By the time the clock finished striking three in the morning, a new ghost had entered the chamber. He wore a black wool coat with the collar turned up and was smoking a cigarette. Morse knew his Dickens and remembered that the third spectre is to represent death itself, so he was surprised to see under the heavy coat a young blond-haired man. Sort of a grown up Tintin, Morse thought. Death puffed on a cigarette as Morse inquired sceptically, "am I supposed to know you?"
"No. I am the Ghost of Christmases yet to come, in the form of one James Hathaway- Inspector Lewis' future sergeant."
"What grim future do you have to show me, spirit?" The ghost pointed out the window. Morse saw a gravestone with his own name in the garden. He shivered, for he felt for the first time with certainty that this was no dream. One can't read in a dream, but there it was, etched clearly into the stone: Here lies Endeavour Morse.
"Come," beckoned Hathaway. Morse was glad to look away from his tombstone and touched the spirit's black coat. Together they floated through the floor to the downstairs level of Morse's home.
People were picking through Morse's belongings. The first individual Morse identified was his old friend turned boss, Jim Strange, looking through Morse's personal letters and pocketing a pair of handcuffs. In the next room, Sergeant Lewis was weeding through and disposing of Morse's collection of adult films. "I believe I'm done here, Lewis. How's it coming?" Strange asked.
"All right, I suppose, sir." Strange eyed the collection of erotica as Lewis continued. "I don't want Morse's sister to find this lot when she comes. She'll organize an auction for the rest of his belongings." Strange and Lewis were both there out of a sense of loyalty, yes, but Morse's shame was palpable in the room. It was Shame that Strange and Lewis did not want reflected on Morse's survivors.
"Spirit, show me that someone is not ashamed of me once I am gone." Hathaway obliged by taking Morse by the hand.
Morse and the phantom Hathaway floated through the wall and found themselves in a prison. Hathaway showed him the inside of a jail cell where a particularly heinous criminal was glad that Morse had passed.
Oh for Heaven's sake," cried out an exasperated Morse. "Show me some tenderness in death, please."
Next, they floated back to the familiar Lewis home, where Robbie was holding his nearly grown children tight as all three wept. "I went to see the vicar. There is a nice spot for your mum in the church yard. It's green and overlooks the river…"
"Val, again!" Morse grew increasingly distraught. "If I can't change this, why do you torment me so?" Hathaway said nothing but led Morse outside. Suddenly the air was balmy and a tropical breeze enveloped them.
"Palm trees? Where are we?"
"The British Virgin Islands, two Christmases later." They hovered up into a second story flat and saw a fake plastic Christmas tree, an empty bottle of rum, and an unshaven Robbie Lewis crying into the phone.
"I don't want to talk to you when you're drunk!" came the booming voice of Lewis' son through the phone receiver. Lewis hung up and barely managed to stifle a sob.
"This is hardly my fault!" said Morse, but he cringed in acceptance as he saw Robbie Lewis stumble towards the CD player, blast Wagner full volume, and then collapse into a chair. "Wagner, Lewis? Bloody hell." Lewis fingered a small container of sleeping pills, prescribed for him after Val died.
"No, dear old Robbie!" Morse cried out, though Lewis couldn't hear him. Morse lamented to the ghost. "My Susan lost her daughter, grandson and husband, then took her own life. Now you show me that Lewis has lost his wife and is going to end it the same way! Please tell me that this is a future that may be, not that will be. I repent and promise to be kind to my fellow man, especially Robbie Lewis. Show me that redemption is possible, spirit!"
The apparition known as Hathaway smiled smugly; this ghost did have a mischievous air to him, Morse decided. The phantom in the black coat took a puff of his cigarette and then blew smoke rings behind him as if to obscure the vision he had just shown Morse. "Do you promise to reform, sir?"
"Truly!" Morse closed his eyes to wipe them with the sleeve cuff of his pyjama shirt.
When he opened his eyes, Morse and the spectre of death were now in another flat. Robbie Lewis was there again, this time clean shaven but clearly aged. "My, he's grown old. Is it strange to feel relieved by that?" Morse observed Lewis as he was fidgeting about. "He's nervous about something, isn't he?" Hathaway nodded.
Morse watched as Lewis pawed through the records on his shelf. He was overjoyed to recognize some of his favourites had been retained by his erstwhile sergeant. Lewis checked his watch for the third time, and then retreated to the kitchen to pull a hen out of the oven. He was cursing at burning himself slightly when the doorbell rang. A blonde woman stood in the doorway, her hungry gaze fixed on the dishtowel around Lewis' waist. Could it be? Yes, the pathologist was older now too; with her hair shorter and blonder than it once was, but it was definitely her. No words were spoken between them, but Hobson and Lewis shared a knowing look. He removed the dishtowel and held it out, teasing her like a torero would a bull. She danced underneath the dish towel and once inside, she gave him a warm kiss that clearly exceeded the boundaries of collegiality.
Hathaway cleared his throat. "We should go now and give them some privacy."
You've done it again, Lewis! Morse grinned unabashedly.
Author Note: to those of you who would tell me that Intelligent Design is not a Christmas episode, I say bah humbug! One final chapter to go...