associations of the asphodel, although quite certainly he would never have
recognized one of its kind had it flashed across a Technicolor screen.
It was still true though: as men grew older (so Morse told himself) the
delights of the natural world grew ever more important. Not just the
flowers, either. What about the birds?
Morse had reached the conclusion that if he were to be reincarnated (a
prospect which seemed to him most blessedly remote) he would register as a
part-time Quaker, and devote a sizeable quota of his leisure hours to
ornithology. This latter decision was consequent upon his realization,
however late in the day, that life would be significantly impoverished should
the birds no longer sing. And it was for this reason that, the previous
week, he had taken out a year's subscription to Birdwatching; taken out a
copy of the RSPB's Birdwatchers'Guide
from the Summertown Library; and purchased a second-hand pair of 152/lOOOm
binoculars ( 9. 90) that he'd spotted in the window of the Oxfam Shop just
down the Banbury Road. And to complete his programme he had called in at the
Summer- town Pet Store and taken home a small wired cylinder packed with
peanuts a cylinder now suspended from a branch overhanging his garden. From
the branch overhanging his garden.
He reached for the binoculars now and focused on an interesting specimen
pecking away at the grass below the peanuts: a small bird, with a greyish
crown, dark-brown bars across the dingy russet of its back, and paler
underparts. As he watched, he sought earnestly to memorize this remarkable
bird's characteristics, so as to be able to match its variegated plumage
against the appropriate illustration in the Guide.
Plenty of time for that though.
He leaned back once more and rejoiced in the radiant warmth of Schwarzkopf's
voice, following the English text that lay open on his lap: 'You holy Art,
when all my hope is shaken...'
When, too, a few moments later, his mood of pleasurable melancholy was shaken
by three confident bursts on a front- door bell that to several of his
neighbours sounded consider- ably over-decibel led even for the
hard-of-hearing.
chapter Two When Napoleon's eagle eye flashed down the list of officers
proposed for promotion, he was wont to scribble in the margin against any
particular name: 'Is he lucky, though?'
(Felix Kirkmarkham, The Genius of Napokon) 'not DISTURBING YOU? '
Morse made no direct reply, but his resigned look would have been
sufficiently eloquent for most people.
Most people.
He opened the door widely perforce needed so to do in order to accommodate
his unexpected visitor within the comparatively narrow entrance.
'I am disturbing you.'
'No, no! It's just that.. .'
'Look, matey!' (Chief Superintendent Strange cocked an ear towards the
lounge. ) 'I don't give a dam if I'm disturbing you; pity about disturbing
old Schubert, though.'
For the dozenth time in their acquaintance. Morse found himself quietly
re-appraising the man who first beached and then readjusted his vast bulk in
an armchair, with a series of expiratory grunts.
Morse had long known better than to ask Strange whether he wanted a drink,
alcoholic or non-alcoholic. If Strange wanted a drink, of either variety, he
would ask for it, immediately and unambiguously.
But Morse did allow himself one question:
'You know you just said you didn't give a dam. Do you know how you spell '
dam'?'
'You spell it ' d - a - m'. Tiny Indian coin that's what a dam is.
Surely you knew that? '
For the thirteenth time in their acquaintance . . .
'Is that a single malt you're drinking there. Morse?'
It was only after Morse had filled, then refilled, his visitor's glass that
Strange came to the point of his evening call.
'The papers even the tabloids have been doing me proud. You read The Times
yesterday?'
'I never read The Times.'
'What? The bloody paper's there there! - on the coffee table.'
'Just for the Crossword and the Letters
