Morselling

noun

the act of dividing into or distributing in morsels or small portion

by Howlynn

I don't own any of Colin Dexter's characters, just building a few silly castle lumps while playing in his sandbox.

James Hathaway had been bent over the evidence file for hours, searching for the anomaly that would lead him to the murderer. It was well past midnight and though there were still people bustling in floors below, his own wing was deserted except for the lamps on his desk.

This had grown to be his normal routine since he'd made DI. Robert Lewis, now his assistant technically, but still his guide deep within, who he was struggling to break from under without losing entirely, had long ago left for home.

James didn't blame him. Robbie had the lovely Laura Hobson to look forward to going home to whilst James mostly had regrets and might-have-beens to keep him company. So, rather than stay home and drink, he worked. He thought briefly that there may have been some small hope that Lewis would see how much he missed him when he went away the first time, but it had backfired. Then he'd gone on his long walk, and been gone for three months. When he returned from Spain, the relationship had not only failed to run its course, but he'd come back to Oxford to find that Robbie and Laura were now sharing accommodations.

He resumed police work, because it was what he had. There was nothing else he had the ambition to do and no point in trying to fight his fate. He hated working without Robbie, but there were days that he was not sure his mentor's return from retirement was any better.

It was not Robbie's fault. James could not help how he felt but he struggled not to take his despair out on anyone. That didn't always work. He'd nearly driven Lizzy Maddox away and was convinced that if Robbie hadn't taken on a bit of her guidance, he would have utterly failed his second bagman.

He would not fail as a detective. He had a legacy of legend to live up to and was determined not to let Robbie down and somehow make him proud that he'd bothered with James for so many years. He knew he was putting in too many hours, but it was all that kept him sane at this point and any physical discomfort caused by lack of proper food and sleep simply felt like another form of his long ago religious devotion. This was his atonement for his wayward spirit refusing to be ruled and his heart feeling jealous of Laura.

He was glad that she made Robbie happy and he loved them both dearly, but the loss of his hope to one day win Lewis's heart burned in the deepest, most locked-down part of his soul and he could not seem to banish that tyrant of a demon within.

His back ached, his bladder was full, his stomach growled in misery, and all that just focused his mind on the work. He finally had to give in to his bladder and made the trip down the hall to the loo.

Hathaway was not a man of frivolous superstitious notions, but his hackles rose as he exited the Gent's and made his way back to his office. The shadows moved as he approached and he checked his watch to see if he'd lost track of time.

An older man with satin white hair stood thumbing through the very file James had just laid on the desk. "I beg your pardon, Sir, but how did you get in here?" James asked calmly.

He didn't look up or acknowledge James other than to say, "There you are. I was looking for you, Lewis-cub."

James observed for a second. The man's clothing was unusual. The grey jacket had too square of shoulders and too broad of lapels. His shirt was an odd aubergine and his tie far too wide for fashion. "How did you get past the desk-sergeant?"

"Wrong question."

"Do you know DI Lewis, Sir? " James fired back, realizing what he'd called him.

At this point the gentleman lifted his face and James got a good look at the man. His breath hitched and he whispered, "Chief Inspector, Endeavor Morse, I presume."

The man smiled and tilted his head, "How about that. Not bad. The real question you should be asking is Why. That is always the question Lewis-cub. Why have I come all this way?"

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to clarify, Sir. Why are you in my office riffling through my files?" Hathaway asked politely. He realized at this moment that he must be hallucinating due to lack of sleep.

"Not afraid of Ghosts, I take it?" the older man asked as if impressed.

Hathaway sighed as if bored, "Not particularly. 'I have no fear of ghosts, and I have never heard it said that so much harm had been done by the dead during 6,000 years as it brought by the living in a single day. Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo.'"

"Hearts with one purpose alone. Through summer and winter seem. Enchanted to a stone. To trouble the living stream." Morse quoted back at him.

"Yeats. You have a message for Robert then. Why speak to me instead?" Hathaway reached out and touched the doorframe, needing something solid to cling to.

"Because you would die for my Lewis and it is going to take someone with a heart like that to save him." Morse said with the hint of a smile.

"I don't understand. Save him from what?"

"Digging his own grave, again." Morse said banging the edge of the file on the desk to align the papers and laying it carefully back on the top of Hathaway's new lead pile.

"He's in no danger as far as I know. He's retired. Well, sort of. Just browsing cold cases these days," James said casually.

Morse leaned against the desk and folded his arms and crossed his legs. He stuck his tongue out in contemplation then his vivid blue eyes locked on James. "The thing about a person who has gotten away with murder for a long time is that they stop feeling guilt. Someone like that is harder to catch because they will delude themselves that some god or destiny has been on the killer's side to keep them free. This makes him or her more dangerous and cunning than most. In that mind or group of minds, he or they got away with it and it is perfectly logical to them that they will not only continue to do so. Should the need arise, and it always does, they get better at it with practice. As time goes by, smaller slights become the trigger of their dubiously warped necessity."

Hathaway smiled slightly at the logic of the man-who-was-not-there's words. "That's brilliant, Sir. You are not what I expected. Of course, you are just my own imagination tied to Robbie's description, but I had never thought of that perspective so what a fascinating enigma we have here."

"I can imagine it would be vexing, boy. The question is, will you make a leap of faith that I exist and let me help you, or will you use that clever mind of yours to deny me and condemn Lewis and thus yourself? I can't answer that for you, but have faith that I am privilege to both outcomes and I admit that I have gone to some trouble to secure the one I prefer to see played out, were I one to spit in the face of time," Morse said quietly.

" Before me floats an image, man or shade. The debate of your existence isn't important. He isn't in any specific danger. He is just reviewing cases and generating possible leads. He isn't actively performing legwork. Sir," Hathaway said with surety.

Morse snorted with mirth and grinned. "Really? That's very reassuring, Detective Inspector." Morse picked up a pen from the desk and carefully balanced it on the thick edge of a framed picture of Robbie and James that Hathaway had tucked up on the shelf in his office. When he finished with this nonsense action, he turned to Hathaway again and asked, "Just how long have you known Robbie Lewis? Hmm?"

Hathaway moved around to his desk and sat heavily, leaning back and considering the supposed ghost. "Point taken, Sir."

"Good. Well then, I will be in touch. How about this one… Call no man happy till he is dead." He asked good-naturedly.

James frowned as the spirit was simply no longer before his eyes. He blinked in confusion. "Aeschylus," He mumbled as he rubbed his eyes.

James suddenly felt a little queasy and just for a moment, he laid his head down on his desk, face sheltered by his crossed arms. That was exactly how Sergeant Maddox found him the next morning. Her gentle touch and softly spoken, "Sir?" nearly resulted in a black eye. She laughed at his prickly apologies and redeemed him with a cup of hot sludge that tasted as if the spoon had dissolved in the brew with the copious amounts of sugar.

"Be glad himself didn't catch you sleeping at your desk again, Sir. He threatened to see to you the next…Oh Good morning, Sir," She babbled cheerfully.

Robbie grinned and then stopped in his tracks, smile wiped off his face for a look of disapproval as he took in the sight of Hathaway. "Bit of creative ironing?" He said, waving at Hathaway's multi-creased trousers.

James looked down and smiled self-evasively, "New directive. It makes us more approachable by the homeless, therefore increasing our potential witness pools."

"It will not enamor you to the Don's graces."

"That would technically be more incentive than deterrent."

"You look scruffy. Go home and take a shower. For Christ's sake, man. There's nothing on and you're killing yourself. Can't have you collapsing if a real case should come in. You and I will be having a pint this evening and you will sleep in a proper bed if I have to bloody hold you down." Robbie stated in no uncertain terms, genuinely worried and angry.

James had to bite his lip hard to keep the humor of his thoughts on that idea from erupting into inappropriate banter. "Indeed. Your tenuous wisdom is my command as always. Be back shortly."

"Take a nap. We will ring you up if we need any double-wicked candle lessons."

He spun just as he crossed the threshold of the office and leaned around the door with a cheeky grin, "Do keep him out of trouble, Sergeant. Don't believe the harmless old plod act for a second. He will have you elbows deep in questionable procedure and career dogging suspect chases if you give him an inch."

Lizzy grinned at him with affection, "No worries. I had to sign a paper. Anyone who associates with you two is required. Release of liability or some such? Well warned on his tarnished reputation, and I can manage, Sir."

Hathaway grinned, "Probably had to do with the case involving a pond of kack with revolving knives in it."

Lizzy deadpanned, "I heard of that one. They say a picture is worth a thousand, and all. I could sell tickets to a repeat performance for all us new lads basking in your uniquely demonstrative tutelage, Sir?"

"Was that pure cheek from my bagman?" He addressed Robbie.

"I believe it may have been, Detective," Robbie returned in mock shock.

Hathaway winked. "You're learning, then," He said with exaggerated pride.

I hope to update when I can. Let me know if you like it.