A few years ago I met Colin Dexter, author of the Inspector Morse books, and, during the course of the conversation, he remarked that in the final Morse novel he would disclose his protagonist's christian name. Well, the name is revealed in Death Is now My Neighbour, but I, no doubt along with his other couple of million fans, sincerely hope that we are not seeing the end of the sequence.
There is no doubt that the television series, with John Thaw as Morse and Kevin Whatley as faithful Sergeant Lewis, has contributed to the success of Dexter's books, but they have always been well written, the plots are intricate but believable, and the quotations and literary allusions are an apt sauce to glaze the banquets.
The relationship between the two policemen has always been spiky, but beneath the surface friction there is a mutual understanding of how one has come to depend on the other. Morse, with his love of music, crosswords and real ale, is the brilliant one, alighting on turns of phrase, nuance, pause, hesitation and shiftiness with the unerring eye of a gull for a crust of bread, while Lewis, down to earth, plodding and sensible, is the one who does the heavy work to tether his chief's flights of fancy to reality.
In Death Is now My Neighbour, the locale is once again Oxford of the dreaming spires, and in C.P. Snow territory, with the contest on in Lonsdale College for the coveted position of Master. There are two dons in line for the post, Julian Storrs, reader in social anthropology, and Denis Cornford, reader in medieval history.
While relations between the two men appear amiable, under the polite exterior, claws are being on sheathed. Unknown to the governing body of the college, Storrs has only a year to live, but he deeply desires to attain the position of Head of House and the almost mandatory life peerage that goes with it. Also his wife, the predatory Angela Miriam, has her mind set on the social elevation entailed, especially because of her secret past when she featured as a lady of dubious morals.
Cornford would also like the job, but not as much as his American spouse Shelly, who is highly attractive and less than half his age. To sway things in her husband's direction, she is willing to sleep with the incumbent Master, Sir Clixby Bream - nice name, but the man himself is a shit a happening that backfires on her drastically as the story unfolds."
Against this background, two murders take place. The first victim is a young woman, Rachel James, with whom Storrs has been having an affair, while the second is a reporter who has been blackmailing him. Obvious then who the perpetrator is? Well, things are not always what they seem in Dexter's work, and Morse and his sergeant are soon traversing blind alleys in their quest to unravel the mystery.
There is also the added complication of Morse being trundled into hospital with suspected diabetes - his life long quest for the definitive real ale having finally wrecked his blood sugar levels. The mind continues to work, however, even though he is flat on his back, and he also finds use for other parts long dormant when he makes the acquaintance of comely nurse Janet McQueen.
The book is a joy to read and, even if the plot is a little on the self evident side, the attendant details that garnish it are truly delicious. Not the least of them are the chapter headings, a cornucopia of quotations from all kinds of people, including Philip Larkin, Benjamin Franklin and even Mother Teresa.
And, of course, the continual jousting between Morse and Lewis never fails to enthrall. In their way they are as good a fictional double act as has ever been conceived by an author, and that's in a long list stretching back to and beyond Holmes and Watson. Hopefully they'll step out again to the strains of another minuet, even though Morse's guilty secret of his given name has been laid bare.
