking out over the Park.  

‘Of course,’ he said, taken aback.  ‘Can I get you a drink?’  

‘Sure, I’ll have what you’re having.’  She could use the courage—her heart was beating triplets against her sternum.  

He brought her a small glass of whiskey and sat down opposite.  ‘Now, what can I do for you, Miss DeAngelis?’  He tried to keep his tone light and carefree, though Kate could tell he was as nervous as she was.  

But she wasn’t going to let him off easy.  ‘Oh, please,’ she said with a sarcastic smile, doing her best to channel Lady Mallory’s imperiousness, ‘men who search my flat and install spies in my office call me Katherine.’  

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and chuckled uneasily, opening his mouth to deny it.  

‘Please, Colonel,’ she said, forestalling him with an impatient gesture, ‘I’ve had too many people lying to me this past month, I really can’t take anymore.’  He closed his mouth.  

‘Now,’ she continued, trying hard to maintain her veneer of authority, ‘I wanted to ask you about your search of my luggage—’  

‘It wasn’t my search,’ Wallis grumbled.  

‘Well, I assume you knew of it?’ she said archly, and he shrugged noncommittally.  ‘A photograph was taken from my album—I’d like it back.’  A trifle, really, but it was the principle of the thing.  

‘I doubt that’s possible,’ he said gruffly.  

‘Why not?  Why did you take it in the first place?’  

‘I didn’t take it,’ he insisted.  ‘It was . . . someone else,’ he finished petulantly.  

‘Robert Currier?’ she inquired sharply, her eyebrows raised—it was the only thing that made sense.  ‘I’m not stupid.  And whom does he work for?  CIA, DIA?  NSA?’  Wallis’ only response was a pursed mouth.  ‘ Fine .’  She rolled her eyes.  ‘Why was it taken?’  

He shrugged again.  ‘Must have shown him in some compromising company, I suppose.’  

She peered at him, eyes narrowed, trying to suss out his credibility.  She wished she was as good at that sort of thing as Morse.  

In the end she let it go.  That wasn’t really what she was after anyway.  

‘I’ve actually come to ask you about my father.’  

He sighed.  ‘I told you before, I don’t know anything.’  

‘Elliot Tolliver, Doc Milford, and my father are all dead,’ she snapped.  ‘Victor Crossley is God -knows-where, Robert Currier is in America, and Beryl Mallory wasn’t there.  You’re the only other person who was .  You’re the only one I can ask.’  She paused as Wallis shifted awkwardly in his chair again, looking away.  ‘Please ,’ she said baldly, her teeth gritted.  

Wallis blew out a breath, his cheeks puffing out.  ‘Alright.  I’ll help if I can.’  

‘Will you tell me the truth ?’ she asked pointedly, arching her eyebrow.  

He paused.  ‘Of course.’  

She had no choice but to trust him.  So she took a deep breath and plunged ahead.  ‘Victor Crossley told me my father acted as go-between for him and Mr. Currier.  Is that true?’  

He stared at her for a moment, unsmiling.  ‘Yes, I think that’s true.’  

‘He said they had a falling out—my father and Mr. Currier.  Dad wanted out.’  She halted briefly before continuing, looking down at her lap and swallowing hard.  Did she really want to know?  Raising her head, Kate looked him straight in the eye.  ‘Crossley said they killed him.  My mother, too.’  

He blinked once.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

He’d denied it utterly, of course—vehemently denied it, said it was impossible—but she’d not been entirely convinced.  If only Morse had been by her side— he'd know if Wallis was lying, she was sure.  

But he would have tried to dissuade her from coming in the first place.  

On the train ride back, as she watched the countryside flash by, Kate tried to think where else she could turn for answers.  Colonel Wallis had been her last best hope, really, but could she trust him?  Maybe she could do some digging—find out all she could about the crash that had taken her parents’ life.  Morse wouldn’t like it, though—he’d try to dissuade her from that, too—so as much as he could help, she was on her own.  Not that that had gone so well last time . . . 

As for now, she had to shake off the black dog of melancholy that was haunting her steps.  For all her doubts, she had to believe Doc innocent until proven guilty—she at least needed more proof than the allegations of a desperate man.  She resolved to be better, more herself, when she returned to Oxford.  Leave these awful considerations behind, as best she could—concentrate on the bright side of things.  

She was in England, after all—in the city of dreaming spires, working at the greatest library in the world.  She couldn’t let such sinister ruminations ruin her experience.  And she had Morse—the only good thing to come out of this mess.  Her white knight, her champion.  He had been so sweet and solicitous of her happiness in recent days.  And she was falling for him all-too-quickly.  

Yes, he was difficult—querulous and cynical, stubborn, self-righteous.  But she was beginning to see beyond all that.  Past the gruff, judgmental façade he presented to the world to the tender, bruised creature underneath.  In truth he was kind, and only wanted the world to be better than it was—a world that had disappointed him in so many ways.  She could relate.  And that unshakable sense of justice, coupled with his keen intellect and unselfish bravery, conspired to sincerely attach her to him.  

So she determined to do better—if only for his sake.  

♦ III. ♦ 

Meanwhile, the force’s efforts to track Crossley were met with no success.  No sightings or leads had come in from any agency for days now.  But Morse was determined to find Crossley’s bolt hole—Crossley had to be some where, and Morse had every reason for tenacity in this case. 

In addition to his usual drive to see justice done, and a fierce desire to have Crossley punished for what he’d done to Kate, he also had a gnawing sense of guilt that he may have abetted the criminal’s escape.  If he hadn’t taken those brief seconds to embrace her, stricken with relief as Crossley raced out of the mill—would he have eluded capture? 

That afternoon he adjourned to Merton Field, settling onto a bench overlooking Beaufort College.  The crisp autumn air was more conducive to serious contemplation than the chaos of the station.  

After a few minutes, however, a man sat down next to him.  Looking over, Morse was surprised to see a familiar face—the insouciant grin, the dark and serious eyes, the black-framed glasses that slid down his nose.  

‘It’s Detective Sergeant Morse now, I understand,’ the man said casually.  ‘Congratulations.’  Morse was too shocked to speak.  ‘You do remember me, don’t you?’  

Morse nodded, still taken aback.  ‘Dempsey.’  

‘That’s right.’  He smiled blandly.  

‘What are you doing here?’ Morse asked in confusion.  ‘What’s your interest in all this?’  

‘No interest—I’m not involved in the slightest,’ Dempsey explained.  ‘I was pressed into service by a friend—on account of our previous acquaintance—to set you mind at ease.’  

Morse waited.  

‘You won’t find Crossley,’ Dempsey said simply.  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’  

‘He killed two people,’ Morse objected.  ‘And—’  

‘And kidnapped your lover, hurt her, I understand.’  He rattled off the crimes in a bored manner.  ‘But there’s nothing for it.  He’s left the country already.’  

‘What?’ Morse snapped.  ‘How?  The ports and airports are all looking for him!’  

Dempsey raised his eyebrows.  ‘Nevertheless .’  

Morse sighed in frustration, looking out over the meadow.  

‘I believe he called in some old favors—from some old friends,’ Dempsey went on.  

‘So that’s it?’ Morse muttered angrily.  ‘He just gets away?  With everything?’  

‘I wouldn’t think so,’ was the off-handed reply.  ‘Those old friends, well—let’s just say even enemies cooperate sometimes.’  

‘What is that supposed to mean?’  

He turned to look Morse in the eye.  ‘He’ll gets his justice.  Just not from us.’  

‘And you can be satisfied with that?’ Morse said incredulously.  

Dempsey shrugged.  ‘I am neither satisfied nor unsatisfied.  I told you, it’s none of my concern.  I’m just here for a friend.’  

‘What friend?’  

‘Does it matter?’  He quickly changed the subject.  ‘I heard about your GM, by the way—it’s not every day a man saves half the population of England in one fell swoop.’  Morse was somehow unsurprised that Dempsey seemed to know the real story.  ‘You should think about coming to work for us.’  

Morse scoffed.  Again?   ‘I don’t even know who “us” is.’  

‘HMG.’  

Rolling his eyes, Morse said decisively, ‘No, thanks.’  

‘Too bad.’  Dempsey started to rise, saying cheerfully, ‘Well, goodbye, Sergeant Morse.  Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.’  

‘I hope not.’  

Dempsey smiled, though his eyes remained flinty.  ‘Enjoy the pretty librarian.’  He bobbed his head slightly, pushing his glasses back onto his nose.  ‘I love a librarian,’ he mused, and then he was gone.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

In the early evening, Morse went back to the train station to await Kate’s return, still vexed and upset by what Dempsey had told him.  

He’d given up—begrudgingly—on getting Milford’s recording, but now he was expected to give up on capturing Crossley at all?  

All this effort, all this nonsense— all for naught .  Crossley was gone, never to return.  Georgina Tolliver would never get her justice.  Nor would John Ward.  Nor Kate.  And apparently someone somewhere had decided that was just fine.  Let him go.  

Nothing about the whole affair made sense to him anymore.    

Nothing except his feelings for Kate.  That was the only real thing to come out of this blasted case.  Her .  At least he could hold on to that.  

He couldn’t mess it up—not this time.  He had a chance here—a chance at happiness .  Probably the last he’d ever get.  A chance for something real with a remarkable woman—someone clever and beautiful and stimulating.  He couldn’t muck it up.  

But he’d never been very adept at navigating relationships.  He was too prickly, too peculiar, too set in his ways.  Even when he was younger—even with Susan—he’d been no good at being a boyfriend.  'Contra mundum’ Alice Vexin had characterized him.  She hadn’t wanted to put up with him—no woman did.  Or if they did have the fortitude—as Monica Hicks had, for awhile—he inevitably drove them away with his coldness, his faultfinding, his inability to let them get close.  

He had to change, he realized—before it was too late.  He’d be better—make better choices.  Be kinder, warmer, more open.  If it all went south with Kate, too—well, then so be it.  But he didn’t want anything with which to recriminate himself.  

As the last of the light began to sink below the horizon, the London train rolled into the station, and Morse rose from his seat, determined to try. 

He watched Kate step down off the train, pulling the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and looking around.  The jeweled combs in her raven-dark hair caught the waning light as she turned toward the exit.  She wasn’t expecting him, and when she saw him standing on the platform, her face lit up like a lantern, igniting a glow in his chest that radiated out to his fingertips. 

A woman who smiled at him like that—she was worth it.  He couldn’t help but smile back.  

Their eyes locked, they came together amid the dispersing throng of passengers.  ‘I said I’d get a taxi,’ she grinned, her bottle-green eyes sparkling.  ‘You didn’t have to meet me.’  

‘I wanted to,’ he said.  ‘Good trip?’  

She shrugged one shoulder, glancing away down the platform.  ‘Not bad.  It was good to get away, anyway.’  She looked back at him.  ‘And you?  Good day?’  

‘Alright,’ he said, mirroring her shrug.  He wouldn’t share with her what Dempsey had said—not just yet.  

But he had to start now—had to be brave.  He reached for her hand, his heart pounding in his chest.  

‘Be bold ,’ Dorothea had said.  Fortes fortuna iuvat.     

It was too much to tell her how he really felt—he wasn’t ready for that and it might frighten her away, anyway.  It was too soon.  But he had something he could offer her—a potent gesture of intimacy, he hoped.  

So he drew her close and, cupping her face in his hand, kissed her deeply, with all the passion he could garner.  She melted into his arms, grasping at his jacket, and suddenly they were all alone, despite the stragglers still making for the exit.  Their lips parted and her eyes were still closed when he whispered, ‘Endeavour .’  

She opened her eyes and blinked at him, confused.  ‘What?’ she breathed, her fingers still clutched at his shoulders.  

‘My Christian name.’  He watched her carefully for a reaction.  He felt a little like he’d opened his chest and exposed his very heart.  

To his surprise, she pushed him away playfully, though his arms were still around her waist.  In mock outrage, she laughed, ‘I was supposed to guess!’  

It was so good to hear her laugh, see the light dancing in her eyes again—it made him chuckle in turn.  ‘Were you ever going to guess that?’ he asked dubiously.  ‘Really?’  

‘Maybe!   We’ll never know now!’  

‘Besides, I don’t want you to guess,’ he said, pulling her in again.  ‘I want you to know.’  

She leant into him, wrapping her arms around his neck.  ‘Endeavour Morse,’ she tried, tousling the hair at the back of his neck.  Hearing her say it gave him a peculiar sensation.  From her, he didn’t hate it.  She smiled slightly.  ‘I like it.’  

‘Only please don’t call me that,’ he pleaded.  

‘Alright!’ she laughed, smiling wider.  ‘You know,’ she went on, her eyes glinting with mischief, ‘by revealing your name to the princess, you put your life in her hands.’  

‘I know,’ he nodded.  Oh , how he knew.  Il mio nome e la vita insiem ti dono.   

 ‘Well, I’m feeling magnanimous,’ she joked, arching her eyebrow, ‘so I suppose I won’t have you executed at dawn.’ 

‘I appreciate it.’  

Leaning close and looking deep into his eyes, she whispered, ‘Thanks for telling me.’  

They kissed in the burgeoning twilight, and the world fell away again.   

They were the only two people on earth, this empty platform the only place in the universe.  

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

A short time later, a brief notice appears in The Times:     

“Her Majesty’s government has confirmed that a body found in a hotel room last week in the port city of Durrës is that of minor Foreign Officer Victor Crossley, lately of London.  Albanian officials have refused further comment, but details of the death seem to indicate foul play.  A Foreign Office spokesman maintains Mr. Crossley was not abroad on government business and denies any connection between his untimely death and official operations.  

“An alumnus of Balliol College, Oxford, the late Mr. Crossley was a veteran of the War and found brief national renown with his translation of a selection of Canterbury Tales, published 1950.  It is unknown whether he had any survivors.”  

The End