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Inspector Morse

A Mysterious Profile

Colin Dexter

Inspector Morse

Colin Dexter

Perhaps (I hope) the most sensible way for me to write about Chief Inspector Morse is to try to answer some of the many questions which have been put to me most frequently by audiences and correspondents. Then, at least, I can believe that my answers will be focused upon things in which people seem genuinely interested.

But first, a few brief words about myself. The whole of my working life was spent in education: first, as a teacher of Latin and Greek in English grammar schools; second, with increasing deafness blighting my life, as a senior administrative officer with the Oxford Delegacy of Local Examinations, in charge of Latin, Greek, Ancient History, and English.

Well, here goes!

What emboldened you to enlist in the rather crowded ranks of the crime-writing fraternity?

It is not unknown, even in mid-summer, for the heavens to open in North Wales; and there are few things more dispiriting than to sit in a guest-house with the rain streaming in rivulets down the windows, and with offspring affirming that every other father somehow manages to locate a splendid resort, with blue skies and warm seas, for the annual family holiday. That was my situation one Saturday afternoon in August 1973. Having rather nervously asserted that we were not planning a premature return to Oxford, I shut myself up in the narrow confines of the kitchen with a biro and a pad of ruled paper—with only a very vague idea of what I was intending to do. I had already finished reading the two paperback detective stories left by previous guests, and I figured that, if I tried hard, I might possibly do almost as well in the genre myself. So for a couple of hours I tried very hard. Resulting in how many paragraphs, I cannot recall. Yet I doubt more than two or three. It was, however, that all-important start: Initium est dimidium facti (the beginning is one half of the deed), as the Roman proverb has it.

Had I any reason other than vanity for wishing to see my name on the jacket of a detective story? Not money certainly, since I was fortunate enough to enjoy a well-paid university post, annually climbing a little higher up the salary scale. If as Dr. Johnson remarked—in uncharacteristically cynical vein—“no man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money”, then I was one of the blockheads. And, again, not because I thought I had anything of criminological, psychological, or sociological import to communicate to my fellow man. I had just that one simple aim in mind—an aim to which I have always held firm in my subsequent writings: to tell a story that would entertain whatever readers might be coming my way.

It would be pleasing to report that later on that August Saturday afternoon the sun broke through the lowering clouds. Yet, as I recall, it didn’t. What I can report is that my first work of fiction, Last Bus to Woodstock, originated on that day, and was finally published by Macmillan in 1975. It featured a detective named Morse. “Just call me Morse!,” as he was to say so many times when some delicious and desirable woman asked him for his Christian name. And that is how I shall refer to him throughout this article.

Which crime writers and what kind of crime-writing may have influenced you?

First memories for me are of Sexton Blake and Tinker; then Edgar Wallace (“King of Thriller Writers”) with his racy and uncluttered style. Next Agatha Christie, pulling the wool over my eyes from page one in a myriad of imaginative and ingenious plots, and almost invariably baffling the delighted reader until the last chapter, last page, last paragraph.

And she more than any other writer determined the direction of my writing, with an emphasis more on “who” perpetrated the dreadful deed, rather than “why” or “how.” For some “dreadful deed” it had to be, since no reader will be overlong enthralled by the theft of a tin of salmon from the supermarket. It was Christie then who motivated my eagerness for surprise endings in the Morse novels. Other writers of course were influential, and like most other teenagers I was a great fan of Father Brown and Sherlock Holmes. But more importantly, I should mention John Dickson Carr (Carter Dickson) with his wonderfully “impossible” locked-room puzzles. I was never able to write such a mystery for Morse to solve, but again it was the “puzzle” element that delighted me so hugely. And it is not unfitting that in Bloody Murder Julian Symons writes of “the puzzles set by Colin Dexter”, gently adding that “perhaps it is churlish to suggest that motives and behavior were a touch nearer reality.” So often have I listened to some of my crime-writing colleagues arguing about the respective merits of “plot” versus “characterization.” But I have always viewed such discussions as somewhat phoney, since the totality of a good story subsumes them both, and the greatest accolade that any of us can hope for is to hear one’s partner’s plea from a room downstairs: “I’ll be up in a few minutes darling. Just let me finish this chapter first.”

Furthermore, in this connection, there is little doubt in my mind that Homer and Ovid would have been the top earners in Hollywood. One other major influence: I had long envied the ability of some few writers, Simenon and Chandler in particular, to establish in their novels a curiously pleasing ambience of a city, a street, a bistro, etc. And I have ever hoped that the physical sense of Oxford, and the very spirit of the City, has permeated the pages in which Morse is summoned to so many (mostly fatal) scenes. Perhaps my one wholly legitimate claim to notoriety is that single-handedly I have made Oxford the murder capital of the UK—and probably of the EU.

What sort of man was Morse? Was he like you?

Of Morse’s physical presence, I had very little idea. I had assumed, I suppose, that (unlike me) he measured up to the height specification for the police force; that his incurable addiction to Real Ale and single-malt Scotch whisky was gradually but inevitably adding a few inches to his girth; that unlike his creator he had a good head of hair; that to the world at large he paraded no deformities. He was in no way likely to be confused with the description I once gave of myself to a Finnish journalist: “short, fat, bald, and deaf”; on which the lady in question congratulated me warmly, saying that because of this she had recognized me “immediately”!

Morse’s other qualities? Well, unless one is a genius, which I am not, a writer will tend in many respects to be semi-autobiographical in the delineation of the character and temperament of the detective hero. As such, Morse changes very little throughout the novels, betraying the same qualities in my first and, and as I thought at the time, my only one. He was, and remained, a sensitive and sometimes strangely vulnerable man; always a bit of a loner by nature; strongly attracted to beautiful women (often the crooks); dedicated to alcohol, and almost always on the verge of giving up nicotine; in politics, ever on the Left, feeling himself congenitally incapable of voting for the Tory party; a “high-church atheist” (as I called him), yet with a deep love for the Methodist Hymnal, the King James’ Bible, the church music of Byrd, Tallis, Purcell, etc, the sight of candles, and the smell of incense. Finally, like me, he would have given his hobbies in Who’s Who as reading the poets, crosswords, and Wagner.

And what of the obverse? He was quite unwilling to give thanks to any of his hard-working underlings (especially Lewis); had little or no respect for most of his superior officers; was unorthodox, with little knowledge of police procedure and only minimal respect for forensic pathology; often pig-headed; impatient; a man with alpha-plus acumen, normally six furlongs ahead of the whole field during any investigation, but so often running on the wrong race course. And has there ever been a fictional detective so desperately mean with money?

On this latter point, I was encouraged by my editors to exemplify any fault rather than merely stating it. And I think that readers began to expect such exemplification in each novel. For example, in The Remorseful Day, the pair of detectives are the first customers in the bar of Oxford’s Randolph Hotel at 11:00 a.m., and Lewis’s eyebrows are raised a few millimeters when, throwing the car-keys to Lewis, Morse suggests that it’s high time he, Morse, bought the drinks: a large Glenfiddich for himself, and half a pint of orange juice for Lewis—only for the unfortunate barmaid to tell Morse that she cannot find sufficient change so early on for the £50 note proffered. Whereupon, patting his presumably empty pockets, Morse asks his sergeant if by any chance he has some appropriate small change on his person. (Here, I must admit, I had little difficulty in finding exemplars, with advanced symptoms of this odious trait, among a few of the Oxford dons I worked with.) But let me insert a caveat here. Mrs. Valerie Lewis (now alas killed in a hit-and-run accident) always knew whenever her husband was selected as Morse’s lieutenant: there was a perceptible change in his step—if less change in his pocket.

How did you get your first Morse novel published?

I have ever maintained that luck, good and bad, plays a considerably larger part in our lives than most people are prepared to acknowledge. It was not always so. The Romans, for example, as well as regularly pouring their libations and sacrificing animals to their traditional pantheon, were also very careful to appease and to seek the approval of the goddess of good luck (Fortuna). We can all accept that a little talent and a lot of hard graft are indispensable concomitants in any worthy enterprise. But what a blessing if the gods collectively are occasionally smiling on us! As they were, after a few early frowns, upon me.

I had my manuscript typed up, with just the one heavily corrected and smudged carbon-copy, and asked around for the best bets among the publishing houses. Collins, Gollancz, and Macmillan, in that order, topped the list. I had no agent (still haven’t) and I posted the typescript to Collins—from whom, after a chivvying letter from me, I received a letter about four months later. It was a pleasantly argued letter of the kind that so many hopeful, budding authors have come to know only too well: an “if-ever-you-write-anything-else” kind of letter. A rejection letter. So, leaving out my second choice, I parcelled up Last Bus to Woodstock once more, and sent it to Macmillan, a publishing house with, as I learned, an increasingly prestigious crime-list.

Within 48 hours I received a phone call from the senior crime-editor there, Lord Hardinge of Penshurst, asking me to get up to London post haste. He had read my novel and was prepared to publish it without further ado (and without alteration!) “warts and all.” Later I learned that he had been suffering from a serious bout of flu at the time, and had requested that any new stories should be brought to his bedside. Whether or not his illness was impairing his judgment in any way, I just don’t know. What I do know is that the gods were smiling benevolently on me that particular weekend. Incidentally, when I say that I have never had an agent, that is strictly true. But I have ever stuck with Macmillan. And for over thirty years now successive crime-editors—George Hardinge, Hilary Hale, Maria Rejt, and Beverley Cousins—have handled my literary affairs wonderfully well. I have been, let me repeat it, a very lucky writer.

How and why did Morse come to make it on TV?

In the 1980s the Independent Television Corporation (ITV) was looking for a new detective series, and simultaneously it appeared that many viewers wanted less violence, fewer gun-fights, and (please!) no more car chases. Several of the imported American crime programs were coming to the end of their runs, and perhaps the stage was being set for a quieter, more cerebral breed of detective, where brains were likely to be a better bet than brawn. The Zeitgeist was definitely changing. But there were some early doubts about whether Morse could and should fit the bill. It might well be, as someone pointed out at the time, that as well as being “more everything else,” such a program might also turn out to be more tedious. “Dexter’s idea of dramatic confrontation”, I read, “is a couple of Classics dons arguing about Aristotle outside the Ashmolean.” Fortunately for me, two very gifted men, each with huge experience in the TV world, were very much pro Morse. After reading some of my novels, both agreed that the beautiful city of Oxford would be an ideal setting for a series of murders, solved by a lugubrious Wagnerian and his solid (never stolid!) sidekick, would be a potential winner.

At a meeting in a north Oxford pub, The Friar Bacon, Kenny McBain, Anthony Minghella, Julian Mitchell, and myself drank a few pints of beer together and talked and talked of many things … of which I remember only one with clarity. When I suggested that after lunch I would with the greatest pleasure show them around a few of the murder sites in Oxford which I had already used, McBain smiled and declined my offer: “We’ve already visited them, Colin.” After lunch, half launched upon the shores of light was Inspector Morse that day.

Thereafter, the whole machinery of the televisual requirements began to fall into place: the casting, the film scripts, the locations, the schedules, the directors, the producers, etc. The biggest item of contention, as I recall, was the proposed one-night two-hour, prime time programming. I had thought that this was asking a little too much of our likely audience. I was wrong. But again, as with the books, I was extremely lucky. Things can of course so often go sadly awry, and several of my crime-writing colleagues have not experienced the good fortune of which I was continuously aware in ITV’s treatment of Inspector Morse.

Wherein lay this good fortune? First and foremost it was undoubtedly in the casting of John Thaw and Kevin Whately as Morse and Lewis, with much of the credit for this resting with Ted Childs. Second, with the string of distinguished screen-play writers, directors, and producers ITV was able to enlist in the making of the thirty-three Inspector Morse episodes filmed. Third, with the sheer technical brilliance of the camera crews who somehow seemed perpetually enthused and exhilarated by the beauties of Oxford. Indeed, Oxford itself from the outset assumed a leading role in the series, with audiences a little disappointed when the main body of the action was filmed in Australia or Italy or elsewhere. Fourth was the wonderful array of talent among supporting actors and actresses, both established media stars and newcomers alike, from Sir John Gielgud in The Twilight of the Gods to Elizabeth Hurley in Last Seen Wearing. To the best of my knowledge no one ever refused an invitation to take a part in the series, and on visits to Oxford characters as diverse as Ken Dodd and Charlton Heston light-heartedly informed the Oxford Mail that they had only the one remaining ambition in life: to be selected for a minor part in one of the programs. Fifth (and more of this anon), in Barrington Pheloung we had a musical genius. Finally I must mention the contagious camaraderie engendered among the film crews by such wise and experienced producers as Chris Burt.

For a brief while let me dwell separately on one of these factors—Oxford.

Morse’s city, described passim, lived in, and murdered in, is not only the city of great men—scholars, historians, poets, scientists, doctors, churchmen, etc—whose portraits hang proudly in many of the college dining halls used in the Morse episodes. Oxford is, and always was, the city of “Town” as well as “Gown.” And one of my proudest possessions is the following citation: “The Lord Mayor and Oxford City Council place on record their appreciation of the literary talents of Colin Dexter who has been the most visual and the most watched novelist of our City. We are extremely grateful that in his novels he has shown our City as having a distinct and separate identity from its famous University.” I was a bit like Morse myself: quite certainly in the University, but not wholly of the University. And whilst I am indulging in some self-gratification, let me admit to feeling a warm glow (forgive me!) on reading the words of the distinguished novelist and critic, Malcolm Bradbury: “Oxford generally imagines it is famous for dreaming spires, British prime ministers (and American presidents), Mathew Arnold, John Ruskin, Cardinal Newman, and Evelyn Waugh. But it is surely Dexter’s Oxford that has laid the strongest imprint over the contemporary city, and it is the Morse Tour that draws a great proportion of its visitors.” All a bit over the top, I agree.

How did you come up with the names of Morse and Lewis?

Strangely enough, I spent 18 months in the Royal Signals Regiment doing my National Service, and became a high-speed Morse code operator, serving most of the time in West Germany (1948-50). That however had nothing to do with Chief Inspector Morse, whom I named after Sir Jeremy Morse, a man with as sweet and clear a brain as I have known. He was a former Chairman of Lloyds Bank, key member of the Bank of England and the IMF, Fellow of All Souls, Oxford, Warden of Winchester College, etc., etc., regularly parading his genius in chess problems and crossword puzzles. Indeed it was in the crossword world where as early as the mid-50s we became keen competitors—and later good friends. And when I wished to introduce a detective-hero of consummate mental caliber, the surname was staring me in the face, was it not?

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