Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

'But you're wrong, aren't you?' She got to her feet You've had four people on the phone every day, regular callers - regular as well-adjusted bowels.'

Morse looked up at her.

'Four?'

'Somebody called Lewis - somebody called Strange -somebody called Blair. All from the police, I think.'

'Four, you said?'

'Ah yes. Sorry. And somebody called Jane. She works for you, she said. Sounds awfully sweet.'

As he lay back after Sister had gone, and switched on the headphones to Classic FM, Morse was again aware of how low he had sunk, since almost everything - a kindly look, a kindly word, a kindly thought, even the thought of a kindly thought - seemed to push him ever nearer to the rim of tears. Forget it, Morse! Forget yourself and forget your health! For a while anyway. He picked up The ABC Murders which he'd found in the meagre ward-library. He'd always enjoyed Agatha Christie: a big fat puzzle ready for the reader from page one. Perhaps it might help a little with the big fat puzzle waiting for him in the world outside the Radcliffe Infirmary...

ABC.

Alexander Bonaparte Gust.

Adele Beatrice Cecil.

Ann Berkeley Cox...

Within five minutes Morse was asleep.

On Thursday afternoon, a slim, rather prissy young dietitian came to sit beside Morse's bed and to talk quickly, rationally, and at inordinate length, about such things as calories and carrots and carbohydrates.

'And if you ever feel like a pint of beer once a week, well, you just go ahead and have one! It shouldn't do you much harm.'

Morse's spirit groaned within him.

The Senior Consultant himself came round again the following morning. The insulin-drip had long gone; blood- readings were gradually reverting to a manageable level; blood pressure was markedly down.

'You've been very lucky,' said Matthews.

'I don't deserve it,' admitted Morse.

'No. You don't'

'When are you going to let me go?'

'Home? Tomorrow, perhaps. Work? Up to you. I'd take a fortnight off myself - but then I've got far more sense than you have.'

Well before hmchtime on Saturday, already dressed and now instructed to await an ambulance, Morse was seated in the entrance corridor of the Geoffrey Harris Ward when Sister McQueen came to sit beside him.

'I'm almost sorry to be going,' said Morse.

·You'll miss us?'

'I'll miss you.'

'Really?'

'Could I ring you - here?' asked Morse diffidently.

'In those immortal words: 'Don't ring us - we'll ring you.''

*You mean you will ring me?'

She shook her head. 'Perhaps not And it doesn't matter, does it? What matters is that you look after yourself. You're a nice man - a very nice man! - and I'm so glad we met'

'If I did come to see you, would you look after me?'

'Bed and Breakfast, you mean?' She smiled. 'You'd always be welcome in the McQueen Arms.'

She stood up as an ambulance-man came through the flappy doors.

'Mr Morse?'he asked.

'I'd love to be in the McQueen arms,' Morse managed to say, very quietly.

As he was driven past the Neptune fountain in the forecourt of the Radcliffe Infirmary, he wondered if Sister had appreciated that shift in key, from the uppercase Arms to the lower-case arms.

He hoped she had.

CHAPTER FORTY

Sunday, 3 March

Important if true

(Inscription A.W. Kinglake wished to see on all churches)

Forgive us for loving familiar hymns and religious feelings more than Thee, O Lord

(From the United Presbyterian Church Litany)