Inspector Morse 4 - Service Of All The Dead

by Colin Dexter

  'Phosphorus?'

  Lewis shook his head. 'Probably the initial of someone's name. It's a capital "P".'

  'Let's have a look, Lewis.'

  'Could be "Paul", sir? Paul Morris?'

  'Or Peter Morris—if she's a paedophile.'

  'Pardon?'

  'Nothing.'

  'Always on Wednesdays, though, sir. Perhaps she suddenly decided she wanted to see him more often—'

  'And her old man was in the way and so she bumped him off?'

  'I've heard of odder things. She said she'd nipped off to the pictures that night, didn't she?'

  'Mm.' Morse's interest appeared to be engaged at last. 'How much does it cost to go to the pictures these days?'

  'Dunno, sir. A quid? One-fifty?'

  'Expensive for her, wasn't it? She couldn't have been there much more than an hour, at the most.'

  'If she went, sir. I mean, she mightn't have gone to the pictures at all. She might have just crept quietly back into the church and—'

  Morse nodded. 'You're quite right. She probably had the best motive of the lot of 'em. But you're forgetting something. The door creaks like hell.'

  'Only the north door.'

  'Really?' But Morse had clearly lost all interest in creaking doors, and Lewis found himself once more wondering why they'd bothered to come all this way. Nothing had been learned. No progress had been made.

  'There's another "P", isn't there?' said Morse suddenly. 'We've forgotten Philip Lawson.'

  Yes, Lewis had forgotten Philip Lawson; but where on earth was he supposed to fit into this particular picture?

  The constable packed up Brenda Morris' possessions, replaced them in their plastic bags, and redeposited the bags in a labelled cabinet. Morse thanked the Superintendent for his co-operation, shook hands with him, and got into the car beside Lewis.

  It was on the Kidderminster road about six or seven miles south of Shrewsbury that a wave of chilling excitement, starting from the bottom of the back, gradually crept up to the nape of Morse's neck. He tried to conceal the agitation of his mind as he questioned Lewis. 'Did you say that Brenda Josephs marked off the days when she took her husband to church?'

  'Looked like it, sir. And quite a few times apart from Sundays.'

  ' "SF", you said. She put "SF"?'

  'That's about it, sir. As you said, it's "St. Frideswide's". Not much doubt about that.' He turned suddenly and glanced at Morse, who was staring with extraordinary intensity into the outer darkness of the night. 'Unless, of course, you think it stands for something else?'

  'No, no. It doesn't stand for anything else.' And then, very quietly, he said. 'Turn round, please. We're going back.'

  The luminous dial on the fascia board showed half-past ten, just gone, and things were running way behind even the most pessimistic schedule. But Lewis turned round at the earliest possible opportunity. He also was a man under authority.

  The constable in the police mortuary re-opened the cabinet and shook out the contents of the plastic bags once more. They were always a funny lot—these fellows from other forces.

  Morse managed to keep his hand from shaking as he picked up the earlier of the two diaries and turned to the one specific page. And as he looked at the page the blood seemed to congeal in his jowls, and a slow smile of joyous satisfaction formed about his mouth.

  'Thank you very much, constable. Thank you very much. You don't think I could take this diary?'

  'I don't know about that, sir. The Super's gone off now and—'

  Morse held up his right hand like a priest delivering the benediction. 'Forget it! Doesn't matter!' He turned quickly to Lewis. 'See that?' He pointed to the space for Monday, 26 September, the day on which Harry Josephs had been murdered; and Lewis' forehead creased into a frown as he looked at it, and then looked at it again. The space was completely blank.

  'You remember your Sherlock Holmes, Lewis?' But whether or not Lewis was familiar with the works of that great man was not immediately apparent, for clearly Morse himself had a good many passages of Holmesian dialogue by heart, and before Lewis could reply he proceeded to recite one:

  ' "Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention."

  ' "To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time."

  ' "The dog did nothing in the night-time."

  ' "That was the curious incident." '

  'I see,' said Lewis, seeing not.

  'How fast will she go?' asked Morse as he clambered into the police car once more.

  'About ninety—bit more—on the straight.'

  'Well, put the flasher on and start the siren up. We must get back to Oxford quickly, all right?'

  The car sped through the darkened countryside, down through Bridgnorth and Kidderminster, along the old Worcester Road to Evesham, and then in an almost incredibly short time back to Oxford. An hour and a half—almost to the minute.

  'Back to the station, is it?' asked Lewis as he turned into the Northern Ring Road.

  'No. Take me straight home, Lewis. I'm tired out.'

  'But I thought you said—'

  'Not tonight, Lewis. I'm dead beat.' He winked at Lewis and slammed the door of the Ford behind him. 'Good fun, wasn't it? Sleep tight! We've got work to do in the morning.'

  Lewis himself drove off home happily. His honest soul had very few vices—but fast driving was certainly one of them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  PERHAPS THE EVENTS of the past few days had disturbed the Reverend Keith Meiklejohn rather less than they should have done; and being an honest man the realisation of this was worrying to him. It was true that, inducted as he had been only in the previous November, he had not known the Morris family personally, and could not therefore be expected to react too keenly to the tragic discoveries of what (if rumour were to be believed) were the bodies of father and son. Yet as he sat in his study at 9.30 a.m. on Tuesday morning he knew that his compassion should have been engaged more deeply, and he wondered about himself; wondered about his church, too.

  Meiklejohn was a robust, well-built man, forty-one years of age and happily unmarried. His childhood had been spent in a family household brimming with evangelical piety, and one forever frequented by inveterate god-botherers and born-again Baptists. From his earliest years the promises of eternal life and the terrors of the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone had been as real to him as liquorice allsorts and the landscape of his Dorset home. In his early youth, whilst his classmates discussed the prospects of their favourite football teams or the merits of their new racing bikes, young Keith had grown zealous over matters ecclesiastical and theological, and by the age of sixteen the way ahead was quite clear: he was destined to take holy orders. As a young curate he had at first been moderately low-church in his views on the liturgy and the sacraments; but gradually he had been more and more attracted towards the doctrines of the Oxford Movement, and at one point he had come within a communion wafer of conversion to the Roman Church. But all that was in the past. With a new-found balance, he discovered he could tread the tight-rope of High Anglicanism with security and confidence, and it was pleasing to him that his congregation appeared to think well of him for doing so. His predecessor, Lionel Lawson, had not (it seemed) found universal favour with an ecclesiastical stance that was decidedly more middle-and-leg than middle-and-off. In fact, when Lawson's curate, some five years earlier, had been promoted to a parish of his own there had been no request to the Bishop for a replacement, and Lawson himself had coped single-handed with the manifold duties of St. Frideswide's parish. Inevitably, of course, there had been cuts in services, and it was Meiklejohn's resolve to restore as soon as possible the daily masses at 11.15 a.m. and 6.15 p.m. which were a wholly necessary feature (as he saw things) of a church that was dedicated to the glory of God.

  Yet, as he sat at the ancient roll-top desk, the page over which his pen had been poised for several minutes remained blank. It was high time he preached again on transubstantiation: a tric
ky issue, of course, but one that was vital for the spiritual health of the brethren. But could that sermon wait, perhaps? His limp-leather copy of the Holy Writ lay open before him at the book of Hosea. A marvellous and memorable piece of writing! It was almost as if the Almighty himself had not really known what to do with his people when their goodness and mercy were as evanescent as the mists or the early dews that melted away in the morning sun. Was the Church in danger of losing its love? For without love the worship of God and the care of the brethren was little more than sounding brass and tinkling cymbals . . . Yes, a possible sermon was just beginning to shape itself nicely. Not too forcefully expressed: nothing to smack too strongly of the stumping pulpit-thumper. But then another verse caught his eye from an earlier chapter of the same prophecy: 'Ephraim is joined to idols; let him alone.' Another striking verse! Idolaters were, after all, those within the Church—not those outside it. Those who worshipped, but who worshipped a false representation of God. And not just the golden calf, either. There was always a danger that other representations could get in the way of true worship: yes—he had to admit it!—things like incense and candles and holy water and crossings and genuflections, and all the sheer apparatus of ceremonial which could perhaps clog up the cleansing power of the Holy Spirit. It was possible, too—only too easy, in fact—to be blinded to the spiritual health of the Church by the arithmetical aggregation of its membership, especially when he considered (as he did with pride) the undoubted increase in the numbers attending divine worship since his own arrival. The records showed that there had been times under Lawson's régime when attendance had been just a little disappointing; and indeed some occasions in midweek when it had been difficult to muster much of a congregation at all! But God didn't just count heads—or so Meiklejohn told himself; and he pondered again the central problem that had dominated his earlier thinking: should he not be more concerned than he was about the spiritual health of his church?

  He was still undecided about the text of his next sermon, the page still blank beneath his pen, the disturbing words of the prophet Hosea still lying before him, when the door-bell rang.

  Had it been the will of Providence that he had been pondering the state of St. Frideswide's soul? At the very least, it was an uncanny coincidence that his visitor was soon asking him the very same questions he had been asking himself; asking them pretty bluntly, too.

  'You had a big congregation last Sunday, sir.'

  'About usual, Inspector.'

  'I've heard that you get even more people than Lawson did.'

  'Perhaps so. Certainly in the week, I think.'

  'The crowds are flocking back, so to speak?'

  'You make it sound like a football match.'

  'Bit more interesting than the last football match I saw, I hope.'

  'And one doesn't have to queue up at the turnstiles, Inspector.'

  'You keep a fairly accurate record of the congregations, though?'

  Meiklejohn nodded. 'I've continued my predecessor's practice in that respect.'

  'Not in all respects?'

  Meiklejohn was aware of the Inspector's blue eyes upon him. 'What are you trying to say?'

  'Was Lawson lower-church in his views than you are?'

  'I didn't know him.'

  'But he was?'

  'He had views, I believe, which were—er . . .'

  'Lower-church?'

  'Er—that might be a way of putting it, yes.'

  'I noticed you had three priests in church on Sunday morning, sir.'

  'You've still got quite a lot to learn about us, Inspector. There were myself and my curate. The sub-deacon need not be in holy orders.'

  'Three's a bit more than the usual ration, though, isn't it?'

  'There are no ration-books when it comes to divine worship.'

  'Did Lawson have a curate?'

  'For the first part of his time here, he did. The parish is a large one, and in my view should always have a curate.'

  'Lawson was on his own, then—for the last few years?'

  'He was.'

  'Did you ever hear, sir, that Lawson might have been a fraction too fond of the choirboys?'

  'I—I think it quite improper for you or for me to—'

  'I met his former headmaster recently,' interrupted Morse, a new note of authority in his voice. 'I felt he was concealing something, and I guessed what it was: the fact that Lionel Lawson had been expelled from school.'

  'You're sure of that?'

  Morse nodded. 'I rang the old boy up today and put it to him. He told me I was right.'

  'Expelled for homosexuality, you say?'

  'He refused to confirm that,' said Morse slowly. 'He also refused to deny it, I'm afraid, and I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions. Look, sir. I want to assure you that whatever you may have to tell me will be treated in the strictest confidence. But it's my duty as a police officer to ask you once again. Have you heard any rumours that Lawson was at all inclined to that sort of thing?'

  Meiklejohn looked down at his feet and picked his words with uneasy care. 'I've heard one or two rumours, yes. But I don't myself think that Lawson was an active homosexual.'

  'Just a passive one, you mean.'

  Meiklejohn looked up, and spoke with quiet conviction: 'It is my view that the Reverend Mr. Lawson was not a homosexual. I am, of course, sometimes wrong, Inspector. But in this case I think I am right.'

  'Thank you,' said Morse, in the tone of a man who says 'Thank you for nothing'. He looked round the room at the bookshelves, lined with rows of theological works, the spines of most of them either dark-blue or brown. It was in this dark and sombre room that Lawson himself would have sat, probably for several hours each day, during his ten-year ministry at St. Frideswide's. What had really gone wrong here? What strange tales of the human heart and the deep abyss of human consciousness could these walls and these books tell, if only they had tongues to speak to him? Could Meiklejohn tell him any more? Oh, yes, he could. There was just that one final question, the most vital question he would ask in the whole case. It was the question which had suddenly sprung to life in his mind the previous evening on the road just a few miles south of Shrewsbury.

  He took from his pocket the now-crumpled Parish Notes for April.

  'You print one of these every month?'

  'Yes.'

  'Do you'—this was it, and his mouth seemed suddenly to grow dry as he asked it—'do you keep copies of them from previous years?'

  'Of course. It's a great help in compiling the Parish Notes to have the previous year's copy. Not so much with the Easter period, of course, but—'

  'Can I look at last year's Notes, please, sir?'

  Meiklejohn walked over to one of the bookshelves and took out a loose-leafed folder. 'Which month's copy do you want?' His eyes reflected a shrewd intelligence. 'September, perhaps?'

  'September,' said Morse.

  'Here we are, yes. July, August . . .' He stopped and looked a little puzzled. 'October, November . . .' He turned back to January and went very carefully through the issues once more. 'It's not here, Inspector,' he said slowly. 'It's not here. I wonder . . .'

  Morse was wondering, too. But—please!—it wouldn't be too difficult to find a copy somewhere, would it? They must have printed a few hundred—whoever 'they' were.

  'Who prints these for you, sir?'

  'Some little man in George Street.'

  'He'd surely keep the originals, wouldn't he?'

  'I'd have thought so.'

  'Can you find out for me—straight away?'

  'Is it that urgent?' asked Meikiejohn quietly.

  'I think it is.'

  'You could always check up from the church register, Inspector.'

  'The what?'

  'We keep a register in the vestry. Every service—I think it is a service you're looking for?—every service is recorded there. The time, the type of service, the minister officiating, the offertory—even the number of the congregation, although I must ad
mit that's a bit of a rough guess sometimes.'

  Morse allowed himself an exultant grin. His hunch had been right, then! The clue for which he'd been searching was where he'd always thought it would be—under his very nose inside the church itself. The next time he had a hunch, he decided, he would pursue it with a damned sight more resolution than he had done this one. For the moment, however, he said nothing. He was there—almost there anyway—and he felt the thrill of a man who knows that he has seven draws up on the football pools and is just going out to buy a sports paper to discover the result of the eighth match.

  The two men walked down the wide staircase and into the hallway, where Meiklejohn took his coat from the clothes-stand, stained dark brown like almost every other item of furniture in the large, echoing vicarage.

  'A lot of room here,' said Morse as they stepped out into the street.

  Again the Vicar's eyes flashed with intelligence. 'What you mean to say is that I ought to turn it into a hostel, is that it?'

  'Yes, I do,' replied Morse bluntly. 'I understand your predecessor used to take in a few waifs and strays now and then.'

  'I believe he did, Inspector. I believe he did.'

  They parted at George Street, and Morse, in a state of suppressed excitement, and already fingering the heavy church-keys in his raincoat pocket, walked on down Cornmarket to St. Frideswide's.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  JUST AS MEIKLEJOHN had said, the bulky, leather-bound register stood on its shelf in the vestry, and Morse felt the same amalgam of anxiety and expectation with which as a schoolboy he had opened the envelopes containing his examination results: any second—and he would know. The pages of the register were marked in faded blue lines, about a third of an inch apart, with each line, stretched across the double page, quite sufficient to accommodate the necessary information. On the left-hand page were written the day, the date, and the time of the service, followed by some brief specification of the particular saint's day, feast day, et cetera; on the right-hand page the record was continued with details of the type of service celebrated, the number present in the congregation, the amount taken at the offertory, and lastly the name (almost always the signature) of the minister, or ministers, officiating. Doubtless in a church permeated by a more fervent evangelicalism, there would have been the biblical reference of the text which the preacher had sought to propound; but Morse was more than delighted with the information he found in front of him. The register had fallen open at the current month and he noted the last entry: 'Monday, 3rd April. 7.30 p.m. St Richard of Chichester. Low Mass. 19. £5.35. Keith Meiklejohn M.A. (Vicar).' Then he turned back a thickish wadge of the book's heavy pages. A little too far, though: July, the previous year. On through August, and his heart suddenly seemed to sink within him as the thought flashed into his mind that someone might well have torn out the page he was seeking. But no! There it was now, staring him in the face: 'Monday, 26th Sept. 7.30 p.m. The Conversion of St Augustine. Solemn Mass. 13.—. Lionel Lawson M.A. (Vicar).' For several minutes Morse stared at the entry with a blank fixity. Had he been wrong after all? For there it was, all printed out in Lawson's own hand—the precise details of the service at which Josephs had been murdered: the date and time, the occasion, the type of service (which, of course, accounted for Paul Morris' presence), the number in the congregation, the offertory (the sum quite naturally unknown and unrecorded, except perhaps for a few brief seconds in Josephs' brain before he met his death), and then Lawson's signature. All there. All in order. What had Morse hoped to find there? Surely he had not expected the amount of the offertory to be recorded? That would have been an elementary mistake of such monumental stupidity on Lawson's part that if repeated in other aspects of his crime would have led to an arrest within a few hours by any even moderately competent detective. No. Morse had not been looking for any such mistake. The simple truth of the matter was that he'd expected there to be no entry at all.