Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

by Colin Dexter

  throughout the short service, and the superannuated minister's apparent

  confidence in the resurrection of the dead had filled him more with horror

  than with hope. He thought of his wife and of her death, and experienced

  that familiar sense of the guilt that still remained to be expiated. The

  hymn was all right, although he'd gone himself for

  "Praise My Soul, the King of Heaven' in the Instructions For My Funeral

  stapled to his last will and testament

  But on the whole he dreaded church services almost as much as did the man

  seated beside him; and he could think of nothing more detestable than a

  funeral.

  Morse himself had been sickened by the latest version (Series Something) of

  the Funeral Service. Gone were those resonant cadences of the AV and the

  Prayer Book: those passages about corruption putting on incorruptibility and

  the rest of it, which as a youth he'd found so poignant and powerful. They'd

  even had a cheerful hymn, for heaven's sake!

  Where was that wonderfully sad and sentimental hymn he'd chosen for his own

  farewell: '0 Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go'? Chosen, that is, before he'd

  recently decided to leave his body for medical science, although that

  decision itself was now in considerable doubt. In particular that little

  clause in sub- section 6 of Form Dl still stuck in his craw: "Should your

  bequest be accepted . . ."

  He pointedly avoided the priest who'd presided a man (in Morse's view)

  excessively accoutred in ecclesiastical vestments, and wholly lacking in any

  sensitivity to the English language. But he did have a quick word of

  sympathy with the widow, shaking her black-gloved hand firmly before turning

  to her mother.

  "Mrs Stokes?" he asked quietly.

  "Yes?"

  Morse introduced himself.

  "My sergeant called to see your daughter' " Oh yes. "

  ' - when you were there looking after the children, I believe. Very kind of

  you. Must be a bit wearisome . I wouldn't know, though. "

  "It's a pleasure really."

  "Who's looking after them today?"

  "Oh they're, er . . . you know, a friend, a neighbour. Won't be for long

  anyway."

  "No."

  Morse turned away, following in Strange's steps towards the car park.

  She was lying, of course Morse knew that. There was only one of the Barren

  children at home that day; as there had been when Lewis had called. The

  elder of the two, Alice, was away somewhere. That much, though very little

  else, Lewis himself had been able to learn from the Barrens' GP the previous

  day. Morse thought he knew why, and another piece of the jigsaw had slipped

  into place.

  "Hello! Chief Inspector Morse, isn't it? My daughter tells me she saw you

  recently. But perhaps you don't know me."

  "Let's say we've never been officially introduced, Mr Harrison."

  "Ah! You do know me. I know you, of course, and Sergeant Lewis has been to

  see me. You probably sent him."

  "As a matter of fact I did."

  "I realize you weren't yourself involved in my wife's murder case but, er .

  . ."

  Harrison was by some three inches or so the taller of the two, and Morse felt

  slightly uncomfortable as a pair of pale- grey eyes, hard and unsmiling,

  looked slightly down on him.

  '. . . but I'd heard about you. Yvonne spoke about you several times.

  She'd looked after you once when you were in hospital. Remember? "

  Morse nodded.

  "Quite taken by you, she was.

  "A sensitive soul" - I think that's what she called you; said you were

  interesting to talk to and had a nice voice. Told me she was going to invite

  you out to one of her, er, soirees. When I was away, of course. "

  "I should hope so. Wouldn't have wanted any competition, would I?"

  "Did you have any competition?"

  "The only time I ever met Yvonne again was in the Maiden's Arms,"

  said Morse gently, unblinking blue eyes now looking slightly upward into the

  strong, clean-shaven face of Harrison senior.

  As Strange struggled to squeeze his bulk between seat and steering wheel.

  Morse looked back and saw that the funeral guests were almost all departed.

  But Linda Barren stood there still, in close conversation with Frank Harrison

  both of them now stepping aside a little as another black Daimler moved

  smoothly into place outside the chapel, with another light

  brown, lily-bedecked coffin lying length ways inside, the polished handles

  glinting in the sun.

  Morse found himself pondering on the funeral.

  "I wonder why he put in an appearance."

  "Who? Frank Harrison? Why shouldn't he? Lived in the same village had him

  in to do those house repairs " Knew his wife had been in bed with him. " "

  Fasten your seat-belt. Morse! " " Er, before we drive off, there's

  something "Fasten your seat-belt! Know what that's an anagram of, by the way?

  "Truss neatly to be safe." Clever, eh?

  Somebody told me that once. You probably. "

  For a few seconds Morse looked slightly puzzled. "Couldn't have been me.

  It's got to be " belts". Otherwise there's one " s" short."

  "Just put the bloody thing on!"

  But Morse left the bloody thing off as he looked directly ahead of him and

  completed his earlier sentence: "Just before we drive off, sir, there's

  something I ought to mention. It's about Lewis. I'm fairly sure he's

  beginning to get some odd ideas about my being involved in some way with

  Yvonne Harrison."

  It was Strange's turn to look directly ahead of him. "And you think I wasn't

  aware of that?" he asked quietly.

  chapter sixty Have respect unto the covenant: for the dark places of the

  earth are full of the habitations of cruelty (Psalm 74, v. 20) once in

  charlton kings, a suburb on the eastern side of Cheltenham, Sergeant Lewis

  had followed the map directions carefully (he loved that sort of thing),

  turning right from the A40 through a maze of residential streets, and finally

  driving the unmarked police car past the sign on the white-washed wall beside

  the gateway "Sisters of the Covenant: Preparatory Boarding School for Girls'

  - and along the short gravel led drive that led to a large, detached Georgian

  house.

  Destination reached; and purpose, shortly afterwards, fulfilled. With a few

  extra suggestions from Morse, Lewis had found it comparatively easy to fill

  in most of the picture. The Barrons' GP had professional and wholly proper

  reasons for his guarded reticence. But other sources had been considerably

  less cautious with their help and information: the Burford Social Services,

  the NSPCC, the headmistress of the village primary school, the local Catholic

  priest, and, last of all, the middle- aged nun, dressed in a chocolate-brown

  habit and white wimple, who was expecting him and who found little difficulty

  in answering his brief, pointed questions.

  Five nuns, all of them resident, looked after the school, which was

  specifically dedicated to the physical and spiritual well- being of girls

  between the ages of four and eleven (currently

  eighteen of them) who for varied reasons poverty, indifference, criminality,

  crue
lty had been ill-used in their family homes. In spite of a modest

  benefaction, the school was a place of limited resources, at least in human

  terms; and was appropriately designated "Private', with the majority of

  parents paying fees of between 1,000 and 1,500 per term.

  Alice Barron, yes now aged six was one of the pupils there, referred to the

  school by her mother. She had been abused: not sexually, it seemed; but

  certainly physically; certainly psychologically.

  No, Alice was not one of our Lord's brightest intellects; in fact she was in

  some ways a slow-witted child. This may have been the result of her home

  environment, but probably only partially so. Her younger sister (the

  teaching staff had learned) was as bright as the proverbial button; and such

  a circumstance could well have accounted to some degree for an impatient,

  expectant, aggressive parent to have . . .

  "The father, you mean?"

  "You're putting words into my mouth. Sergeant."

  "But if you were a betting woman which I know you're not, of course . .."

  "What on earth makes you think that?" Her eyes momentarily glinted with

  humour.

  "But if I were, I would not be putting much money on the mother, no."

  "How are the accounts for each term settled?"

  "I looked that up, as you asked me. I can't, be quite sure, but I suspect

  it's been in cash."

  "Isn't that unusual?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "Does Alice know about her father's death?"

  "Not yet, no."

  "Do you think this whole business is going to . . . ?"

  "Difficult to tell, isn't it? She's improving, right enough. She's stopped

  wetting her bed, and she doesn't scream so loudly in the night."

  "But if you were going to have another bet?"

  "If I were a bookmaker, I'd lay you even money on it."

  As he drove back up to the A40, Lewis felt fairly sure he knew only a quarter

  as much about horse-racing (and probably about life) as Sister Benedicta.

  a8o

  chapter sixty-one character (n. ) handwriting, style of writing:

  Shakes. Meas. for M. Here is the hand and seal of the Duke. You know the

  character, I doubt not (Small's Enlarged English Diet. 18th ed. ) back at

  HQ Lewis found a handwritten note for his personal attention: Well worthwhile

  going to the crem. One or two interesting conversations and one or two new

  ideas (or is it one? ) . Super and I off to have a jug (or is it two? ) .

  Tell anybody who wants me that I 'm out to lunch and shall't be available till

  tomorrow morning no Monday morning. M. It was in Morse's hand, that small,

  neatly formed upright script that was recognizable anywhere; as indeed, for

  that matter, was Strange's hand large, spidery, with a perpetual list to

  starboard, and often only semi-legible.

  But Lewis was unconcerned. He would type up a report on his wholly

  satisfactory morning's work. And then he would sit back and let things

  slowly sink in, for it had now become clear that the Repp-Flynn-Barron

  mystery was solved. Completely solved now, with the knowledge that it was

  Linda Barren who

  had taken the hush-money; Linda Ban-on who must have

  insisted that if her husband ever thought of syphoning some of it off for

  himself she would expose him for the child-abuser that he was, and expose him

  to Social Services, to the police, to the folk in the village, to the Press.

  And she would have meant it, for she was past caring. My God, yes! And

  Barren had agreed.

  Yes . The big moments in the case were over; and he rang Mrs Lewis and asked

  her to have the chip-pan ready half an hour earlier than usual.

  Yes . In a strange kind of way, his confidence in himself had grown steadily

  throughout the present case, in spite of a few irritations like Dixon! And

  there was that one thing that had been interesting him and troubling him, in

  equal measure, for some considerable time now. Very soon he'd have to face

  up to telling Morse of his suspicions. But not just yet. He'd need to know

  a bit more about the Harrison murder first; especially about the contents of

  that fourth green box-file which had mysteriously added itself to the

  documents in the case, and which now sat alongside the other three on a shelf

  in Morse's office. Perhaps a bit later that afternoon, since Morse was

  unlikely to return.

  What if he did, anyway?

  Yes . Lewis sat back after typing his report, his thoughts dwelling on the

  case that to all intents and purposes had now closed. He was right, wasn't

  he? But there were just one or two tiny items he hadn't as yet checked; and

  he knew that his conscience would be niggling him about them. No time like

  the present.

  But not much luck. Still, those alibis for the Monday morning didn't much

  matter any longer. Or rather non-alibis, since neither Harrison Senior nor

  Harrison Junior had any alibi at

  all. And whilst Sarah Harrison did have an alibi, it still remained

  unchecked.

  He rang the Diabetes Centre in the Radcliffe Infirmary, with almost immediate

  if unexpected success, since Professor Turner (clearly not a Monday-Friday

  medic) now confirmed everything that Miss Harrison herself had affirmed: "In

  fact, Sergeant, she had to take over some of my patients mid- morning when I

  was summoned by my superiors ' " Do you have any superiors, sir? "

  On reflection, Lewis was more than a little pleased with that last question:

  just the sort of thing Morse would have asked. Was he, Lewis, just a little

  after all this time moving gradually nearer to Morsean wavelength?

  At a quarter-past four he walked along the corridor to Morse's office, to

  cast a fresh eye (so he promised himself) on that bizarre, that puzzling,

  that haunting evening of Yvonne Ham- son's murder the source of so much

  trouble and tragedy.

  Very soon he was virtually certain that he had seen none of the contents of

  that fourth box-file before; and had convinced himself that this was not

  merely a matter of some redistribution of the case-documents. The file

  contained the sort of personal items that many women, and doubtless many men,

  keep in one of the locked drawers of their desks or bureaux, often with some

  sense of guilt.

  There were all the usual things that from experience Lewis had known so well:

  letters, many of them in their original envelopes, some from women, most of

  them from men; photo- graphs, many of them of Yvonne herself (one topless)

  with a variety of men-friends; postcards from many a quarter of the globe,

  but mostly from Greece and Switzerland; three slim (unopened) bottles of

  perfume; various receipts for the purchase of ultra-expensive clothes and

  shoes. But for all the variety of material there, the box was scarcely

  half-full, and

  Lewis took his time. He looked at the photographs

  reasonably quickly (not quite so quickly at one of them, perhaps), before

  reading slowly (though not as slowly as Morse would have done) through the

  letters.

  Then he saw it: that they would prefer to be ill in hospital and nursed by

  you than to be in full health and never see you again. I join them. You

  have monopolized my t
houghts these last few days, ever since you promised -

  remember? - to get in touch once I was discharged. But no invitation, no

  phone call, no letter, nothing.

  If you have decided diat it was all just a temporary infatuation, and if, on

  your part, it was nothing more than diat - so be it. Just for a while longer

  though, let me look through my mail each morning in the hope That was all.

  Just one small page of a longer letter. No date, no address, no salutation,

  no valediction, no name nothing. And yet everything. Because the letter was

  written in that small, neatly formed upright script that was recognizable

  everywhere in the Thames Valley Police HQ.

  As he re-read the page, Lewis was suddenly aware of another presence in the

  office; and looked up to find Chief Inspector Morse standing silently in the

  doorway.

  284

  chapter sixty-two Don't tell me, sweet, that I'm unkind Each time I

  black your eye, Or raise a weal on your behind I'm just a loving guy.

  We both despise the gentle touch, So cut out the pretence; You wouldn't love

  it half as much Without the violence (Roy Dean, Lovelace Bleeding) anyone

  wishing to take up Morse's earlier promise of being available the following