A solemn spectre was awaiting Morse when the clock struck one. The ghost of Christmas Past had assumed the form of Desmond McNutt, dressed in the holy white vestments of Christmastide. McNutt, Morse's old DI, had always been a kind soul; he'd turned to the priesthood when he'd had his fill of policing.

"McNutt!" Morse exclaimed. "I… I'm sorry. You were murdered to frame me…" Morse trembled with chagrin as he remembered the fate of his old boss who died because he was all too willing to help his fellow man.

"Hush, Morse. It matters not tonight, for I am the Ghost of Christmas Past and we have places to be."

Morse allowed himself to be calmed, entranced even, by McNutt's eerily soothing tone.

"Follow me, Morse." Morse did as he was bid, but hesitated as the spirit walked through the wall.

"But I am mortal." Morse protested.

"Take my hand." The two phased through the wall and into a classroom at the Lonsdale College of days gone by. In the hand of a younger Morse laid a simple diamond ring. His young fiancée, Susan, had just left him for another.

"I wonder, McNutt. Would I have had made her as happy as Henry Fallon did? So many ifs… If she had been mine, and if tragedy had befallen our family, would she have been so consumed by sorrow that she would take her own life? No, I would never have let her do it. I would have wanted her to live!"

McNutt smiled. "I am glad to hear you say that, for you will revisit this moment. But there is no sense wondering about what might have been. These scenes are merely life's lessons."

"I was so miserable, spirit."

"But not all your Christmases were so wretched, Morse." His half-sister Joyce entered the scene.

"I've come to take you home, dear brother!" Joyce said as the young Morse embraced her.

Morse explained to McNutt. "Sweet Joyce may have come to take me home, but I always felt a stranger in my step-mother's home, even before my father passed."

"So you ran away to the signal corps. But you came back to Oxford, this time as a police officer. And there, you met another man who influenced you greatly."

Music was emanating from the home that the spirit and his ward approached. They phased through the door and immediately saw Win Thursday in a garish holiday sweater refilling trays of biscuits.

Morse narrated the scene for the ghost. "Ah, yes! The Thursdays' Christmas party- for the good folks down at the nick, the Inspector would say. Why Fred Thursday was a regular Fezziwig! There were goodies, punch and dancing..."

"I remember," McNutt said. "Even Chief Superintendent Bright came by with a fruitcake."

"That might be the happiest Christmas I ever spent." Morse reminisced.

They watched the scene play out. Young Morse retreated from the festivities to a side room, possibly because he was tired of watching Sergeant Jakes chat up Joan Thursday. Soon, the evening had come to an end and the Thursdays were standing at the door. Mrs. Thursday was extending well wishes to all as her husband hustled their guests out the door (also quite possibly because he was tired of watching Sergeant Jakes chat up Joan Thursday).

"But one guest remained," said McNutt. Young Morse had fallen asleep on the couch. Mrs. Thursday gave her husband a blanket and shook her head, for it wasn't the first time the constable had been unconscious on their sofa. Inspector Thursday put on his fatherly hat and covered the young Morse before helping his wife tidy up in the kitchen.

The phantom McNutt asked Morse, "did it cost Thursday much to take time out for the holidays? Did he lose your respect; did you learn any less from him because he shared out of the goodness of his heart?"

Morse shook his head in regret. "I.. I'd rather like to see my own sergeant now."

"Ah, I cannot show you that, for I am the ghost of Christmas past. Perhaps you are ready to meet the next Ghost."