by Colin Dexter
Nothing against Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Sam Spade, or any of the hundreds of private dicks, sleuths, and cops in crime fiction, but my favorite of them all is probably Dexter’s Inspector Morse.
Like so many deductive heroes of these novels, Morse is blessed with genius. But he is also cursed by a nettlesome romantic life — or lack thereof. He loves his pints of beer. He also has an (often lecherous) eye for the ladies.
Alas, said ladies are generally just beyond Morse’s grasp, either because they are murdered, or shipped off to jail, or subject to some other calamity.
The Dead of Jericho begins with Morse meeting such a woman and ends with him reflecting about her. There is a mystery to solve, of course, but it’s the melancholic tone of the book that haunts the reader.
We have every confidence that our irascible protagonist will solve the case. But will Morse ever find love?
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