by Colin Dexter
'It's open,' shouted a voice behind 14A. 'I can't get any farther.'
For once, Sod's Law had been inoperative, and he had chosen right. Two steps led up to the narrow carpeted passage which served as a hallway (the staircase was immediately behind the boarded-up wall to the left, and the conversion had left little room for manoeuvre here), and at the top of these steps sat Mrs Alice Rawlinson in her wheelchair, a rubber-tipped walking-stick held firmly across her lap.
'What d'you want?' Her keen eyes looked up at him sharply.
'I'm sorry to bother you – Mrs Rawlinson, isn't it?'
'I said what d'you want, Inspector.'
Morse's face must have betrayed his astonishment, and the old lady read his thoughts for him. 'Ruthie told me all about you.'
'Oh. I just wondered if- '
'No, she's not. Come in!' She worked her chair round in an expertly economical two-point turn. 'Close the door behind you.'
Morse obeyed quietly, and found himself pushed brusquely aside as he tried to help her through the door at the end of the passage. She waved him to an upright armchair in the neatly furnished sitting-room, and finally came to rest herself only about four feet in front of him. The preliminaries were now completed, and she launched into the attack immediately.
'If you want to cart my daughter off for a dirty week-end, you can't! We'd better get that straight from the start.'
But Mrs Raw- ' He was silenced by a dangerously close wave of the stick. (Belligerent old bitch! thought Morse.)
'I disapprove of many aspects of the youth of today – young men like yourself, I mean – especially their intolerable lack of manners. But I think they're quite right about one thing. Do you know what that is?'
'Look, Mrs Raw- ' The rubber ferule was no more than three inches from his nose, and his voice broke off in mid-sentence.
'They've got enough sense to have a bit of sex together before they get married. You agree?'
Morse nodded a feeble acquiescence.
'If you're going to live with someone for fifty years- ' She shook her head at the prospect. 'Not that I was married for fifty years… ' The sharp voice had drifted a few degrees towards a more wistful tone, but recovered immediately. 'As I say, though. You can't have her. I need her and she's my daughter. I have the prior call.'
'I do assure you, Mrs Rawlinson, I hadn't the slightest intention of-'
'She's had men before, you know.'
'I'm not sur- '
'She was a very lovely girl, was my Ruthie.' The words were more quietly spoken, but the eyes remained shrewd and calculating. 'She's not a spring chicken any more, though.'
Morse decided it was wise to hold his peace. The old girl was going ga-ga.
'You know what her trouble is?' For a distasteful moment Morse thought her mind must be delving into realms of haemorrhoids and body-odour; but she sat there glaring at him, expecting an answer.
Yes, he knew full well what Ruth Rawlinson's trouble was. Too true, he did. Her trouble was that she had to look after this embittered old battle-axe, day in and day out.
'No,' he said. 'You tell me.'
Her lips curled harshly. 'You're lying to me, Inspector. You know her trouble as well as I do.'
Morse nodded. 'You're right. I don't think I could stick you for very long.'
Now her smile was perfectly genuine. 'You know, you're beginning to sound like the man Ruthie said you were.' (Perhaps, thought Morse, she's not so ga-ga after all?)
'You're a bit formidable sometimes, aren't you?'
'All the time.'
'Would Ruth have married – but for you?'
'She's had her chances – though I didn't think much of her choices.'
'Real chances?'
Her face grew more serious. 'Certainly one.'
'Well.' Morse made as if to rise, but got no farther.
'What was your mother like?'
'Loving and kind. I often think of her.'
'Ruthie would have made a good mother.'
'Not too old now, is she?'
'Forty-two tomorrow.'
'Hope you'll bake her a cake,' muttered Morse.
'What?' The eyes blazed now. 'You don't understand, either, do you? Bake? Cook? How can I do anything like that? I can't even get to the front door.'
'Do you try?'
'You're getting impertinent, Inspector. It's time you went.' But as Morse rose she relented. 'No, I'm sorry. Please sit down again. I don't get many visitors. Don't deserve 'em, do I?'
'Does your daughter get many visitors?'
'Why do you ask that?' The voice was sharp again.
'Just trying to be pally, that's all.' Morse had had his fill of the old girl, but her answer riveted him to the chair.
'You're thinking of Josephs, aren't you?'
No, he wasn't thinking of Josephs. 'Yes, I was,' he said, as flatly as his excitement would allow.
'He wasn't her sort.'
'And he had a wife.'
She snorted. 'What's that got to do with it? Just because you're a bachelor yourself- '
'You know that?'
'I know a lot of things.'
'Do you know who killed Josephs?'
She shook her head. 'I don't know who killed Lawson, either.'
'I do, Mrs Rawlinson. He killed himself. You'll find the information in the coroner's report. It's just the same as cricket, you know: if the umpire says you're out, you're out, and you can check it up in the papers next morning.'
'I don't like cricket.'
'Did you like Josephs?'
'No. And I didn't like Lawson, either. He was a homosexual you know.'
'Really? I hadn't heard of any legal conviction.'
'You're surely not as naïve as you sound, Inspector?'
'No,' said Morse, 'I'm not.'
'I hate homosexuals.' The stick lifted menacingly, gripped tight in hands grown strong from long years in a wheelchair. 'I'd willingly strangle the lot of 'em.'
'And I'd willingly add you to the list of suspects, Mrs Rawlinson but I'm afraid I can't. You see, if someone killed Lawson, as you're suggesting, that someone must have gone up the church tower.'
'Unless Lawson was killed in the church and someone else carried him up there.'
It was an idea; and Morse nodded slowly, wondering why he hadn't thought of it himself.
'I'm afraid I shall have to kick you out, Inspector. It's my bridge day, and I always spend the morning brushing up on a few practice hands.' She was winning every trick here, too, and Morse acknowledged the fact.
Ruth was fixing the lock on her bicycle when she looked up to see Morse standing by the door and her mother sitting at the top of the steps behind him.
'Hello,' said Morse. 'I'm sorry I missed you, but I've had a nice little chat with your mother. I really came to ask if you'd come out with me tomorrow night.' With her pale face and her untidy hair, she suddenly seemed very plain, and Morse found himself wondering why she'd been so much on his mind. 'It's your birthday, isn't it?'
She nodded vaguely, her face puzzled and hesitant.
'It's all right,' said Morse. 'Your mother says it'll do you good. In fact she's very pleased with the idea, aren't you, Mrs Rawlinson?' (One trick to Morse.)
'Well, I – I'd love to but- '
'No buts about it, Ruthie! As the Inspector says, I think it would do you the world of good.'
'I'll pick you up about seven, then,' said Morse. Ruth gathered up her string shopping-bag, and stood beside Morse on the threshold. 'Thank you, Mother. That was kind of you. But' (turning to Morse) 'I'm sorry. I can't accept your invitation. I've already been asked out by – by someone else.'
Life was a strange business. A few seconds ago she'd looked so ordinary; yet now she seemed a prize just snatched from his grasp, and for Morse the day ahead loomed blank and lonely. As it did, if only he had known, for Ruth.
Chapter Thirteen
'What the 'ell do you want?' growled Chief Inspector Bell of the City Police. A fortnigh
t in Malaga which had coincided with a strike of Spanish hotel staff had not brought him home in the sweetest of humours; and the jobs he had gladly left behind him had (as ever) not gone away. But he knew Morse well: they were old sparring partners.
'The Spanish brothels still doing a roaring trade?'
'Had the wife with me, didn't I?'
'Tell me something about this Lawson business.'
'Damned if I will. The case is closed – and it's got nothing to do with you.'
'How're the kids?'
'Ungrateful little buggers. Shan't take 'em again.'
'And the Lawson case is closed?'
'Locked and bolted.'
'No harm in just- '
'I've lost the key.'
'All kids are ungrateful.'
'Especially mine.'
'Where's the file?'
'What d'you want to know?'
'Who killed Josephs, for a start.'
'Lawson did.'
Morse blinked in some surprise. 'You mean that?'
Bell nodded. 'The knife that killed Josephs belonged to Lawson. The woman who charred for him had seen it several times on his desk in the vicarage.'
'But Lawson was nowhere near Josephs when -' Morse stopped in his tracks, and Bell continued.
'Josephs was just about dead when he was knifed: acute morphine poisoning, administered, as they say, at the altar of the Lord. What about that, Morse? Josephs was a churchwarden and he was always last at the altar-rail, and he finished up with some pretty queer things in his belly, right? It seems pretty obvious then, that… ' It was a strange experience for Morse. Déjà vu. He found himself only half-listening to Bell 's explanation – no, not Bell 's, his own explanation. '… rinse the utensils, wipe 'em clean, stick 'em in the cupboard till next time. Easy! Proof, though? No.'
'But how did Lawson- '
'He's standing in front of the altar, waiting for the last hymn to finish. He knows Josephs is counting tip the collection in the vestry as he always does, and Lawson's expecting him to be lying there unconscious; dead, probably, by now. But suddenly Josephs shouts for help, and Lawson comes swooping down the aisle in his batman outfit – '
'Chasuble,' mumbled Morse.
' – and covers him up under his what's-it; he keeps the others – there aren't many of 'em, anyway – away from the vestry, sends for help, and then when he's alone he sticks his knife in Josephs' back – just to make sure.'
'I thought the collection was pinched.'
Bell nodded. 'There was one of those down-and-out fellows at the service: Lawson had helped him occasionally – put him up at the vicarage, given him his old suits – that sort of thing. In fact, this fellow had been kneeling next to Josephs at the communion-rail- '
'So he could have put the stuff in the wine.'
Bell shook his head. 'You should go to church occasionally, Morse. If he had done, Lawson would have been poisoned just like Josephs, because the minister has to finish off what's left of the wine. You know, I reckon your brain's getting addled in your old age.'
'Someone still pinched the collection,' said Morse feebly.
'Oh yes. And I'm sure it was this fellow – Swan, or something like that, his name was. He just saw the money in the vestry and – well, he just nicked it.'
'I thought you said Lawson kept all the others outside.'
'For a start, yes. He had to.'
Morse looked far from convinced, but Bell sailed happily on. 'A reasonably well-educated fellow, by all accounts. We put out a description of him, of course, but… They all look much of a muchness, those sort of fellows: none of 'em shave or get their hair cut. Anyway, he'd only be up for petty larceny if we found him. Two or three quid, at the outside – that's all he got. Funny, really. If he'd had a chance to go through Josephs' pockets, he'd have found nearly a hundred.'
Morse whistled softly. 'That means that Lawson couldn't have gone through his pockets, either, doesn't it? They tell me the clergy aren't exactly overpaid these days, and Lawson couldn't have been rolling in- ' Bell smiled. 'Lawson was hellish lucky to get the chance to knife him – let alone go through his pockets. But that's neither here nor there. Lawson was rolling in it. Until a few weeks before he died, his deposit account at the bank stood at over £30,000.'
This time Morse's whistle was loud and long. 'Until a few weeks…?'
'Yes. Then he took his money out. Almost all of it.'
'Any idea- '
'Not really.'
'What did the bank manager have to tell you?'
'He wasn't allowed to tell me anything.'
'What did he tell you?'
'That Lawson had told him he was going to make an anonymous donation to some charity, and that's why he wanted cash.'
'Some bloody donation!'
'Some people are more generous than others, Morse.'
'Did he take out all this cash before, or after, Josephs was murdered?'
For the first time Bell seemed slightly uneasy. 'Before, actually.'
Morse was silent for a short while. The new pieces of evidence were not fitting at all neatly. 'What was Lawson's motive for killing Josephs?'
'Blackmail, perhaps?'
'Josephs had some hold over him?'
'Something like that.'
'Any ideas?'
'There were a few rumours.'
'Well?'
'I prefer facts.'
'Was Lawson buggering the choirboys?’
'You always did put things so nicely.'
'What facts, then?'
'Lawson had made out a cheque for £250 to Josephs a couple of weeks earlier.'
'I see,' said Morse slowly. 'What else?'
'Nothing.'
'Can I look through the files?'
'Certainly not,'
Morse spent the next hour in Bell 's office looking through the files.
Considering the limited number of personnel available, the investigations into the deaths of Josephs and Lawson had been reasonably thorough, although there were a few surprising omissions. It would have been interesting, for example, to read the evidence of every single member of the congregation present when Josephs died, but it seemed that several of them had been only casual visitors – two American tourists amongst them – and Lawson had quite innocently informed them that perhaps they needn't stay. Understandable, no doubt – but very careless and quite improper. Unless… unless, thought Morse, Lawson wasn't over-anxious for all of them to tell the police what they'd seen? It was sometimes just those little details, just those little inconsistencies… Of the statements that were available, all cleanly set out, all neatly typed, only one arrested Morse's attention: the one, duly signed in the dithery hand of Mrs Emily Walsh-Atkins, attesting to the identification of Lawson.
'Did you interview this old girl?' asked Morse, pushing the statement across the table. 'Not personally, no.'
So far Bell had shown himself a jump or two ahead all round the course, but Morse thought he now saw himself coming through pretty fast on the rails. 'She's as blind as a bloody bat, did you know that? What sort of identification do you think this is? I met her the other night and- '
Bell looked up slowly from the report he'd been reading. 'Are you suggesting that fellow we found draped over the railings wasn't Lawson?'
'All I'm suggesting, Bell, is that you must have been pretty hard up for witnesses if you had to rely on her. As I say, she's-'
'She's as blind as a bat – almost your own words, Morse; and if I remember rightly, exactly the words of my own Sergeant Davies. But don't be too hard on the old dear for wanting to get into the act – it was the most exciting thing that ever happened to her.'
'But that doesn't mean-
'Hold your horses, Morse! We only needed one identification for the coroner's court, so we only had one. Right? But we had another witness all ready, and I don't think he's as blind as a bat. If he is, he must have one helluva job when he plays the organ in six sharps.'
'Oh, I see.' But Mor
se didn't see. What was Morris doing at St Frideswide's that morning? Ruth Rawlinson would know, of course. Ruth… Huh! Her birthday today, and she would be all dolled up for a date with some lecherous lout…
'Why was Morris at church that morning?'
'It's a free country, Morse. Perhaps he just wanted to go to church.'
'Did you find out if he was playing the organ?'
'As a matter of fact, I did, yes.' Bell was thoroughly enjoying himself again – something he'd seldom experienced in Morse's company before. 'He was playing the organ.'
After Morse had gone, Bell stared out of his office window for several minutes. Morse was a clever beggar. One or two questions he'd asked had probed a bit deeper than was comfortable; but most cases had a few ragged ends here and there. He tried to switch his mind over to another channel, but he felt hot and sticky; felt he might be sickening for something.
Ruth Rawlinson had lied to Morse – well, not exactly lied. She did have an assignation on the evening of her birthday; but it wouldn't last for long, thank goodness! And then? And then she could meet Morse – if he still wanted to take her out.
At 3 p.m. she nervously flicked through the m s in the blue Oxford Area Telephone Directory, and found only one 'Morse' in north Oxford: Morse, E. She didn't know his Christian name, and she vaguely wondered what the 'E' stood for. Irrationally, as she heard the first few rings, she hoped that he wasn't in; and then, as they continued, she prayed that he was. But there was no answer.
