Disclaimer: Characters in this story belong to Colin Dexter and Philip Pullman

INSPECTOR MORSE'S DARK MATERIALS

He raised a mortal to the skies:
She drew an angel down.
(John Dryden, Alexander's Feast)

'What's it to be then sir?'

'LEW-is! You've been working with me long enough by now!'

Chief Inspector Morse laid his folded copy of The Times carefully on the table and glanced past the sergeant's shoulder, taking in with the discernment of a connoisseur the row of handpump clips.

And taking in too, with approval, the face that smiled back at him expectantly.

It was not an especially pretty face, nor a particularly young one, but Morse noted with approval the warmth and vivacity that lay in the ruddy cheeks and the short black hair just beginning to show streaks of grey, the rather stocky but softly-rounded frame and the faint air of Weltschmerz that bespoke a need to give and receive an ocean of comfort. He'd never seen her before in any of his many visits to the Bird and Baby. He hoped he'd see her there again.

'An orange juice is it then, sir?', insisted Sergeant Lewis.

'London Pride, I think, Lewis'.

Morse slid behind the table and opened out The Times, refolding it in quarters with the crossword uppermost. He pulled a Biro from the breast pocket of his jacket and began filling in the grid with a series of rapid, staccato flourishes.

Something arrested his attention as he was about to enter one solution. With his Biro poised above the paper Morse froze, his eyes rolled upwards to a corner of the room. Some fragment of a memory had crept into that enigmatic mind, and he tried to hold it there and grasp it, relaxing his mind to coax the memory home.

Out of the corner of his eye, Morse thought he saw a flutter of movement behind the bar. When he looked, he saw Lewis picking up two glasses and turning towards him. For the most fleeting of instants, too, he could have sworn he saw something on the woman's shoulder. A bird, but an extraordinary bird. Certainly not one he had ever seen through the binoculars in the back garden in Summertown. This one had red legs and a yellow, slightly curved bill. He saw it clearly, and then even as he looked it just wasn't there.

Mentally he shrugged and made a note to mention hallucinations to the doctor. Maybe.

'Lewis, even you might be able to do this one!', said Morse after tasting and appreciating the London Pride.

'You know me sir. Crosswords aren't exactly my thing.'

'Oh come on Lewis', said Morse impishly. 'I've shown you enough times'. He took a deep draught from his glass. ''Being afraid of death, turns up in veil at romantic moments'. Six letters'.

'I really couldn't say sir'

'LEW-is! It says 'turns up', see! That means the answer is hidden in the words that follow'. Morse filled in the letters M O R T A L in the crossword grid. 'A being who is afraid of death would be a mortal. Unlike an immortal being, an angel perhaps if you can bring yourself to believe in such things'.

'I can't see it sir'.

'When it says 'turns up' it means the word is hidden backwards Lewis. You see the L of 'veil', and the 'at' and the...'

'Oh I see now sir! It says 'Latrom' sir! Wasn't that the chap that went missing? Sir something Latrom, sir?'

'Very good Lewis!'

The sergeant's lips broke in a belated chuckle. 'Turned up, yes sir, that's good! Did he ever turn up sir? I forget'.

Morse now knew very clearly what memory had stirred.

'Sir Charles Latrom', he mused. 'Was a Permanent Secretary at the Foreign Office. Retired, but still had fingers in a lot of pies. Went away on some kind of business trip and never came back. About three years ago.'

'I remember now sir. Wasn't he tied up with that funny business up by the Ring Road out towards Kidlington?'

'A man of his age and station in life is entitled to go off travelling Lewis. None of our business, you might think. He was a personal friend of the Chief Constable though. And in cahoots with Sir Clixby Bream, the Master of Lonsdale. Sir Charles was a man with a lot of clout in Oxford. So I had Mr Strange breathing down my neck at all hours. And then we had Special Branch crawling all over the place. He was involved in some kind of military research with the University Physics Department, and then there was that operation up the Banbury Road. All very odd'.

'Uniform lads are a bit sensitive about that sir! Made monkeys of them, guarding a tent on the Ring Road for six months that turned out to be just a bit of grass under some perfectly ordinary trees'.

The phone rang in Morse's pocket. He pulled it out.

'Morse. ... Yes sir ... I'll be with you as soon as I can'.

Morse pocketed the phone again. 'The Chief Superintendent,' he said. 'Wants to see me urgently'. He tapped his empty glass. 'Another one Lewis? My shout'.

'Orange juice sir'.

Lewis knew Morse well enough to know that he'd be drawn to the vivacious Irish woman behind the bar. He watched, resigned to the inevitable, as Morse stood for a long time talking to the woman more than was strictly necessary to order two drinks and then pulling out the Biro again and writing something on the back of a beermat. Then he patted his pockets and turned.

'Lewis, I seem to have forgotten my wallet'

But the sergeant was already holding out a five pound note. 'Her name's Mary, sir'.

'Well done, Lewis!'. Morse took another long draught from the replenished glass. 'She's from Maynooth. She used to be a nun. She has a PhD in subatomic physics. She's not married. She likes Wagner. And I have her telephone number'. He drained the glass. 'Come on Lewis, drink up. Let's go and see what Mr Strange wants'.