CHAPTER 35 -Something's original
Part 1
When Morse and Strange got home, Strange made a beeline for the kitchen to rustle up something for dinner while Morse in turn headed straight for his room to crash out on his bed and try to get forty winks before dinner would be served up by Strange. His head felt like it was spinning out of control and it hurt so much it felt like it was in danger of falling off. All manner of thoughts and ideas were swirling around in his mind but when he closed his eyes for a few moments in what he assumed would prove to be a futile attempt to block them out, he surprised himself by drifting off to blissful sleep within a minute or two. He was only woken up some thirty minutes later by a loud knocking and calling at his door by Strange to announce that dinner was ready. He slowly sat up on his bed, yawned extravagantly and rubbed his weary eyes before getting up and joining his housemate in the kitchen.
They didn't exchange many words all through dinner, both men seemingly worn out though whether that was due largely to the day's work or the couple of pints they had quaffed before dinner was hard to tell. Strange was studying the weekly Radio Times magazine to see what was on offer on the television that evening and he let out a cry of delight which startled Morse who was preoccupied with his own thoughts and brought him back down to earth with a jolt.
'What is it?' he asked Strange who looked across the table at him with a broad smile on his face.
'There's one of my favourite films on the BBC tonight. I think I'll make myself comfy on the sofa with a nice cup of cocoa and watch that before turning in.'
'What film's that?' Morse asked without any great show of enthusiasm for finding out the answer. Films were not his big thing. That was definitely Strange's domain. He probably wouldn't even have heard of the film, he suspected.
'The Cat and the Canary,' replied Strange with a knowing look. Morse looked back at Strange, nonplussed. As he had guessed, the film title meant nothing to him.
'One of Bob Hope's finest,' explained Strange, with a look of surprise and not a little disappointment. How could Morse not have heard of that film, he mused. He really did live in the highest of ivory towers, he concluded. 'It's a horror comedy. I think even you would like it, matey. Why not give it a try? Bob Hope and a cup of hot cocoa to end the day, you can't beat it.'
Morse stared back at Strange with an odd, far-away look in his eyes and he gave the impression he had just seen a ghost. 'Bob Hope, you said?'
Strange nodded and wondered what had just bitten Morse. He sounded most peculiar all of a sudden as if he had been taken unexpectedly ill. Morse got up and fumbled around in his jacket pocket for the pieces of paper the two of them had been poring over down the pub only an hour or so ago.
'Look at this, Jim. Robert Frost – underlined, yes?' Strange nodded, still bewildered but curious to see where Morse was leading with this. 'Robert Louis Stevenson, his name is underlined too. Agreed?'
Strange was forced to agree with Morse. 'Yes. So what?'
'And look – in that quote from the book of Corinthians, faith, hope and charity, Vera Cooper has circled the word 'hope' despite the quote claiming the greatest of those virtues is charity. Hope. Bob Hope?'
Strange stared down at the table at the newspaper crossword with all those disparate lists of words strewn across it and then up again at Morse whose eyebrows were raised in encouragement to Strange to get on board with his sudden flash of inspiration.
'Don't you see, Jim? They're all Robert, in one form or another.'
Slowly Strange began to twig what Morse was hinting at but he couldn't get over the principal obstacle to Morse's spur of the moment, half formulated theory. 'But we don't have any suspects called Robert, do we? Besides, we're looking for a woman, aren't we? We've always thought that, ever since we found the photograph of little Carla and her letter to Fraser.'
'Have we? We've assumed the photo of the little girl was a photo of Fraser's daughter but we don't know that for certain, do we? That little girl could be totally unrelated to Fraser. We've never really explored that possibility. Do we even know that Fraser only had one child with this other woman? What if the mother gave birth to two babies, not just one?'
'What, twins, you mean? Like, a boy and a girl?' Morse nodded and Strange whistled out loud in disbelief at the astonishing path that Morse appeared hell-bent on leading them down. 'But surely this Robert connection is a bit far-fetched. Most of our suspects are women and none of the men we've looked at are called Robert, are they?'
'Are we sure about that too?' asked Morse. 'We need to check the files on the staff at the Oxford Mail. See if anyone is actually called Robert, even if that's not the name they like to be called by. I want to do that first thing tomorrow morning.'
This was certainly an entirely new direction that Morse was threatening to take the investigation in and Strange wasn't overly convinced that he was really onto something here. But Morse had proved them all wrong on countless such occasions in the past so Strange, for one, was definitely not going to dismiss his theory out of hand before it had been fully explored and held up to the light of the most intense scrutiny.
The two men went their separate ways after dinner had been eaten and the washing up had been completed, Strange into the lounge to settle down in readiness for his Bob Hope film and Morse to his room where he flung himself down on his bed, after putting on one of his favourite classical records in the hope that it would calm him down and help him to think more clearly. However, within minutes he had fallen asleep again as the pressures and confusions of the day finally overwhelmed him and rendered him powerless to resist the onset of merciful sleep.
Part 2
As soon as Morse arrived at Cowley police station the next morning he made a beeline for the copies of the personnel files that had been taken of all the staff at the Oxford Mail. He proceeded to spend a good five to ten minutes assiduously examining each of them in turn until, with a cry of triumph, he found precisely what he had been looking for. He rose from his chair in a state of barely controlled excitement and hurried over to DCI Thursday's office. Having not failed to observe Morse's demeanour and reaction from his own desk, DS Strange immediately followed Morse hard on his heels into Thursday's room and closed the door behind them.
'What is it, Morse?' asked Thursday, noting the serious expression on his colleague's face and Strange's all too obvious excited anticipation. Morse quickly gave Thursday a summary of his and Strange's deliberations at home the previous evening and held out the file he was holding in his hand for Thursday's closer inspection.
'Look at Peter Barnes' full name, Sir.'
Thursday concentrated on the personal details section at the top of the first sheet of Barnes' employment file and read out the name that was printed there. 'Robert Peter Barnes.'
'But everybody calls him Peter! He's known as Peter Barnes at the Mail!' Thursday protested in a stunned semi-whisper.
'Well, maybe at some point in his life he decided he didn't like the name Robert and chose to be called by his second name from then on. Whatever his reasons, the fact remains his true first name is Robert. As in Robert Frost, Robert Louis Stevenson and Robert or, as he is more commonly known, Bob Hope. The clues left by Vera Cooper on the crossword page of the newspaper found on the table at Ronald Fraser's cottage.'
Morse held out the newspaper for Thursday who took it from his sergeant and stared at the various lists written across the page. 'It can't be a coincidence, Sir. Look, all of those names that she underlined or circled refer to people called Robert, in one form or another. I'm convinced Vera Cooper was leaving us a clue as to the identity of the person she was about to meet, the person who attacked her and ultimately killed her. His name was Robert.'
Thursday heard a slight intake of breath from DS Strange as he looked up at Morse with raised eyebrows and a solemn expression. 'Are you sure about this, Morse? It's a bit…. far-fetched, don't you think? Such a bunch of cryptic clues left for us to find. Why didn't she just write down his full name? Why be so obtuse?'
'Because if she had written down the killer's full identity, there would have been a good chance our murderer would have found it and disposed of such an obvious clue. This way, if her killer picks up the newspaper and looks at it, what would he or she have found? Just a bunch of seemingly random lists of names which would look for all the world like attempts to solve a crossword puzzle. Same with the books, Sir. I'm sure they're also part of Vera Cooper's attempts to warn us who the murderer of her nephew was. I just haven't cracked that puzzle yet. But I'm heading off to the library now to check up on a few things which might throw some more light on that particular conundrum.'
'Do you want me to pull in Peter Barnes for more questioning, Sir?' asked Strange.
'I think we have to bring him in, don't we?' Thursday remarked gravely, looking across at Morse who nodded in response. 'Put him on the spot about his name actually being Robert. Question him again about his alibi which, let's face it, is shaky at best.'
At a nod from Thursday, Strange left the room to head off to the Oxford Mail and bring Peter Barnes over to Cowley nick. Morse motioned to take his leave also but Thursday detained him for a little while to drill down into what he was looking for at the library.
'It's just these books, Sir. Not the Jane Austen novel, I think we can safely ignore that one. I'm convinced that would have been there anyway. Ms Cooper was probably just re-reading it for academic purposes. No, it's the other two books that worry me. There's something about the two titles that's bothering me. I keep feeling I've come across them before in some way even though I've never read them. I can't really explain it, Sir. That's why I need to go to the library and do some research into their origins.'
'Very well, Morse. You know best, I suppose. You carry on as you see fit. I'll interview Mr Robert Peter Barnes when Strange brings him in. We'll meet back here in a couple of hours, OK?'
Morse nodded, turned smartly on his heels and left Thursday to his own thoughts and devices. The DCI was keeping a calm and cool demeanour but he couldn't help wondering excitedly whether they might be finally on the brink of cracking the case and bringing in Ronald Fraser's killer. It had been a long, tough two to three weeks since the body had been discovered and there had been times when he doubted if they would ever make a genuine breakthrough. But here they now stood, seemingly within touching distance of making an arrest, and the picture was looking much brighter for the first time in weeks. And he had the imminent pleasure of grilling that insufferable toe-rag Barnes once more to look forward to. The morning was taking a turn for the better with each passing minute, he concluded!
Part 3
'Come on Barnes!' shouted Thursday at the surly, unsmiling man sitting opposite him in the interview room. 'Don't take me for a fool. Your real name is Robert, isn't it? Peter's just the name you call yourself now. But you were christened Robert Peter Barnes, weren't you?'
'OK! For God's sake, what does it matter? Robert Barnes or Peter Barnes, so what? It's not a crime to want to be called by your middle name is it? Or has the law been changed recently?'
Barnes glared back at Thursday as he simmered with scarcely concealed anger at what he saw as rank victimisation against him by the police and by this policeman in particular who clearly had taken a very strong dislike to him and wasn't afraid to show it.
'It matters because we have very strong reason to believe that the murderer of Ronald Fraser is someone with the first name Robert, which puts you well and truly in the frame, in my book.'
'I didn't kill him,' protested Barnes wearily. 'I had no reason to kill him. Just because I didn't like the fellow much doesn't mean I wanted to kill him. If that's your case against me, then you'd better charge me with at least half a dozen more murders. I know plenty of people who've died who I wasn't bosom buddies with. Why not go the whole hog and pin those deaths on me while you're at it?'
'You knew Fraser. You argued with him, violently, at one time. You resented the fact that he stalled your career. You almost lost your job as a result of your assault on him. You held that against him ever since. For all we know, you've been planning to get your revenge on Fraser for years.'
'Look,' gasped an increasingly desperate Barnes, 'He may have knocked my career back a little bit, for a while at least. But he certainly didn't ruin it, did he? I mean, look at me now. I've got a senior position at the Mail, I'm a respected journalist. I carry plenty of clout both inside and outside the paper. Why the hell would I jeopardise all that now over some stupid argument donkeys years ago?'
Thursday remained silent as he stared at an increasingly anxious and morose Barnes who was wriggling uncomfortably in his seat. 'Your alibi's not worth the paper it's written on, Barnes. You could have done it, that's for sure. You could have easily slipped out after you had finished speaking to your mother on the phone, met up with Fraser, killed him and returned home. Three things are needed for a crime to be committed, Mr Barnes. Means, motive and opportunity. And from where I'm sitting, you had all three.'
'How did I have the means, Chief Inspector?'
'I admit we haven't found the murder weapon…yet. But maybe we will if we get a warrant to search your house. Like as not we'll find it if we completely turn your place over, take up all the floorboards, go through your loft inch by inch, dig up your garden. My men are very thorough, you know. If you've hidden it there, no matter how good a hiding place you think you've found, we'll find it, I promise you that.'
'Go ahead then. Be my guest, Chief Inspector. Tear my house apart, if that's what you want to do. I don't give a damn. You won't find anything that will link me to Fraser's murder. There's no bloodstained knife hidden away under the floorboards or in the water tank, I can assure you.'
'Thank you for reminding me about the water tank, Mr Barnes. You can be sure we'll look there too.'
The two men glowered at each other in mutual antipathy for quite some time before Thursday got bored and stood up. 'You can stay here for a bit longer while you have a good think about the situation you're in, Mr Barnes. I'm going to make one or two more enquiries but I shall be back later to continue our little chat.' With that parting shot, which he hoped Barnes would construe as a threat and not merely a promise, Thursday left the room while Barnes let out a huge sigh, slumped back in his chair and ran a shaking hand through his hair which had become wet with perspiration and a good deal of anxiety.
When he got back to his office Thursday sat down, leaned back in his chair and slowly stroked his jaw with his right hand as he considered what to make of his initial exchanges with Peter/Robert Barnes. He so wanted Barnes to be their man but he was mindful of not allowing personal prejudices to interfere with correct police detection and the collection of meaningful evidence. Did Barnes have the opportunity to carry out the murder? Yes, undoubtedly, just. Did he have the means? Probably, even though they still lacked a murder weapon, but who knows what they might find after a thorough search of his house. Did he have a motive? Yes again although Barnes's stout defence and reasoned argument that he had no really strong motive for killing Fraser was weighing heavily on Thursday's mind. Against all his fervent desires to see the arrogant young man be taken down a peg or two, Thursday had to admit that his gut feeling was that Barnes had nothing to do with the murders and it was this gut feeling that was putting him in an increasingly tetchy mood. He had to hope that Morse would come up with something soon down at the library otherwise they would be back to square one, scratching their heads and exchanging blank looks.
He had been reduced to strumming his fingers on his desk again as his impatience and frustration was threatening to boil over into something approaching desk rage when DS Strange poked his head around the door.
'I hope it's good news you're bringing me, Jim,' said Thursday, abruptly curtailing his finger-drumming activity and looking up at his sergeant with hope rather more than expectation.
'Not really, sir,' replied Strange. 'Unless eliminating a possible suspect from our enquiries constitutes good news.'
'Go on,' said Thursday with a wry smile.
'Well, I'm relieved to say that my French friend Claudine is unlikely to be Fraser's secret daughter and therefore our killer. She spent her whole life in France until she was nineteen and I've checked her birth certificate. Both parents are French and very much still alive and kicking and living twenty miles or so outside of Paris. She would have been too young to be Fraser's daughter by about five years, I reckon.'
'Well, I'm pleased for your sake obviously, Jim. It would have been extremely unpleasant, not to say embarrassing for you if it had turned out to be her.'
'You can say that again, Sir. I'm not sure how I would have lived that down, to be honest.'
'Well, you don't have to worry about that any more, do you? You can carry on practicing and improving your French to your heart's content.' said Thursday, forcing out a smile even though he didn't feel in an especially jovial mood.
Strange turned a shade of crimson at his guvnor's ambiguous reference to him carrying on with his French lessons and gave Thursday a weak smile in return.
'We'll just have to hope Morse turns up something over at the Bodleian or else I can see Mr Bright coming under huge pressure from Division to hand the case over to County.'
Strange's mouth flew open in shock at Thursday's out of the blue suggestion and he was unable to stop himself from passing opinion on this wholly unexpected threat.
'Surely it won't come to that, Sir. Why would they do that, especially as we're so close to cracking it? They can't do that to you, can they? That wouldn't be right. Have they any idea how much time and effort you and Morse have put into the case?'
'We all get judged on results, Sergeant. I'm no different to any other copper. If we can't solve the case, then they'll have no qualms about passing it across to someone else over at County.'
Strange shook his head slowly from side to side, noticeably unimpressed with this argument, however much Thursday seemed to accept it. 'That's still not right, Sir. They should be backing you to the hilt, one hundred per cent. Look at all the cases you've solved over the years, all the villains you've put away. That should still count for something.'
'You're only ever as good as your last case, Jim. It's the same for all of us. It doesn't matter what you've done in the past, it's what you're doing in the here and now that counts. And right now, we've drawn a blank. That can't be allowed to continue indefinitely, in the eyes of Division. They need a result and if we can't get it for them, then it will be thrown over to someone else. That's just how things are. Nothing we can do about it. It's the way of the world.'
Strange saw a sadness in Thursday's eyes even as he spoke with such utter conviction and loyalty to the force that this thing was bigger than him and out of his control. No one policeman and his reputation could be allowed to be bigger than the reputation of the whole force. One had to look at the bigger picture, Thursday was clearly suggesting, rather than take into account the sensitivities of one DCI or one CID Murder Team.
'It will be a very sad day if that was to happen, Sir,' said Strange with a heavy sigh as he turned to leave the room.
'Thank you for your support, Jim. None of it would reflect badly on you and Morse, though,' said Thursday encouragingly. 'I would take full responsibility for the failure to track down the killer. I'll make sure none of the mud sticks to either of you two, I promise you that.'
Strange muttered a few well-chosen words of appreciation before he quietly left the room, leaving Thursday to speculate briefly on how much longer he and his team might be given to solve the case. Time was fast running out, he feared. He doubted they would survive beyond the end of the week.
Part 4
Morse had succeeded in finding a quiet area of the library in which to make himself comfortable and set up base for the morning. It wasn't particularly busy that day, there were a few people dotted here and there at the tables, poring over books and manuscripts, studiously making notes from time to time or slowly turning over the pages of some priceless dusty volume or other. Many appeared to be college students, probably looking for quotes to reference their latest essay assignment, supplemented by the occasional academic presumably doing some vital research for their latest literary offering to the world at large.
Morse had taken off his jacket and casually draped it around the back of his chair before he had gone off in search of the research books he needed to consult. The librarian in charge of the section of the library where he had laid down his roots had turned out to be extremely helpful and it wasn't too long before he had located the reference books he was looking for and had returned to his table and laid them out in front of him. He took out of his pocket Vera Cooper's newspaper crossword with her random scribblings and the single piece of paper with the titles of the three books written down on it and placed both in the centre of the table right in his eye line where he could see them at all times. These two pieces of evidence were to be the cornerstone of his enquiries that morning and he had resolved not to leave the library until he had cracked at least one of the two clues on offer.
His principal source of information was the Concise Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology, supplemented by a few other reference books in a similar vein pertaining to Greek and Latin classical mythology and a small volume of literary criticism of the works of Jean Racine. He worked quietly, studiously and methodically over the first hour, his pen occasionally tapping thoughtfully over the words on the crossword puzzle page and the single piece of paper variously in turn as he gazed ahead of him into space while he turned numerous thoughts around in his mind. Unlike the previous evening, Morse felt relaxed, sharp and quick-witted that morning, a decent night's sleep having clearly done him the world of good. He was very much up for the challenge and felt confident that if he could find just the smallest opening, the tiniest gap in the line of defence through which to pass into the dark passageway that lay ahead, he would be able to find his way to the end of the tunnel and step forward into the light.
He uncovered a few promising leads in the first hour but nothing concrete by way of damning evidence against anyone in particular and yet strangely he did not feel especially disheartened by his lack of immediate success. He had the firm belief and conviction that he was making progress, that he was moving in the right direction and that it would only be a matter of time before he came across his first big clue which would send him off down the right path to enlightenment and ultimately full discovery. And sure enough, after about an hour and a quarter of conscientious, painstaking and persistent research, during which he made full use of all the texts and volumes at his disposal, he made his first decisive breakthrough.
When he looked up the derivation of the name Berenice, he discovered that it was a not uncommon girl's name of Greek origin meaning 'she who brings victory'. This fact did not come as a great surprise to him as he vaguely recalled from his time as a Classics student up at Oxford that this was indeed the origin of this particularly French girl's name taken from Greek tragedy and mythology. But it was when he began to consider the list of prominent varying forms of the name Berenice that he made his first disturbing discovery. The first half dozen of these common variants were entirely predictable: Berneice, Bernetta, Bernice, Bernie, Berniece, Bernita, Bernyce. Then the list moved on to rather more odd and unusual variants which he couldn't have possibly guessed at – Cleopatra, Vernice and finally…..his mouth fell open at the last name in the sequence and he gazed at it with disbelieving eyes. He shook his head slowly, unable to properly take in what he had just read. That couldn't be right, he thought. There must be some mistake. He would have to double check this for fear of being made to look a complete fool.
He decided he would go in the other direction, just to be absolutely certain. He picked up the huge volume of English Etymology and with slightly nervous, almost trembling fingers, rifled through the pages of the dictionary until he came to the name he was searching for and read the explanation given of the origin of that name.
'A female given name, the Latin transliteration of the Greek name Berenice, which in turn is derived from the Macedonian form of the Athenian Pherenike or Pheronike, from 'pherein' meaning to bring and 'nike' meaning victory.' She who brings victory, thought Morse, bringing all the pieces together. He pondered his discovery in uneasy silence for a while as he desperately sought ways to disprove the undeniable truth of this latest shocking revelation. How does this fit in with the rest of the clues, he asked himself? Surely that should be the real test of the persuasiveness of the clue he had just uncovered. If he couldn't make the name stick to all the other clues that Vera had left, then certainly he could discount it as pure coincidence, a quirk of language that could be dismissed as a freak accident that had little or no relevance to their enquiry.
But where should he start with all the other clues that Vera had left? The crossword puzzle lists of names and words or the other books left on the table with her copy of the Racine play? What about exploring in a little more detail the origins of the female name that had just been revealed to him? The logical place from which to continue his research would be any Latin origins, surely, he convinced himself with a heavy heart. He took his time to find what he was looking for, holding his breath as he turned over the pages as he sought the relevant section but when he finally came upon the Latin derivation and read it out loud to himself in a croaky whisper, he felt his heart sink to the bottom of his boots.
The Latin origin of this girl's name was heavily influenced by the ecclesiastical Latin phrase 'vera ikon' meaning 'true image.' It was the name of the legendary saint who supposedly wiped Jesus's face with a towel and then subsequently found his image imprinted upon it.
Morse was stunned and his face instinctively turned to gaze at the piece of paper in front of him on the table, where his eyes remained fixed on the book titles Berenice and True Image for some considerable time. At one point he raised his hands to his face to rub his eyes vigorously as if in a vain attempt to remove the sight of the two incriminating book titles from his mind but all to no avail. They remained stubbornly in full view, seemingly taunting him with their power to disappoint and to disillusion.
He picked up the newspaper crossword and studied it with expressionless, empty eyes, hoping against all reasonable and logical expectation to find a decisive flaw in the theory he was inexorably formulating as he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. But armed with the decisive knowledge he had gained in the last ten or fifteen minutes, he could only now find depressing confirmation of his growing suspicions rather than persuasive contradictions that would serve to cast significant doubt on the path he found himself hurtling down. The list of seemingly random words leapt out at him with distinct clarity for the first time after countless previous examinations had produced a dense fog of confusion and nothingness. Robert Louis Stevenson. Robert Frost. Hope rather than charity. Bob Hope. Even one name from the list of American actresses revealed itself to him now in all its muddled glory. That was largely down to Strange, he told himself gloomily in a desperate attempt to absolve some small part of the blame from himself. His colleague's terrible habit of frequently getting people's names wrong had come back to bite him on the nose with a terrifying vengeance. It wasn't Vera Lake at all.
He let out a long, heavy sigh, followed by a groan of anguish and despair before reluctantly raising himself from his chair, collecting up the books and volumes from the table and slowly making his way over to the librarian's desk where he deposited the books in front of her and forced out a few words of appreciation for her help. He trudged disconsolately towards the exit and made his way out of the library, each step taking him closer to a confrontation he really didn't want to face but which he had no option but to meet head on with a heavy heart and a painfully heightened sense of duty and responsibility.
Author's Message
Well, there you have it. Morse believes he has uncovered the identity of the killer but have you? Let me know who you think it might be. Not that I'm going to tell you if you're right or not! There's one final chapter to go and an ending which I hope will be suitably thrilling and a fitting finale to a long drawn-out murder enquiry. I hope you enjoyed this penultimate chapter and will stick around for the conclusion which should be published early next week. Thanks for all your support!
