The Remorseful Day

Chapter five

It was on Tuesday the 14th, the day before Strange’s visit to Morse, that Lewis had presented himself at the Chief Superintendent’s office in Thames Valley Police HQ, in punctual obedience to the internal phone call.

“Something for you, Lewis. Remember the Lower Swinstead murder?”

“Well, vaguely, yes. And I’ve seen the bits in the paper, you know, about the calls. I was never really on the case myself though. We were on another—”

“Well, you’re on it now — from next Monday morning, that is — once Morse gets back from Bermuda.”

“He hasn’t left Oxford, has he?”

“Joke, Lewis.” Strange beamed with bonhomie, settling his chin into his others.

“The Chief Inspector’s agreed?”

“Not much option, had he? And you enjoy working with the old sod. I know you do.”

“Not always.”

“Well, he always enjoys working with you.”

A strangely gratified Lewis made no reply.

“So?”

“Well, if it’s OK with Morse...”

“Which it is.”

“I’ll give him a ring.”

“No, you won’t. He’s tired, isn’t he? Needs a rest. Give him a bit of time to himself — you know, crosswords, booze...”

“Wagner, sir. Don’t forget his precious Wagner. He’s just bought another recording of that Ring Cycle stuff, so he told me.”

“Which recording’s that?”

“Conductor called ‘Sholty,’ I think.”

“Mm...” Strange pointed to three bulging green box-files stacked on the side of his desk. “Little bit of reading there. All right? Chance for you to get a few moves ahead of Morse.”

Lewis got to his feet, picked up the files, and held them awkwardly in front of him, his chin clamping the top one firm.

“I’ve never been even one move in front of him, sir.”

“No? Don’t you underestimate yourself, Lewis! Let others do it for you.”

Lewis managed a good-natured grin. “Not many people manage to get a move ahead of Morse.”

“Oh, really? Just a minute! Let me hold the door for you... And you’re not quite right about what you just said, you know. There are one or two people who just occasionally manage it.”

“Perhaps you’re right, sir. I’ve just not met one of ‘em, that’s all.”

“You have though,” said Strange quietly.

Lewis’s eyes turned quizzically as he maneuvered his triple burden through the door.

That same evening, Lewis had just finished his eggs and chips, had trawled the last slice of brown bread across the residual HP sauce, and was swallowing the last mouthful of full-cream cold milk, when he heard the call from above:

“Dad? Da — ad?”

Lewis looked down at the (presumably problematical) first sentence of his son’s A-level French Prose Composition: “Another bottle of this excellent wine, waiter!”

“Easy enough, that, isn’t it?”

“What gender’s ‘bottle’?”

“How am I supposed to know? What do you think I bought you that dictionary for?”

“Left it at school, didn’t I!”

“So?”

“So you mean you don’t know?”

“You’re brighter than I thought, son.”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Either masculine or feminine, sure to be.”

“That’s great.”

“Feminine, say? So it’s, er, ‘Garçon! Une autre bouteille de cette—’”

“No! You’re useless, Dad! If you say ‘Une autre bouteille,’ you mean a different bottle of wine.”

“Oh.”

“You say ‘Encore une bouteille de’ whatever it is.”

“Why do you ever ask me to help you?”

“Agh! Forget it! Like I say, you’re bloody useless.”

Lewis had never himself read Bleak House and, unlike Morse, would not have known the soothing secret of counting up to however-many. And in truth he felt angry and belittled as he walked silently down the stairs, picked up the box-files from the table in the entrance hall, walked past the living room, where Mrs. Lewis sat deeply submerged in a TV soap, and settled himself down at the kitchen table, where he began to acquaint himself with the strangely assorted members of the Harrison family — wife, husband, daughter, son — four of the principal players in the Lower Swinstead case.

He concentrated as well as he could, in spite of those cruel words still echoing in his brain. And after a while he found himself progressively engaged in the earlier, more grievous agonies of other people: of Frank, the husband; of Sarah, the daughter; of Simon, the son; and of Yvonne, the mother, who had been murdered so brutally in the Cotswold village of Lower Swinstead, Oxon.