The investigation into Charlie Hillian's death had been quite a big do in its own right. One of their own, one very well-liked and respected—they'd had the whole station turn out eager to help going through Hillian's old cases and tracing people he had put away. Lewis managed to avoid all the hustle and jostling by trekking out to Fern Street and interviewing Terrence Mitchell. It had been clear that the Mitchell lad wasn't quite right, but he'd seemed innocent enough to Lewis. Which was more of less what he said to Morse following the rather unprofessional pathologist's report they received from the covering locum. ("Dead as a dodo." "Whammo! Lights out!" Oi!)
"What he said, Sir? About the thin skull and all? Maybe it was unintentional?" he asked as they stalked away from the mortuary.
Morse didn't much care. Unintentional or not, if someone had caused Hillian to hit his head resulting in his death it was all murder to him. "Well, that doesn't help Hillian," he said. "What about Mitchell?"
"Too sensitive a soul for that that kind of thing," Lewis pronounced with a great deal of misplaced certainty. "An artist, Sir,"
"Adolf Hitler dabbled in oils." Morse remarked. "Did you know that, Lewis?"
"I thought he was more of a watercolours man, actually," Lewis answered trying not to smirk or sound as pleased as he was to know something that Morse obviously didn't. It was far too rare of an occurrence for him to gloat overly much.
"Whatever," Morse said and dropped the lecture. He soon thereafter left Lewis to make a start on the paperwork while he himself enjoyed a walk. (Which Lewis had understandably taken to mean he was going for a beer, but when they'd brought in Frederick Redpath and Lewis had went looking for him Morse wasn't in any of the pubs he searched but actually walking.*)
The interview with Redpath proved most unenlightening. As Morse said afterwards, "I've never heard so many lies. It was like sitting through an election campaign." (Only, Lewis reckoned, even politicians managed to sound a bit more plausible than Redpath had.)
"Maybe he was afraid, sir," Lewis offered. "Maybe he didn't want to get involved." Where he'd been so utterly wrong with his assessment of Terrence Mitchell, he was totally right about Redpath.
"Maybe," Morse agreed with a troubled frown. "I've seen him somewhere before, Lewis…can't think where."
A moment later they were accosted by the man's daughter insisting her father was innocent and should be released at once. Morse almost turned and went on without deigning to answer her loud and angry recriminations, but something made him stop. He was not a man to use physical intimidation, but he drew himself up to his full height and stalked over to her. He also was not a man to raise his voice relying on the truth of his words and the authority of his position to speak loudly enough that it was unnecessary to do so. In this case, his message came through loud and clear.
"I'm investigating the murder of a former policeman, Miss Redpath. Your father was seen at the victim's cottage. A fact he initially denied. 'Now, why should he do that?' I ask myself. When I get an answer to that he can go; until then he stays put."
And stay put Redpath did for he was no more inclined to explain himself the next morning than he'd been the night before.
"Why hasn't he asked for a lawyer, Lewis?" Morse asked when they'd given up trying to get anything from the man. "Why hasn't his daughter brought him one—she seems the type?"
Lewis retrieved the tea he'd had to leave in the hallway when Morse had decided it was time to interview their subject and said, "Beats me. I explained his rights to him." He removed the plastic lid off the cup and peered suspiciously at his tea.
"Listen, I want to have a look at Hillian's notes. Find out what time Dawson's due back from London and meet him off the train, will you? I'm sure he'll want to become acquainted with Redpath. And drink your tea before it gets cold." But too late for that. No surprise. And all because he'd not known to expect Morse back so soon from his visit with Mr. Majors, the author helping Hillian write his book, and therefore hadn't picked him up a tea and sandwich when he'd fetched his own. Morse wouldn't have begrudged a few minutes to drink their tea hot then, but lacking one himself, and being a bit tetchety about it…well, that was Morse all over for you. Lewis pulled a face and left the tea there in the hallway. At least, the sandwich was still good.
He collected Chief Inspector Dawson from the train station on time and safely delivered him to the police station as well. And Morse was right; on hearing about Redpath, Dawson was very keen to see the man who might very well be the murderer of his long-time colleague and friend. But when Lewis opened the door to the holding cell for the chief inspector…
Dawson stepped down one step into the room and halted there. "What is this, Morse?" he asked. His voice calm and quiet enough that Lewis, entering the room after him, had no warning what was to come.
"What is this?" Dawson said again, his voice rising as he turned to stare at Lewis.
"What's wrong, sir?" Lewis asked just at the point Dawson erupted.
"What is this, you little toe rag?" he demanded, but even if Lewis would have known what the man was going on about he couldn't have answered. Dawson flew at him and grabbed him by the collar and who knew what he would have done to him if the constable at the door hadn't been there to slow him down.
Morse rushed up the stairs yelling, "Dawson, let him go!" Even with the constable fighting to restrain Dawson and get him away from Lewis, and Morse joining in, the chief inspector from London managed to keep a tight hold on Lewis' collar. Lewis fought to free himself as Morse yelled at Dawson. "He didn't know! I didn't know until now!" Lewis finally pulled free of Dawson's hold. He'd been in a tussle or two before. Nature of the job and all. But still. Adrenaline running rampant through him, he pulled at the clothes constricting his neck while he fought to regain his air and his temper. Morse went on trying to reach Dawson, "You kept us all away, remember. Remember? I didn't see him until the day he walked out of here. Now, think man."
Finally, the fight went out of Dawson. He tried to shake the constable's grip on him and ordered, "'Hands off!" The constable loosened his hold, but it was only at Morse's affirming nod that he moved away.
A crowd of officers had gathered down the hall. Upon seeing them Morse ordered, "All right, all right, back upstairs." Lewis stalked halfway down the hall to see that the officers did move along, and then back to stop a few paces from Morse and Dawson. Dawson was straightening his clothes and regaining his composure, but Lewis was still fighting to salvage his.
"Sorry, Morse," Dawson said. "It was the shock of seeing him there."
"Your apology would be better directed to Sergeant Lewis," Morse said.
Lewis tugged once again at his tie, and managed a not-at-all-reconciliatory-sounding, "It'll not be necessary." An apology wouldn't even come close to settling the waters.
Dawson was much more concerned about the man they'd left in the interview room than he was about the man he'd attacked. He didn't hear Morse's words, let alone Lewis'. "You must let me talk to him, Morse. I know him better than anyone."
"You can't, Sir! You saw him just then!" Lewis burst out, "He's a bloody madman!"
"Lewis." Morse silenced him before telling his fellow chief inspector, "Lay a finger on him and I'll finish you." And then to Lewis' surprise and disgruntlement, Morse walked off and left Redpath to Dawson. Lewis shut his mouth on the protests welling up in him and went after Morse. He wanted to know what had just happened and why.
*This is a scene reenacted on one Lewis or another that I didn't take the time to track down. Hathaway just about runs Lewis down when he pulls up to tell him whatever it is he's been looking for him for, while Lewis is a wee bit more careful approaching Morse. I love the little things like this the creators of these two shows work in…and I'm hoping to see many of the same on Endeavour.