Colin Dexter
The Remorseful Day
For
George, Hilary, Maria, and Beverley
(Please note the Oxford comma)
Ensanguining the skies
How heavily it dies
Into the west away;
Past touch and sight and sound
Not further to be found
How hopeless under ground
Falls the remorseful day.
When I wrote my 1997 letter I thought I had little to look forward to in 1998, but it turns out that I was stupidly optimistic.
Prolegomenon
As o’er me now thou lean’st thy breast,
With launder’d bodice crisply pressed,
Lief I’d prolong my grievous ill—
Wert thou my guardian angel still.
“So I often hook my foot over the side of the mattress.”
“You what?”
“Sort of anchors me to my side of the bed.”
“Double bed?”
“Not unknown is it, for a married couple? People can share the same bed but not the same thoughts — old Chinese saying.”
“Still makes me jealous.”
“Idiot!”
“Everybody gets a bit jealous sometimes.”
“Not everybody.”
“Not you, nurse?”
“I’ve just learned not to show it, that’s all. And it’s none of your business in any case.”
“Sorry.”
“How I hate men who say ‘sorry’!”
“I promise not to say it again, miss.”
“And will you promise me something else? To be a bit more honest with yourself — and with me?”
“Scout’s honor!”
“I can’t believe you were ever in the Scouts.”
“Well, no, but...”
“Shall I test you?”
“Test me?”
“Would you like me to jump into bed with you now?”
“Yes!”
“You’re quick on the buzzer.”
“Next question?”
“Do you think I’d like to jump into bed with you?”
“I’d like to think so.”
“What about the other patients?”
“You could draw the curtains.”
“What excuse...?”
“You could always take my blood pressure.”
“Again?”
“Why not?”
“We know all about your blood pressure. High — very high — especially when I’m around.”
“It’s those black stockings of yours.”
“You’re a stocking-tops man!”
“Nice word, isn’t it — stocking-tops?”
“If only you weren’t stuck in this bloody ward!”
“I can always discharge myself.”
“Not a wise move, good sir — not in your case.”
“What time are you off duty?”
“Half-eight.”
“What’ll you do then?”
“Off home. I’m expecting a phone call.”
“You’re trying to make me jealous again.”
“After that, I suppose I’ll just poke the thingummy, you know, around the four channels.”
“Five, now.”
“We don’t get the new one.”
“What about Sky?”
“In our village, satellite dishes are most definitely discouraged.”
“You could always take a video home.”
“No need. We’ve got lots of videos. You should see some of them — you know, the sex ones.”
“You watch that sort of thing?”
“When I’m in the mood.”
“When’s that?”
“Most of the time.”
“And even if you aren’t in the mood?”
“Oh yes! They soon turn anybody on. Haven’t you seen some of these Amsterdam videos? All sorts of bizarre things they get up to.”
“I haven’t seen them, no.”
“Would you like to?”
“I’m not quite sure I would, no.”
“Not even if you watched them with me?”
“Please, nurse, am I allowed to change my mind?”
“We could arrange a joint viewing.”
“How — how bizarre’s bizarre?”
“Well, in one of ‘em there’s this woman — about my age — lovely figure — wrists tied to the top of the four-poster bed — ankles tied to the bottom...”
“Go on.”
“Well, there’s these two young studs — one black, one white—”
“No racial discrimination, then?”
“—and they just take turns, you know.”
“Raping her...”
“You’re so naive, aren’t you? She wouldn’t have been in the bloody video, would she, if she didn’t want to be? There are some people like her, you know. The only real sexual thrill they get is from some sort of submission — you know, that sort of thing.”
“Odd sort of women!”
“Odd? Unusual, perhaps, but...”
“How come you know so much about this?”
“When we were in Amsterdam, they invited me to do some porno filming. Frank didn’t mind. They made a pretty good offer.”
“So you negotiated a fee?”
“Hold on! I only said this particular woman was about my age—”
“—and had a lovely figure.”
“Would you like to see if it was me?”
“One condition.”
“What’s that?”
“If I come, you mustn’t hook your foot over the side of the mattress.”
“Not much danger of that.”
“Stay with me a bit longer!”
“No. You’re not my only patient, and some of these poor devils’ll be here long after you’ve gone.”
“Will you come and give me a chaste little kiss before you go off duty?”
“No. I’m shooting straight back to Lower Swinstead. I told you: I’m expecting a phone call.”
“From... your husband?”
“You must be kidding! Frank’s in Switzerland for a few days. He’s far too mean to call me from there — even on the cheap rates.”
“Another man in your life?”
“Jesus! You don’t take me for a dyke, do you?”
“You’re an amazing girl.”
“Girl? I’ll be forty-eight this Thursday.”
“Can I take you out? Make a birthday fuss of you?”
“No chance. According to your notes, you’re going to be in at least till the end of the week.”
“You know, in a way, I wish I could stay in. Indefinitely.”
“Well, I promise one thing: as soon as you’re out, I’ll be in touch.”
“Please! If you can.”
“And you’ll come and see me?”
“If you invite me.”
“I’m inviting you now.”
Chapter one
You holy Art, when all my hope is shaken,
And through life’s raging tempest I am drawn,
You make my heart with warmest love to waken,
As if into a better world reborn.
Apart (of course) from Wagner, apart from Mozart’s compositions for the clarinet, Schubert was one of the select composers who could occasionally transport him to the frontier of tears. And it was Schubert’s turn in the early evening of Wednesday, July 15, 1998, when — The Archers over — a bedroom-slippered Chief Inspector Morse was to be found in his North Oxford bachelor flat, sitting at his ease in Zion and listening to a Lieder recital on Radio 3, an amply filled tumbler of pale Glenfiddich beside him. And why not? He was on a few days’ furlough that had so far proved quite unexpectedly pleasurable.