' "Quantify", that's the word you're looking for.'
'I'd never look for ugly words like "quantify".'
'A useful word, Morse. It means – well, it means to say how much…'
'That's just what I said, isn't it?'
'I don't know why I argue with you!'
Nor did Morse.
For many years now, holidays for Chief Inspector Morse of Thames Valley CID had been periods of continuous and virtually intolerable stress. And what they must normally be like for men with the extra handicaps of wives and children, even Morse for all his extravagant imagination could scarcely conceive. But for this year, for the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-two, he was resolutely determined that things would be different: he would have a holiday away from Oxford. Not abroad, though. He had no wanderlust for Xanadu or Isfahan; indeed he very seldom travelled abroad at all – although it should be recorded that several of his colleagues attributed such insularity more than anything to Morse's faint-hearted fear of aeroplanes. Yet as it happened it had been one of those same colleagues who had first set things in motion.
'Lime, mate! Lime's marvellous!'
Lime?
Only several months later had the word finally registered in Morse's mind, when he had read the advertisement in The Observer:
THE BAY HOTEL
Lyme Regis
Surely one of the finest settings of any hotel in the West Country! We are the only hotel on the Marine Parade and we enjoy panoramic views from Portland Bill to the east, to the historic Cobb Harbour to the west. The hotel provides a high standard of comfort and cuisine, and a friendly relaxed atmosphere. There are level walks to the shops and harbour, and traffic-free access to the beach, which is immediately in front of the hotel.
For full details please write to The Bay Hotel, Lyme Regis, Dorset; or just telephone (0297) 442059.
'It gets tricky,' resumed Strange, 'when a senior man takes more than a fortnight's furlough – you realize that, of course.'
'I'm not taking more than what's due to me.'
'Where are you thinking of?'
'Lyme Regis.'
'Ah. Glorious Devon.'
'Dorset, sir.'
'Next door, surely?'
'Persuasion – it's where some of the scenes in Persuasion are set.'
'Ah.' Strange looked suitably blank.
'And The French Lieutenant's Woman.'
'Ah. I'm with you. Saw that at the pictures with the wife… Or was it on the box?'
'Well, there we are then,' said Morse lamely.
For a while there was a silence. Then Strange shook his head.
'You couldn't stick being away that long! Building sand-castles? For over a fortnight?'
'Coleridge country too, sir. I'll probably drive around a bit -have a look at Ottery St Mary… some of the old haunts.'
A low chuckle emanated from somewhere deep in Strange's belly. 'He's been dead for ages, man – more Max's cup o' tea than yours.'
Morse smiled wanly. 'But you wouldn't mind me seeing his -place?'
‘It's gone. The rectory's gone. Bulldozed years ago.'
‘Really?'
Strange puckered his lips, and nodded his head. 'You think I'm an ignorant sod, don't you, Morse? But let me tell you something. There was none of this child-centred nonsense when I was at school. In those days we all had to learn things off by heart -things like yer actual Ancient Bloody Mariner.'
'My days too, sir.' It irked Morse that Strange, only a year his senior, would always treat him like a representative of some much Younger generation.
But Strange was in full flow.
‘You don't forget it, Morse. It sticks.' He peered briefly but earnestly around the lumber room of some olden memories; then found what he was seeking, and with high seriousness intoned a stanza learned long since:
'All in a hot and copper sky
The bloody sun at noon
Right up above the mast did stand
No bigger than the bloody moon!'
'Very good, sir,' said Morse, uncertain whether the monstrous misquotation were deliberate or not, for he found the chief superintendent watching him shrewdly.
'No. You won't last the distance. You'll be back in Oxford within the week. You'll see!'
'So what? There's plenty for me to do here.'
'Oh?'
'For a start there's a drain-pipe outside the flat that's leaking-'
Strange's eyebrows shot up. 'And you're telling me you're going to fix that?'
'I'll get it fixed,' said Morse ambiguously. 'I've already got a bit of extra piping but the, er, diameter of the cross-section is… rather too narrow.'
'It's too bloody small, you mean? Is that what you're trying to say’
Morse nodded, a little sheepishly.
The score was one-all.
CHAPTER TWO
Mrs Austen was well enough in 1804 to go with her husband and Jane for a holiday to Lyme Regis. Here we hear Jane's voice speaking once again in cheerful tones. She gives the news about lodgings and servants, about new acquaintances and walks on the Cobb, about some enjoyable sea bathing, about a ball at the local Assembly Rooms
(David Cecil, A Portrait of Jane Austen)
'If I may say so, sir, you really are rather lucky.'
The proprietor of the only hotel on the Marine Parade pushed the register across and Morse quickly completed the Date – Name – Address – Car Registration – Nationality columns. As he did so, it was out of long habit rather than any interest or curiosity that his eye took in just a few, details about the half-dozen or so persons, single and married, who had signed in just before him.
There had been a lad amongst Morse's fellow pupils in the sixth form who had possessed a virtually photographic memory – a memory which Morse had much admired. Not that his own memory was at all bad; short term, in fact, it was still functioning splendidly. And that is why, in one of those pre-signed lines, there was just that single little detail which very soon would be drifting back towards the shores of Morse's consciousness…
'To be honest, sir, you're very lucky. The good lady who had to cancel – one of our regular clients – had booked the room as soon as she knew when we were opening for the season, and she especially wanted – she always wanted – a room overlooking the bay, with bath and WC en suite facilities, of course.'
Morse nodded his acknowledgement of the anonymous woman's admirable taste. 'How long had she booked for?'
'Three nights: Friday, Saturday, Sunday.'
Morse nodded again. ‘I’ll stay the same three nights – if that's all right,' he decided, wondering what was preventing the poor old biddy from once more enjoying her private view of the waves and -exclusive use of a water-closet. Bladder, like as not.
'Enjoy your stay with us!' The proprietor handed Morse three keys on a ring: one to Room 27; one (as he learned) for the hotel's garage, situated two minutes' walk away from the sea front; and one for the front entrance, should he arrive back after midnight. If you'd just like to get your luggage out, I'll see it's taken up to your room while you put the car away. The police allow our guests to park temporarily of course, but…'
Morse looked down at the street-map given to him, and turned to go. Thanks very much. And let's hope the old girl manages to get down here a bit later in the season,' he added, considering it proper to grant her a limited commiseration.
'Afraid she won't do that.'
'No?'
'She's dead.'