The way through the woods

Inspector Morse is back, as much of a renegade and just as fond of the pubs and the ladies as ever. This time he's involved in the case of the "Swedish Maiden," a young Scandinavian student who's been missing for more than a year. Clues start turning up all over, especially after a verse alluding to the young woman's disappearance is published in a local newspaper. The intrepid Morse, with his loyal sidekick Lewis, uses a combination of unorthodox investigative methods, intuition, brain power, and guesswork, helped along by liberal doses of drink at the handiest pub, to unravel the perplexing mystery bit by bit. What he finds is a confounding combination of blackmail, pornography, and murder, and, as usual, he leaves his colleagues (and his readers) gasping in amazement as he dodges in, out, over, and under the clues to wind up at the surprising solution long before the rest of us have even sorted out the main characters. For those who don't know the literate, humorous, sometimes curmudgeonly but always likable Inspector Morse (either from his earlier novels or from the Morse episodes on PBS' "Mystery"), this vintage adventure makes a perfect introduction. (Reviewed Feb 15, 1993)0517594447Emily Melton

One of Britain's most inventive and honored crime writers, Dexter ( The Jewel That Was Ours ) offers another tale in a justly acclaimed series. Again it's a story packed with nuance, wayward angles and bewildering layers of coincidence, all explicated in masterful style. When Oxford-based Inspector Morse sets out to find Karin Eriksson, a young Swedish woman who disappeared while vacationing in England, he opens a Pandora's box of clues and culpability. The missing woman's need for money, four men's need for pornography, and photographs, blackmail and multiple disappearances all play their part in this deliberately baffling mystery, in which virtually every chapter ends on an enigmatic note. Dexter even manages to cunningly subvert the narrative's basic framework toward the end, when Karin Eriksson's identity comes into question. The erudite, irascible Morse remains a delightful character, with his shambling existence, his love for music, his obvious appeal to lonely women despite his slovenly appearance. His pedestrian, loyal subordinate, Sgt. Lewis, buys most of the beers Morse consumes en route to the ultimate solution. Publication of this stunning work will coincide with the broadcast of another Morse adventure on the PBS Mystery! series. ( Apr. ) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Vacationing Chief Inspector Morse's eye is caught by a Times story about an anonymous poem evidently referring to the year-old disappearance of Swedish student Karin Eriksson. A lively, densely allusive correspondence analyzing hints in the poem eventually takes Morse (The Jewel That Was Ours, 1992, etc.) to the Oxford town of Wytham, where a body is indeed discovered. But then the real surprises in this captivating tale begin, as the evidence of the corpse, a telltale roll of film found nearby, and the ring of amateur pornographers implicated in the murder obstinately refuse to confirm Morse's most elementary assumptions. Honest detection, illicit sex, puns and anagrams galore, Morse's trademark drinking and dour byplay with colleagues and suspects, plus a plot as agile as Dexter's best--in short, everything you could possibly want in an English detective story. Bolt the door and enjoy.

Chapter One   A perpetual holiday is a good working definition of Hell (George Bernard Shaw)   Morse never took his fair share of holidays, so he told himself. So he was telling Chief Superintendent Strange that morning in early June.   "Remember you've also got to take into consideration the time you regularly spend in pubs, Morse!"   "A few hours here and there, perhaps, I agree. It wouldn't be all that difficult to work out how much--"   " 'Quantify', that's the word you're looking for."   "I'd never look for ugly words like 'quantify'."   "A useful word, Morse. It means--well, it means to say how much ..."   "That's just what I said, isn't it?"   "I don't know why I argue with you!"   Nor did Morse.   For many years now, holidays for Chief Inspector Morse of Thames Valley CID had been periods of continuous and virtually intolerable stress. And what they must normally be like for men with the extra handicaps of wives and children, even Morse for all his extravagant imagination could scarcely conceive. But for this year, for the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-two, he was resolutely determined that things would be different: he would have a holiday away from Oxford. Not abroad, though. He had no wanderlust for Xanadu or Isfahan; indeed he very seldom travelled abroad at all--although it should be recorded that several of his colleagues attributed such insularity more than anything to Morse's faint-hearted fear of aeroplanes. Yet as it happened it had been one of those same colleagues who had first set things in motion.   "Lime, mate! Lime's marvellous!"   Lime?   Only several months later had the word finally registered in Morse's mind, when he had read the advertisement in The Observer:   THE BAY HOTEL Lyme Regis   Surely one of the finest settings of any hotel in the West Country! We are the only hotel on the Marine Parade and we enjoy panoramic views from Portland Bill to the east, to the historic Cobb Harbour to the west. The hotel provides a high standard of comfort and cuisine, and a friendly relaxed atmosphere. There are level walks to the shops and harbour, and traffic-free access to the beach, which is immediately in front of the hotel.   For full details please write to The Bay Hotel, Lyme Regis, Dorset; or just telephone (0297) 442059.   "It gets tricky," resumed Strange, "when a senior man takes more than a fortnight's furlough--you realize that, of course."   "I'm not taking more than what's due to me."   "Where are you thinking of?"   "Lyme Regis."   "Ah. Glorious Devon."   "Dorset, sir."   "Next door, surely?"   "Persuasion--it's where some of the scenes in Persuasion are set."   "Ah." Strange looked suitably blank.   "And The French Lieutenant's Woman."   "Ah. I'm with you. Saw that at the pictures with the wife ... Or was it on the box?"   "Well, there we are then," said Morse lamely.   For a while there was a silence. Then Strange shook his head.   "You couldn't stick being away that long! Building sand-castles? For over a fortnight?"   "Coleridge country too, sir. I'll probably drive around a bit--have a look at Ottery St. Mary ... some of the old haunts."   A low chuckle emanated from somewhere deep in Strange's belly. "He's been dead for ages, man--more Max's cup o' tea than yours."   Morse smiled wanly. "But you wouldn't mind me seeing his birth-place?"   "It's gone. The rectory's gone. Bulldozed years ago."   "Really?"   Strange puckered his lips, and nodded his head. "You think I'm an ignorant sod, don't you, Morse? But let me tell you something. There was none of this child-centred nonsense when I was at school. In those days we all had to learn things off by heart--things like yer actual Ancient Bloody Mariner."   "My days too, sir." It irked Morse that Strange, only a year his senior, would always treat him like a representative of some much younger generation.   But Strange was in full flow.   "You don't forget it, Morse. It sticks." He peered briefly but earnestly around the lumber room of some olden memories; then found what he was seeking, and with high seriousness intoned a stanza learned long since:   "All in a hot and copper sky   The bloody sun at noon   Right up above the mast did stand   No bigger than the bloody moon!"   "Very good, sir," said Morse, uncertain whether the monstrous misquotation were deliberate or not, for he found the chief superintendent watching him shrewdly.   "No. You won't last the distance. You'll be back in Oxford within the week. You'll see!"   "So what? There's plenty for me to do here."   "Oh?"   "For a start there's a drain-pipe outside the flat that's leaking--"   Strange's eyebrows shot up. "And you're telling me you're going to fix that?"   "I'll get it fixed," said Morse ambiguously. "I've already got a bit of extra piping but the, er, diameter of the cross-section is ... rather too narrow."   "It's too bloody small, you mean? Is that what you're trying to say?"   Morse nodded, a little sheepishly.   The score was one-all.   Excerpted from The Way Through the Woods by Colin Dexter All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.