The Remorseful Day Read Online Free PDF

unexpected direction.
    Or
was
it unexpected?
    “I couldn't help seeing the articles in the newspapers … and the department was talking about them.”
    Sarah nodded.
    “Would it mean a lot to you if they found who murdered your mother?”
    “What do
you
think?” The tone of her voice bordered almost on the insolent, but Turner interpreted her reply tolerantly, for it was (he knew) hardly the most intelligent question he'd ever formulated.
    “Let's just wish them better luck,” he said.
    “Better brains, too!”
    “Perhaps they'll put Morse on to it this time.”
    Sarah's eyes locked steadily on his.
    “Morse?”
    “You don't know him?”
    “No.”
    “Heard of him, perhaps?” Turner's eyes grew suddenly shrewd on hers, and she hesitated before answering:
    “Didn't my mother mention she'd nursed him somewhere?”
    “Would you like to meet him, next time he comes in?”
    “Pardon?”
    “You didn't know he was diabetic?”
    “We've got an awful lot of diabetics here.”
    “Not too many like him, thank the Lord! Four hefty injections a day, and he informs me that he's devised a carefully calibrated dosage that exactly counterbalances his considerable daily intake of alcohol. And when I say considerable … Quite a dab hand, too, is Morse, at extrapolating his blood-sugar readings—backwards!”
    “Isn't he worried about… about what he's doing to himself?”
    “Why not ask him? I'll put him on your list.”
    “Only if you promise to come along to monitor me.”
    “With
you
around? Oh, no! Morse wouldn't like that.”
    “How old is he?”
    “Too old for you.”
    “Single.”
    “Gracious, yes! Far too independent a spirit for marriage … Anyway, have a good weekend! Anything exciting on?”
    “Important, perhaps, rather than exciting. We've got a meeting up at Hook Norton tomorrow at the Pear Tree Inn. We're organizing another Countryside March.”
    “That's the ‘rural pursuits’ thing, isn't it? Foxhunting—”
    “Among other things.”
    “The ‘toffs and the serfs.’”
    Sarah shook her head with annoyance. “That's just the sort of comment we get from the urban chattering-classes!”
    “Sorry!” Turner held up his right hand in surrender. “You're quite right. I know next to nothing about foxhunting, and I'm sure there must be things to be said in favor of it. But—please!—don't go and tell Morse about them. We just happened to be talking about foxhunting the last time he was here—it was in the news—and I can't help remembering what he said.”
    “Which was?” she asked coldly.
    “First, he said he'd never thought much of the argument that the fox enjoys being chased and being pulled to little pieces by the hounds.”
    “Does he think the chickens enjoy being pulled to little pieces by the fox?”
    “Second, that the sort of people who hunt do considerably more harm to themselves than they do to the animals they hunt. He said they run a big risk of brutalizing themselves… dehumanizing themselves.”
    The two of them, master and pupil, looked at each other over the desk for an awkward while; and the Professor of Diabetes Studies thought he may have seen aflash of something approaching fury in the dark-brown eyes of his probationary consultant.
    It was the latter who spoke first:
    “Mind if I say something?”
    “Of course not.”
    “I'm surprised, that's all. I fully,
almost
fully, accept your criticisms of my professional manner and my strategy with patients. But from what you've just said
you
sometimes seem to talk to your patients about other things than diabetes.”
    “Touché.”
    “But you're right… Robert. I've been getting too chatty, I realize that. And I promise that when I see Mr. Morse I'll try very hard, as you suggest, to instill some sort of disciplined regimen into his daily life.”
    Turner said nothing in reply. It was a good thing for her to have the last word: she'd feel so much better when she came to think back on the interview. As she would, he