Chapter Text
Strange and Lewis felt like they were wading through treacle as they went about the business of wrapping up the Yvonne Harrison murder case. Any satisfaction they might have found in bringing a criminal to justice and breaking up a conspiracy of silence was entirely overshadowed by their crippling loss. To the rest of Thames Valley Police, DCI Morse might have been an institution—at once to be revered and feared. Or simultaneously envied and ridiculed, as some did. But to the two of them, he had been so much more.
It was after more than two weeks of walking through a fog that they felt able to finally address what was uppermost in their minds. Morse’s body had been cremated, the JR turning down his wish to become a scientific curiosity in no uncertain terms. And in cognisance of his last wishes, there had been no memorial service, no funeral observance of any sort. Which in itself seemed to make everything so much worse.
Lewis had taken charge of emptying all personal items such as books and pictures from Morse’s house and dispatching them to appropriate recipients. The majority had gone to Morse’s sister, and a few things had been sent to Ms. Cecil, also in Australia. Some—mostly books and music, plus a few pictures—stayed with Lewis, deeply treasured even if the majority were destined to remain safely boxed up. And then there were a select few mementoes from the old days that Lewis thought Strange would appreciate.
Saturday found Strange driving to The Victoria Arms, where he had arranged to meet Lewis, deeming it a more appropriate venue than the station to collect the box of Morse’s things. It was a bright and mild evening, and Morse’s erstwhile sergeant was waiting for him at one of the outdoor tables, a pint of best bitter at the ready along with his own glass of orange juice. The thick turf muffled Strange’s footsteps as he approached, allowing him to take a good look at Lewis unobserved. That normally stoic young man (not so young any longer, Strange reminded himself) looked absolutely gutted, even more so than on the day of Morse’s cremation.
“Well then, matey. What’ve we got here?”
Strange gingerly lowered himself onto the chair facing Lewis and pulled the small cardboard box on the table closer. The first thing that came to hand was an old photograph in a wooden frame - himself, Dr. Debryn, Shirley Trewlove, and Morse outside some pub on a summer evening at least thirty years prior. Behind that was a stack of opened airmail letters, all bearing American stamps. Ah, Peter Jakes. Who had obviously stayed in touch with Morse, and would now need to be informed of what had happened.
“I found DS Jakes’ phone number in Morse’s address book and called him earlier in the week, Sir. His were the only letters Morse had preserved, aside from his sister’s and Ms. Cecil’s. So I thought it was important to let him know. I hope I didn’t overstep.”
“Not at all, Lewis. Thank you for doing that. Morse and Jakes - they go back a long time. He was DS when Morse was still a DC and I was just making my way from uniform to CID. I’m not sure how friendly they would have been had Jakes continued in CID, for their rivalry was legendary. But he left and emigrated, married an American. And going by these letters, has stayed in touch with Morse ever since.”
Strange returned his attention to the last item in the box, another framed photograph, this time from his wedding. Nothing posed, but a serendipitous candid shot taken as he and Joan made their way out of the reception hall towards the car; and one that had additionally captured Ms. Frazil, Dr. Debryn, Mr. Bright, and Win in the background, along with just a sliver of Fred’s profile at the edge. Yes, he could well understand why Morse had held on to this particular image. Unsentimental though Jim knew himself to be, even his eyes felt moist looking back at it.
“Thank you. I know the wife will appreciate having this one back, as do I. Almost everyone from that time is either already gone or scattered to the ends of the earth, but Morse’s passing still feels like the end of an era. An end he won’t even let us mark, damn him!”
“I know what you mean, Sir. Even without an actual funeral, it would have been good to have had some sort of gathering. Somewhere we could share our memories of him, honour him. Oh, I know there is the music scholarship he has set up. But beyond that. For instance, this is where he and I shared our last drink just before he got so very ill. He quoted poetry to me that evening, like he so often had done.”
“Ah, yes. Poetry, crosswords, and opera. Drove us all mad sometimes, including the Old Man. Yet it often was relevant to the case or to whatever else was going on at that time.”
“Aye. I looked it up later—it was by Housman, and seemed so… regretful. And he chose that day to recite it. Like he already knew the end was near and was thinking of unfulfilled dreams, broken promises.”
“That’s a bit profound for orange juice, Lewis. Sure you didn’t indulge in a wee dram before?”
Lewis huffed a reluctant laugh at this even as he shook his head. But what he had mentioned about the last drink shared with Morse had given Strange an idea. His round face with its multiple chins grew absolutely still as he pondered it further, then gave a decisive nod.
“Morse’s will - it forbade any sort of funeral service, religious or otherwise. Do I remember correctly?”
“You do, Sir.”
“So there is nothing to stop us from gathering a few friends here, is there? A riverfront pub on a summer evening, a few casks of best bitter, and enough tales of days gone by to fill the hours.”
Strange watched Lewis take in the idea, and was rewarded by a slow smile dawning, gradually banishing the pinched look of suppressed grief that had descended on that loyal face ever since…. Cutting off that thought, Strange rose, clapping the younger man on the shoulder and asking him to put together a list of officers from beyond Thames Valley whose paths had crossed Morse’s and who might therefore be interested in their unconventional memorial.