Squared Accounts

"How did you know, Sir?" Hathaway asked after they'd filled out the necessary paperwork following Professor Gregson's arrest.

"Know what, Sergeant?" Lewis asked in return. They were sitting side by side on Lewis' sofa staring at the walls and drinking down his beer.

"How did you know I wouldn't let you…you know?"

"Bash Monkford? Ah…I just knew," Lewis answered with a shrug.

Hathaway looked over at him and quietly said, "I'm sorry, Sir."

Lewis shrugged again. "Not your fault, I suppose. Things could have gone that way."

"Still, you were right. I should have trusted you."

"Should you have, Sergeant? I reckon trust comes from knowing…and—maybe it's a bit early for you to know me that well."

"Then…how'd you know I wouldn't let you?"

"Ahh…easy enough, surely. You're a smart lad. There'd be all the paperwork and hours wasted with affidavits and the like…and then, if I'd gone and gotten meself busted down to constable or thrown in the nick—well, you'd have had to find a new governor, now, wouldn't you? And who'd have you? Nah…you weren't going to let me put you through all that." Lewis looked over at Hathaway expecting to catch a glimpse of the small, amused grin the sergeant occasionally allowed himself. But, Hathaway wasn't grinning. Instead, he looked vaguely disappointed.

Lewis narrowed his eyes at him. "You really don't know, do you?" he asked.

"Sir?"

"That you're a good cop? Well, you are. A very good one. And good cops, they make mistakes, they make bad decisions now and again, but…they do what's right in the end. That's how I knew."

Hathaway took a deep breath and swirled the beer around the bottom of his bottle to avoid looking at Lewis. So, all that wondering, all those pages and pages of typed evaluation forms, and now, he had his answer. He was a good cop. It was what he'd needed to know, but Lewis wasn't finished.

"And, you meant to be a priest didn't you?"

"So?" Hathaway asked, wondering where Lewis was going now.

"Well, isn't there that bit…you know, vengeance is mine, saith the LORD or some such? Well, there you are, Sergeant. You still believe it, don't you?"

"Do I?" Hathaway asked. Some days, like today, he wondered about that. Other days, he was certain he'd put all that behind him.

Lewis gave a small snort. "You really don't know yourself, do you? Well, no matter. Trust me. You do. So."

Hathaway finally gave him the grin he'd expected earlier. "So," he said in return.

"Fancy some fish and chips?" Lewis asked.

"Will you be paying?" An odd expression that Hathaway couldn't decipher flashed across Lewis' face. "What?" he asked. "I can cover it if you want."

But, it hadn't been the cost of their supper that had brought that look to Lewis' face, but an old memory.

"Good morning, Sir," he'd called. And Morse had turned to him in surprise.

He'd looked him up and down and then said, "You look terrible, Sergeant." And Lewis imagined that was true enough. But, the chief inspector looked much, much better than Lewis had feared he would. He looked…okay. And, under the circumstances, Lewis hadn't dared hope for that much.

"I fell asleep in the car outside your place," Lewis explained. He rubbed a tired hand over his bristly chin. He'd missed his morning shave.

"Won't Mrs. Lewis be worried about you?" Morse had inquired.

"I phoned home," Lewis assured him and refrained from adding, "Not half as worried as I've been about you."

"How did you know I was here?"

"I'd looked everywhere else." And there'd been almost a smile from Morse then. Not a happy smile, but one of acknowledgement. One that said he understood the worry he'd caused Lewis, and more than that, he understood the affection behind the worry.

They'd walked to the river's edge together, and Lewis who had feared he'd lost his place by the chief inspector's side had been immeasurably pleased to be there with Morse. Finally, Morse had let him offer his condolences concerning Mrs. Fallon, and they'd discussed what had been done to Marriot. Morse was still determined to blame the doctor, but he'd had to silently acquiesce that he would never have the proof to do anything about it. The fight had gone out of him, that horrible, devouring need for vengeance, and Lewis thought they'd successfully navigated their way through and it was all safely behind them.

And then, Morse had asked, "In the office, when I said it was Marriot, you seemed to have some doubts. Who did you think it was?"

Lewis had never been good at lying. His face and voice always gave him away…but, still, even now, he couldn't speak the words that he was sure would deeply hurt Morse. So, he'd choked out the lie about thinking it was William, knowing it would make him look like a very poor detective, knowing it would open him up to Morse's ridicule. But that had been all right. He could deal with Morse shaking his head over his stupidity; he couldn't deal with seeing that look of devastation on Morse's face again. It was worth having Morse think less of him if he could avoid seeing that look ever again.

Morse had turned away, heading back up the path. And Lewis had thrown the tape into the water. It had been the first time, and the last, that he'd ever destroyed evidence, but as it had splashed into the Thames, he hadn't felt the least bit guilty.

Morse had called to him, "Lewis, do you feel like breakfast?"

"Will you be paying?"

"I don't seem to have any money. I'm sorry".

"So. It's down to me, then."

"Let's just say, it's one I owe you," Morse had said.

"Yeah, let's just say that," Lewis had agreed. He'd known that Morse would never get around to squaring his account, not for all the rounds and occasional meals Lewis had paid for through the years and not for that tape in the river. But, it hadn't mattered. Lewis had been happy to pay.

But, he'd been wrong. Because, in the end, the chief inspector had more than squared the bill. The third of his estate he'd left to Lewis in his will easily covered every round, every bottle, every breakfast Lewis had ever bought him. It had given his children a chance at the type of education Lewis couldn't have dreamed of giving them even if he had taken that traffic inspectorship all those years before. It had let Val decorate and redecorate to her heart's content…oh, yes, he'd gotten a more than generous return on his investment in Morse's empty pocket fund.

But, more than that…he'd been repaid a thousand-fold for that tape in the river. That day in Wytham Woods when Morse had come for him; and every day on the job. Morse had taught him how to be a detective. He had shown him how to do more than just plod along gathering evidence and drawing the obvious conclusions. He'd taught him that solving a crime was more than facts and proofs and what could be observed. It was also about listening, seeing, and understanding the things behind those proofs and observations. It was in learning the people and intuiting their thoughts and actions. And then, it was taking all those facts and proofs and putting them together with understanding and intuition. Morse had taught him to think, and that had been worth it all.

"That won't be necessary, Sergeant," Lewis told Hathaway. "I've got it…and there'll be no need for thinking you owe me one in return."

"Very generous of you, Sir," Hathaway told him as they clambered to their feet and pulled on their jackets.

"That's me," Lewis agreed easily. With all he'd gotten from Morse, he could well afford to be generous.