From Amazon
Over 13 novels and a popular television series later, Colin Dexter's Inspector Morse has taken his place alongside Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Lord Peter Wimsey, Philip Marlowe, and a handful of other famous sleuths. Like most of them, Morse possesses an uncanny intelligence, especially in matters of crime and crosswords, but Dexter has always made sure that his detective remains fully a man--flawed and uncertain despite an outward bravado. In this final, difficult story, Morse's humanity unfolds much as his cases do: with the slow revelation of secrets and surprises that frequently catch the reader off guard.
The novel begins with events now a year old. Yvonne Hamilton had been found in her home murdered--handcuffed and naked. The Thames Valley Police had supposed robbery, but their suspects had dissolved and all the leads had dried up. A year later, while Morse is on furlough, two anonymous calls to Chief Superintendent Strange open the possibility of a new line of inquiry. Strange wants his best man on the case. Morse, however, shows a surprising reluctance to embroil himself in what seems to be a classic Morsean puzzle. When he finally does reopen the investigation, his unorthodox approach worries even his longtime sidekick, Sergeant Lewis--who begins to suspect that his boss has a personal connection to the victim. What could Morse be up to? And--as many readers will be asking throughout--what could possibly bring his career to a close?
Like the work of few other mystery writers, Dexter's Morse series has consistently blended the dignity of high art with the grimness of crime and punishment. While it's a cliché to say that he transcends the genre, he has certainly expanded its range to novels that entertain while they instruct--even when that instruction is grammatical. The Remorseful Day is indeed a remorseful farewell, a delicately handled conclusion to a series that will now remain artfully complete, not lingering beyond its time. --Patrick O'Kelley --This text refers to an alternate Hardcover edition.
From Publishers Weekly
The first Inspector Morse novel, Last Bus to Woodstock, appeared a quarter-century ago. This finale to a grand series presents a moving elegy to one of mystery fiction's most celebrated and popular characters. The murder of nurse Yvonne Harrington two years earlier remains unsolved, but the Oxford police receive an anonymous tip that prompts them to revive their investigation. Morse's superior, Chief Superintendent Strange, wants him to take over the case, but Morse is stubbornly and curiously reluctant to do so. Morse's faithful dogsbody, the long-suffering Sergeant Lewis, is left wondering whether Morse himself is some how connected to the crime, since the inspector had encountered the murder victim during a stay in the hospital. It falls to Lewis to do most of the delving, with Morse prompting him along the way. The case seems impenetrable until the murder of burglar Harry Repp - though what could be the connection to the original murder? Lewis continues to probe while Morse remains his oracular self. Dexter has fashioned another brilliantly intricate puzzle, one of his finest, with the valedictory tone of the highest possible note, perfectly pitched. (Feb.)
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an alternate Hardcover edition.
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an alternate Hardcover edition.
From Kirkus Reviews
Dexter (Death is Now My Neighbor, 1997, etc.) draws a brilliantly realized series to a close by relying on the irascible Morses extraordinary capacity of thinking laterally, vertically, and diagonally. This time, though, Morse seems reluctant to get involved in the unsolved year-old murder of 50-ish promiscuous nurse Yvonne Hamilton. Is it because hes weary and ailing, or because he has a secret vested interest in the naked, handcuffed, gagged victim? When two anonymous phone calls come into the Thames Valley Police station, corpulent Chief Superintendent Strange pulls Morse back from a furlough, along with faithful Sergeant Lewis. Circuitous routes keep Lewis one step behind the curmudgeonly, miserly, oddly vulnerable Morse, but not far enough behind to prevent him from wondering why Morse seems unwilling to take a more active involvement in the case. A bountiful cast of prime suspects is joined by the usual cast of colorful locals, all of them dancing with nervous energy, before guilt brings its own moral retribution. Astute readers who think they have outwitted Morse should wait till the last two pages before congratulating themselves. Morse is laid to rest gracefully, though many a reader will join Lewis in his tearful farewell to one of the most original, endearing, and consistently rewarding detective series. -- Copyright ©1999, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.
--This text refers to an alternate
Hardcover
edition.
Review
"Fascinating . . . Memorable . . . [A] sweetly rueful conclusion to a revered series."
--The Washington Post Book World
"IMPECCABLY PLOTTED . . . A series that raised the bar for genre writing. Not since Nero Wolfe has a detective of Morse's ratiocinative skills, refined tastes, and tetchy temperament held court in such a magisterial fashion."
--The New York Times Book Review
"THE PLOT IS FLAMBOYANTLY CLEVER: even the most minor characters are bizarre and intriguing. Long after his swan song, Morse will be missed."
--Los Angeles Times --This text refers to the Mass Market Paperback edition.
--The Washington Post Book World
"IMPECCABLY PLOTTED . . . A series that raised the bar for genre writing. Not since Nero Wolfe has a detective of Morse's ratiocinative skills, refined tastes, and tetchy temperament held court in such a magisterial fashion."
--The New York Times Book Review
"THE PLOT IS FLAMBOYANTLY CLEVER: even the most minor characters are bizarre and intriguing. Long after his swan song, Morse will be missed."
--Los Angeles Times --This text refers to the Mass Market Paperback edition.
Book Description
For a year, the murder of Yvonne Harrison has baffled Thames Valley CID. But one man has yet to tackle the case, Chief Inspector Morse. So why is he adamant that he will not lead the reinvestigation, despite two anonymous phone calls that hint at new evidence? And why does he seem to be carrying out his own private investigation?
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From the Back Cover
"An excellent writer ... Dexter's mysteries featuring Inspector Morse just keep getting better and better."
--Associated Press
"A masterful crime writer whom few others match."
--Publishers Weekly
"Dexter is a magician with character, story construction, and the English language. ... Colin Dexter and Morse are treasures of the genre."
--Mystery News
"Morse is the most prickly, conceited, and genuinely brilliant detective since Hercule Poirot."
--New York Times
"It is a delight to watch this brilliant, quirky man deduce."
--Minneapolis Star Tribune
--This text refers to an alternate Hardcover edition.
--Associated Press
"A masterful crime writer whom few others match."
--Publishers Weekly
"Dexter is a magician with character, story construction, and the English language. ... Colin Dexter and Morse are treasures of the genre."
--Mystery News
"Morse is the most prickly, conceited, and genuinely brilliant detective since Hercule Poirot."
--New York Times
"It is a delight to watch this brilliant, quirky man deduce."
--Minneapolis Star Tribune
--This text refers to an alternate Hardcover edition.
About the Author
Colin Dexter lives in Oxford, England. He has won many awards for his novels, including the CWA Cartier Diamond Dagger for outstanding achievements in crime literature--the equivalent of a lifetime achievement Edgar Award. This is the thirteenth and final Inspector Morse novel.
--This text refers to an alternate
Hardcover
edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
You holy Art, when all my hope is shaken,
And through life's raging tempest I am drawn,
You make my heart with warmest love to waken,
As if into a better world reborn.
(From An Die Musik, translated by Basil Swift)
Apart (of course) from Wagner, apart from Mozart's compositions for the clarinet, Schubert was one of the select composers who could occasionally transport him to the frontier of tears. And it was Schubert's turn in the early evening of Wednesday, July 15, 1998, when -- The Archers over -- a bedroom-slippered Chief Inspector Morse was to be found in his North Oxford bachelor flat, sitting at his ease in Zion and listening to a Lieder recital on Radio 3, an amply filled tumbler of pale Glenfiddich beside him. And why not? He was on a few days' furlough that had so far proved quite unexpectedly pleasurable.
Morse had never enrolled in the itchy-footed regiment of truly adventurous souls, feeling (as he did) little temptation to explore the remoter corners even of his native land, and this principally because he could now imagine few if any places closer to his heart than Oxford -- the city which, though not his natural mother, had for so many years performed the duties of a loving foster parent. As for foreign travel, long faded were his boyhood dreams that roamed the sands round Samarkand; and a lifelong pterophobia still precluded any airline bookings to Bayreuth, Salzburg, Vienna -- the trio of cities he sometimes thought he ought to see.
Vienna . . .
The city Schubert had so rarely left; the city in which he'd gained so little recognition; where he'd died of typhoid fever -- only thirty-one.
Not much of an innings, was it -- thirty-one?
Morse leaned back, listened, and looked semicontentedly through the french window. In The Ballad of Reading Gaol, Oscar Wilde had spoken of that little patch of blue that prisoners call the sky; and Morse now contemplated that little patch of green that owners of North Oxford flats are wont to call the garden. Flowers had always meant something to Morse, even from his schooldays. Yet in truth it was more the nomenclature of the several species, and their context in the works of the great poets, that had compelled his imagination: fast-fading violets, the globèd peonies, the fields of asphodel . . . Indeed Morse was fully aware of the etymology and the mythological associations of the asphodel, although quite certainly he would never have recognized one of its kind had it flashed across a Technicolor screen.
It was still true though: as men grew older (so Morse told himself) the delights of the natural world grew ever more important. Not just the flowers, either. What about the birds?
Morse had reached the conclusion that if he were to be reincarnated (a prospect which seemed to him most blessedly remote), he would register as a part-time Quaker and devote a sizeable quota of his leisure hours to ornithology. This latter decision was consequent upon his realization, however late in the day, that life would be significantly impoverished should the birds no longer sing. And it was for this reason that, the previous week, he had taken out a year's subscription to Birdwatching; taken out a copy of the RSPB's Birdwatchers' Guide from the Summertown Library; and purchased a secondhand pair of 152/1000m binoculars (ú9.90) that he'd spotted in the window of the Oxfam Shop just down the Banbury Road. And to complete his program he had called in at the Summertown Pet Store and taken home a small wired cylinder packed with peanuts -- a cylinder now suspended from a branch overhanging his garden. From the branch overhanging his garden.
He reached for the binoculars now and focused on an interesting specimen pecking away at the grass below the peanuts: a small bird, with a greyish crown, dark-brown bars across the dingy russet of its back, and paler underparts. As he watched, he sought earnestly to memorize this remarkable bird's characteristics, so as to be able to match its variegated plumage against the appropriate illustration in the Guide.
Plenty of time for that though.
He leaned back once more and rejoiced in the radiant warmth of Schwarzkopf's voice, following the English text that lay open on his lap: "You holy Art, when all my hope is shaken . . ."
When, too, a few moments later, his mood of pleasurable melancholy was shaken by three confident bursts on a front-door bell that to several of his neighbors sounded considerably over-decibeled, even for the hard-of-hearing. --This text refers to an alternate Hardcover edition.
And through life's raging tempest I am drawn,
You make my heart with warmest love to waken,
As if into a better world reborn.
(From An Die Musik, translated by Basil Swift)
Apart (of course) from Wagner, apart from Mozart's compositions for the clarinet, Schubert was one of the select composers who could occasionally transport him to the frontier of tears. And it was Schubert's turn in the early evening of Wednesday, July 15, 1998, when -- The Archers over -- a bedroom-slippered Chief Inspector Morse was to be found in his North Oxford bachelor flat, sitting at his ease in Zion and listening to a Lieder recital on Radio 3, an amply filled tumbler of pale Glenfiddich beside him. And why not? He was on a few days' furlough that had so far proved quite unexpectedly pleasurable.
Morse had never enrolled in the itchy-footed regiment of truly adventurous souls, feeling (as he did) little temptation to explore the remoter corners even of his native land, and this principally because he could now imagine few if any places closer to his heart than Oxford -- the city which, though not his natural mother, had for so many years performed the duties of a loving foster parent. As for foreign travel, long faded were his boyhood dreams that roamed the sands round Samarkand; and a lifelong pterophobia still precluded any airline bookings to Bayreuth, Salzburg, Vienna -- the trio of cities he sometimes thought he ought to see.
Vienna . . .
The city Schubert had so rarely left; the city in which he'd gained so little recognition; where he'd died of typhoid fever -- only thirty-one.
Not much of an innings, was it -- thirty-one?
Morse leaned back, listened, and looked semicontentedly through the french window. In The Ballad of Reading Gaol, Oscar Wilde had spoken of that little patch of blue that prisoners call the sky; and Morse now contemplated that little patch of green that owners of North Oxford flats are wont to call the garden. Flowers had always meant something to Morse, even from his schooldays. Yet in truth it was more the nomenclature of the several species, and their context in the works of the great poets, that had compelled his imagination: fast-fading violets, the globèd peonies, the fields of asphodel . . . Indeed Morse was fully aware of the etymology and the mythological associations of the asphodel, although quite certainly he would never have recognized one of its kind had it flashed across a Technicolor screen.
It was still true though: as men grew older (so Morse told himself) the delights of the natural world grew ever more important. Not just the flowers, either. What about the birds?
Morse had reached the conclusion that if he were to be reincarnated (a prospect which seemed to him most blessedly remote), he would register as a part-time Quaker and devote a sizeable quota of his leisure hours to ornithology. This latter decision was consequent upon his realization, however late in the day, that life would be significantly impoverished should the birds no longer sing. And it was for this reason that, the previous week, he had taken out a year's subscription to Birdwatching; taken out a copy of the RSPB's Birdwatchers' Guide from the Summertown Library; and purchased a secondhand pair of 152/1000m binoculars (ú9.90) that he'd spotted in the window of the Oxfam Shop just down the Banbury Road. And to complete his program he had called in at the Summertown Pet Store and taken home a small wired cylinder packed with peanuts -- a cylinder now suspended from a branch overhanging his garden. From the branch overhanging his garden.
He reached for the binoculars now and focused on an interesting specimen pecking away at the grass below the peanuts: a small bird, with a greyish crown, dark-brown bars across the dingy russet of its back, and paler underparts. As he watched, he sought earnestly to memorize this remarkable bird's characteristics, so as to be able to match its variegated plumage against the appropriate illustration in the Guide.
Plenty of time for that though.
He leaned back once more and rejoiced in the radiant warmth of Schwarzkopf's voice, following the English text that lay open on his lap: "You holy Art, when all my hope is shaken . . ."
When, too, a few moments later, his mood of pleasurable melancholy was shaken by three confident bursts on a front-door bell that to several of his neighbors sounded considerably over-decibeled, even for the hard-of-hearing. --This text refers to an alternate Hardcover edition.
