Morse knew what was in store for him, he had seen it enough already. Yet, he meant to pay to the full. Atonement for his foolishness. Fallout for his failure.

For a second, he felt catapulted back in time, a youthful DC silently biding his time and biting his lips under one of Mr. Bright's reprimands. However, the like of those would be the best he could expect now. Time had taught him nothing, it would seem.

Would his career even recover from it? Be it exhaustion or emptiness, he didn't really care right now.

Thinking about the Chief Superintendent brought along memory of the elusive Mrs. Bright, and a stab of pain went through him, encircling his chest in a ring of fire and making him inhale sharply.

He had never even seen her likeness, except from the blurred, badly printed photograph featured in the Oxford Mail. Nonetheless she was the one uppermost in his mind. Even the victims of the other 'freak accidents' he had painfully reconstructed as evidence, even Pippa Tedbury whose house he had unwittingly used as a love nest, weren't as alive in his mind as Mrs. Bright was.

If he had known beforehand, he could have—

And, again slithered guilt, tightening its coils around his heart, even though he couldn't possibly have known, couldn't have acted to prevent it.

Morse was so focused inward that he didn't pay actual attention to his surroundings, even to Thursday's careful enunciations in Italian, his accent thick but getting slicker with use. Only snippets of sentences flowed in his ears, '—when I visited yesterday—the file was faxed the day before—,' unimportant words speeding forth, the no less careful replies checked carefully for fear of speaking too fast into untrained ears.

A switch snapped inside Morse's mind. Abruptly, the sounds shaped themselves into words, the words into sentences; the words coalesced into logical order, and he turned his head sharply towards Thursday.

Without noticing—or rather, noticing it too well, but not deigning to acknowledge it—, Thursday went on with his conversation with the Sovrintendente (Senior Sergeant).

Piecing the fragments, Morse grasped that Thursday had been in touch with the Polizia di Stato, had made enquiries about the Talentis, and had even enquired about his whereabouts—his, Morse's.

At that, he frowned. But the folding of his brow had no more effect than his previous glare. Thursday continued to question and reply as quietly, and the Italian sergeant to struggle with the speed of his retorts.

Their boat made its way speedily between the buoys, splicing the foam into dark drops, and soon they reached their destination through Rio di Santa Giustina and Rio di San Lorenzo. The other boat, where Violetta's body was laid, lagged, but it would get there soon enough.

Without demur, Morse let himself be led out of his seat. A few steps brought him through the quay and into the building, Thursday preceding him.

The lobby was like any other Police Station lobby. Mismatched furniture, smell of stale cigarettes and sweat, lighting more yellowish than white, and the weary look of the policeman sitting behind the front desk for the night shift.

As soon as he was inside, be it the abrupt change of temperature or the surprising refuge from the wind and the damp, a wave of heat engulfed Morse. He felt sweat moisten his brown, and he passed a tired hand over his eyes. As he did, darkness lurched at him again despite the aggressive lights, and he swayed, but he recovered so fast that he hoped that no one had seen it. Especially not Thursday.

He cleared his throat but had no time for any question, as an imperious gesture no less authoritative for being silent, directed him to an interrogation room.

Thursday turned around and watched him go. His hand reached the brim of his trilby and he pushed it a little upward, then his hand fell slowly back along his side. He never even tried to speak to Morse.

And this is how they parted ways, in unfriendly silence.

The interrogation room wasn't that different from the ones back home, either. Briefly, Morse wondered how they'd be at Kidlington Station, what shape the ubiquitous tables would take, and if he'd even get a chance to sit across from one in the role of the inquisitive party.

At present, he sat in front of a little square table in dark wood. It was slightly wobbly, just enough to be a nuisance each time he applied pressure on the faulty table leg. Under his nose, a cigarette finished burning to the end in a tin ashtray. The smell had an acrid, almost mouldy taste—reminding him of Claudine's Gauloises. For an instant Morse's stomach heaved, then settled uneasily. But why would a Venetian policeman smoke French cigarettes?

Anyway, 'sitting' was hardly an accurate description.

If Morse has been in the proper frame of mind to ponder vocabulary for a crossword puzzle, he'd have pointed out that he was slumped against the back of his seat, the only cushioning from the hard, over-worn wood being his jacket slung on the back of the chair. He was now in his shirt sleeves, the ugly wine-red stain prominent on his chest—its faint copper odour sufficiently pervasive to overcome even the cigarette smell. Several crooked stubs were crushed next to the one still alight.

It had taken time enough—interminable seconds stretching into incessant minutes, hours perhaps—to go over Morse's detailed doings since he had picked up the envelope slid under the door of his hotel room. At least, despite his carrying his service gun—now enclosed and labelled in an evidence bag—it had been established to everybody's satisfaction that Morse had indeed been Talenti's latest intended victim.

Morse's haggard look and untidy appearance made him look even more slovenly in contrast to the Italian policeman's neat uniform and intent stare. Dark, sleek hair parted sideways, razor-sharp eyes, and hands crossed on the table before him, Ispettore Superiore (Senior Inspector) Pacella could almost seem to have a faint look of Peter Jakes at his most caustic about him, if Morse blinked hard enough.

But he didn't. Not for that reason, anyway, as he stubbornly tried to keep his eyes open when a weight—gone heavier by the minute—tried to shut them close against his will.

The trickle of questions had stopped for a while, and the atmosphere in the room seemed to tense in anticipation for the next salvo.

The silence went on, and on, and on, and on. Morse's eyelids dropped closed, and he opened them with a start, looking straight ahead into the gaze of the other policeman; then he felt his attention wavering again. Desperately, he dug his nails into his palms, trying to pinch himself to provoke some sense of his actual presence in that room.

But it was not a dream or, more accurately, a nightmare. The Agente standing stiffly under the window was adequately real, even if he kept still. The overhead neon light shone bright, making Morse's tired eyes water, and he was suddenly aware that he hadn't swallowed anything solid since his hasty lunch. As if it had needed that acknowledgment, his stomach faintly growled.

'How did you know where to look for them?' Pacella's voice was quiet, impassive. Was it the Italian language lending the words a curious softness? Or the cotton wool lining Morse's brain softening the words with a faraway echo? He had to concentrate to hear the following question. 'Why here, in Venice?'

Morse felt another wave of fury shake off his exhaustion. So now he had to disclose his past affair— gloriously reckless, then turned pitifully sordid—and they would be kept on record, his gullibility and shame, exposed secrets for coppers to deride easily in both countries.

Still, he had no choice but to tell it all.

Their first meeting at La Fenice—the glances cast over her naked shoulder when Violetta walked sensuously before him in the corridor; hands brushing, eyes riveting, then naked flesh meeting for the oldest dance known to mankind. How she had pleaded for forgiveness afterwards, yet refused to confess her sins. How she had told him that she came back each year, her pilgrimage over her father's ghostly memory.

How she had unwittingly been the missing link between the scattered pieces of the criminal puzzle.

The man in front of him took notes of the date and the opera name. He would probably check it with the Fenice: maybe she had booked her seat from abroad, and left a name.

Another one that wouldn't be Violetta Talenti—the aptly borrowed name of the Verdi courtesan, Violetta Valéry? No outward movement betrayed Morse's epiphany, except a brief widening of irises in eyes lined with red, skin stretched tightly against the bones.

What was staged? What wasn't? Violetta filling out a seat at the Fenice each year to commemorate her father? Was it even true? Was is another lie piled on other desiccated lies, or, as 'Ludo' had told him one day, without seeming to put any import on it, did Violetta hate opera?

But both weren't necessarily excluding each other.

She might have hated opera and gone anyway; the pilgrimage made even more a penance by her not appreciating the art. Or she might have loved opera and been reticent to proffer that part of her innermost self to the oh-so-tender mercies of her husband.

Or was he—again—projecting onto her what he had wanted her to be? Maybe La Fenice was merely one of Violetta's usual hunting grounds. He had fallen easily enough into her traps.

He was still falling into them.

The following questions were easier to answer.

Morse unwound the reasoning that had woven ostensible freak accidents into a more ominous tapestry of lies, deceit, crime, and enrichment; sketching out what he knew about the California Amity Redemption and Reimbursement which had bought the hapless victims' policies.

How the Talentis had managed to tip the scales, Morse couldn't fathom yet, but Talenti's confession made their interferences obvious. Despite having waxed lyrical about his hands being 'innocent of blood,' blood clots were still encrusted beneath Ludo's fingernails: he had admitted as much, tampering with the Brights' Christmas decorations.

And, like the proverbial criminals, the Talentis had come back to the scenes of their crimes. Their presence at Lady Mathilda College the day following Dr Nancy Deveen's fall to her death attested to that. It was no coincidence, as was it no coincidence that they had scampered away after Ludo's sighting of the files that Morse had recklessly left lying on his desk. As to the next question, could the British Police piece together all their moves? That was uncertain, but, surely, those instances were evidence enough. And, even more damning, the use of a house Mrs. Talenti knew that her rightful tenant would never reclaim…

Morse's voice wavered with disgust despite his best endeavours, the recollection of their frolicking now tainted with senseless loss of life and a heartlessness no less awful for being ignored by one of the adulterous parties.

There was blessed silence after that last disclosure. Silence that Morse embraced greedily, trying to wrap his mind in it, finding solace in it for a while, before the next onslaught.

Fortunately, the next inquiries brought relief: all the insights Morse had into the couple would be welcome. Conjecture was something he was gladder to embrace, despite feeling his mind going glassy with exhaustion.

Without dwelling upon his heartache, he summarised all the elements he had gathered about the Talentis' activity and took pains to underline that they might have some additional ties with Venice: wasn't the logo on the letter headed paper of the California Amity Redemption and Rembursement the Lion of Saint Mark? They had both signed it, and even if its official place of business were in London, it couldn't be mere chance…

The Italian was still scribbling things down in his notebook, his eyes shrewd and attentive. There were crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and as they creased, Morse realised that he was older than he first seemed.

He added: 'All that Ludovico Talenti said was a riddle set upon another one.'

But the questions were relentless. They came like a spatter of rain turning into a hurricane, those questions, not leaving him time to breathe, to take shelter; the drops sharp as swords, the cold sliding into his pores until it moulded his face. In front of him, Pacella's expression showcased only blasé curiosity. From the look of him, he didn't expect much, thus firing up all Morse's stubbornness to prove him wrong.

What could he build out of that edifice of lies? Not much, Morse feared, but some facts could be harvested.

Talenti never told Morse what country he hailed from. Ludovico Talenti's family —and again, at the sound of the name he couldn't help noticing the swift mastering of a smirk on his protagonist's lips—was supposedly an old one; Talenti dealt in shipping and artwork.

Morse snorted derisively.

Actually, it might mean that Ludo was trafficking art, commissioning fakes, dealing with art heists, or cleaning out treasure caches left from the war, whose artifacts never went back to their rightful owners. He certainly seemed to move around Continental Europe a lot, favouring places where rich collectors mightn't be quite too fussy about the pedigree of their purchases.

The pen was writing more quickly now, the face intent.

'Any picture of him?'

'Not that I know of.'

Despite all the charitable work Ludo was supposedly engaged in, Morse had never seen a picture of the Talentis in the Society pages of the Oxford Mail. Nor in any other newspaper, for that matter.

Pacella didn't ask about Violetta's. Morse averted his eyes and focused them on his hands; they were gripping the ledge of the table so hard that the knuckles showed white. A post-mortem photograph would no doubt be sent, now, as they spoke, to the appropriate venues, and appropriate inquiries made to trace her.

His thoughts following the logical outcome, Morse proffered helpfully, 'Signora Talenti lived in Naples at some point.' At least, that's what Ludo declared, and what Talenti said had to be taken with a grain of salt. 'Fifteen years ago, or whereabout. She might have been—'

The sentence was left unfinished, as, once more, he was shaken into awakening by an unexpected rage.

Had she really sold herself to the highest bidder, or been 'a cheap prostitute,' as he had so promptly labelled another 'resourceful' young woman?

Morse's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. He swallowed a faint trace of bile and said it, nonetheless.

But there was nothing cheap about Violetta either. If she had relished her luxurious living, and been so wary to abandon it, wasn't it because she had known destitution and hardships?

Naples had been one of the most heavily bombed cities in the South of Italy. Unenumerable bombs had fallen, reducing the city half to ruins, and the retreating Germans didn't help matters afterwards. It had taken years to rebuild, and to house and feed its inhabitants.

Was Violetta's family caught in this desperate chaos? Had she been a barely out of her teens orphan, left alone to fend for herself? Was her father one of the entrepreneurs who had gambled over the reconstruction and lost, amidst sharks more ferocious than he was? Or was her past even more shady, helplessly mingled with the resurrecting Camorra?

His questions would probably never find any answers. Her reminiscences about opera spoke of a certain standard of living, even if opera was enjoyed by people from all social classes, and her unabashed relish of the luxuries of life, be they fine food, jewels, or luxurious clothes, had an almost relaxed touch that came from habit.

To sum it all, Morse knew nothing sound except for the Talentis' criminal proclivities and their taste for real-life theatricals.

Ispettore Superiore Pacella smiled a thin, ironical smile. 'In short, apart your... deductions, you have nothing more solid to add.'

Morse stayed still for a long, incredulous moment, seemingly unable to grasp what was said. Then he said in a low voice, 'Yet more than the whole of the Thames Valley Police found out.' Sweeping aside the objection he knew was coming with a sharp twist of the wrist, he added, 'I was told to let it drop. I didn't. And here we are.'

There was faint pride in the quiet statement.

Pacella caught it and his lips stretched again. For once, this flash of a smile was devoid of irony, a little more candid.

Morse closed his eyes, willingly, this time. A great shudder went through him, and he stretched his neck, trying to ease the twinge in the muscles.

'No, you couldn't,' agreed the Italian's voice in the short lull. 'Not after they mistook you for a fool. More fool they.'

It was almost like absolution, that sentence.

Silence came between them again. Almost friendly, this time.

Now that he had his statement out of his chest, Morse breathed more easily. He felt lighter, but this lightness was misleading: it was the lightness of emptiness, not of atonement.

Almost absentmindedly, he felt something giving way; tension unwound suddenly, and, as he felt his muscles relax all at once, he felt lightheaded.

They say you might see your entire life when you drown: would it happen like a hurricane or wave after wave crashing in? It was nothing of the sort with him, he had experienced. Each time he had thought himself mortally threatened, he had frozen still without no thoughts at all, mesmerised by the sheer impossibility of the reality confronting him.

He had also felt it, in those few seconds when Talenti had squeezed the trigger. Blind, animal panic, and an unvoiced scream surging from deep inside himself, denying his approaching death. And afterwards, ugly, naked relief that he had escaped the fate Ludo had planned for him all along.

It was almost the same now, except for it being the death of his soul—a soul he had obstinately denied existed. The last remnant of conscience clinging to mortal flesh; the last remnant of intellect fighting the odds. The ultimate combat of intelligence for dignity.

He felt utterly empty, aimless, and that emptiness was staggering.

His hands were pushing against the table top, as if to distance himself from that reality, and he became aware of the strain when it suddenly ceased. When he raised his eyes, he saw that Pacella's gaze was also directed at his fingers.

The bruising quiet of the room was suddenly shaken by voices nearby. The Agente made his first voluntary movement since he came to stand in the corner of the room where he was patiently waiting. Morse and Pacella had the same puzzled gesture, both pricking their ears and turning inquisitive eyes towards the door.

It opened and the origin of the disturbance revealed itself.

Thursday didn't look the less for wear, Morse noticed with aggravation. Unquestionably, the lines around his mouth and eyes were more pronounced, but he seemed fresher than he had any right to be. The man standing at Thursday's elbow was less heavily built, but the keen eyes were directed at Morse with the same thoughtful frown. He was probably in his sixties, and although he wasn't in uniform—not that surprising if he had hastily risen out of bed—, he had no trouble in projecting the aura of authority.

Unconsciously, Morse righted himself against the back of the chair, brushing his hair back from his brow. He felt rather than saw Pacella tense and jump to his feet. 'Vice Questore Colativa!' he uttered with some surprise. 'I didn't—'

'At ease, Pacella,' the man said. His gaze travelled to the other side of the room. 'Stefanelli, we won't need you anymore.' He waited until the policeman had exited the room before crossing it and standing at his subordinate's elbow, looking down pointedly at Morse. Belatedly, the DS realised that he hadn't risen to his feet. He shifted in his seat, preparing to get up, when the Vice Questore gestured him back into his chair.

'I've heard a lot about you, Sergeant Morse, in the last hour.'

There were so many things to reply to that that Morse hesitated a second too long, and the occasion was lost. The superior officer went on smoothly, 'My old friend here—' A turn of the head and a quick glance over his shoulder specified who he was talking about, if anyone in the room had any hesitation on the subject. '—has explained everything that needed explaining.'

Torn between relief and surging irritation, Morse kept silent. So did Thursday. But the latter's quietness was more of the fierce kind.

'The file and the photofits were on my desk by December 27, along with a letter from Ispettore Superiore Ziobe.'

'So—'

'Your visit here a few days ago was quite helpful.' Colativa nodded benevolently at Morse. 'As was your giving us your address.' He smiled thinly. 'Ispettore Ziobe was quite grateful to know of it.'

Morse's mouth opened in a protest that went unheard, as Pacella's head swivelled from one man to the other. He gathered his notes and pen hesitantly.

The gaze of his superior fell on the hands busying themselves on the table. 'Pacella's notes will not make it to the typewriter or an official report, I'm afraid,' the Vice Questore said in a mock regretful tone. 'Sorry for the waste of your time, Pacella.'

The Ispettore Superiore took his notebook, browsed through it, and tore out a few pages. He offered them to his superior who shoved them just as silently into the inner pocket of his jacket.

'Good.' He surveyed both men seated at the table. 'We are grateful to the Oxford Police for collaborating with us for trying to arrest Signor… ah… Devere. Hugo Devere.' He cast a swift look at Morse. 'You knew him under the name Ludo Talenti. And, talents he had aplenty. He's wanted for extorsion in Verona, and in the Netherlands for art trafficking. A fake Rembrandt.' He cleared his throat. 'Tonight's business never happened.'

At the name of the country, Morse shook his head. 'Amsterdam?'

'Amsterdam?' parroted Colativa.

'Just a thought. It's just—Talenti mentioned a trip there.' A nerve tightened in Morse's cheek. 'Nothing significant, maybe.'

'You forgot the most important,' interfered Thursday, addressing himself to the Vice Questore. 'Devere, if such was his name, conned the University of Oxford for six months.'

Morse frowned uncertainly. 'Sir?'

'Took 'em for nearly half a million pounds. Charity, he said.' Thursday squared his shoulders. 'Dr. Deveen alone had some suspicions.' He avoided Morse's gaze obstinately, but he couldn't help hearing his sharp intake of breath. 'It so happened the charity beneficiated Devere. Took off with the money. We learned about it just before Christmas; the University wasn't keen to—'

'Where's the body?' burst out of Morse's lips. 'Did you recover it?'

'Drowned, and it's for the best. No body. No one to blame,' Colativa said. 'The murderer tried to draw you into a trap, failed to kill you, killed the girl, bolted, and fell into the water. Bad luck.' He shrugged fatalistically. 'And the evidence bag containing your gun got lost. It happens.'

'But, Sir…' Morse couldn't help saying.

'You were on leave, and the esteemed Ispettore Ziobe came to warn you, as evidence in Oxford and our intelligence pointed to a murder attempt on you. You should be grateful.'

Morse tightened his lips, his brain working as furiously as his intense exhaustion allowed him.

So that was the official tale! The accolades would be Thursday's if he chose to accept them, and the Italian Police's, to have collared a corpse that had evaded coppers from several states. Extorsion was a serious enough crime for the Polizia di Stato to investigate. That it was him, Morse, who had managed to lead them all to the Talentis would be lost in an agreed-upon silence. After being a dupe to a murderous swindler, he would be the useful idiot to the ones who upheld the Law…

And this fabrication, they would enforce. If not, they would probably hold his keeping Police files at home against him. The very same files he had sent to Miss Thursday with all his notes. The files Talenti had seen at his home. Files like those Strange had already remarked upon. His slackness in procedures was his Achilles' heel and Thursday knew it well. A good inspector, but a poor policeman.

And, worse than the useful idiot, he would play the role of the naïve fool who had not been able to understand that he was walking into a trap, needing the last-minute intervention of his former Governor to save his arse. Some coppers in Oxford would have a field day with that.

That it was almost all true wasn't less damaging.

He knew he was walking into a trap. On the contrary, he had counted on it. Being the easy bait was the only way to lure Ludo. But he had not expected to be thrown off balance that easily.

'So you didn't recover Tal—Devere?' Morse asked determinedly.

'Probably won't. Currents. They're still trying, though.' This time, it was Pacella's voice. A faint trace of pity coursed through his face.

Morse got up tiredly. 'What now?' 'Matthew 8:22,' answered another part of his brain in a whisper. 'Let the dead. The case is closed. Accept it.'

But this time, his question sounded less indignant and considerably less antagonistic. What was the use, after all? He had spent what looked like hours to unburden his mind, and it would be lost forever into the ether. Unused.

Thursday saw it and said gently, 'Sleep.'

In the interval since Morse had had a proper look at him, his eyes had deepened in his sockets and his skin had taken a greyish colour. 'He's not a young man any more,' thought Morse, with some detached compassion. He nodded sharply.

'Come back tomorrow, early afternoon,' proposed Colativa. A suggestion that wasn't really one. 'Will two o'clock do? We'll talk it over.' He surveyed the DS with overt irony. 'You won't be searching for words so much, I expect.'

Morse felt himself flushing, which redoubled his annoyance.

'Come, Morse,' Thursday commanded in English. 'High time for a kip. They'll escort us home. Pacella, Bitte.'

'Freddo,' reciprocated Colativa.

Morse nodded his farewell to the Italian policemen and followed Thursday. A boat discharged them at the Gritti Palace, their escort staying politely behind.

Thursday scrutinized the façade up and down, but nothing in his expression betrayed what could only be said to be a pricey extravagance. 'Nice place you found yourself.'

'Oh, you know…' Morse's voice drifted away, and he looked at the brown brick and stone building as if he had never seen it before, his eyes tracing the shapes of the elongated Gothic arches of the front windows. On the empty quay, only a few tables chained against the walls were keeping them company.

'A few last days in luxury before the end?' Thursday goaded him. At the taunt, Morse recoiled, but Thursday went on. 'Very novelistic, I'm sure. Like your letter. Still, it made Mrs. Thursday cry.'

He turned away. 'Get some kip.' At Morse's faint rebellious glare, he paused and added gruffly, 'You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards. No use to anyone.'

Thursday made an abrupt movement towards the boat. 'I'll be back at ten.'

Without another word, he warily got onboard, taking with him the sight of Morse's whiteness and devastated look.

In the lobby, the attendant at the front desk shot Morse a bemused look as he handed him his key. But, surely, he had seen enough night owls in this job, thought the policeman grumpily. He took it, mumbled a snappy thank-you, and went into the lift, glad to rest his brow for a few seconds on the blessed coldness of the mirror.

Morse opened the door of his room, stripped out of his clothes, letting them fall haphazardly on the carpet, then climbed into the shower stall. He set the water on as hot as he could stand it and let it glide over his back and scalp.

And if he shed some tears, he was none the wiser, the salty drops being lost among the rivulets that coursed over his face.

In his much more modest hotel room provided by the Thames Valley Police, Thursday divested himself of his hat on the nearest table, carefully hung his coat, dropped heavily on the bed, and picked up the phone set on his nightstand. It was now 4 AM, but he knew that his wife would be glad of this wake-up call.

A few minutes later, different operators connected him to a sleepy familiar voice.

He heaved a great sigh. 'Win? It's alright, love. We're both fine,' he said, and didn't wait for the relieved torrent of questions on the other side of the line to add, 'Morse was right all along. Pegged them down right.'

There was a night and death, and there was a morning afterwards—and it was only the first day.

Their second day began even less auspiciously. In fact, it began on a late morning.

After some fitful turning and tossing, remembering what use he had made of this very same bed while Violetta shared it, Morse slept late. So late that he almost missed the breakfast provided in his luxurious accommodations. He nibbled on a toast, pushed his fette biscottateon the side of his plate, and drank copious amounts of coffee. But the hot liquid couldn't clear the cobwebs from his brain. He headed for the bar.

It was there that Thursday found him, a glass of scotch revolving disconsolately in his fingers, looking at the liquid slosh from one rim to the other.

'Morse.' Without any ado, Thursday plumped down in the plush armchair in front of him.

Morse's eyes flicked between the DCI and his glass. 'Sir.' He relapsed into silence, then abruptly downed the remaining liquid in one gulp.

Seeing that Morse had no intention of initiating the conversation, Thursday forged on. 'I called the nick. The Talenti's photofits are being widely circulated. Their other names, too.'

'What use now?'

'Might solve other cases.'

'Mmm,' Morse nodded vaguely, and Thursday saw with increasing clarity that his scotch wasn't the first. How many had he guzzled? He couldn't even reprove him that. Technically, Morse wasn't on the job.

'Why?'

Thursday's head snapped up. Bluntness was one of Morse's less endearing characteristics, but he hadn't expected such a naked question. He flung it back to him to gain some time. 'Why what?'

'Why did you come?'

'Didn't leave me the choice, did you? Dumped all your files on me.'

Their eyes locked, but Morse was the first to waver. He hung his head before turning it sharply away, his eyes searching instead for the waiter. A tiny jerk of his chin was enough to bring another glass, copiously filled, to the table, and a small dish of peanuts. Morse glared at the latter with overt disgust.

'I'll have a coffee,' said Thursday as an afterthought to the departing waiter. 'Un caffé all'americana.' The man was too well trained to express any surprise, and trotted back obediently to the bar.

The silence between both coppers lasted until the attendant had regained his place at the other side of the room. They were the only patrons at this hour, the guests having either gone to their daily pursuits or lingering yet in the breakfast room.

A faint chime sounded in ten successive strikes. Morse's hand was trembling slightly as he raised the glass to his lips.

'Why?' he repeated.

Morse wasn't half-pissed yet, but at the rate he was going, he would soon regret his last order, Thursday thought.

First things first. When the half-filled glass of scotch came to rest upon the polished wood, Thursday promptly snatched it up and placed it on a neighbouring table. Morse raised quarrelsome eyes to him, but otherwise didn't move an inch.

'It stays there,' said Thursday firmly. He cleared his throat, and began in a low voice: 'Your letter reached us on December 26th. Forwarded.' Up went his brows as he puzzled at an unexpected thought. 'How did you get Joan's address?'

A swift gesture of the hand, dismissing the inserted question as irrelevant, first took care of it; but, as Thursday's lips remained closed in a tight line, Morse mumbled, 'Welfare. Someone owed me.' He slumped further inside his armchair, then half-heartedly tried to straighten himself, wishing that he could know what went on behind Thursday's impassive face.

However, it gave up nothing as Thursday went on, 'I informed Mr. Bright, then I called an old friend in Venice.'

Morse's narrowed eyes regained a little of their acuity. 'Vice Questore Colativa?'

A sharp nod. 'I knew Giambattista Colativa during the war. Monte Cassino.' Thursday's lips twitched then went dead still. After a pause filled by memories so numerous that he couldn't have expressed them even if he wished it, he added: 'We kept in touch. Luck was, you gave the Police your hotel. Left the San Michele map behind, too. Convenient.'

The innuendo was so blatant that Morse could have spelt it backwards.

Had he truly left the map lying on purpose? Probably. But not for hope of any reinforcement. He was on his own and he knew it. Always was; always would. Instead, he had somehow meant to facilitate any search for him in case of… How had he phrased it? 'Should I fall short and things end badly...'

Instinctively, his hand groped along the table top and met only emptiness; his fingers extending vainly for the comforting touch of a glass vessel.

Thursday's now-empty coffee cup sang a clear, high clang as the earthenware briskly met the saucer. 'You hoped to put it right, didn't you? A little too late.'

Morse cocked a brow in surprise. Everything he had needed to say was in the letter ostensibly addressed to Miss Thursday; actually, penned for her father.

But he could well tell Thursday all about it, after all! Ultimately, after those awkward days would pass—'after the long hours of train travelling,' a more sober part of his brain susurrated in his ear—, Thursday would be nothing more than a stranger, the kind of chance-met stranger that one confided in when dead sure that those confidences would never come back to haunt one.

Even more so, Morse would be a 'former colleague' to Thursday. One not that fondly remembered—as his tone had made obvious when he had mentioned him to DCI Box, a few years ago.

No, nothing Morse would say now would change Thursday's opinion of him.

Strange how the man's good opinion had mattered so much, not so long ago! He had really been that green… But he had outgrown that need, now. And to think that his former Governor might have been his father-in-law, if Miss Thursday had accepted his proposal!

Thursday's head jerked upward and his gaze focused with an additional scowl upon Morse.

'What?' came unbidden from the DCI's lips.

Morse's brow furrowed further, with uncertainty, this time. Had his musings spilled over?

'N'thing,' he mumbled, adding, 'Water under…' He reached out for his exiled glass, rescued it from its solitary deportation on the adjacent table, and sought comfort in it. It was half-empty, and he remedied it by draining it in one go. Emptiness was the order of the day.

As he shifted in his seat, preparing to hail the barman for another refill, Thursday's hand stopped his half-raised arm's momentum. A puzzled frown replaced the one concentration had etched on Morse's brow, and he turned eyes lined with red to the older man.

'Why not?'

'Enough for today. No livener, that.'

'Not enough.'

'Liquid breakfast?' insisted Thursday.

'As a matter of fact, yes.' At Thursday's severe frown, Morse explained. 'Coffee.'

Still, the Old Man looked pointedly at the glass Morse still held.

At that glare, Morse's blood boiled. He felt the vibration caused by the glass meeting the table top course along his fingers as he leaned forward, angry eyes boring into the DCI's.

'If not for my "flighty piece," the Talentis would still be running, scot-free. Unwittingly, she offered me the missing link on a platter.'

The reminder acted like a douse over Thursday's reciprocating anger. In a mellowing voice, he proffered, as a peace offering: 'Not your fault your mate was a bad apple.'

'Never my mate. But my responsibility if we couldn't pin it on them sooner.'

Morse's voice was definitely slurred, noticed Thursday, as the latter began his tale. Not very blatantly yet, but he might have downed enough on a nearly empty stomach and a sleepless night to loosen a few screws. Thicker, northern stresses fought with intoxicated blurriness, and no one would now believe that the presently grating voice would be able to soar in any kind of singing.

Thursday kept silent, fearing that any kind of intervention, be it nods or sounds of approval would derail Morse's confession—for confession it was. He couldn't label it overwise.

Frequently searching for synonyms that would avoid any semblance of emotional involvement, Morse began again to retell the concatenation of circumstances.

Third time lucky. The saying went through his mind in a flash, and his jaw tightened. The third time in two days and a night he rehashed the actions that had brought him here: musings to himself, a statement poured into Pacella's professional ears, and now, another one for this copper who would scribble it down on the slate of his mind and never erase it again. Pacella may have torn out his notebook pages, but Thursday would keep Morse's confidences, mull over them, and not forget a line.

Still, it was easier than Morse expected. Strings of words glided out, bonding into sentences; merely impeded by the search for an unemotional term. Little by little, they gained more speed, as caution was brushed aside by an impatience to end it all.

Punctuating the words, Morse's fingers began a staccato dance on the table, each tap unconsciously underlining the major points of his narrative: his first meeting at La Fenice with a glamorous Lady of Mystery; her pillow talks bordering on confession—that lowering of intimate barriers that had given him the last straw he could grasp to recover the Talentis—; his appalment, months later, at finding out she was Ludo's wife; her promises to leave her husband; his idiotic belief that 'the heart decided.'

At this point, Morse scoffed, and bitterness punctured even the alcoholic haze he had wrapped himself into.

In a gesture more revealing than all the words which had tumbled out, he closed his eyes. Thursday saw the sudden spreading out of tiny wrinkles and crow's feet he had never noticed before on Morse's skin, and something akin to pity stabbed him, following the uttering of the harsh sound.

But Morse was still speaking, carried by his momentum. 'I can't believe that Talenti planned it all. Not since Venice… No!'

His denial exploded like a hand grenade and, from the corner of his eyes, Thursday saw that the barman was casting worried eyes in their direction. He shook his head slightly, and the man slouched again against the counter.

'No!' repeated Morse with desperate intensity. 'He couldn't.' And, from the depth of his anguish, he added, grasping at straws he feared would disintegrate under his touch, 'Ludo resented me afterwards, so he—'

For an instant, Morse's face crumbled and his eyes filled with something so bleak that Thursday felt like he was trespassing. His eyes wandered on the farthest wall, and he saw that the hands of the clock now broadcasted twenty past eleven. It had taken this long to make Morse spill it. 'Only because he's off his tits,' Thursday thought, 'not because he trusts me. God knows I haven't given him reasons to, lately.'

His self-criticism went no farther, as the younger man said haltingly, 'The day you saw us—by the towpath, she asked me to save her. She told me he would kill her. I thought Violetta was—' He shook his head deprecatingly. 'Lots of good it did her. I told her I couldn't save her.' His voice broke. 'I was right. She also was. No one could.' Morse's eyes held an almost beseeching glint as he bore into Thursday's. 'We weren't—then. We resumed it the day after.'

Now was the moment or never, Thursday knew. He had never wavered at aiming for the kill when his opponent had lowered his guard. But this, he kept for the various scums he had been battling all his life. Hitting Morse below the belt wasn't his idea of a good deed, but it would have to be done.

He had to know.

Mr. Bright would ask, and so would McNutt when they'd be back in Oxford. And even if Bitte would make sure that most of Morse's implication and his stepping over the line would be conveniently forgotten, he, Fred Thursday, had to know what laid at the bottom of this cesspit.

'You were at College with Talenti?' he said, as he couldn't ask the 'Did you trust him? ' that was burning his lips.

Morse shook his head, glad to unburden himself in one lump. 'I couldn't remember him, actually. But he knew—' He knew all my weaknesses, he wanted to say.

Weaknesses Ludo could have easily found out in the archives of the Oxford Mail. His passion for opera—the infamous 'Singing Detective' headline. His past—it had excited the interest of pen-pushers enough, after the Blenheim Vale Affair. Enough 'to catch the conscious of the King.' But he had been no king or princeling, merely Rosencrantz—unless he was the equally unfortunate Guildenstern.

Morse's voice drifted; he was silent for a while, then he picked up his answer without uttering the damning word. '—so I believed Ludo,' he continued, his voice hoarse. 'And then, I went on with it.'

He had believed Ludo because he wanted to. So much. He had been that lonely.

And when Violetta had appeared, he had believed still because he couldn't bear to let her go.

Hoping they could build something together.

But no one could redeem Violetta. Despite her supposedly genuine contrition. No one. She was right about that, too.

'You were right,' burst into Morse's thoughts, superimposing itself with his thought so the words felt evanescent at first. He pinched the bridge of his nose, but it didn't make the sentence disappear.

Seeing Morse's incredulous look, Thursday repeated: 'You were right, Morse.'

The sentence had an extraordinary effect upon the bowed shoulders. Morse straightened up, and with a flash of his old arrogance, said with quiet deliberation: 'Took you long enough to say it.'

All Thursday's goodwill crumbled in a second. 'I was right about Sturgis,' he growled.

That unpalatable truth didn't derail Morse one bit. In the same conceited tone, he conceded, 'You were. But not because you pierced all.'

Thursday's closed fist came crashing on the table top. His coffee cup overturned, and so did Morse's glass. Residual drops of coffee stained the table, dark against the lighter mahogany wood.

Fighting the ensuing silence with sudden haste, Morse said, in a low voice: 'Sorry, sir. I had no right to say that. Especially after…'

'No, you didn't. You solved enough cases by following your guts. Too many, perhaps.'

Thursday inhaled deeply, and, words issuing in haste as if he would never say them if they weren't, he added, 'Mr. Bright saw that most of your expenses will be covered. Up to the usual fare at least.' His gaze surveyed the paintings on the wall and the beautiful furniture. 'As to your train fare, it will be reimbursed. Got your return ticket?'

Morse shook his head mutely, and Thursday refrained another, deeper sigh. Of course, the fool hadn't. Probably thought he wouldn't head back home.

'Well, then,' he went on, 'we have an appointment with Colativa at two o'clock. Till then…' Thursday cast a quick look at the clock. It was now five past twelve. 'Time enough to find a bàcaro where we'll put some food into you.'

He got up, and after a few seconds spent wavering, Morse also did.

'Oh, and Mr. Bright called McNutt. Told him you've been delayed. Thought you'd be interested.'

Morse's only answer was a tightening of his lips, and a tug upon his ear.

Notes: I have no idea if the Gritti Palace already was used as a hotel in the early 1970's.

Fred Thursday's Italian nickname should be "Fredo," but I played on word by having him called "Freddo" (cold) because of his volatile temper. It might have been more in evidence when he was younger.

What did you think of Morse and Thursday's heart to heart? Please, let me know!