Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

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,

cruelty 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