And so, in both cases, the inspector in charge had pulled the leave card in an effort to protect his sergeant's career. It worked well enough for Lewis; Hathaway took his leave and considered his choices. But for Morse…it didn't work out so well.
"No, Sir, I'm not taking any leave," Lewis said and for all Morse tended to see Lewis as young and not yet a detective in his own right, he could read in his sergeant's face that Lewis was a policeman—a good one at that. Morse would never shake him loose now. He listened to his sergeant say, "And if you insist, I'll go in front of Strange with it right now," and knew it was useless to try. He'd have to rethink everything…go at things some other way; make sure when things blew up it wouldn't be in their faces…somehow. Lewis gave him a moment to let his threat sink in and then asked, "So, what about this trace on Mitchell?"
"Why not take a short cut?" Morse asked. "Why not ask his wife where he is?"
"Sounds fair. When?"
"Not yet," Morse said. And Lewis, his ever faithful sergeant who went about life always seeing the best in everything and everyone, sighed wearily, looked out the window, and gave him the benefit of the doubt. A thick stillness descended over the room and the two of them both staring pensively out twin windows of textured glass that didn't let them see a thing beyond their own thoughts. Morse didn't think he wanted to know his sergeant's; his own were full of relief and unexpressed gratitude. He needed that little bit of time to wind up Dawson and set him spinning just like he'd done to them when he'd brought them that diary entry.
Dawson played into Morse's hand all too well…
The assault on the Mitchells' house, with Mrs. Mitchell (already scared of her own shadow just a Mrs. Lapsley had said) and her son Terrence…it hadn't been pretty and it hadn't been necessary—except to show a very well-connected London chief inspector for what he was there before multiple witnesses.
Dawson's badgering of Mrs. Mitchell after they'd burst into her home…Morse had had to bar a horrified Lewis from putting a stop to the whole thing, but Dawson had gotten what he'd come for, a confession that John Mitchell had killed Mary Lapsley and the family had then lied to cover it up for all the years since.
While the poor, frightened woman wept, Lewis had stepped forward and said, "What's happened here, Sir, I just want to say, I think it's a disgrace. And so will a jury!" And that was something Morse was counting on. He wasn't proud of what he'd done bringing Dawson there and pointing him in Mrs. Mitchell's direction, but…it would keep her out of jail if things didn't go as well farther down the road, and he was glad about that.
And he'd gotten one more thing from the travesty of that assault, the unwelcome, albeit expected, confirmation that John Mitchell really had disappeared thirteen years before—his wife hadn't lied about that. And just where had the man gone? Morse was afraid he knew. And his visit to Redpath, still in hospital, but awake finally, only gave credence to his fears.
"John Mitchell could not have killed the girl…he was in bed ill with the same virus that Barbara had contracted," Redpath insisted even though it meant he himself was still in the frame for murder. No, Mitchell couldn't have killed the girl, but Dawson didn't know that. He believed without question that Mitchell had. So…a late night visit to Mr. Majors, Hilian's writer, and then…there was nothing to it but to wait for morning to come so he could hear Mary's killer's confession.
It was a scene that would always stay with Morse: the boy in the bird cage (a far too apt metaphor); the tragic story of Mary's death; and that of a father who had loved his son perhaps too much. For John Mitchell hadn't killed Mary; but he'd died for it all the same.