by Colin Dexter
'Were you?' The change of tense was not lost on Lewis, and he listened cheerfully to his instructions. He'd been dreading another visit to his ancient mother-in-law.
The Jaguar took only one and a half hours to cover the eighty-odd miles to Stamford in Lincolnshire, where the Lawson clan had lived for several generations. The speedometer had several times exceeded 85 m.p.h. as they drove along, up through Brackley, Silserstone and Towcester, then by-passing Northampton and twisting through Kettering before looking down from the top of Easton Hill on to the town of Stamford, its grey stone buildings matching the spires and towers of its many old churches. En route Morse had cheerfully sketched in the background of the St Frideswide's murders; but the sky had grown overcast and leaden, and the sight of thousands of dead elm-trees along the Northamptonshire roads seemed a sombre reminder of reality.
'They say those trees commit suicide,' Lewis, had ventured at one point. 'They secrete a sort of fluid to try to- '
'It's not always easy to tell suicide from murder,' muttered Morse.
By late afternoon the two men had uncovered a fairly solid body of information about the late and (it seemed) little-lamented Lionel Lawson. There had been two Lawson brothers. Lionel Peter and Philip Edward, the latter some eighteen months the younger Both had won scholarships to a public school some ten miles distant, and both had been weekly boarders, spending their Saturday evenings and Sundays during term-time with their parents, who ran a small local business specialising in the restoration of ancient buildings. Academically (it appeared) the two boys were more than competent, with Philip potentially the abler – if also the lazier and less ambitious. After leaving school each of them had spent eighteen months on National Service; and it was during his time in the Army that Lionel, always the more serious-minded of the two, had met a particularly persuasive psalm-singing padre, and been led to the conviction that he was called to the ministry. After demobilisation, he had studied hard on his own for a year before gaining acceptance at Cambridge to read theology. During this period Philip had worked for his father for a few years, but seemingly with little enthusiasm; and finally he had drifted away from home, occasionally revisiting his parents, but with no firm purpose in life, no job, and with little prospect of discovering either. Five years ago Mr Lawson senior and his wife had been killed in the Zagreb air-crash whilst returning from a holiday in southern Yugoslavia, and the family business had been sold, with each of the two sons inheriting about £50,000 net from the estate.
For most of the day Morse and Lewis had worked separately, each pursuing a different line of enquiry; and it was only on the last visit, to the ex-headmaster of the Lawson boys' public school, that they came together again.
Doctor Meyer's speech was that of an old schoolmaster, deliberate, over-latinised, with an apparent dread of imprecision. 'He was a clever boy, young Philip. With a modicum of dedication and perseverance – who knows?'
'You've no idea where he is now?'
The old man shook his head. 'But Lionel, now. He worked like a Trojan – although exactly why the Trojans are proverbially accredited with a reputation for industriousness has always been a mystery to me. His ambition was always to win a scholarship to Oxford, but- ' He broke off suddenly as if his memory could take him no farther along that avenue of recollection. But Morse was clearly anxious to push him past a few more trees.
'How long was Lionel in the sixth form?'
'Three years, as I recall it. Yes, that's right. He took his Higher School Certificate at the end of his second year, and got it all right. He took the Oxford entrance examination just after that, in the Michaelmas term, but I had little real hope for him. His mind was not quite – not quite alpha potential. They wrote to me about him, of course. They said they were unable to offer him a place, but the boy's work had not been without merit. They advised him to stay on for a further year in the sixth and then to try again.'
'Was he very disappointed?'
The old man eyed Morse shrewdly and relit his pipe before replying. 'What do you think, Inspector?'
Morse shrugged his shoulders as if the matter were barely of consequence. 'You said he was ambitious, that's all.'
'Yes,' replied the old man slowly.
'So he stayed on another year?'
'Yes.'
Lewis shuffled a little uncomfortably in his chair. At this rate of progress they wouldn't be home before midnight. It was as if Morse and Meyer were at the snooker table, each of them playing his safety shots. Your turn, Morse.
'He took his Higher again?'
Meyer nodded. 'He didn't do quite so well as in the previous year, if I remember rightly. But that is not unusual.'
'You mean he was more worried about preparing for his Oxford entrance?'
'That was probably the reason.'
'But he didn't make it to Oxford?'
'Er – no.'
Something seemed to be puzzling Morse, Lewis could see that. Was he on to something? But it appeared not. Morse had got to his feet and was pulling on his coat. 'Nothing else you can tell me about him?'
Meyer shook his head and prepared to see his visitors out. He was a short man, and now well over eighty; yet there was still an air of authority in his bearing, and Lewis could well understand (what he'd heard earlier in the day) that Meyer had ruled his school with a rod of iron, and that pupils and staff alike had trembled at his coming.
'Nothing at all?' repeated Morse as they stood at the door.
'There's nothing more I can tell you, no.'
Was there slightly more emphasis on the 'can' than there need have been? Lewis wasn't sure. He was lost as usual anyway.
For the first part of their return journey, Morse seemed rapt in thought; and when he finally did say something Lewis could only wonder what those thoughts had been.
'What was the exact day when Lionel Lawson left school?'
Lewis looked through his notebook. 'November the eighth.'
'Mm.' Morse nodded slowly. 'Tell me when you spot a phone-box.'
When, ten minutes later, Morse got back into the car, Lewis could see that he was very pleased with himself.
'Are you letting me in on this one, sir?'
'Of course!' Morse looked sideways at his sergeant in mild surprise. 'We're partners, aren't we? We do things together, you and me. Or "you and I", as I've no doubt old man Meyer would say. You see, young Lionel Lawson was an ambitious little swot, right? He's not been over-endowed by the Almighty with all that much up top, but he makes up for it by sheer hard work. More than anything else he wants to go up to Oxford. And why not? It's a fine ambition. Let's just recap on Master Lionel, then. He tries once – and he fails. But he's a sticker. He stays on for another year – another year of grind on his set books and the rest of it, and all the time he's being groomed by his masters for his entrance exam. I shouldn't think he's too bothered about not doing so well in his other exams that summer – he's set his sights on higher things. Remember he's already done three years in the sixth form, and he goes back in the autumn term because that's when the entrance exams are always taken. He's all ready for the final furlong – agreed?'
'But he didn't make it.'
'No, you're right. But he didn't fail to get in, Lewis – and that's the interesting point. Lawson, L., left school on November the eighth, you tell me. And I'll tell you something. That year the entrance papers were sat in the first week of December – I just rang up the Registry at Oxford – and Lawson, L., didn't sit the examination.'
'Perhaps he changed his mind.'
'And perhaps somebody changed it for him!'
A light flickered dimly in the darkness of Lewis' mind. 'He was expelled, you mean?'
'That's about it, I reckon. And that's why old man Meyer was so cagey. He knew a good deal more than he was prepared to tell us.'
'But we have no real evidence-'
'Evidence? No, we haven't. But you've got to use a bit of imagination in this job, Lewis, haven't you? So let's use a bit. T
ell me. Why do boys usually get expelled from public schools?'
'Drugs?'
'They had no drugs in those days.'
'I don't know, sir. I never went to a public school, did I? There was none of that Greek and Latin stuff for me. We had enough trouble with the three Rs.'
'It's not the three Rs we're worried about now, Lewis. It's the three Bs: bullying, beating and buggery! And Lawson, L., from what we've learned of him, was a quietly behaved little chap, and I doubt he got expelled for bullying or beating. What do you think?'
Lewis shook his head sadly: he'd heard this sort of thing before. 'You can't just – you can't just make up these things as you go along, sir. It's not fair!'
'As you wish.' Morse shrugged his shoulders, and the needle on the speedometer touched 90 m.p.h. as the Jaguar skirted Northampton on the eastern by-pass.
Chapter Nineteen
Back in Oxford at about 4.30 p.m. that same afternoon, two men were walking slowly down Queen Street from Carfax. The elder, and slightly the taller of the two, a growth of greyish stubble matting his long vacant face, was dressed in an old blue pin-striped suit which hung loosely on his narrow frame. In his right hand he carried a bull-necked flagon of Woodpecker cider. The younger man, bearded and unkempt, anywhere in age (it seemed) between his mid-forties and mid-fifties, wore a long army-issue greatcoat, buttoned up to the neck, its insignia long since stripped off or lost. He carried nothing.
At Bonn Square they turned into the circle of grass that surrounds the stone cenotaph, and sat down on a green-painted bench beneath one of the great trees girdling the tiny park. Beside the bench was a wire waste-paper basket, from which the younger man pulled out a copy of the previous day's edition of the Oxford Mail. The elder man unscrewed the liquor with great deliberation and, having taken a short swig of its contents, wiped the neck of the bottle on his jacket sleeve before passing it over. 'Anything in the paper?'
'Nah.'
Shoppers continuously criss-crossed one another in the pedestrian precinct in front of the park, many of them making their way down the covered arcade between the light-beige brickwork of the Selfridges building and the duller municipal stone of the public library. A few casual glances swept the only two people seated on the park-benches – glances without pity, interest or concern. Lights suddenly blazed on in the multi-storeyed blocks around and the evening was ushered in.
'Let's look at it when you've finished,' said the elder man, and immediately, without comment, the paper changed hands. The bottle, too, was passed over, almost rhythmically, between them, neither man drinking more than a mouthful at a time.
'This is what they were talking about at the hostel.' The elder man pointed a thin grubby finger at an article on the front page, but his companion made no comment, staring down at the paving-stones.
'They've found some fellow up the top of that tower, you know, just opposite- ' But he couldn't quite remember what it was opposite to, and his voice trailed off as he slowly finished the article. 'Poor sod!' he said finally.
'We're all poor sods,' rejoined the other. He was seldom known to communicate his thoughts so fully, and he left it at that, hunching himself down into his greatcoat, taking a tin of shredded tobacco from one of its large pockets and beginning to roll himself a cigarette.
'P'haps you weren't here then, but a fellow got hisself murdered there last – when was it now? – last… Augh! Me memory's going. Anyway, a few days later the minister there, he chucks hisself off the bloody tower! Makes you think.'
But it was not apparent that the younger man was given cause to think in any way. He licked the white cigarette-paper from left to right, repeated the process, and stuck the ill-fashioned cylinder between his lips.
'What was his name? Christ! When you get older your memory… What was his name?' He wiped the neck of the bottle again and passed it over. 'He knew the minister there… I wish I could think of… He was some sort of relation or something. Used to stay at the vicarage sometimes. What was his name? You don't remember him?'
'Nah. Wasn't 'ere then, was I?'
'He used to go to the services. Huh!' He shook his head as if refusing credence to such strange behaviour. 'You ever go to church?'
'Me? Nah.'
'Not even when you was a lad?'
'Nah.'
A smartly dressed man carrying a brief-case and umbrella walked past them on his way from the railway station.
'Got a coupla bob for a cup o' tea, mister?' It was a long sentence for the younger man, but he could have saved his breath.
'I've not seen him around at all recently,' continued the other. 'Come to think of it, I've not seen him since the minister chucked hisself… Were you there when the police came round to the hostel?'
'Nah.'
The elder man coughed violently and from his loose, rattling chest spat out a gob of yellowish phlegm on to the paving. He felt tired and ill, and his mind wandered back to his home, and the hopes of his early years…
'Gizz the paper 'ere!' said his companion.
Through thin purplish lips the elder man was now whistling softly the tune to 'The Old Folks at Home', lingering long over the melody like a man whose only precious pleasure now is the maudlin stage of drunkenness. 'Wa-a-ay down upon the- ' Suddenly he stopped. 'Swan-something. Swanpole - that was it! Funny sort of name. I remember we used to call him Swanny. Did you know him?'
'Nah.' The younger man folded the Oxford Mail carefully and stuck it through the front of his coat. 'You oughta look after that cough o' yours,' he added, with a rare rush of words, as the elder man coughed up again – revoitingly – and got to his feet.
'I think I'll be getting along. You coming?'
'Nah.' The bottle was now empty, but the man who remained seated on the bench had money in his pockets, and there may have been a glint of mean gratification in his eyes. But those eyes were shielded from public view behind an incongruous pair of dark glasses, and seemed to be looking in the opposite direction as the elder man shuffled unsteadily away.
It was colder now, but the man on the bench was gradually getting used to that. It was the first thing he'd discovered. After a time you learn to forget how cold you are: you accept it and the very acceptance forms an unexpected insulation. Except for the feet. Yes, except for the feet. He got up and walked across the grass to look at the inscriptions on the stone obelisk. Among the buglers and privates whose deeds were commemorated thereon, he noticed the odd surname of a young soldier killed by the mutineers in Uganda in 1897: the name was Death.
Chapter Twenty
At 4.30 p.m. on the Friday of the same week, Ruth Rawlinson wheeled her bicycle through the narrow passageway and propped it against the side of the lawn-mower in the cluttered garden-shed. Really, she must tidy up that shed again soon. She took a white Sainsbury carrier-bag from the cycle-basket, and walked back round to the front door. The Oxford Mail was in the letter-box, and she quietly withdrew it.
Just a little bit today, but still on page one:
CORPSE STILL UNIDENTIFIED
Police still have no positive clue about the identity of the body found on the tower-roof of St Frideswide's Church. Chief Inspector Morse today repeated that the dead man was probably in his late thirties, and revealed that he was wearing a dark-grey suit, white shin and light-blue tie. Anyone who may have any information is asked to contact the St Aldates Police Station, Oxford 49881. Enquiries have not as yet established any link with the still unsolved murder of Mr Harry Josephs in the same church last year.
Ruth's body gave an involuntary little jerk as she read the article. 'Anyone who may have… ' Oh God! She had information enough, hadn't she? Too much information; and the knowledge was weighing ever more heavily upon her conscience. And was Morse in charge now?
As she inserted the Yale key, Ruth realised (yet again) how sickeningly predictable would be the dialogue of the next few minutes.
'Is that you, Ruthie dear?'
Who else, you silly old crow? 'Yes, M
other.'
'Is the paper come?'
You know it's come. Your sharp old ears don't miss a scratch, do they? 'Yes, Mother.'
'Bring it with you, dear.'
Ruth put the heavy carrier-bag down on the kitchen-table, draped her mackintosh over a chair and walked into the lounge. She bent down to kiss her mother lightly on an icy cheek, placed the newspaper on her lap, and turned up the gas-fire. 'You never have this high enough, you know, Mother. It's been a lot colder this week and you've got to keep yourself warm.'
'We've got to be careful with the bills, dear.'
Don't start on that again! Ruth mustered up all her reserves of patience and filial forbearance. 'You finished the book?'
'Yes, dear. Very ingenious.' But her attention was fixed on the evening paper. 'Anything more about the murder?'
'I don't know. I didn't know it was a murder anyway.'
'Don't be childish, dear.' Her eyes had pounced upon the article and she appeared to read it with ghoulish satisfaction. 'That man who came here, Ruthie – they've put him in charge.'
'Have they?'
'He knows far more than he's letting on – you mark my words.'
'You think so?'
The old girl nodded wisely in her chair. 'You can still learn a few things from your old mother, you know.' 'Such as what?'
'You remember that tramp fellow who murdered Harry Josephs?'
'Who said he murdered-?'
'No need to get cross, dear. You know you're interested. You still keep all the newspaper clippings, I know that.'
You nosey old bitch! 'Mother, you must not go looking through my handbag again. I've told you before. One of these days- '
‘I’ll find something I shouldn't? Is that it?'
Ruth looked savagely into the curly blue line of flame at the bottom of the gas-fire, and counted ten. There were some days now when she could hardly trust herself to speak.
