Fifty-nine

Mrs. Linda Barron walked steadily up the aisle between the small assembly of mourners, her arm linked through that of her mother, both women dutifully dressed in bible-black suits…

On the whole, it hadn't been quite the ordeal she'd expected: in practical terms, the shock of it all continued to cocoon a good half of her conscious thoughts; whilst emotionally she had long since accepted that her love for her husband was as dead as the man who had been lying there in the coffin—until mercifully the curtains had closed, and the show was over. He would have enjoyed the hymn though, “He Who Would Valiant Be,” for he had been valiant enough (she'd learned that from his army friends)—as well as vain and domineering and unfaithful. Yes, she'd found herself moved by the hymn; and the tears ought to have come.

But they hadn't.

Outside, in the clear sunshine, she whispered quickly into her mother's ear. “Remember what I said. The kids are fine, if anybody asks. OK?”

But the grandmother made no reply. She was the very last person in the world to let the little ones down, especially the one of them. As for Linda, she girded up her loins in readiness for the chorus of commiseration she would have to cope with.

And indeed several of the family and friends of her late husband, J. Barron, Builder, had already emerged through the chapel doors, including Thomas Biffen, Landlord, whose creased white shirt was so tight around the neck that he had been forced to unfasten the top button beneath the black tie; including the perennial opponents, Alf and Bert, who had exchanged no words in the chapel, but whose thoughts were perhaps in tune during the service as each of them must have mused on their imminent mortality, and the prospects of encountering that great cribbage player in the sky.

Including Frank Harrison.

Chief Superintendent Strange, who had been seated in the back row next to Morse, was the last but one to leave. His thoughts had roamed irreverently throughout the short service, and the superannuated minister's apparent confidence in the resurrection of the dead had filled him more with horror than with hope. He thought of his wife and of her death and experienced that familiar sense of the guilt that still remained to be expiated. The hymn was all right, although he'd gone himself for “Praise My Soul, the King of Heaven” in the Instructions for My Funeral stapled to his last will and testament. But on the whole he dreaded church services almost as much as did the man seated beside him; and he could think of nothing more detestable than a funeral.

Morse himself had been sickened by the latest version (Series Something) of the Funeral Service. Gone were those resonant cadences of the AV and the Prayer Book: those passages about corruption putting on incorruptibility and the rest of it, which as a youth he'd found so poignant and powerful. They'd even had a cheerful hymn, for heaven's sake! Where was that wonderfully sad and sentimental hymn he'd chosen for his own farewell: “O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go”? Chosen, that is, before he'd recently decided to leave his body for medical science, although that decision itself was now in considerable doubt. In particular that little clause in sub-section 6 of Form D1 still stuck in his craw: “Should your bequest be accepted …”

He pointedly avoided the priest who'd presided—a man (in Morse's view) excessively accoutred in ecclesiastical vestments, and wholly lacking in any sensitivity to the English language. But he did have a quick word of sympathy with the widow, shaking her black-gloved hand firmly before turning to her mother.

“Mrs. Stokes?” he asked quietly.

“Yes?”

Morse introduced himself. “My sergeant called to see your daughter—”

“Oh yes.”

“—when you were there looking after the children, I believe. Very kind of you. Must be a bit wearisome … I wouldn't know, though.”

“It's a pleasure really.”

“Who's looking after them today?”

“Oh they're, er … you know, a friend, a neighbor. Won't be for long anyway.”

“No.”

Morse turned away, following in Strange's steps toward the car park.

She was lying, of course—Morse knew that. There was only one of the Barron children at home that day; as there had been when Lewis had called. The elder of the two, Alice, was away somewhere. That much, though very little else, Lewis himself had been able to learn from the Barrons’ GP the previous day. Morse thought he knew why, and another piece of the jigsaw had slipped into place.

“Hello! Chief Inspector Morse, isn't it? My daughter tells me she saw you recently. But perhaps you don't know me.”

“ Let's say we've never been officially introduced, Mr. Harrison.”

“Ah! You do know me. I know you, of course, and Sergeant Lewis has been to see me. You probably sent him.”

“As a matter of fact I did.”

“I realize you weren't yourself involved in my wife's murder case but, er …”

Harrison was by some three inches or so the taller of the two, and Morse felt slightly uncomfortable as a pair of pale-grey eyes, hard and unsmiling, looked slightly down on him.

“… but I'd heard about you. Yvonne spoke about you several times. She'd looked after you once when you were in hospital. Remember?”

Morse nodded.

“Quite taken by you, she was. ‘A sensitive soul'—I think that's what she called you; said you were interesting to talk to and had a nice voice. Told me she was going to invite you out to one of her, er, soirées. When I was away, of course.”

“I should hope so. Wouldn't have wanted any competition, would I?”

“Did you have any competition?”

“The only time I ever met Yvonne again was in the Maiden's Arms,” said Morse gently, unblinking blue eyes now looking slightly upward into the strong, cleanshaven face of Harrison senior.

As Strange struggled to squeeze his bulk between seat and steering wheel, Morse looked back and saw that the funeral guests were almost all departed. But Linda Bar-ron stood there still, in close conversation with Frank Harrison—both of them now stepping aside a little as another black Daimler moved smoothly into place outside the chapel, with another light-brown, lily-bedecked coffin lying lengthways inside, the polished handles glinting in the sun.

Morse found himself pondering on the funeral. “I wonder why he put in an appearance.”

“Who? Frank Harrison? Why shouldn't he? Lived in the same village—had him in to do those house repairs—”

“Knew his wife had been in bed with him.”

“Fasten your seat belt, Morse!”

“Er, before we drive off, there's something—”

“Fasten your seat belt! Know what that's an anagram of, by the way? ‘Truss neatly to be safe.’ Clever, eh? Somebody told me that once. You probably.”

For a few seconds Morse looked slightly puzzled.

“Couldn't have been me. It's got to be ‘belts.’ Otherwise there's one V short.”

“Just put the bloody thing on!”

But Morse left the bloody thing off as he looked directly ahead of him and completed his earlier sentence: “Just before we drive off, sir, there's something I ought to mention. It's about Lewis. I'm fairly sure he's beginning to get some odd ideas about my being involved in some way with Yvonne Harrison.”

It was Strange's turn to look directly ahead of him.

“And you think I wasn't aware of that?” he asked quietly.