Free The Wench Is Dead by Colin Dexter Page A

Sainsbury or St Michael carriers, and, some few of them, with bunches of blooms for the newly hospitalised.
    Life is, alas, so full of disappointments; and it was to be an unexpected visitor who was to monopolize Morse's time that evening. Bearing a wilting collection of white chrysanthemums, a sombre-looking woman of late-middle age proceeded to commandeer the sole chair set at his bedside.
    'Mrs Green! How very nice of you to come!'
    Morse's heart sank deeply, and took an even deeper, plunge when the dutiful charlady mounted a sustained challenge against Morse's present competence to deal, single-handedly, with such crucial matters as towels, toothpaste, talcum-powder, and clean pyjamas (especially the latter). It was wonderfully good of her (who could deny to take such trouble to come to see him (three buses, as he knew full well); but he found himself consciously willing her to get up and go. At five minutes past eight, after half a dozen 'I-really-must-go's, Mrs G. rose to her poorly feet in preparation her departure, with instructions for the care of the chrysanthemums. At last (at last!), after a mercifully brief account of her latest visit to her 'sheeropodist' in Banbury road, Mrs G. dragged her long-suffering feet away from,Ward 7C.
    On several occasions, from her father's bedside, Christine Greenaway had half-turned in the course of her filial obligations; and two or three times her eyes had locked with Morse's: hers with the half-masked smile of understanding; his with all the impotence of some stranded whale.
    Just as Mrs Green was on her way, a white-coated consultant, accompanied by the Charge Nurse, decided -considerately) to give ten minutes of his time to Greenaway Senior, and then in some sotto voce asides, confide his prognosis to Greenaway Junior. And for Morse, this hiatus in the evening's ordering was getting just about as infuriating as waiting for breakfast in some Fawlty Towers' hotel.
    Then Lewis came.
    Never had Morse been less glad to see his sergeant; yet he had instructed Lewis to pick up his post from the flat, and he now took possession of several envelopes and a couple of cards: Morse's shoes (his other pair) were now ready for collection from Grove Street; his car licence was due to be renewed within the next twenty days; a ridiculously expensive book on The Transmission of Classical Manuscripts now awaited him at OUP; a bill from the plumber for the repair of a malfunctioning stop-cock was still unpaid; the Wagner Society asked if he wanted to enter his name in a raffle for Bayreuth Ring tickets; and Peter Imbert invited him to talk in the new year at a weekend symposium, in Hendon, on inner-city crime. It was rather like a cross-section of life, his usual correspondence: half of it was fine, and half of it he wanted to forget.
    At twenty-three minutes past eight, by the ward clock, Lewis asked if there was anything else he could do.
    'Yes, Lewis. Please go, will you? I want to have five minutes with – ' Morse nodded vaguely over to Greenaway's bed.
    'Well, if that's what you want, sir.' He rose slowly to his feet.
    'It is what I bloody want, Lewis! I've just told you, haven't I?'
    Lewis took a large bunch of white seedless grapes (£2.50 a pound) from his carrier-bag. 'I thought – we thought, the missus and me – we thought you'd enjoy them, sir.'
    He was gone; and Morse knew, within a second of his going, that he would not be forgiving himself easily for such monumental ingratitude. But the damage was done: nescit vox missa reverti.
    The bell rang two minutes later, and Christine came across to Morse's bed as she left, and handed him six large photocopied sheets.
    'I hope this is what you wanted.'
    'I'm ever so grateful. It's – it's a pity we didn't have a chance to… '
    'I understand. I do understand,' she said. 'And you will let me know if I can do anything else?'
    'Look… perhaps if we-'
    'Come along now, please!' The Charge Nurse's voice sounded to Morse almost as imperious as