'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 somebody wanting to see you, though. Fellow called Lewis.' 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 grat.i.tude.

CHAPTER T THIRTY-EIGHT.

Thursday, 29 February 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) 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 towards him, laterally shaking the chips with a practised right hand.

'And 'ow are you you today, then? The case going OK?' today, then? The case going OK?'

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 b.u.t.ter on one side, and a gla.s.s 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 enquiry, 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. Whilst the child-fondler, recognized immediately by his erstwhile neighbours, 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 enquiries, 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) Anglice) with their emphasis upon the need for any candidate for the Mastership to be in good physical health with their emphasis upon the need for any candidate for the Mastership to be in good physical health (in corpore sano). (in corpore sano).

'n.o.body can guarantee good health,' Blair had observed.

'No, but sometimes you can almost guarantee bad bad health, perhaps, sir?' 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 p.r.o.nouns 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 the is a b.l.o.o.d.y 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 he murdered Rachel James?' murdered Rachel James?'

'I don't think so, myself, no.'

'What's Morse think?'

'He did did think so for a start, but ... Which reminds me, sir. I'd better make another trip to the newspaper offices tomorrow.' 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 T 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) Journals) SISTER J JANET M 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. - 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; acquainting him with the range, colour, 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 colours, 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 OK 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, 'Four, you said?' 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 Cla.s.sic 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 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 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 The ABC Murders which he'd found in the meagre 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. which he'd found in the meagre 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 Adele Beatrice Cecil.

Ann Berkeley c.o.x ...

Within five minutes Morse was asleep.

On Thursday afternoon, a slim, rather prissy young diet.i.tian 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.