Finally, food was a useful commodity. While Morse was picking at it, looking balefully at the plates of ciccheti set before him, Thursday finished his white wine. He had taken good care that one glass would be all Morse would have to drink, offering him the choice between fried sardines and fried vegetables, or an assortment of baccalà (fried salt cod) and stuffed olives.
But he was damned if he would let Morse take a giro de ombre, a drinking tour, from bàcaro to bàcaro.
First, he needed his former bagman as sober as could be for the incoming appointment with Colativa.
Second, he wasn't sure if they would qualify as 'drinking chums' anymore since Morse had grown into a conceited ingrate not mincing his words about Thursday's coppering.
Thursday stole a glance at the younger man. His hand was now hovering over one of the dishes, as if wondering if it would make a go at the appetizing food. Finally, after pondering it for far too long, considering the enticing smells that drifted from the plates, Morse warily picked up an olive and began to munch it. Then a second, and a third, his face betraying his enjoyment of the food.
Wordlessly, Thursday gestured, ordering two of the same, as Morse chewed on even more enthusiastically. He didn't lick his fingers, but he'd probably have if he had been on his own. Still, when he glanced at his now empty glass, Thursday was quick to order a bottle of sparkling water.
When he judged that Morse had eaten enough to counteract the effect of his booze, he glanced at his watch and got to his feet. 'Time to go,' he said with a voice that brooked no opposition.
Morse followed suit, noticing that Thursday carefully counted the change and folded the bill in his wallet.
'Accounting will need it,' Thursday mumbled. At Morse's sudden look of understanding, he added, 'Yours is also taken care of. Mr. Bright's order.'
They walked silently through the city; not very companionably, often treading one behind the other in the narrow alleyways. After a while, close brick walls stained with damp were replaced by smooth exterior plaster in ochre, dark yellow or dark rose. The alleyways got wider and the pavement smoother, as if thousands of soles had polished it with their passing. They could even walk side by side. Still, they kept silent, their eyes purposely running over the walls and the few passer-byes that came their way. Baroque portals beckoned with the allurements of pillars topped with the mock rigor of Baroque turbulence, leading into churches or palaces whose treasures were hidden by sober façades; still, they equally disdained them, passing them by with a mere glance.
'And thus they creep, crouching and crab-like, through the sapping streets,' Morse murmured, and Thursday looked at him with astonishment.
Despite the cold, they weren't the only ones going in the same direction. More people came their way, Italian families chatting together, and a few tourists seemingly lost in this maze, puzzling over their maps. Thursday and Morse went across a few more streets, and suddenly, the Piazza San Marco was before them.
For a second, Thursday's face expressed his wonder as space seemed to open before them, while Morse's merely hardened further. Involuntarily, his steps checked.
He had crossed the famous square no later than a few days before, during his lonely wanderings in the City while he was killing time before going to the Fenice.
But, for all his meanderings, his quest had been unsuccessful. If, in a subconscious urge, he had wanted to surround himself with beauty, he had found nothing but decay.
Like the Fenice, Piazza San Marco didn't hold him in its thrall anymore. Its pull was fading fast, the beauty of the place being like a Carnival mask hiding pockmarks and leprosy, the freshness of the architecture submerged by an encompassing decline. It was as if the City, this astounding open-air museum, was turning into a heap of fakes, of cheap baubles especially made up for gullible tourists. Even the fake Pieter Claesz painting that Bixby had flaunted so proudly seemed now to have more substance. And, as this still life painting had stated in all its masterful make-believe, Vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas.
All Morse's moves had spelled vanity in its myriad shapes.
Vanity, his going to the Fenice before the fated day, half-expecting to meet Violetta sitting meekly among the audience, nights before her self-appointed rendezvous with her father's ghost.
Thus, Morse had spent tense evenings among the gods, half-listening to La Sposa del Demonio, then growing increasingly aware of his unconcerned listening to the key moments of the score, or intently searching through the faces of the audience during the interval.
Vanity, his trying to reconquer the awe he had first felt when going through the museums, the churches—not the 139 of them, but enough to be dazzled by frescoes and cupolas and sculpted, gilded Baroque altars—; and at this number, his mind froze for a second, remembering what had followed their banter.
And, as if eager to show him how truly despicable things were, a moth-eaten mental veil had dropped between his sight and the marvels of Venice, obstructing his enjoyment of the centuries-old splendours. An almost-slimy, muddy smell now clung to the remnants of the City's glory, to its monuments—now empty shells of what they once meant to the masters of the Mediterranean Sea who had built them as testimony of their power.
Even the Venetian sunsets seemed darker now, their usual colours washed-out—the sinking of the sun, an endless fall that would never allow the re-emergence of light; the ripples on the Laguna or the Canal Grande, mere flickers that couldn't inspire any painters except amateurs. As if the City didn't attune itself to the sun in glorious roses and pinks and yellows and misty shadows.
Not anymore.
It was a decoy, a theatrical backdrop, where light could not really sizzle—just ricochet for a while.
Morse had found nothing here. Nothing except agony and rottenness.
Unless he was his own disease, and brought the darkness with him always.
He might have frozen for a fraction of a second too long on the edge of the Piazza, because Thursday suddenly stopped his progress, and looked back at him so swiftly that Morse didn't have the time to rearrange his face.
What Thursday perceived he didn't comment on, but he waited with less impatience than he should have had, until Morse resumed walking.
'This way,' he merely commented.
And Morse let himself be led again like a puppet on a string to the Police headquarters, so numb that he didn't even question how Thursday found his way inside the confusion of the streets without a map or having to ask for directions.
Full daylight didn't mitigate the tear and wear of the Police headquarters. The policeman sitting behind the front desk had a more alert glint in his eyes, but it subsided into wary boredom as soon as Thursday gave his name. The British coppers were soon escorted towards Colativa's office.
The latter jumped to his feet when they came in. 'Bondì! Come in, come in,' he went on in English, after his first salutation in the Friulan language.
The British coppers reciprocated the greeting, Thursday seizing Colativa's hand in a firm handshake.
Morse's brows furrowed. Colativa's accent was strong, but he seemed fluent enough in English. His speaking only Italian the night before must have been a way to unbalance him further.
To conceal this sudden understanding, he ran his eyes over the furniture, gathering what info he could about the Vice Questore, while his elders exchanged a few additional words of greetings. He'd probably need all his wits about him.
The office was quite the same as Mr. Bright's, Morse noticed. Meticulously ordered, not a thing out of place, giving the lie to the Italian reputation for sloppiness—but weren't supposed national characteristics usually made up from prejudice and stupidity from people who should know better?
Files were heaped in rigid stacks, corners maniacally aligned. Reference books—Law and registrations—and file boxes lining the shelves behind the desk added a touch of darker colours to the sober greys and browns prominent in the room. On Colativa's desk, the only oddity, a Tanagra statuette of a graceful woman seated on a stool, her pleated palla falling in soft folds over her knees, was the only contrasting shade, as the pale rose of the clay seemed to attract most of the light in the room.
Colativa caught Morse's glance and said dismissively, 'A copy, of course.' He chuckled. 'A fake, I should rather say. One of our latest catches. Peddling counterfeited antiquities seems a national pastime among criminals.'
He gestured to the seats arranged in front of his desk. Morse and Thursday sat down.
'Devere's body hasn't been found,' he announced straight away. Seeing Morse's wince, he said: 'Probably won't. Borne away by the currents, possibly.'
'So I was told,' Morse said. His forehead creased as he elaborated, 'A brother from San Michele warned me of that possibility. Still, it's unfortunate.'
A corner of Colativa's mouth quirked up. 'Life isn't a James Bond film, Sergeant Morse. People don't rise from the dead, screaming for revenge. Drowned people stay dead, even if we don't fish them out. We probably won't. Not at this time of year, and not in that part of the Laguna.'
'Talenti might have planned another way of escape: he was thorough in his plans,' Morse insisted. 'He might have missed the last boat.'
'He wouldn't have,' Thursday butted in. 'Time enough to bump you off and scram.' 'If not for me,' although unsaid, hovered loudly in the room.
Morse's eyes flashed in dumbfounded anger. Did Thursday have to squeeze so hard where it was sore?
It hadn't escaped his notice that he owed his life to the DCI's prompt action. Another second, and Talenti would have pressed the trigger again, and this time… This time, Violetta's body wouldn't have shielded him from the bullet.
Fortunately, Colativa intervened before Morse's resentment got the upper hand. 'Talenti might have planned something: the operator of the last Vaporetto reported seeing a small boat moored near the portal in Recinto VII, but it is impassable. Locked-up, you know. The main exit is the one you used, near the Church.' He paused, then added, as in an afterthought. 'There was no boat around when the Police arrived.'
Morse slanted his head, and his palm went to cup his cheek. His face took an absorbed, faraway look.
Thursday glanced at him and frowned. 'Don't go imagining things, Morse! Talenti never reached that boat, if he ever planned to.'
'How did he fall into the water, sir? You never told me.'
'We reached the—' Thursday's brow puckered in indecision.
'—Ossario Comune,' supplied Colativa.
'—and Talenti managed to climb over the outer wall. While he was kneeling on it, I returned fire. I saw him fall in the water, through the cast iron gate. I fired again. He cursed. He didn't reappear.'
Judging from the look on his face, Morse didn't look convinced. Thursday's irritation reached a new high. 'What else do you want, Morse?'
Being alive wasn't enough, it seemed. It never was, with Morse. He had to have answers. 'Even bloody answers nobody wants,' he thought with growing aggravation.
'Something definite. Clear-cut. Not an eventual way out for a con man and murderer wearing different faces.'
'Well, you won't get it.'
'Gut feeling, sir? Like with the towpath murders?'
Thursday's fists closed by his side and he inhaled heavily. The sound resounded loudly in the room, and again, Colativa hastened to speak. 'The case isn't closed yet; Devere's body might still come up. Sometimes, they do.' His tone didn't hold much hope of it being washed up the shore or picked up by a stray boat.
Tension crept up again along Morse's spine. Try as he might, he couldn't master the slight shiver that accompanied his knotted muscles, as if someone had walked on his grave.
'Bene,' Colativa said. 'Here is what we gathered about Devere.' His eyes fell on a bulky file lying on his desk. 'We spent the remaining of the night requesting the files from all over Italy. The cases were notorious enough, so they found them easily. Some were faxed from Naples and Palermo.'
He beamed, making it sound like a huge favour, and Thursday issued a grunt of gratitude.
Colativa opened the folder, and various photographs caught Morse's and Thursday's eyes at once. They were blurred, but in all of them they could see Ludo Talenti's silhouette as he stood in the corner of various social gatherings, speaking animatedly with Beautiful People: a few politicians, socialites, actors and a few millionaires who had graced the Celebrity pages just because they were rich as well as famous for their elite parties.
However, in every one of the photographs, Ludo Talenti gave the feeling he had ducked behind another, turned his head away or raised his glass in a toast at the most opportune moment, so all the likeness that the photographer had caught on film was a toothpaste poster toothy grin, and the shape of cheekbones turning away—obscured or not by a beard. Talenti-Devere might not have achieved to escape complete scrutiny, but he had made his utmost to make identification difficult.
'When was that?' said Morse.
He fingered a photograph and flipped it over. The date written on the reverse might have been what he was looking for, because he set it back on the desk.
'Called himself Hugo Devere then,' Colativa explained. 'Those were taken in Palermo last year. This woman—' and his finger pointed to a middle-aged woman whose abundant jewels made her look like a glittering Christmas tree, '—she's the one who bought a Duccio predella from him. Family heirloom, Devere said. Commissioned from Duccio himself. Painted not a year before, a curator found out.'
In the photograph Morse had placed face up on the desk, Talenti-Devere was standing close to Steve McQueen, one arm thrown carelessly around his shoulders and his head turned away as he said something in the actor's ear, while the latter squinted at the photographer, his face whitened out by the flashbulb. Talenti's jerky movement had been an effective disguise: his face was hidden as effectively as if he were wearing a mask, but his silhouette and the garish reddish shirt were unmistakeable.
'At least, he hadn't lied on that point,' Morse thought. 'He did meet "Steve".'
He slowly browsed through the photographs. None of them featured Violetta Talenti.
Colativa's voice was reaching Morse from afar as he tried to find something in those snapshots that might give him a clue. 'Weird that he needed to go on with it. From what we gathered, he had plenty of money. Could have retired and enjoyed it. But no, he had to keep conning people. Enjoyed it, probably.'
'What about the woman?' asked Thursday brusquely, as he ceased to riffle through the photographs, and Morse was grateful that he had; he wasn't sure he could have kept his voice firm if he had.
Colativa shook his head. 'Nothing. No Police file on record. She never went to those parties. Some prominent… victims were interviewed this morning, and they never even knew Devere was married.' He cast a quick glance at Morse. 'Or appeared to be.'
Thursday's eyes studiously avoided Morse's scowl; a move which gave the latter no small scrap of satisfaction. At least, he was slightly vindicated for the hanky-panky his Governor had found so distasteful. Violetta might have been the proverbial fallen woman, but at least the smear of adultery was scrapped off him, albeit reluctantly.
As if it made things any better!
He had once thought that affairs with married women weren't 'his scene.'
He had been wrong.
Desire had overcome Reason. And the—alleged—cuckolded husband being a friend had made no difference to his moral compass.
Violetta's actual marital status might mitigate it in the end, but, in Thursday's eyes, Morse had nonetheless crossed the line.
A bit rich, after years of being in the front row to witness Thursday's idea of coppering! Not to forget his sidling with the likes of Box and Jago!
Morse snorted.
The incongruous sound deepened Thursday's frown, as Morse crossed his arms before him defensively.
'Nothing on Violetta? Nothing at all?' he couldn't help insisting.
'None. He could have manipulated her, except for the things she avowed doing,' Colativa ventured.
'Hardly.' Morse's voice was acerbic. 'Fineries and fripperies were essential to her. She couldn't do without them.'
Both Police inspectors exchanged a knowing look. Without heeding them, Morse went on, 'And she was scared. Caught in Talenti's net, and, in the end, murderer and victim alike.'
An unwelcome memory flitted through his mind: Isla Fairford, and her so sweet, seemingly open confidences.
Murderesses. Victims of foul play. Murdered women. Women committing suicide. Was he fated to be attracted to women who checked any of these boxes?
Morse shook the inopportune thought with a wary shrug, trying to focus on the case at hand. 'What else did you find?'
'Naples is a good lead. Quite interesting. We'll look into that. Just for closure, you know. There might be some cold cases needing a full stop,' Colativa explained. 'We'll look into the woman's past, too, but it's probably a dead end. After the war, it was easier to disappear and forge new identities.'
'What about the signature "F. De Vere"?' Morse asked. He had the dizzying feeling that he was speaking out into an echo chamber, his words falling into a resonant void. 'It could well be another alias for Hugo Devere. And don't you find the use of the Lion of Saint Mark on the California Amity Redemption and Rembursement letterhead paper significant? There might be loose ends in Venice.'
Colativa's eyes pierced the younger detective, as if he wanted to see through him. 'Leave it to us. We'll take care of that. My friend Freddo will pursue a few ends in Oxford, and between the both of us, we'll make sure that no one else is still interested in… collecting earlier what should be left to fate. There will be no more untimely deaths.'
His tone was final, and Morse understood that he would probably never know about all the latter ramifications. He had been taken off the case. Permanently.
'I see,' he said slowly.
During all this exchange, Thursday had said nothing, looking alternatively at his old war mate and at his former bagman.
'Morse isn't a yes-man, you see,' he told Colativa pointedly. 'You'll have to give a little in the end.'
This memento of one of their last conversations brought a patch of red on Morse's cheekbones.
'Sir, all I need to know is if I was—If I allowed Talenti…' Guilt mingled with vehemence made his voice strangle.
'If that's troubling you, my young friend, it's easy to relieve your mind. You are no accessory before or after the facts. Just guilty of… shall we say, carelessness. A good lesson learned, eh?' Colativa's gaze didn't flinch and Morse lowered his eyes, hating himself for it. 'You're a lucky man. I'm sure they'll be willing to overlook your blunder, considering that you led us to the criminals.'
As a matter of fact, Morse would bet his last opera record that he would strongly recommend leniency. Backed by Thursday, if the stern expression on the DCI's face was any clue.
But neither man would do so with any lightness of heart. All the more since they were gazing at him with something like pity and maybe also something akin to scorn.
'Somewhat brilliant but sorely lacking.' Morse could almost hear Thursday's voice in his head. Would he tell it to McNutt?
It prompted his next outburst. 'That's it, then? Swept under the carpet?'
'Trust me, you wouldn't like the alternative,' reproved Colativa softly, the veiled threat obvious.
There would be no help coming from Thursday, Morse saw. Outwardly relaxed, his stance made nonetheless obvious that he would condone this official way out. And after all, why wouldn't he? Thursday had found arrangements with the Law before.
Suddenly, disgust swept over Morse like a wave. He flung his head back, eyes flashing. 'If that makes it alright, then!'
Thursday's expression closed. 'Mustn't grumble. You got off lightly, and you know it! Don't push your luck too far.'
The snarl on Morse's face could have been a younger imprint of his former Governor; then he turned away, focusing instead on the little Roman maiden seated in her manufactured majesty. The face moulded in clay returned his incensed look with an immoveable half-smile.
Morse let out a harsh breath, then nodded curtly. He knew when he was staring at Defeat in the face.
All the words exchanged in Colativa's office could only be anticlimactic after that. Afterwards, Morse couldn't really recall them; only remember vaguely that it had to do with their return journey.
Yet, just before he left the office, Morse turned back to face the Vice Questore. 'What about her?'
'Her?'
Morse's throat was so tight he was afraid that the words wouldn't go through. 'Signora Talenti. What will happen to her—?' He couldn't bring himself to say it, still, with another push, his vocal cords expelled the sentence. 'Where will she be buried?'
'Buried?' From Colativa's tone, the thought was ludicrous.
Because he couldn't even contemplate to imagine her white figure laid out on a slab for medical students to ogle, Morse burst out: 'Where? How?' He swallowed hard, and said, berating himself for this foolishness: 'Are there free plots at San Michele? I can—'
'Ah, I see,' Colativa replied, his tone neutral. 'It could be arranged, yes. I'll let you know.' His eyes softened for a second. 'It can be arranged.'
Thursday cleared his throat. Morse cast a look at him, expecting to find sarcasm in his eyes. He found nothing of the sort. At least, nothing he could easily qualify. Thus, he let silence grow and cloak all words until they were meaningless, even the goodbyes that had to be uttered as they were the only thing left to do.
Morse left the office, shoulders slumped, while Thursday lingered, exchanging a few softly spoken sentences with Colativa.
Unbeknownst to Morse, Colativa whispered a few words in reply, and Thursday patted his arm. 'I know, I know. Good head on his shoulders, Morse, but I won't leave him out of my sight. Thank you, Bitte. I owe you one.'
'No, Freddo. We're even. I wouldn't be here if not for you.'
Memories of a time when lives meant nothing much passed between the two men.
Hastening his steps, Thursday caught up with his subordinate in the lobby. He shoved an envelope in his pocket. 'Vice Questore Colativa arranged for our return tickets. Train leaves at half past seven. Time enough to pack our gear.'
Their train schedule left them the latter part of the afternoon to explore Venice if they so wished.
Morse cast a quick look at Thursday. The man seemed pensive, almost ill at ease, fidgeting a few steps away from the Police Station.
'As he should,' Morse thought ferociously. Hadn't Thursday robbed him of his very last investigation at Castle Gate?
After another sneaking glance, the certainty that the Old Man wasn't so ready to leave him on his own couldn't be shaken, so Morse merely ventured, 'Don't you want to bring back a little souvenir to Mrs. Thursday?'
Thursday nodded. 'Planned to. Wasn't a very happy bunny when I had to bail out on the 30th. Neither was Joan.'
Morse's face went blank. 'Miss Thursday was there? I thought she'd be there only for Christmas.'
Thursday's eyebrows raised a little, clearly thinking about the letter Morse had sent to his daughter. 'Got a leave for New Year's Eve.' He sighed. 'Well, I'll get them something nice.'
'If you care for it, I know a place,' Morse offered. 'They sell lovely Murano glasswork and other trinkets. I bought an ashtray gondola last time I was there. It's a little out of the way; not many tourists know of it, I'm sure.'
Thursday nodded. It would save time, and indulging Morse with that might not be counterproductive. Besides, Morse's fastidious taste might be useful for once.
They went to the shop in silence, neither willing to test the strength of their fragile truce.
The small shop was indeed full of lovely pieces. The seller, an elderly woman inclined to be chatty if one allowed her, displayed beautiful small figurines and vases, tiny fragrance bottles with elaborate stoppers shaped like flames, even a few jewellery items: earrings, necklaces, even rings made of filigreed and millefiori glass. But it was on a silver and black photograph frame, then on an iridescent pendant shaped like a drop, that Thursday set his choice.
'Joan will like it,' he considered aloud.
When they left the shop, Morse slipped a little bundle into Thursday's hands. 'For Mrs. Thursday, with my regards.'
Thursday considered the parcel and grunted in approval, accepting the tacit apology directed at him for shattering their family circle. 'She'll be glad.'
'The little horse with the flowing mane,' Morse explained, and that was enough for Thursday to understand that his dithering hadn't escaped Morse's scrutiny.
Morse's belongings were packed in the wink of an eye. When it was done, he sat on the bed and cast a last look around.
The pier mirror reflected engravings of Roman vessels etched by Piranesi as well as replicas of Canaletto paintings back at him. In the silver surface, his own face, drawn and pale, seemed to mock the hours he had spent in this same room, flushed with pleasure and feeling absurdly smug. How far away the previous year seemed now!
A gesture of anger escaped him, his hand slashing the empty air as if he could lacerate obstinate reminiscences.
According to Virgil, 'carmina vel caelo possunt deducere lunam—spells, for instance, are able to draw down the moon from heaven'—but Morse had summoned no ghostly spirit to cross the threshold of his room.
No necromancer was needed to evoke a slim shape, ebony hair and red lips. Violetta's pale wraith hovered in his mind, tempting him, deriding him, her thin arms wrapping themselves playfully around his ribs.
Her gesture was so vividly recalled that he almost felt her weight pressing on his back and the trail of her lips on his shoulder. Morse closed his eyes, leaning into the bittersweet memory one last time, then he picked up the phone.
He asked the operator to connect him to the San Michele monastery. A few hesitant queries and some interlocutors later, he heard the voice he was waiting for in the receiver.
'Pronto!'
'Fratello Anselmo?'
His accent must have betrayed him, as the Franciscan brother immediately said, 'Sergeant Morse?'
'Himself. Brother, I'm leaving Venice soon, and—'
Morse hesitated, and the Italian breached easily: 'If you wished to thank me, my assistance didn't deserve any gratitude.'
'It wasn't a courtesy call,' Morse said, and, at the other end of the line, Fratello Anselmo swallowed a smile at this refreshing honesty. 'I needed to ask you a question.'
'About the murder? I fear I saw no evidence that might help you.'
'No, not about that.' A corner of Morse's mouth twisted, but he forged on. 'How did you know—I mean… How did you know you choose the right path?'
'Ah! My personal road to Damascus?' A tiny smile came and went on the Franciscan's mouth, but it would have taken a sharper ear than Morse's to hear it. 'The sixth Étude d'exécution transcendante was my undoing. God moves in mysterious ways.'
'"Vision"? Aptly named, then,' Morse said after a short pause. 'You mistook me, brother. I wasn't speaking about religious matters. I don't blame things on God or the devil, although some people seem to be wicked for the sake of it. I spoke of choice and of duty.'
'Isn't it the same thing, sometimes? Duty to yourself? And to others?' Suddenly, there was kindly compassion in the voice filtered by the phone. 'As a policeman, you're used to walking the line, surely? What's troubling you, my son?'
'That I might have made things far worse by trying to mend them.'
'Were your intentions pure?'
'Hardly. Hubris, rather. Too much faith in my abilities.'
'Then it will help you to better yourself. No failure is ever absolute. There is always a way to balance one's mistakes. With saving grace, sometimes.'
'God again?' Remembering who he was talking to, Morse barely refrained from snorting.
This time, the smile was blatant in Fratello Anselmo's voice as he replied: 'What else did you expect from a Franciscan brother?'
'Prayers, maybe.' Before the silence at the other end of the line could morph into open puzzlement, Morse hastened to counter: 'But not for me. For the woman who was killed. She might have wished for them.'
There was nothing else in his ear than Brother Anselmo's soft breathing.
Morse clarified, not so irrelevantly: 'She once wanted to know if I'd forgive her. I can't. I'm not very good at forgiveness.'
'And you wish me to take it upon myself?' There was another pregnant pause. 'I'll pray that she'll be forgiven. If not by you, by Someone else.'
'Then, Brother, could you get in touch with Vice Questore Giambattista Colativa? He's to arrange for her burial.'
'I will.' Another pause. 'And I will pray for you, too. Godspeed, Sergeant Morse.'
Without waiting for an answer, Brother Anselmo hung up, leaving an astonished Morse at the other end place the receiver carefully back on its hook.
'An eye for an eye,' specified Leviticus. However, sparing his life didn't balance out the 'freak accidents' victims' demises. These were recorded on another list in the accounting ledger.
All Morse could do to repay Violetta's last gift to him was this empty gesture that she would have gladly accepted. Anyway, the dead woman would be buried according to her traditional rites.
He could do nothing else. She couldn't benefit anymore from the 24 hours he had given her; he had given her eternity, if one believed in that—an infinity of nothingness, if one didn't. The same emptiness he was staring at.
With time, he would hopefully take her out of his mind, push her memory aside for more earthly concerns. Her ghost wouldn't come dancing, weaving circles around his slumber.
But his gullibility burned him still. It would, for a very long time.
So would the names of those he couldn't save.
He would not reach out again so easily, from now on, he swore to himself.
Morse raked his shaking hands in his hair, then stretched his neck, heaving a great, unintentional sigh. The mechanical gestures unwound a knot inside his chest, and a flimsy sense of peace unexpectedly went over him. Probably the slow thawing of tenacious guilt. He hadn't sought for this reprieve when he had called, but he welcomed it nonetheless.
Without his knowledge, tentative healing had begun.
If Morse ever hoped that he had mended some bridges with Thursday, their joint journey back would have disillusioned him on this account.
Thursday spent most of the trip with his nose buried in files he didn't really read.
Morse tried half-heartedly to do the same, but finally flung his book away with a sigh. Fortunately, the train compartment filled up after Vincenza, preventing all attempts to conversation between them. Morse resorted to dozing, an always useful expedient to prevent any awkward interaction.
At Dijon, the neighbouring seats were taken with a mother with her three girls, the children fidgeting and trying as unobtrusively as they could to have peeks through the window on Morse's side. He gratefully gave up his seat to the youngest, earning him the gratitude of the woman and some distance from Thursday. At least, he wouldn't have to see the DCI's stern face and hooded eyes, each time he raised his eyes from a page he hadn't turned for more than an hour.
Both men went through the motions from commuting to commuting, and split up with barely concealed relief at the Oxford train station.
'Four o'clock sharp,' Thursday reminded Morse as the latter got into a taxi.
Entering the Castle Gate building was like revisiting places from your ancient past, Morse thought, as he stood in the lobby, waiting for Thursday.
It wasn't painful exactly, but it gave off the floating sense of dissociation one felt when one had firmly confined a period of one's life to dusty memories. It was like browsing through a photograph album and finding out that the faded pictures were suddenly unfolding to life all around you.
He never browsed through family memories. Constance's photographs were safely ensconced in the metal box where he kept his few mementos of his mother. He had never opened it again after closing the lid. It was enough to know that they were there, someplace; available should he need them.
But he never would.
Morse surveyed his surroundings as if he had never seen them before. The once so familiar room seemed to have shrunk. Not from the reality of the Police Station, which was huge, more massive than the old Cowley Station had ever been, but from an emptiness coming from within.
He didn't belong there anymore.
If he ever had.
In a flash, memories of a dusty basement and the crates he had had to move in order to access his desk, went through Morse's mind, and he couldn't refrain an instinctive jerk of the chin. For a second, he looked like an affronted peacock fluffing his feathers.
The policeman at the front desk—Milman, was it?—turned his head at the very same moment and cast a curious glance at Morse. Being met with a volley of anger, he promptly retreated, lowering his eyes under cover of rearranging his various writing implements and forms.
Thursday—who had only just arrived—mistook Morse's gesture and pushed his hand deeper into the pocket of his coat, with enough force to almost tear the fabric.
'This way,' he said briskly, as if Morse already were a stranger to the premises.
Morse nodded slightly and followed him, acutely aware of the hush that spread across the desks as they went down the stairs. He looked neither right –where the sergeants were sitting—nor left, and stood stiffly outside Mr. Bright's office as Thursday's knuckles rapped on the door.
'Come in,' said a voice Morse didn't quite recognise.
Mr. Bright had shrunk, too.
The blinds of his office were lowered, cutting off any passer-byes' curiosity. When the door closed, only faint footsteps could be heard outside, their sounds muffled by the carpet.
The room was very much the same, and Morse felt almost surprised, as if the changes occurring in their lives should have been reflected on the furniture. But no, the same abstract decorations hung on the walls, empty woven squares like overgrown chessboards turned sour; the relegated house plant still sulking in a corner. On the round table used for informal meetings, there were two empty cups of coffee pushed to the side, among various files.
Morse was so focused on Mr. Bright's crumbled face that he almost missed the man seated at this very table, his back to the door. All he could see was receding hair until the visitor slowly pushed his chair back and stood up. Morse had a better look at a roundish face, made all the more spherical by heavy glasses shielding hazel eyes, and he scowled.
The man wasn't a stranger after all. It was Morse's present Governor, Desmond McNutt.
'Sir,' Morse said, including both his superiors in his greeting.
'Ah, Morse,' Mr. Bright said, 'Glad to see you. Very glad.' He smiled a fleeting smile, the corners of his lips stretching as if they had forgotten how to go up.
Thursday tensed and, as if he wanted to reassure him, Morse unclenched the fists he had unwittingly tightened. His palms were sweating. He wiped them unobtrusively on his coat and started again, guiltily this time, under McNutt's intent gaze.
'Sir—,' began Morse.
Again, Thursday intervened, verbally this time. 'Morse would like to—'
'Let the man speak, Thursday,' McNutt butted in, and at his unexpected interposition, Morse's eyes narrowed.
'Sir, I wished to—' He didn't know what he wanted to say, really, so his words dried up again without any outward intervention.
It was McNutt who saved them all undue embarrassment. 'Maybe DCI Thursday and DS Morse would like to know of the latest developments we were discussing?'
Morse lowered his head again in a gesture that could pass for brisk acceptance. Thursday mumbled something vague, and they all took a seat round the table. When Morse glanced at the table top, he saw that the file placed in the middle of it was his. But it would be discussed so openly; despite the presence of former and present superiors.
'Coffee?' offered Bright.
At everyone's refusal, he went on with a firmer voice. 'Inquiries were made about the Talentis, and some of Morse's findings ascertained. Inquiries are still pending, but the truth of the matter is that Talenti's financial assets are not what they first appeared.'
He glanced up from his fidgeting hands, stilling them with an obvious effort. 'Talenti's house in Godstow wasn't even his. It's mortgaged to the hilt and belonged to one of California Amity Redemption and Reimbursement's… clients.'
Bright's tone filled with disgust as he elaborated, 'The lawful owner…perished in an unfortunate accident two years ago. His nephew lives in America, and has been notified that his present tenants weren't quite who he thought they were.'
Morse asked, feeling more at his ease now that he was discussing a case, 'Could the Talentis have orchestrated another accident to acquire their "rear base" in England?'
'Possibly. We're still looking into that.' He considered Morse with some kindness. 'If not for you, Morse, we'd never have suspected a thing. The Talentis were highly regarded around Oxford.'
'My warning came too late,' Morse said, and in the bitterness of his tone, his elders also heard self-castigation.
'Too eager by half to get a bird under your skin,' Thursday murmured in a loud whisper.
Morse's shoulders went rigid. 'If not for that, they would still—' he snapped back. Would he have to assert this forever to mitigate his guilt?
'The Yard's investigating California Amity Redemption and Reimbursement. Most of the assets are held by offshore societies, and F. De Vere hasn't been traced yet,' Bright said, ignoring their spat.
'He may not even exist,' Morse said bitterly. 'Talenti isn't one to rely on anyone.'
'The proverbial Genius of Crime?' Thursday scoffed.
'A perverted genius. Not a Moriarty, certainly, but someone active enough on the Continent,' McNutt corrected gently. 'There are such things as remarkable con men. Talenti certainly succeeded with the University of Oxford.'
'And with coppers,' Thursday added, seemingly not eager to be robbed even of an empty victory over Morse.
Without his will, a sharp intake of air flowed through Morse's tightened teeth. The hiss was lost in a clang as Bright moved the china to thumb more easily through another file hidden under Morse's personal record.
'Talenti's modus operandi followed the same patterns: he chose a policeman whose record was… known to the public and built from that. He targeted the brightest DS, hoping that they would be given cases of interest—of interest to him, obviously!—to investigate. A DS from Leicester—whose name is classified—confessed.' He searched for Morse's eyes and held them as he added softly, 'Mrs. Talenti had no hand in it.'
Morse opened his mouth. 'If not for my—'
'—sloppiness?' Thursday ventured.
'—dedication, rather,' McNutt corrected.
Morse let them decide of the terminology and left that blank empty. '—Talenti would still be in Oxford, I'm aware of that.'
'Better study the files at your desk, from now on,' McNutt suggested. In his eyes, Morse read understanding blending with a caveat. He wouldn't get off so easily, next time.
'Yes, sir,' he agreed, and surprised himself with the meekness of his tone.
'Good lad,' his new Governor said, reinforcing the impression that Morse was a green DC just out of school.
What was the point of this meeting? To apprise him of the latest development in the investigation—a courtesy extended to him to thank him? Or a way to let him know how close he had been to a disciplinary hearing?
Because it reminded him of someone else, or to change the topic, Morse asked, 'May I ask about Sergeant Strange?'
'Cowley General released him two days ago. He won't see action for a long while, but he's a definite asset when it comes to reshuffling.' Bright smiled a cautious smile. 'He'll be alright.'
'That's good news.'
Morse would have to call Strange when all was done here. And maybe pay him a visit, even if it were the last things he wished to do. Eyeing one's guilt in the eye wasn't something he ever got used to. If not for him, Strange would never have set a foot in that bloody house.
'Don't—don't beat yourself up about it, Morse,' Bright told me, in the same gentle tone. 'That's part of the job.'
Morse licked his lips, as if the moisture would facilitate his answer. However, it was for nought, as Bright got up. 'I hate to lose you, but—' a quick glance in Thursday's direction told it all '—that's for the best, I'm sure.'
Morse followed suit, as did the other two DCIs.
'Good-bye, sir,' he merely said. They shook hands. Bright's was a little feverish. 'And… thank you.'
Bright nodded. A curt, almost militaristic nod, but one had only to watch his eyes to know what he felt regarding Morse's transfer.
Morse exited the Superintendent's office for probably the last time. He stood in the corridor, uncertain of his next move, hands soon reaching the haven of his pockets.
'That's it, then,' Thursday's voice said, and he turned around. Thursday opened his mouth, and, for a second, Morse wondered if Thursday would tell him, as he had once advised Fancy, 'He's a good man, so watch, listen and learn,' but he was spared that, at least.
The silence deepened, the sound of typewriters keys hitting sheet of paper fading. There was another heartbeat that squeezed Morse's ribs like a stroke, and he took his right hand out of the pocket of his coat. Slowly, he extended it, offering it tentatively. 'Sir. I learned a lot from you.'
Thursday didn't take it.
Morse's hand slowly lowered and hung awkwardly by his side. 'Not enough, it would seem.'
His weight shifted from one foot to the other and he was about to turn when Thursday's voice stopped his impetus.
'I told you before, Morse, handshakes are for goodbyes.'
Such was Morse's stubbornness that he couldn't help correcting. 'It is good-bye, sir. When I went to Woodstock, it already was, but I didn't see that. Called a few times but you never returned mine.'
'If you think it necessary…'
Thursday looked pointedly at Morse's hand, and Morse proffered it again. Thursday's handclasp was firm and he didn't linger a second more than he had to.
Morse didn't try to see McNutt's expression, but merely followed him as they went out of the Castle Gate CID.
'Exeunt,' he thought drily.
And this time, it seemed like the final curtain had really fallen on another act in his life.
When Morse finally went through the accumulation of letters slipped under his door—bills, prospectus, a New Year card from Joyce—, he found an envelope inscribed in a hand he did not recognise. Yet, the return address, drawn in the same decisive script, bore 'Miss J. Thursday' above a street name in Glasgow.
She didn't make any great fuss over him, just inquired about his health in a very matter-of-fact way, and told him that she already knew the gist of what had occurred—that the suspects were gone, and this polite euphemism drew a bitterest, scornful twist on the corner of Morse's lips—, and that he was safely back. She didn't try to tell him he'd done anything brave when he knew—and she knew—that he'd done something stupid and rash, of which he was ashamed. Yet, she told him that her former offer of a coffee was still going, and that it might be made easier by her being posted at Birmingham after her secondment, and him at Kidlington.
Some weeks later, he wrote back. And, this time, the letter was written for her eyes only.
Morse hung his car coat on the rack near his desk, then ran his hand in his hair, brushing away the rain from it, hoping that it wouldn't curl. In the short time it had taken him to exit the Jag and go inside Kidlington Police Station, damp had already pierced the coat and bled through his jacket, so he divested himself of it, too, hanging it on the back of his chair.
Sitting down, he switched on the lamp on his desk. It was the same model as was used in Castle Gate, but instead of a cheery bright yellow, it was dark blue. The muted colour suited the drabness of the room, whose latest additions couldn't hide the mismatched furniture.
That change of colour scheme and furniture was one of the few from his post from one CID to another. The yellowish light fell on the same kind of cases he had investigated under Thursday's guidance: missing persons, premeditated murders, crimes of passion. No tigers or spy entanglements, so far. Nothing to warrant McNutt's gentle chiding of Morse's 'literary flourishes' as he had already qualified them.
Thursday would probably have used a stronger language to reprove Morse's flights of fancy or leaps into intuitive waters. But it only underlined the difference between both DCIs. McNutt's gut feelings were quite different from Thursday's. It was as if he could look right inside people's minds, their souls, while Thursday's brand of coppering was more on the brawny side and a method that felt more and more irrelevant to Morse's way of thinking.
The phone rang—a shivering, jingly sound. Morse could not refrain from a gesture of irritation, as his pencil skidded across the paper. Coming in early, he had hoped for at least half an hour without distraction.
'Morse,' he said into the receiver, his eyes darting back greedily to the file open before him.
'Morse? It's Thursday.'
The End
Notes:
'… and thus they creep, / Crouching and crab-like, through th(eir) sapping streets. ' is a quote from Byron's Ode on Venice (1818).
The English translation of the quote taken from Virgil's eighth Eclogue comes from Deborah Mary Kerr's enlightening PhD Thesis.
We aren't told where Joan was on secondment, but I decided she was in Glasgow as a tribute to EAU1636's 'Whatever a Moon Has Always Meant' that sent Joan in Scotland.
I added the last scene after AstridContraMundum suggested it: the first ending was much more elliptic… Again, all my gratitude goes to my great Beta: without her, this fic wouldn't be online.
Again, all my gratitude goes to the Italian reader who took pains to PM me to correct a few Italian errors.
Reading your feedback would really make my day! Thanks for reading!