by Colin Dexter
“But, as I say—”
“No ‘buts,’ I’m afraid. Then you might be home Saturday or Sunday.”
“But there’s so much to do!” remonstrated Morse almost desperately.
“Weren’t those the words of Cecil Rhodes?”
“Yes, I think they were.”
“The last words, if I recall aright.”
Morse was silent.
And the Senior Consultant continued: “Look, there are three basic causes of diabetes—well, that’s an oversimplification. But you’re not a medical man.”
“Thank you,” said Morse.
“Hereditary factors, stress, excessive booze. You’d score five … six out of ten on the first. Your father had diabetes, I see.”
“Latish in life.”
“Well, you’re not exactly a youngster yourself.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Stress? You’re not too much of a worryguts?”
“Well, I worry about the future of the human race—does that count?”
“What about booze? You seem to drink quite a bit, I see?”
So Morse told him the truth; or, to be more accurate, told him between one-half and one-third of the truth.
Matthews got to his feet, peered at the insulin drip, and marginally readjusted some control thereon.
“Six out of ten on the second; ten out of ten on the third, I’m afraid. And by the way, I’m not allowing you any visitors. None at all—not even close relatives. Just me and the nurses here.”
“I haven’t got any close relatives,” said Morse.
Matthews now stood at the foot of his bed. “You’ve already had somebody wanting to see you, though. Fellow called Lewis.”
After Matthews had gone, Morse lay back and thought of his colleague. And for several minutes he felt very low, unmanned as he was with a strangely poignant gratitude.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Thursday, February 29
The relations between us were peculiar. He was a man of habits, narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one of them. But apart from this I had uses. I was a whetstone for his mind, I stimulated him. He liked to think aloud in my presence.
—CONAN DOYLE, The Adventures of the Creeping Man
“And ’ow is ’e today, then?” asked Mrs. Lewis when her husband finally returned home on Thursday evening, and when soon the fat was set a-sizzling in the chip pan, with the two eggs standing ready to be broken in the frying pan.
“On the mend.”
“They always say that.”
“No. He’s genuinely on the mend.”
“Why can’t ’e ’ave visitors then? Not contagious, is it, this diabetes?”
Lewis smiled at her. Brought up as she had been in the Rhondda Valley, the gentle Welsh lilt in her voice was an abiding delight with him—though not, to be quite truthful, with everyone.
“He’ll probably be out this weekend.”
“And back to work?”
Lewis put his hands on his wife’s shoulders as she stood watching the pale chips gradually turning brown.
“This weekend, I should think.”
“You’ve always enjoyed working with ’im, ’aven’t you?”
“Well …”
“I’ve often wondered why. It’s not as if ’e’s ever treated you all that well, is it?”
“I’m the only one he’s ever treated well,” said Lewis quietly.
She turned toward him, laterally shaking the chips with a practiced right hand.
“And ’ow are you today, then? The case going okay?”
Lewis sat down at the red Formica-topped kitchen table and surveyed the old familiar scene: lacy white doily, knife and fork, bottle of tomato ketchup, bread and butter on one side, and a glass of milk on the other. He should have felt contented; and as he looked back over another long day, perhaps he did.
Temporarily, Chief Superintendent David Blair from the Oxford City Force had been given overall responsibility for the Rachel James murder inquiry, and he had spent an hour at Kidlington Police HQ earlier that afternoon, where Lewis had brought him up to date with the latest developments.
Not that they had amounted to much …
The reports from DCs Learoyd and Elton were not destined significantly to further the course of the investigation. Lord Hardiman, aged eighty-seven, a sad victim of Alzheimer’s disease, and now confined to his baronial hall in Bedfordshire, was unlikely, it seemed, to squander any more of his considerable substance in riotous living along the Reeperbahn. While the child fondler, recognized immediately by his erstwhile neighbors, was likewise unlikely to disturb the peace for the immediate future, confined as he was at Her Majesty’s Pleasure in Reading for the illegal publication and propagation of material deemed likely to deprave and corrupt.
More interestingly, Lewis had been able to report on his own inquiries, particularly on his second interview with Julian Storrs, who had been more willing now to divulge details of dates, times, and hotels for his last three visits to Paddington with Rachel James.
And after that, to report on his interview with Sir Clixby Bream, who had informed Lewis of the imminent election of a new Master, and who had given him a copy of the College Statutes (fortunately, rendered Anglice) with their emphasis upon the need for any candidate for the Mastership to be in good physical health (in corpore sano).
“Nobody can guarantee good health,” Blair had observed.
“No, but sometimes you can almost guarantee bad health, perhaps, sir?”
“We’re still no nearer to finding how Owens got a copy of that letter?”
“No. I went round to the Harvey Clinic again yesterday. No luck, though. The doc who wrote the letter got himself killed, as you know, and all his records have been distributed around … reallocated, sort of thing.”
“They’re all in a mess, you mean?”
Lewis nodded. “Somehow Owens got to know that he hadn’t got much time left, didn’t he? So he’s got three things on him: He knows a good deal about Angela Storrs’ past; he knows he was having an affair with Rachel James; and he knows he’s pretty certainly hiding his medical reports from his colleagues in College—from everybody, perhaps.”
Quite certainly Morse would have complained about the confusing profusion of third-person pronouns in the previous sentence. But Blair seemed to follow the account with no difficulty.
“From his wife, too?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“You know, Morse once told me that any quack who tells you when you’re going to die is a bloody fool.”
Lewis grinned. “He’s told me the same thing about a dozen times.”
“He’s getting better, you say?”
“Out by the weekend, they think.”
“You hope so, don’t you?”
Lewis nodded, and Blair continued quietly:
“You’re peculiar companions, you know, you and Morse. Don’t you think? He can be an ungrateful, ungracious sod at times.”
“Almost always, sir,” admitted Lewis, smiling to himself as if recalling mildly happy memories.
“He’ll have to take things more easily now.”
“Would you care to tell him that?”
“No.”
“Just one thing more, sir—about Owens. I really think we ought to consider the possibility that he’s in a bit of danger. There must be quite a few people who’d gladly see him join Rachel in the mortuary.”
“What do you suggest, Sergeant?”
“That’s the trouble, isn’t it? We can’t just give him a bodyguard.”
“There’s only one way of keeping an eye on him all the time.”
“Bring him in, you mean, sir? But we can’t do that—not yet.”
“No. No good bringing him in and then having to let him go. We shall need something to charge him with. I don’t suppose …” Blair hesitated. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance that he murdered Rachel James?”
“I don’t think
so, myself, no.”
“What’s Morse think?”
“He did think so for a start, but … Which reminds me, sir. I’d better make another trip to the newspaper offices tomorrow.”
“Don’t go and do everything yourself, Sergeant.”
“Will you promise to tell the Chief Inspector that?”
“No,” replied Blair as he prepared to leave; but hesitantly so, since he was feeling rather worried himself now about what Lewis had said.
“What did Morse think about the possibility of Owens getting himself murdered?”
“Said he could look after himself; said he was a streetwise kid from the start; said he was a survivor.”
“Let’s hope he’s right.”
“Sometimes he is, sir,” said Lewis.
Chapter Thirty-nine
We forget ourselves and our destinies in health; and the chief use of temporary sickness is to remind us of these concerns.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON, Journals
Sister Janet McQueen—an amply bosomed woman now in her early forties, single and darkly attractive to the vast majority of men—had been considerably concerned about her new patient: one E. Morse. Patently, in spite of his superficial patter, the man knew nothing whatsoever of medicine, and appeared unaware, and strangely unconcerned, about his physical well-being; ill-being, rather.
On several occasions during the following days she’d spent some time with him, apologizing for the two-hourly check on his blood sugar levels (even during the night); explaining the vital role of the pancreas in the metabolic processes; and acquainting him with the range, color, purpose, and possible efficacy, of the medication and equipment now prescribed—single-use insulin syringes, Human Ultratard, Human Actrapid, Unilet Lancets, Exactech Reagent Strips, Enalapril Tablets, Frusemide Tablets, Nifedipine Capsules.…
He’d seemed to understand most of it, she thought. And from their first meeting she’d realized that the prematurely white-haired man was most unusual.
“Glad about the pills,” he’d said.
“You are?”
“Different colors, aren’t they? White, pink, brown-and-orange. Good, that is. Gives a man a bit of psychological confidence. In the past, I’ve always thought that confidence was a bit overrated. Not so sure now, though, Sister.”
She made no answer. But his words were to remain in her mind; and she knew that she would look forward to talking with this man again.
By Tuesday evening, Morse’s blood sugar level had fallen dramatically. And at coffee time on Wednesday morning, Sister McQueen came to his bedside, the fingers of her right hand almost automatically feeling his pulse as she flicked the watch from the starched white lapel of her uniform.
“Shall I survive till the weekend?”
“You hardly deserve to.”
“I’m okay now, you mean?”
She snorted in derision; but winsomely so.
“You know why we didn’t want you to have any visitors?”
“You wanted me all to yourself?” suggested Morse.
She shook her head slowly, her sensitive, slim lips widening into a saddened smile.
“No. Dr. Matthews thought you were probably far too worried about life—about your work—about other things, perhaps. And he didn’t want to take any chances. Visitors are always a bit of a stress.”
“He needn’t have worried too much about that.”
“But you’re wrong, aren’t you?” She got to her feet. “You’ve had four people on the phone every day, regular callers—regular as well-adjusted bowels.”
Morse looked up at her.
“Four?”
“Somebody called Lewis—somebody called Strange—somebody called Blair. All from the police, I think.”
“Four, you said?”
“Ah yes. Sorry. And somebody called Jane. She works for you, she said. Sounds awfully sweet.”
As he lay back after Sister had gone, and switched on the headphones to Classic FM, Morse was again aware of how low he had sunk, since almost everything—a kindly look, a kindly word, a kindly thought, even the thought of a kindly thought—seemed to push him ever nearer to the rim of tears. Forget it, Morse! Forget yourself and forget your health! For a while anyway. He picked up The ABC Murders which he’d found in the meager ward library. He’d always enjoyed Agatha Christie: a big fat puzzle ready for the reader from page one. Perhaps it might help a little with the big fat puzzle waiting for him in the world outside the Radcliffe Infirmary …
ABC.
Alexander Bonaparte Cust.
Adèle Beatrice Cecil.
Ann Berkeley Cox …
Within five minutes Morse was asleep.
On Thursday afternoon, a slim, rather prissy young dietitian came to sit beside Morse’s bed and to talk quickly, rationally, and at inordinate length, about such things as calories and carrots and carbohydrates.
“And if you ever feel like a pint of beer once a week, well, you just go ahead and have one! It shouldn’t do you much harm.”
Morse’s spirit groaned within him.
The Senior Consultant himself came round again the following morning. The insulin drip had long gone; blood readings were gradually reverting to a manageable level; blood pressure was markedly down.
“You’ve been very lucky,” said Matthews.
“I don’t deserve it,” admitted Morse.
“No. You don’t.”
“When are you going to let me go?”
“Home? Tomorrow, perhaps. Work? Up to you. I’d take a fortnight off myself—but then I’ve got far more sense than you have.”
* * *
Well before lunchtime on Saturday, already dressed and now instructed to await an ambulance, Morse was seated in the entrance corridor of the Geoffrey Harris Ward when Sister McQueen came to sit beside him.
“I’m almost sorry to be going,” said Morse.
“You’ll miss us?”
“I’ll miss you.”
“Really?”
“Could I ring you—here?” asked Morse diffidently.
“In those immortal words: ‘Don’t ring us—we’ll ring you.’ ”
“You mean you will ring me?”
She shook her head. “Perhaps not. And it doesn’t matter, does it? What matters is that you look after yourself. You’re a nice man—a very nice man!—and I’m so glad we met.”
“If I did come to see you, would you look after me?”
“Bed and Breakfast, you mean?” She smiled. “You’d always be welcome in the McQueen Arms.”
She stood up as an ambulance man came through the flappy doors.
“Mr. Morse?” he asked.
“I’d love to be in the McQueen arms,” Morse managed to say, very quietly.
As he was driven past the Neptune fountain in the forecourt of the Radcliffe Infirmary, he wondered if Sister had appreciated that shift in key, from the upper-case Arms to the lower-case arms.
He hoped she had.
Chapter Forty
Sunday, March 3
Important if true.
—Inscription A. W. Kinglake wished to see on all churches
Forgive us for loving familiar hymns and religious feelings more than Thee, O Lord.
—From the United Presbyterian Church Litany
“But I’d better not call before the Archers’ omnibus?” Lewis had suggested the previous evening.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ve kept up with events in Ambridge all week. And I don’t want to hear ’em again. I just wonder when these scriptwriters will understand that beautiful babies are about as boring as happy marriages.”
“About ten then, sir?”
Morse, smartly dressed in clean white shirt and semipressed gray flannels, was listening to the last few minutes of the Morning Service on Radio 4 when Lewis was quickly admitted—and cautioned.
“Sh! My favorite hymn.”
In the silence that followed, the two men sat listening with Morse’s bleating, uncertain baritone occasio
nally accompanying the singing.
“Didn’t know you were still interested in that sort of thing,” volunteered Lewis after it had finished.
“I still love the old hymns—the more sentimental the better, for my taste. Wonderful words, didn’t you think?” And softly, but with deep intensity, he recited a few lines he’d just sung:
“I trace the rainbow through the rain
And feel the promise is not vain
That Morn shall tearless be.”
But Lewis, who had noted the moisture in Morse’s eyes, and who had sensed that the promise of the last line might soon be broken, immediately injected a more joyful note into the conversation.
“It’s really good to have you back, sir.”
Apparently unaware that any reciprocal words of gratitude were called for, Morse asked about the case; and learned that the police were perhaps “treading water” for the time being, and that Chief Superintendent Blair was nominally i/c pro tem.
“David Blair. Best copper in the county,” Lewis was about to nod a partial agreement, “apart from me, of course.”
And suddenly Lewis felt very happy that he was back in harness with this arrogant, ungracious, vulnerable, lovable man with whom he had worked so closely for so many years; a man who looked somewhat slimmer, somewhat paler than when he had last seen him, but who sounded not a whit less brusque as he now asked whether Lewis had checked up on the time when Storrs had left home for his last visit with Rachel to Paddington, and the time when the postman had delivered the mail in Polstead Road that same morning.
And Lewis had.
9:45–9:50 A.M.
9:10–9:20 A.M.
Respectively.
“From which, Lewis, we may draw what conclusions?”
“Precious few, as far as I can see.”
“Absolutely! What other new facts have you got for me?”
So Lewis told him.
* * *
It was ten minutes short of noon when Morse dropped the mini-bombshell.
“The Cherwell, do you think, Lewis? The landlord there always keeps a decent pint.”
“But beer’s full of sugar, isn’t it? You can’t—”