by Colin Dexter
MORSE WAS LINGERING longer than usual, and it was Lewis who drained his glass first.
'You feeling well, sir?'
Morse put the Order of Service back in his pocket, and finished his beer in three or four gargantuan gulps. 'Never better, Lewis. Fill 'em up.'
'Your round, I think, sir.'
'Oh.'
Morse leaned his elbows beside the replenished pints and continued. 'Who murdered Harry Josephs? That's the key question really, isn't it?'
Lewis nodded. 'I had a bit of an idea during the service—'
'No more ideas, please! I've got far too many already. Listen! The prime suspect's got to be the fellow Bell tried to trace. Agreed? The fellow who'd stayed several times at Lawson's vicarage, who was at the church when Josephs was murdered, and who disappeared afterwards. Agreed? We're not quite certain about it but there's every chance that this fellow was Lionel Lawson's brother, Philip Lawson. He's hard up and he's a wino. He sees some ready cash on the collection-plate and he decides to pinch it. Josephs tries to stop him, and gets a knife in the back for his trouble. Any problems?'
'How did Philip Lawson come to have the knife?'
'He'd seen it lying around the vicarage, and he decided to pocket it.'
'Just on the off chance?'
'That's it,' said Morse, as he turned unblinking towards Lewis.
'But there were only a dozen or so people at the service, and the collection wouldn't have come to more than a couple of quid.'
'That's it.'
'Why not wait till one of the Sunday-morning services? Then he'd have the chance of fifty-odd quid.'
'Yes. That's true.'
'Why didn't he, then?'
'I dunno.'
'But no one actually saw him in the vestry.'
'He skipped it as soon as he'd knifed Josephs.'
'Surely someone would have seen him—or heard him?'
'Perhaps he just hid in the vestry—behind the curtain.'
'Impossible!'
'Behind the door to the tower, then,' suggested Morse. 'Perhaps he went up to the tower—hid in the bell-chamber—hid on the roof—I dunno.'
'But that door was locked when the police arrived—so it says in the report.'
'Easy. He locked it from the inside.'
'You mean he had—he had the key?'
'You say you read the report, Lewis. Well? You must have seen the inventory of what they found in Josephs' pockets.'
The light slowly dawned in Lewis' mind, and he could see Morse watching him, a hint of mild amusement in the inspector's pale-blue eyes.
'You mean—they didn't find any keys,' he said at last.
'No keys.'
'You think he took them out of Josephs' pocket?'
'Nothing to stop him.'
'But—but if he looked through Josephs' pockets, why didn't he find the money? The hundred quid?'
'Aren't you assuming,' asked Morse quietly, 'that that was all there was to find. What if, say, there'd been a thousand?'
'You mean—?' But Lewis wasn't sure what he meant.
'I mean that everyone, almost everyone, Lewis, is going to think what you did: that the murderer didn't search through Josephs' pockets. It puts everyone on the wrong scent, doesn't it? Makes it look as if it's petty crime—as you say, a few pennies off the collection-plate. You see, perhaps our murderer wasn't really much worried about how he was going to commit the crime—he thought he could get away with that. What he didn't want was anyone looking too closely at the motive .'
Lewis was growing increasingly perplexed. 'Just a minute, sir. You say he wasn't much worried about how he murdered Josephs. But how did he? Josephs was poisoned as well as stabbed.'
'Perhaps he just gave him a swig of booze—doctored booze.'
Again Lewis felt the disconcerting conviction that Morse was playing a game with him. One or two of the points the chief had just made were more like those flashes of insight he'd learned to expect. But surely Morse could do better than this? He could do better himself.
'Josephs could have been poisoned when he took communion, sir.'
'You think so?' Morse's eyes were smiling again. 'How do you figure that out?' 'I reckon the churchwarden is usually the last person to take communion—'
'Like this morning, yes.'
'—and so this tramp fellow is kneeling there next to him and he slips something into the wine.'
'How did he carry the poison?'
'He could have had it in one of those rings. You just unscrew the top—'
'You watch too much television,' said Morse.
'—and sprinkle it in the wine.'
'It would be a whitish powder, Lewis, and it wouldn't dissolve immediately. So the Rev. Lionel would see it floating on top. Is that what you're saying?'
'Perhaps he had his eyes closed. There's a lot of praying and all that sort of thing when—'
'And Josephs himself? Was he doing a lot of praying and all that sort of thing?'
'Could have been.'
'Why wasn't Lawson poisoned, then? It's the minister's job to finish off any wine that's left and, as you say, Josephs was pretty certainly the last customer.'
'Perhaps Josephs swigged the lot,' suggested Lewis hopefully; and then his eyes irradiated a sudden excitement. 'Or perhaps, sir—or perhaps the two of them, the two Lawson brothers, were in it together. That would answer quite a lot of questions, wouldn't it?'
Morse smiled contentedly at his colleague. 'You know, Lewis, you get brighter all the time. I think it must be my company that does it.'
He pushed his glass across the table. 'Your turn, isn't it?'
He looked around him as Lewis waited patiently to be served: it was half-past one and Sunday lunch-time trade was at its peak. A man with a rough beard, dressed in a long ex-army coat, had just shuffled through the entrance and was standing apprehensively by the bar; a man in latish middle-age, it seemed, wearing that incongruous pair of sun-glasses, and grasping an empty flagon of cider in his hand. Morse left his seat and walked over to him.
'We met before, remember?'
The man looked slowly at Morse and shook his head. 'Sorry, mate.'
'Life not treating you so good?'
'Nah.'
'Been roughing it long?'
'Last back-end.'
'You ever know a fellow called Swanpole?'
'Nah. Sorry, mate.'
'Doesn't matter. I used to know him, that's all.'
'I knew somebody who did,' said the tramp quietly. 'Somebody who knew the fellah you was just talking about.'
'Yes?' Morse fumbled in his pockets and pushed a fifty-pence piece into the man's hand.
'The old boy I used to go round with—'e mentioned that name recently. "Swanny"—that's what they called 'im, but 'e's not round these parts any more.'
'What about the old boy? Is he still around?'
'Nah. 'E's dead. Died o' pneumonia—yesterday.'
'Oh.'
Morse walked back thoughtfully to the table, and a few minutes later watched a little sadly as the landlord showed the tramp the way to the exit. Clearly there was no welcome for the poor fellow's custom here, and no cider slowly to be sipped on one of the city's benches that Sunday afternoon; not from this pub anyway.
'One of your pals?' grinned Lewis, as he placed two more pints on the table.
'I don't think he's got any pals.'
'Perhaps if Lawson were still alive—'
'He's just the man we've got to talk about, Lewis—suspect number two. Agreed?'
'You mean he suddenly disappeared from in front of the altar, murdered Josephs, and then came and carried on with the service?'
'Something like that.'
The beer was good, and Lewis leaned back, quite happy to listen.
'Come on, sir. I know you're dying to tell me.'
'First, let's just follow up your idea about the poisoned chalice. There are too many improbabilities in the way you looked at it. But what if the Rev. Lionel himself
put the morphine in the wine? What then? After his brother's had a swig, he can pretend that the chalice is empty, turn round to the altar, slip in the powder, pour in a drop more wine, give it a quick stir—no problem! Or else he could have had two chalices—one of 'em already doctored—and just put the one down and pick up the other. Easier still! Mark my words, Lewis. If it was either of the two brothers who poisoned Josephs, I reckon the odds are pretty heavily on the Rev. Lionel.'
'Let me get it straight, sir. According to you, Lionel Lawson tried to kill Josephs, only to find that someone had done a far neater job a few minutes later—with a knife. Right?' Lewis shook his head. 'Not on, sir, is it?'
'Why not? The Rev. Lionel knows that Josephs'll go straight to the vestry, and that in a few minutes he's going to be very dead. There's one helluva dose of morphine in the communion wine and the strong probability is that Josephs is going to die all nice and peaceful like, because morphine poisoning isn't a painful death—just the opposite. In which case, Josephs' death may well pose a few problems; but no one's going to be able to pin the murder on the Rev. Lionel. The chalice has been carefully washed out and dried, in strict accord with ecclesiastical etiquette—a wonderful example of a criminal actually being encouraged to destroy the evidence of his crime. Beautiful idea! But then things began to go askew. Josephs must have guessed that something was desperately wrong with him, and before he collapsed in the vestry he just managed to drag himself to the curtains and shout for help—a shout that all the congregation heard. But someone, someone, Lewis, was watching that vestry like a hawk—the Rev. Lionel himself. And as soon as he saw Josephs there he was off down the aisle like an avenging Fury; and he was down there in the vestry before anyone else had the nous or the guts to move; and once inside he stabbed Josephs viciously in the back, turned to face the congregation, and told 'em all that Josephs was lying there—murdered.' (Morse mentally congratulated himself on an account that was rather more colourful and dramatic than Bell's prosaic reconstruction of exactly the same events.)
'He'd have got blood all over him,' protested Lewis.
'Wouldn't have mattered much if he'd been wearing the sort of outfit they were wearing this morning.'
Lewis thought back to the morning service and those deep-crimson vestments—the colour of dark-red blood . . . ' But why finish Josephs off with a knife? He'd be almost dead by then?'
'Lionel was frightened that Josephs would accuse him of doing the poisoning. Almost certainly Josephs would have guessed what had happened.'
'Probably everyone else would, too.'
'Ah! But if you stabbed Josephs in the back as well, people are going to ask who did that, aren't they?'
'Yes. And they're going to think that was Lawson, too. After all, it was Lawson's knife.'
'No one knew that at the time,' said Morse defensively.
'Did Bell think that's how it happened?'
Morse nodded. 'Yes, he did.'
'And do you, sir?'
Morse seemed to be weighing the odds in the mental balance 'No,' he said finally.
Lewis leaned back in his chair. 'You know, when you come to think of it, it's a bit improbable that a minister's going to murder one of his own congregation, isn't it? That sort of thing doesn't happen in real life.'
'I rather hope it does,' said Morse quietly.
'Pardon, sir?'
'I said I rather hope it does happen. You asked me if Lionel Lawson killed Josephs in a particular way, and I said I didn't think so. But I reckon it was Lionel Lawson who killed Josephs, though in a rather more simple way. He just walked down to the vestry, knifed poor old Harry Josephs—'
'And then he walked back!'
'You've got it!'
Lewis' eyes rolled towards the tobacco-stained ceiling and he began to wonder if the beer had not robbed the inspector of his wits.
'With all the congregation watching him, I suppose.'
'Oh, no. They didn't see him.'
'They didn't?'
'No. The service at which Josephs was killed was held in the Lady Chapel. Now, if you remember, there's an archway in the screen separating this chapel from the central chancel, and I reckon that after the bread and wine had been dished out Lawson took a few of the utensils across from the altar in the Lady Chapel to the main altar—they're always doing that sort of thing, these priests.' (Lewis was hardly listening any more, and the landlord was wiping the tables, collecting glasses and emptying the ash-trays.) 'You want to know how he performed this remarkable feat, Lewis? Well, as I see it, the Rev. Lionel and his brother had got everything worked out, and that night the pair of 'em were all dressed up in identical ecclesiastical clobber. Now, when the Rev. Lionel walked out of the Lady Chapel for a few seconds, it wasn't the Rev. Lionel who walked back! There are only a few prayerful old souls in the congregation, and for that vital period the man standing in front of the altar, kneeling there, praying there, but never actually facing the congregation, is brother Philip! What do you think, Lewis? You think anyone looking up could have suspected the truth?'
'Perhaps Philip Lawson was bald.'
'Doubt it. Whether you go bald depends on your grandfather.'
'If you say so, sir.' Lewis was growing increasingly sceptical about all this jiggery-pokery with duplicate chalices and chasubles; and, anyway, he was anxious to be off home. He stood up and took his leave.
Morse remained where he was, the forefinger of his left hand marrying little droplets of spilt beer on the table-top. Like Lewis, he was far from happy about his possible reconstructions of Josephs' murder. But one idea was growing even firmer in his mind: there must have been some collaboration somewhere. And, like as not, that collaboration had involved the two brothers. But how? For several minutes Morse's thoughts were chasing round after their own tails. For the thousandth time he asked himself where he ought to start, and for the thousandth time he told himself that he had to decide who had killed Harry Josephs. All right! Assume it was the Rev. Lionel—on the grounds that something must have driven him to suicide. But what if it wasn't Lionel who had thrown himself from the tower? What if it was Philip who had been thrown? Yes, that would have been very neat . . . But there was a virtually insuperable objection to such a theory. The Rev. Lionel would have to dress up his brother's body in his own clothes, his own black clerical front, his dog-collar—everything. And that, in such a short space of time after the morning service, was plain physically impossible! But what if . . .? Yes! What if Lionel had somehow managed to persuade his brother to change clothes? Was it possible? Phew! Of course it was! It wasn't just possible—it was eminently probable. And why? Because Philip Lawson had already done it before. He'd agreed to dress up in his brother's vestments so that he could stand at the altar whilst Josephs was being murdered! Doubtless he'd been wonderfully well rewarded for his troubles on that occasion. So why not agree to a second little charade? Of course he would have agreed—little thinking he'd be dressing up for his own funeral. But with one seemingly insuperable problem out of the way, another one had taken its place: two people had positively identified the body that had fallen from the tower. Was that a real problem, though? Had Mrs. Walsh-Atkins really had the stomach to look all that carefully at a face that was as smashed and bleeding as the rest of that mutilated body? Had her presence outside the church just been an accidental fluke? Because someone else had been there had he not? Someone all ready to testify to the identity—the false identity—of the corpse: Paul Morris. And Paul Morris had subsequently been murdered because he knew too much: knew specifically, that the Reverend Lionel Lawson was not only still in the land of the living, but was also a murderer, to boot! A double-murderer. A triple-murderer . . .
'Do you mind drinking up, sir?' said the landlord. 'We often get the police round here on Sunday mornings.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ON THE SAME DAY, just after eight o'clock in the evening, a middle-aged man, his white shirt open at the neck, sat waiting in a brightly lit, well-furnished room
. He was lounging back on a deep sofa, its chintz covers printed in a russet-and-white floral design, from which, smoking a king-sized Benson & Hedges cigarette, he vaguely watched the television. She was a little late tonight; but he had no doubts that she would come, for she needed him just as much as he needed her. Sometimes, he suspected, even more so. A bottle of claret, already opened, and two wine-glasses stood on the coffee-table beside him, and through the half-opened bedroom door he could see the hypotenuse of white sheet drawn back from the pillows.
Come on, girl!
It was eight-ten when the key (she had a key—of course she did!) scraped gently in the Yale lock and she entered. Although a steady drizzle persisted outside, her pale-blue mackintosh seemed completely dry as she slipped it from her shoulders, folded it neatly across its waist, and put it over the back of an armchair. The white cotton blouse she wore was drawn tight across her breasts, and the close-fitting black skirt clung to the curve of her thighs. She said nothing for a while; merely looked at him, her eyes reflecting no affection and no joy—just a simmering animal sensuality. She walked across the room and stood in front of him—provocatively.
'You told me you were going to stop smoking.'
'Sit down and stop moaning, woman. Christ! You make me feel sexy in that outfit.'
The woman did exactly as she was told, almost as if she would do anything he asked without demur; almost as if she thrived on the brusque crudity of his commands. There were no tender words of preliminary love-play on either side, yet she sat close to him as he poured two full glasses of wine, and he felt the pressure of her black-stockinged leg (good girl—she'd remembered!) against his own. In token of some vestigial respect they clinked their glasses together, and she leaned back against the sofa.
'Been watching the telly all night?' Her question was commonplace, uninterested.
'I didn't get back till half-past six.'
She turned to look at him for the first time. 'You're a fool going out like that. Especially on Sundays. Don't you realise—?'
'Calm down, woman! I'm not a fool, and you know it. Nobody's seen me slipping out of here yet. And what if they did? Nobody's going to recognise me now.' He leaned across her and his fingers deftly unfastened the top button of her blouse. And then the next button.
