The furniture in the living-room, orange under the lamplight, reflected the character of its owner: neat, solid and reliable, with a mild touch of eccentricity. Practical without being dull, tasteful but not vain, motley yet tidy, and fairly lit except for a puzzling dark, secret corner behind the doctor’s armchair. Reclined on the sofa with a glass of malt in his hand, a shirt-sleeved Morse eyed Dr DeBryn with a certain curiosity and a little envy: the man always looked awfully comfortable in his own skin. The English Chamber Orchestra and the voices of the St. Anthony Singers filled the air. They had spent the past hour almost in silence, only exchanging the odd comment now and then, while Morse’s attention wandered from the music to his host and his cosy surroundings. However, near the end of the piece, when the first notes of Dido’s lament began to sound, the peaceful musical mood turned melancholy. As was to be expected, Morse thought, letting out a helpless sigh. A telling quietness replaced the last mourning voices of the Chorus, which lingered until Dr DeBryn cleared his throat. …show more content…
His lashes were wet. “That’s—” DeBryn stopped and sighed before continuing in a low, breathy voice, “that’s one way to go.” He stretched his short legs in front of him. A crescent smile showed on Morse’s lips as his eyes hovered over his companion’s cheeks. “Now I know what it takes to make you emotional, Doctor.” A slight unsteadiness in his voice belied the gentle mockery. “Good alcohol and beauty, Morse, therein lies my weakness,” the doctor admitted, observing him with a knowing eye. “I’m hardly original, I dare say.” Morse snorted again, this time in