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Chapter Text

The village of St Peder, nr Falmouth, Cornwall. Sunday April 6th, 1975.

* * * * * * * * *

Morse had not meant to go into the Meeting House. He wouldn’t have done, certainly, except that the bathroom of the small B&B had flooded just after breakfast, and so here he was on a Sunday morning in semi-rural Cornwall, still exhausted from the drive down from Oxford, and his planned week of cliffside walking and reading Du Maurier at the original Jamaica Inn and going to see The Pearl Fishers at the Minack was already ruined.

He couldn’t face the drive back. Not today. The owners of the B&B were apologetic and polite but too flustered to give him a steer when he asked if there was somewhere else nearby he could stay. Perhaps this afternoon he would drive into Falmouth or Penzance and try there.

For now he wandered aimlessly along the harbour. It was fine weather, at least. A chill in the air, but soft glowing light on the silvered wavelets, the lowering-grey harbour wall, the stark white buildings. The last boats were returning from the early morning catch, and he smiled despite himself as a pair called “Tristan” and “Isolde” came in and the fishermen tied off and started to unload.

Then he turned a corner into a back street, and there was the Meeting House.

St Peder was a large village, but to have enough Quakers to keep the Meeting running was surprising, especially with another in Falmouth, only a bus ride away. This one was small, but it had a well-tended patch of garden. The windows looked recently painted.

And it was open. The bells of the parish church rang the half hour. Half past ten, then. All days were sacred in Quakerism, Sunday (the First Day, his mother had called it) no more than any other, but it had always been convenient to have Meetings at the same time as church services. Hardly knowing what he was doing, Morse followed a couple going up to the door and for the first time in over twenty years, he let the Elders greet him and usher him into the Meeting room, found a bench against a wall, sat with his hands clasped between his knees, and closed his eyes.

It was a quiet Meeting. Two stragglers came in separately; a light tread and then a heavy. An old woman gave a gentle ministry about finding the Light in the teenage tourists in Helston who had helped her gather her dropped shopping and seen her safe home, challenging her own dislike of their brightly-coloured hair and awful clothes and harsh music. A seagull began to call from just above the Meeting House and she added, with a glance upwards “Yes, there is Light in you too, you fractious beast”. There was a little ripple of laughter. Morse joined in.

He rather liked the gull’s cries, though. Honest and raw and wild. Strange would have made a caustic comment comparing them with operatic sopranos; McNutt would just smile tolerantly as he always did.

Had he missed this? No. His mind didn’t still, it never did. It bounded and wandered and sang and swore and berated as always. But to be next to the silence again, and these good, open-minded, humorous people. That was something. He stretched at the end of the hour, shook hands with his neighbours, stood, in a better mood than when he had sat down.

And then he looked across the Meeting room and still sitting on the chair nearest the door, looking at him with an agonising mixture of shame and disbelief and joy, was Fred bloody Thursday.

* * * * * * * * *

There were twelve of them in the kitchen and sitting room area, where tea and biscuits were being distributed in the usual way. Morse took a cup and sat by a window. The old lady who’d given the ministry came and sat beside him with a warm smile, and through some sleight of hand inveigled a Jammy Dodger on to his saucer.

“You know,” she said, “I’ve always hated walking into an unfamiliar Meeting House and being hounded by people who want to know everything about me and if I’m a Friend or an Attender or just passing through and when I’ll be coming back. Shocking behaviour. If you want my advice, go and sit by that window instead: the bird feeder’s out, you can watch the chaffinches and no one will have the heart to disturb you.”

Morse found his eyes crinkling in something like a smile. “I’ll risk it rather than moving. I’m Morse, by the way. And I’m afraid this is a one-off. I… I needed something to do with my morning.”

“Nothing wrong with that. I’m Daphne. I’m the oldest person in the Meeting, but I’m far too much of a troublemaker for them to let me be an Elder.” She apparently noticed Morse’s fidgeting and added, “Do you need to hurry off? Do finish your tea and biscuit if you have time.”

“No, I…” I can’t stay long but I do need try to speak to the man who was once and perhaps still is my dearest friend and who I hoped never to see again and who is standing just over there with his hands shaking around his cup, very deliberately not looking at me. If I can remotely work out what to say. “Well,” he said, finally meeting her eyes and attempting cheerfulness. “My B&B flooded this morning so I really need to get on and find somewhere else to stay for the rest of the week.”

“Oh! Oh were you at Barbara and Jack’s? What a pain. I think Albert Morris was at theirs earlier giving what help he could but I don’t know if he managed anything. I do hope they can get it fixed soon, lovely couple, you know.” She looked around her. “But that reminds me, Albert and his wife run the guest house at the edge of the village and I think I heard something about a cancellation this week… Albert!” The last word was at an impressive bellow. And it was Thursday who turned round and came across to them, hands tight at his sides, eyes only on Daphne.

“Did you manage to fix the leak at Barbara and Jack’s?”

“Um, not yet I’m afraid, Daphne. Looks to be a burst pipe. Petroc’s on his way over, but no idea when they’ll be up and running again.”

“Shame. Well now,” she put her hand on Morse’s shoulder. “This delightful young man was going to be staying there for the week. Do you and Maureen still have a room to spare? I saw Tom in town earlier and he said there’d been a cancellation.”

“Well…” and finally Thursday’s eyes met Morse’s. “Yes, yes, if… if you’d like to come and have a look at the room, Mr…?”

“Morse.”

“Mr Morse,” said Thursday. He cleared his throat. “If it’s not to your taste I can probably ring round for you. Unless you’d prefer to be in Falmouth or Helston or one of other towns instead of...”

He was giving him an easy out. Of course he was. Morse interrupted him. “No, no, I’m sure the room will be just fine. I’m very grateful, Mr…”

“Call me Albert.” Thursday glanced briefly at Daphne. “Daphne and her friends have been training me out of my formal ways. All first names here, it seems.”

“Luckily in this instance, I fancy,” sniffed Daphne. “Morse and Morris; I’d get heartily confused.” So they all might. She stood, bracing herself on her walking stick. Morse held out a surreptitious hand to catch her if she stumbled, and noticed Thursday apparently doing the same. She looked at them both and snorted, entirely unfooled, patted Thursday on the arm, winked at Morse, and strode back to the tea urn.

Thursday managed a half-smile that looked more like a wince. “Shall we?”

* * * * * * * * *

“I wandered in there myself,” said Thursday, as they walked to Morse’s car. “’Bout a month after we moved in. Mo had gone to church but I didn’t fancy it; Tom had got chatting to some fishermen by the harbour. I was like you, at a loose end. Only it was raining. And then I saw the place and I remembered you’d had a background in the Quakers. Thought there must be something in it, given how you turned out.”

Morse laughed, shortly.

Thursday ignored him. “Anyway, it seemed to suit. Welcoming, but they weren’t pushy. And… well. The silence.” He paused. “It felt different. Something in that.”

“I was never very good at the silence.”

“You don’t say,” said Thursday, wryly. “Anyway,” he added, more briskly. “I go most Sundays, when I can. Working towards becoming a Member. Between that and the guest house, and a few other bits and bobs, I’m keeping busy enough.”

They reached the car. He’d borrowed one of the new set of Fords rather than the Jaguar; Morse was enormously glad of that, suddenly. Putting Thursday together with the old black Jag again… No. That was too much, even to contemplate.

It was only few minutes drive to the grey house on the southern edge of the village. It lacked the elegance or harbour view of the B&B, but it was high enough for a decent vista across the roofs of St Peder and down towards the sea. There were gulls here, too, scrapping and wailing.

“There’s something…” began Thursday, as he took Morse’s suitcase out of the boot. “It’s Albert. Or Mr Morris if you must. Albert, Maureen, Tom. Please.”

They were still taking the danger seriously, then. Even at home. That was good. “Of course, sir. Albert.” He tried to smile around the word.

“Home!” called out Thursday as he opened the door. “Ah,” he added to Morse, “Mo’s back from church already.” He raised his voice again, “Got a new guest, love!”

This was a bad idea. It had been a bad idea, in fact, first to last, accepting that invitation. He should have said, “actually Falmouth would be more convenient if you know anywhere,” he should have walked straight out of the Meeting House the moment he’d seen Thursday, rather than letting himself follow the stream for tea and biscuits. He should never have gone in the first place.

“Morse!” gasped Win. No, Maureen, Maureen, he should remember that. “You’re a sight for… come in, come in. Where in the world did Albert find you?”

And he was twenty-six years old again, an awkward boy in an oversized car coat, aching for some mothering, terrified to take it when offered.

“The Meeting House,” he said, shyly. “Insp… Mr Morris said you had a room available for the week, I hope that’s still convenient?”

“What were you doing there? Oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter. Of course, we’d be delighted to have you. Come and sit down. I’ll just make the bed and air it all out for a bit and then you can get settled. Albert, you’ll make Morse a cup of tea?”

The room he was ushered into, he realised, was the family den, rather than the guests’ sitting room. There was a thick carpet, a Welsh dresser. There were photos on the sideboard. Local landscapes, a few birds. Sa… Tom, in a fisherman’s cable-knit jumper and jeans, his arm around another young man just like him. They were both grinning.

“He found some work down at the harbour a couple of months after we moved in,” said Th… Albert. “Odd jobs for whoever wants what, plus a few shifts at the pub, plus helping us out here. But he’s training up as a lifeboatman now. Big strong lad, they’re glad to have him, and he loves it. It’s unpaid, of course, but…”

“But you’re proud of him.”

“Always. It’s… good work. Needed. Dangerous, of course, but straightforward. Not violent, or...”

“Compromising?”

“No,” grunted Albert, and Morse regretted the word immediately. “No, exactly.”

Morse moved on to the other pictures. The portrait of the young couple on their wedding day his eyes slid over automatically. But then, right at the back, in a small gilt frame...

Oh.

A black-and-white photograph of a young Detective Constable with enormous eyes and untidy pale hair, gazing at the camera in a manner both uncertain and challenging. Morse picked it up, then put it down, hurriedly.

“I’ll go and put the kettle on,” said Albert.

It was the same settee. It had no right to be the same settee. Or the same television, or the same curtains, or the same lampshade, or the same cup and saucer.

And Albert’s gentle fussing as he handed Morse the tea and checked he had everything he needed and then went to chop some vegetables for lunch (soup alright for you? Can’t get by on just a half-eaten Jammy Dodger, Morse, really) had no right to be Fred Thursday’s gentle fussing over his bagman. Had no right to set off that soft, childish ache around his heart.

* * * * * * * *

The soup was good, and Morse all but fell asleep in it. Mrs… Wi… Maureen suggested he have a rest, and between the drive and… and all of it, he reluctantly agreed it was probably wise. Albert helped him with his bags - I’m supposed to be the bagman, he thought, a little wildly – and showed him around the upstairs with a confusing sort of eager shyness. Morse was suddenly half-determined to go for a walk or drive into Falmouth for the afternoon, when his jaw cracked with a yawn and he stumbled against the doorframe to the shared bathroom.

“Wha’…”

“It’s alright, Morse, it’s just the sea air,” said Albert. “Took us all like that when we first arrived. Bit fresher than Oxford; you’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

Morse’s room was small but clean and light, with a single bed, a little bookcase (a few popular thrillers, some Sayers and Christie, Persuasion, a field guide to the birds of Cornwall, a well-thumbed Penguin paperback of Housman). The window looked out an overgrown lawn, with a few fruit trees, some flowers, a picnic bench, and a bird feeder and birdbath currently hosting a rough-and-tumble between three blue tits and a robin. Morse sat on the bed and shut his eyes. No silence, but the low murmur of wind, the distant call of gulls. An outraged splashing at the bird table.

Albert put Morse’s suitcase down quietly beside him.

“Anything you want,” he said, “just let one of us know. The kitchen’s through from the den, we’ll be in and out all day, and Tom’ll be around later. Dinner’s at 6, in the guest dining room, and if you’re feeling up to it after there’s usually a sing-song at the Anchor. Might not be your kind of music, but… see what you feel like.”

Morse opened his eyes. “Thank you.”

“It’s… I’m…”

Morse shut his eyes again, willing him away, but said nothing.

“Well, then,“ said Albert. “I’ll leave you to it.”

* * * * * * * * *

It was not his kind of music, but he’d heard worse. It turned out that St Peder had a sea-shanty choir of sorts, led by one of the lifeboatmen, and Tom sang with them when he could. With a couple of local ales under his belt, Morse found himself joining in with choruses, egged on by a Scottish couple staying at the guest house who plied him with more beer, but then cheerfully switched to buying him lemonade.

“You should think about joining them if you stay here much longer,” said the woman… Maggie, that was it. Morse smiled at her, but was relieved when another song started and drowned out anything he could have said in reply.

Albert had a good voice. He’d never heard it before. All those years working together, and he a singer himself and he’d never… A rather beautiful bass-baritone but with a complimentary timbre to Morse’s own high tenor. Morse found himself singing out louder, fumbling over the nonsense-words to “John Kanaka”, and their voices merged into something sweet and mighty and resonant. Tom glanced over and raised his eyebrows, then chuckled happily. Davy the shantyman tilted his head in a half-mocking, half-impressed salute.

Maureen was grinning unashamedly. And Morse caught Albert’s eye, and found the smile he felt spreading helplessly upon his own face reflected there.

We never knew, he thought. But of course, of course we blend. How could I have expected anything else?

* * * * * * * * *

Maureen was giggly on the walk home to the guest house, Maggie and Duncan not much better. Tom was ebullient and lit-up but that might have just been the singing. Albert was entirely sober, it turned out, but looking on them all with a twinkling benevolence. And Morse? Waiting for the cold night air to take away the ringing in his ears, the feel of the old songs in his throat.

“There is an old belief,
That on some solemn shore,
Beyond the sphere of grief
Dear friends shall meet...”

He broke off, suddenly conscious that he’d shifted from the shanties in his head to singing Parry out loud.

Maureen exhaled. “Don’t stop, Morse,” she said.

“I…”

“Have to get you back at Christmas for the carol singing,” said Tom. “If it’s not too un-Quaker for Dad, that is.”

“Less of that,” said Albert, without rancour. “They won’t chuck me out of the Meeting for a Christmas tree and so on, will they, Morse? Never have before.”

“No,” said Morse, laughing. “My mother and I always had a tree when I was small.” He stopped, aware of their eyes all on him. “I grew up… um, yes. I used to go to Meeting with her.”

“Well, said Maureen after a moment, “I’m glad you decided to come to the one here this morning.”

* * * * * * * * *

“I’m sure we could knock off a few quid from your room price if you help me with this, Morse,” said Sa...Tom, easily. Maureen and Albert and the other guests had all gone up already. Morse had napped too long in the afternoon and was now wide awake.

“No, that’s alright,” said Morse. “I’ll stand here and look…”

“Like a lemon?”

“Acidic and good with alcohol. Sounds about right. And definitely not any good at kitchen cleaning.”

“Well, if you can at least shift from there while I’m trying to sweep that patch of floor… ah, thanks.”

His accent had changed, Morse noticed. Not a lot, not enough to pass for a local at least to his ears, but no longer like someone from London and Oxford.

“Do you hear much from Joanie these days?” asked Tom. “Or Jim?”

Morse swallowed. “I meet up with Strange sometimes when he’s Oxford. The odd drink at a pub, once a month I suppose. If we end up at the same station again I dare say we’ll run into each other more often. Of the old crowd I see Max – Dr DeBryn that is – more than anyone else. Mostly at crime scenes. Sometimes not.”

“Oh. Yes, I liked the doctor.”

Tom worked for a while. “We get letters, you know. From Jim and Joanie. Bit of news, the odd photo. It’s… they have to pretend we’re family friends, nothing more. Just in case.”

“’Dear friends shall meet once more,’” said Morse, thoughtlessly.

“Yeah,” said Tom. “Well, they did come to stay for a couple of weeks last autumn. Just pretending to be normal guests, you know. Can’t be too often.”

“Yes, of course.”

Tom bit his lip. “What you did for us. For Dad and me, for Mum. We all know. Well, Joanie and Jim only know a bit of it. They don’t know that Dad... Just that we’d got caught up in something and needed to go and be safe. And that if it hadn’t been for you...”

“I see.” Morse stared at the floor.

“Anyway,” said Tom. “You know we all love you, right?”

Morse looked up. “I…”

“Sorry, not what we say, is it? Not in London, not in Oxford, not here. I must be drunk after all, forget about it.”

“Joan is…” Morse said in a rush. “Mrs Strange. She’s expecting. Strange told me last month.” And I immediately booked a holiday to Cornwall to get away from Oxford and everything that reminds me of it. That’s going well.

Tom put the broom away. “Okay, Morse, you do realise Mum’s going to kill us both now that you’ve told me before her? Dad might be all peaceful and Quaker these days but she’s still buzzing off to the Anglican church every week. Vengeance is mine, saith Wi… Maureen Morris.” His eyes were dancing. “Do you know any good uncles? I haven’t had the best example to learn from and I’m going to need to impress.”

Morse found himself laughing. “Um, Max. He has a niece. I think he’s… I mean, I know he’s very fond of her.”

Tom clapped him on the shoulder. “Right, I need you to pick his brains and then write to me.” His face fell a little. “You will need to pretend, in the letter I mean…”

“No relations of Joan Strange. No connection with Oxford. Just a… a family I met. The owners of a guest house in Cornwall.”

“That’s right.”

“Yes. I think I can do that.”

Chapter Text

The Lizard Peninsula and the village of St Peder, Cornwall, Monday 7th-Wednesday 9th April, 1975

* * * * * * * * *

Th… Albert had been right. On Monday morning Morse felt wide awake, wolfed down a full Cornish breakfast to Maureen’s delight and clear astonishment, borrowed some maps and the copy of Housman from his room, had a packet of cheese and pickle sandwiches and a thermos of tea placed firmly into his hands, and drove off to explore the Lizard Peninsula. He left Tom to tell Maureen and Albert that they were about to become grandparents, and to endure both the first flush of their delight, and the inevitable exclamations as to the order in which the three of them had heard.

It was good, Morse supposed, to lose himself along the footpaths of the Lizard, to move his body, use it for something other than chasing suspects along Oxford streets. He wondered if Albert would know what all the sea-birds and the rugged cliffside flowers were. Beneath the dazzling blue he imagined darkness and storms, and wreckers with false lights waving in the inlets to tempt merchant-ships to their dooms. There was a song about that, wasn’t there, that Davy had sung last night?

He lay on his back on hot sand, brushing away crumbs, and pulled out the copy of Housman. It fell open on page 200. VII of the Additional Poems.

     He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?
     He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.
     I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,
     And went with half my life about my ways.

It wasn’t marked. The spine had just cracked there through repeated use. And there was something smudged about the page, as though fingers had rested there often enough to leave tiny traces of dirt.

Morse sat up, tracing the page with one fingertip of his own. He flicked back to the frontispiece. No owner’s name, but what might have been a mostly rubbed-out F.T. in pencil. Careless, to leave something that almost-identifying in a guest’s room. Unless it had been placed there deliberately for him to find.

No, he decided. That wasn’t Fr… Albert’s way. Nothing so ineptly underhand. And if Morse had been a betting man he’d be willing to stake his house and every record within that Albert had not wanted Morse to see this.

The Morrises were busy with dinner when he returned to the guest house. Morse popped the empty sandwich wrapper and thermos on the kitchen counter, smiled his thanks at Maureen, congratulated them on their good news (unspecified), and headed back to his room to change.

He checked the Housman for stray sand, and then placed it carefully back where he’d found it.

He couldn’t eat much that night.

* * * * * * * * *

“Do you hear anything from Peter Jakes these days?” asked Maureen. They were in the family dining room again, it was Tuesday lunchtime, and Morse’s hair was still full of salt from the boat trip Tom had arranged for him around the nearby coves.

Morse had not enjoyed it. He had only managed to avoid disgracing himself by his lack of a full stomach. But Tom’s friends were a gruffly amiable lot, clearly regarding Tom as one of their own even if he was an incomer, and taking to Morse himself despite his absolute lack of sea-legs, as far as he could gather because he’d joined in with such enthusiasm with the pub shanties.

He was not quite in a fit state, therefore, to think about anything other than picking at his beans-on-toast, and then heading upstairs for a bath. Albert had put the water on to heat already, and Morse hadn’t been able to conceal his gratitude.

“He’s, um. Yes. We write to each other.” Every week, sometimes. Every couple of months at others. He kept the invitations to Morse to fly over and stay on the ranch to special occasions now though.

“I’m glad,” said Maureen. “Very good to know you two are still friends.”

Morse sat back in his chair and wrapped his arms around himself. Was it good? He’d told Jakes what he could in conscience tell about the fate of Peter Williams. That he’d been placed with a family who hadn’t cared for him. That he’d grown up and taken a different name. That he’d died since, somewhere, somehow. That Jakes bore no responsibility for any of it. Not that he would have borne any, as Morse had said, even if Big Pete had been buried at Blenheim Vale after all.

Which was roughly what he’d told Fred Thursday, in fact. Neither of them needed to link the names of two such different people as the child Peter Williams and the adult Raymond Kennett. The men who had really killed Peter Williams were dead. Let Thursday answer only for what he had knowingly done. Let Jakes remember only the boy who had looked out for him in the worst years of his life. Morse tightened his arms around himself, as though without that pressure the secret could burst out of him, shatter Albert Morris’s hard-won calm, fly across the Atlantic to do the same to Peter Jakes.

This, this was why he shouldn’t have come. Why he should have gone to stay in Falmouth. He… he...

“Morse?” said Albert. "Everything okay?"

“Tom, get a bowl,” snapped Maureen.

Amid the misery that followed, the only thing that made sense to his wracking body was a broad, warm hand rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. From far away was the low, soft voice of Fred Thursday, a distant “it’s alright, Morse, there, lad, you’ll be alright”, which might have been to a vomiting 36 year old in his dining room, or a young man drugged into frenzy, or a boy passing out at his first autopsy.

* * * * * * * * *

“Heatstroke?”

“Heat exhaustion,” corrected the doctor, patiently.

Maureen did not look impressed.

“Much less serious,” he clarified, “though it could have been a lot worse. I assume he’s been out in the hot sun, perhaps on the water, no hat, at some point in the last two days?”

Albert’s sigh had some very familiar harmonics. Morse decided to shut his eyes and pretend to be asleep.

* * * * * * * * *

Tuesday rolled vaguely into Wednesday. There were quiet voices, and cool cloths. Once he could have sworn he was sobbing and someone was holding him, someone with arms that were strong and safe and sure, rocking him back to sleep. The doctor came back and wondered aloud if the guest might have caught a fever. The voices were louder for a while after that.

* * * * * * * * *

“Mo’s given me the rest of day off to look after you,” said Fred Thursday. He was sitting on a chair at Morse’s bedside, and he had the newspaper on his lap. “Thought we might do the crossword together, what do you think? Not that you’ll need my help, but you can sharpen my dull old brains up a bit.”

* * * * * * * * *

“You haven’t been drinking,” said Morse. He was gamely wielding a spoon with a hand that seemed entirely made of seaweed, but it was that or have Th… Albert feed him. “I haven’t seen your pipe around either.”

Albert sat for a moment. “Do you remember, during…” he swallowed, “… before I left, I had a funny turn? Dizzy spell, up in that college quad. We’d just been interviewing a professor of something, I think.”

“Not likely to forget it.”

“Hm. Well, Dr Trebilcock’s not entirely happy about my heart, he says. The measurements he took weren’t too happy either.” He shrugged. “There's worse things to do without.”

“Oh, the pipe yes, but beer…?” Morse made a face.

“Life’s short enough as it is, lad. We should know.”

“Are you…?” Are you going to be okay. I haven’t even decided if I want to be back in your life yet; you can’t be running out of it already. Not yet. I haven’t had time. Please, sir, not yet.

“Well, I dare say there are fiddles that are fitter,” said Albert. “But I’m not so bad now.”

Morse knew he’d not been able to disguise his relief. Albert turned his face away.

* * * * * * * * *

“You never did have that bath yesterday,” said Albert. “Maureen got the worst of… well. The worst off you. Cleaned you up a bit. But if you think you can make it across the corridor again I’ll run you one this evening.” He passed a hand over Morse’s salt-stiff hair and winced. “And I’ll change the sheets while you’re in there.”

* * * * * * * * *

“I’m used to managing alone,” Morse snapped. The bath had been wonderful, if unnecessarily bubbly, but now his legs were shaking and his arms were too heavy to lift, and Albert had insisted on half-carrying him back to his room in the borrowed dressing gown.

Albert flinched. “I know, Morse, I know,” he said. “But is it… Come on, is it too much to ask that just for the next day or so you let yourself be helped?”

Morse bit his lip.

“If… if you’d rather it was Wi… Maureen, or Tom, or…”

“No. No, there’s no one better. No one.”

Albert looked up.

“But if I want to try to do something for myself,” said Morse, “please let me.” He laughed, humourlessly. “Think how you’d be if our positions were reversed.”

Albert snorted. “I’d be a bloody nightmare.”

"Well then. If I let you pass me my suitcase, please let me take out my pyjamas and make at least a valiant attempt at getting into them unaided.”

"Alright, Morse. I suppose those are acceptable terms."

"Thank you!!"

Albert handed him the suitcase, then stepped back almost too smartly. Morse rolled his eyes, pulled out the dark blue checked pair which he knew would be gentle on his still sun-lashed and fever-dry skin, and then suddenly felt his lips twitch. Albert was gazing at one of the prints of Penzance on the wall with studied innocence. He might as well as have been whistling. Morse coughed, sheepishly, and then tipped his head towards the suitcase, and as Albert took it back from him and tucked it neatly under the bed, they both started to laugh.

Chapter Text

St Peder (nr Falmouth) and the Minack Theatre (nr Penzance) and the road between them, Cornwall. Thursday 10th and Friday 11th April, 1975.

* * * * * * * * *

The next day was cooler. Tom helped Morse down into the garden to lie on a groundsheet and cushions on the lawn. The other guests were out again, he said, and Maureen still wasn’t back from her pottery class in Falmouth, but he’d be around all day, and Morse was to ask for whatever he needed.

Morse looked around, and Tom jumped immediately to the right conclusion. “Oh, Dad’ll be back soon too, he was out early at the harbour when the catch came in, and then to help someone with…” he shrugged, “… something. You know Dad.”

“Um, could you get a couple of books down for me? I have a du Maurier beside my bed, and, well. Anything else handy.”

“Right, right. Jamaica Inn, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry that you’ll miss going to the place itself this time. Pretty sure Mum won’t let you out before Saturday except for the opera tomorrow. Next visit, yes?”

Tom returned shortly with Jamaica Inn and the Housman. Morse repressed a wince.

“Oh,” said Tom, “uh, Mum told me to ask if you can eat scallops for lunch? She wouldn’t normally cook shellfish for an invalid but they’ll be very fresh, so…”

“Yes,” said Morse. “Yes, I think so.”

He flicked through the Housman once Tom had gone. His fingers turned automatically to “He would not stay...”, but then back one page.

     Ask me no more, for fear I should reply;
     Others have held their tongues, and so can I;
     Hundreds have died, and told no tale before:
     Ask me no more, for fear I should reply—

     How one was true and one was clean of stain
     And one was braver than the heavens are high,
     And one was fond of me: and all are slain.
     Ask me no more, for fear I should reply.

This was ridiculous. He’d read it a hundred times over the years. He knew it off by heart. His eyes shouldn’t be watering now.

Once he was home, he’d give Max a ring, and see if they could meet up a little more often from now on. Lunch together soon, perhaps, or a concert. Miss Frazil had been pestering him for a drink and a quote on the Headington Bag Snatcher; maybe he should take her up on it, and bring Max along too. They’d always got on well.

* * * * * * * * *

It was late afternoon. Morse sat across from Albert on the picnic bench, sipping lemonade, and watching a pair of goldfinches on the bird feeder. Morse remembered pints in the gardens of pubs in Oxford. Of “get that down you” and “if you’re going to apologise, don’t”.

“The third time I went to Meeting,” said Albert, “I picked up the copy of Advices and Queries on the central table, and started to flick through it. I’d had… Well. Not such a good night.”

Albert’s left hand was resting beside his glass. Morse wanted to reach out and take it.

“My head wasn’t right at all. I was starting to think that maybe the first two had been a fluke, that it wasn’t something I’d be any good at. Or something I deserved. Who was I to be sitting there amid those gentle souls?

“And then I read that first line by George Fox. ’Take heed, dear Friends, to the promptings of love and truth in your hearts. Trust them as the leadings of God whose Light shows us our darkness and brings us to new life.’ Never did get a handle on God, to be honest. But they don’t expect it there, do they? Believe in what you like, so long as you keep trying to listen to what’s best in yourself. Trying to let the Light in, whatever it is. Face the darkness inside. Become someone better.”

Morse tilted his face to the sun, eyes closed. He hoped Albert knew he was listening.

“You’ve always taken heed to those promptings, haven’t you, Morse?”

“Not always, sir.”

“Enough of the time.”

Morse looked at him. “And when love and truth were at odds?”

“You did the very best you could,” said Albert, softly, “to choose whichever option would do least harm. You always do. And your best is so very much better than that of the rest of us.”

“’Do you cherish your friendships,’” quoted Morse, “’so that they grow in depth and understanding and mutual respect? In close relationships we may risk pain as well as finding joy.’” He laughed, bitterly. “No, I’d never have made a good Quaker.”

“You’re trying to tell me that…” Albert broke off, and there was a hint of his old fire. “After everything you’ve done for me, Morse. After everything.” He breathed in sharply. “You’ve walked into hell for me. More than once. More times than I can count.”

“You’ve done as much for me.”

“If I have, then that was my…” Albert ran his hands through his hair. It was wholly white now, and the light breeze was wafting it about his head like a great messy halo. “You know how that one carries on? ’When experiencing great happiness or great hurt we may be more open to the working of the Spirit.’”

“S… Albert, please don’t tell me you have the whole of Advices and Queries memorised.”

“II told you, my head’s not always in the right place for the whole silent worship thing; it’s how I cope in Meetings when I’m bored.”

Morse smiled. “I remember a few. I don’t know how they stuck; I’ve not read any part of it since I was twelve.”

“So you just remember the bits that get you to come down too hard on yourself. Colour me surprised.”

A pair of crows were having an argument along one of the gutters. The goldfinches fluttered off in fright, but came back almost immediately. Brave little things.

“I’ve no idea what I’d call the ‘workings of the Spirit’. But I… Well. I started to see that there was something I could endeavour to be. Someone worthy of being my wife’s husband. My son’s father. My daughter’s father.” He looked at Morse. “The person you put such faith in.”

“You already were.”

“Was I?”

“Yes.”

The breeze was tousling the grass, and the smell of green, and the sea, and the warm eyes of Al… of Fred Thursday lifted something in Morse that he’d not even noticed had fallen so low. He reached out, and placed his hand on Thursday’s. Thursday started in surprise, but then raised his little finger and brushed it gently against Morse’s wrist.

“Albert. You gave me your gun. I knew then, you were… It wasn’t for me to use, was it?” And it’s best, he thought, at least for now, that you don’t know how I nearly did use it.

“No,” agreed Thursday, turning his hand to take Morse’s in his and squeezing it. “I never wanted… I never want to be that man again. Not again. Not ever.”

“I knew,” said Morse. “At least,” he corrected, “actually, perhaps not right then. But not long after.” I knew it, suddenly, when I had your gun pressed to my temple. That if you could throw away the darkness in you after everything that had happened, I could keep on living alone in a world with darkness in it.

Morse looked around the garden. “I’m fairly sure,” he said, “that no one has sent any birds to spy on us.”

Thursday raised his eyebrows.

“So, just this once, may I call you Fred?”

Fred exhaled, hard. “Yes,” he said.

“Fred. I’ve spent so long letting it be too late, more than too late, before I told anyone how I felt. I convinced myself I couldn’t be loved, so when love was right there before me, I didn’t let myself see it. And I’ve already lost…” he swallowed. He could feel the tears running down his cheeks now, and he didn’t care. “I’ve already lost the hope of someone very dear to me because of that. But you… You’re the best and truest friend I’ve ever had. And I know, I know things haven’t always been easy, and we’ve both…” Fred’s hand was squeezing Morse’s so tight now it was almost painful. He didn’t care about that, either. “I never thought I’d see you again. I never wanted to see you again. I understood why you did what you did, I forgave you, but I still couldn’t… I couldn’t.”

“Morse.” Fred’s lashes were wet.

“’Days lost I know not how, I shall retrieve them now.’” Morse choked back a sob. “Life’s short enough as it is. Oh God.” He breathed in. “I love you, Fred. Beyond words, beyond life. I always have. I always will. And if you’d honour me with your friendship now, still, if I can visit you and, and Win and Sam, sometimes, just once a year, even, if you can…”

And suddenly Fred was sitting beside him and had pulled him into a hug, and Morse was sobbing days and months and years into that sturdy shoulder. Fred’s arms were strong and safe and sure, but his tears were wet on Morse’s neck.

“I love you too, Morse,” said Fred. “I love you, I love you. Oh my dear lad. My dear.”

* * * * * * * * *

Maureen walked into the garden with a basket of wet laundry a little while later to find Morse with his head pillowed on Albert’s shoulder, dozing. The poor boy looked entirely played out. Albert had one arm around Morse, and with his other hand was holding that old copy of Housman’s poems an awkward distance from his face. She sighed. He’d left his reading specs by the bed again, hadn’t he.

She caught Albert’s glance as she walked past towards the drying area beyond the garden, and rolled her eyes. But on her return to the house she kissed his cheek, ghosted a hand through Morse’s hair, and smiled.

* * * * * * * * *

“Do you think,” said Albert, on the drive to the Minack Theatre the following evening, “that one day you might find someone who did care about… about that man? Raymond Kennett. Someone who wasn’t in the gang, I mean. A mother, a cousin. A childhood friend.”

“Yes,” said Morse. “Yes, I think so.”

“Will you… Will you do something more for me? If you can, I mean, if…”

“Anything.”

“Find out if there’s something that that someone needs. Something that a bit of cash might help with. A house repair, a clean suit for an interview. A toy for the kids. A night somewhere warm and a hot meal, or several. Or if not, a donation to a charity that they like? Just quietly, anonymous. It’s not…” he paused for a moment to let another driver overtake, “it’s not like, what do you call it. Like the Anglo-Saxons. Blood price.”

“Weregild,” said Morse. “I know. I know it’s not that.”

“Yes. I know there’s nothing that will… But I’m here, I’m safe. Tom’s safe. Mo’s safe. The money that you got back for me got us a change of identities, a home, a business to run. I love it here. We all do. And we still have a bit to spare, thanks to you. So, if there is something I can do, for someone who...”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll see what I can find out.”

* * * * * * * * *

There were two singers on the rocks at the back of the stage. A large-built baritone with a wild halo of hair that fluttered in the sea-breeze. A raw-boned tenor with sad blue eyes and a hint of sunburn.

Beside Morse, Albert was following the English translation in the programme.

Oh oui, jurons de rester amis !
Oui, c'est elle ! C'est la déesse !
En ce jour qui vient nous unir,
Et fidèle à ma promesse,
Comme un frère je veux te chérir !
C'est elle, c'est la déesse
Qui vient en ce jour nous unir !
Oui, partageons le même sort,
Soyons unis jusqu'à la mort !

Oh yes, let us swear to remain friends!
Yes, it is she, the goddess,
who comes to unite us this day.
And, faithful to my promise,
I wish to cherish you like a brother!
It is she, the goddess,
who comes to unite us this day!
Yes, let us share the same fate,
let us be united until death!

* * * * * * * * *

“It’s not got the happiest ending,” Morse warned Albert during the interval. “That friendship duet has rather a bitter reprise.”

“I know, I looked ahead at the synopsis,” said Albert. “Jealousy and destruction, and then Zurga dies so that Nadir can go on with the life he wants.” He sighed.

“It’s an opera,” muttered Morse, apologetically.

“How late in the year do the shows run?” asked Albert.

“Oh, September I think.”

“Care to come and stay again towards the end of the season, then? We can book tickets. Bring Mo and Tom too maybe. Opera or a play. Anything you like.”

“Yes, I think so,” said Morse. “I’m thinking I should really try to take Jakes up on his offer and visit the States at some point, but that can wait until next spring. It might take a while to plan.”

“He’d love that.”

“I might even make it to India,” said Morse, “if… if…”

“I’m sure he would,” said Albert. “I know he would.”

“Would you…” said Morse, suddenly feeling awkward again. “Would you mind if I brought a friend with me on one of my visits here? Another friend, I mean.”

“Any friend of yours, Morse, you know that.”

“Well, he’s… he’s somewhat I’ve known in Oxford for a while now. Medical man. Good dress sense. Atrocious puns.”

“Ah,” said Albert, gravely. “Well, he sounds exactly the kind of person we like to welcome at the guest house, so, yes. Why not.”

* * * * * * * * *

Morse was glad that Albert was driving. The country lanes between the west coast and St Peder were no joke after dark. They wound the windows down and hummed melodies from The Pearl Fishers, and talked in hushed tones, blending with the wind rustling trees and hedgerows and grass.

“Are you going to be well enough to head home tomorrow?” asked Albert.

“I think so. I’ll take it carefully.” He saw Albert's expression and rolled his eyes. "I really will, I promise."

“Good.”

They were quiet again for a little. Bizet echoed around Morse’s head, driving out the lingering rhythms of the sea shanties.

Albert coughed. “There’s a couple who stayed in the guest house last autumn, live in Kidlington. Expecting their first child,” he said.

Morse felt himself stiffen. “Yes?”

“I know they’d like to meet you. Both of them. For dinner, I mean, not just a drink with the husband in town.”

Morse swallowed.

“You don’t have to, Morse,” said Albert, gently. “If you really can’t face it, I’ll understand. But I’d be happier knowing that you have more friends looking out for you in Oxford. Friends who love you, even if not… not necessarily in the way you wanted. Friends I already know you’re looking out for, even if at a distance.”

Morse looked at him. Albert was gazing straight ahead, watching the road.

“I do have Max,” said Morse. “And Dorothea Frazil. And McNutt is… You were right. We work well together.”

“All good people, Morse,” said Albert. “Few better. But…?”

Morse remembered Daphne’s voice in the Meeting room. “Yes, there is Light in you too, you fractious beast.” Well, he was not a seagull. Or a Quaker. He’d follow Thursday into hell, but not into a regular Meeting habit.

But still. Not “the Light”. But something within that could let a little fresh air in now and again. Even if it hurt, to start with. Opening that something enough to let in each and all of Fred, and Win, and Sam, and Max, and Jakes, and Bright, and Dorothea, and McNutt, and Joyce, and… and Jim, and Joan. Who all loved him. Who all loved him.

“Very well, Fred,” said Morse. “I’ll try.”