by Colin Dexter
Nothing had been found in the dead man's pockets, and the only information imparted by the dark-grey suit, the underclothing, and the light-blue tie was ' Burton ', 'St Michael' and 'Munro Spun' respectively. Morse himself had declined to view what Bell had called 'a sticky, putrescent mess', and had envied the perky sang-froid of the police surgeon who reported that whoever he was he wasn't quite such a gruesome sight as some of the bodies they used to fish out of the water at Gravesend. One thing was clear. It was going to be a tricky job to identify the corpse: tricky for Bell, that was. And Bell had not been in the best of humours as he'd glared across the table at Morse and reminded him that he must have some idea who the fellow was. It was Morse who had taken Lewis to the exact spot, wasn't it? And if he was pretty sure he was going to find a corpse he must have got a jolly good idea whose corpse it was!
But Morse hadn't – it was as simple as that. A peculiar combination of circumstances had concentrated his thoughts on to the tower of St Frideswide's, and all he'd done (whatever Bell suspected) was to obey a compelling instinct which had proved too strong even for his chronic acrophobia. But he'd not expected to find a corpse up there, had he? Or had he? When Lewis had shouted the grim discovery over the roof to him, Morse's mind had immediately jumped to the shadowy figure of the tramp and his miserably thin pickings from the collection-plate. All along he'd felt that it should have been comparatively easy for the police to pick up such a character. People like that had to depend almost entirely on charitable and welfare services of some kind, and were usually well known to the authorities wherever they went. Yet extensive enquiries had led nowhere, and might there not have been a very very simple reason for that?
Morse bought himself another pint and watched the glass as the cloudy sedimentation slowly cleared; and when he sat down again his brain seemed to have cleared a little, too. No; it wasn't the tramp they'd found, Morse felt sure of that. It was the clothes, really – especially that light-blue tie. Light-blue… Cambridge… graduates… teachers… Morris…
Bell was still in his office.
'What happened to Paul Morris?' asked Morse.
'Beggered off with Josephs' wife, like as not.'
'You don't know? '
Bell shook his head. He looked tired and drawn. 'We tried, but-'
'Did you find her?'
Again Bell shook his head. 'We didn't push things too far. You know how it is. What with Morris teaching at the same school as his son and- '
'His what? You didn't tell me Morris had a son!'
Bell sighed deeply. 'Look, Morse. Whadya want from me? You find me another body last night, and I'm deeply grateful, aren't I? That'll be another half-dozen of my lads out of circulation. And I've just had a call to say somebody's been fished out of the river at Folly Bridge, and we've got more trouble with some squatters down in Jericho.' He took out a handkerchief and sneezed heavily. 'And I'm sickening for the flu, and you want me to go chasing after some fellow who was known to be seein' Josephs' missus pretty regularly long before- '
'Really?' said Morse. 'Why didn't I read that in the report?'
'Come off it!'
'He could have killed Josephs. Jealousy! Best motive of the lot.'
'He was sittin' – playin' the bleedin' organ – when- ' Bell sneezed noisily again.
Morse settled back in his chair, for some unfathomable reason looking very pleased with himself. 'You still think it really was Lawson you found on the railings?'
'I told you, Morse, we had two identifications.'
'Oh yes, I remember. One from a blind woman and one from the man who ran away with Brenda Josephs, wasn't it?'
'Why don't you go home?'
'You know,' said Morse quietly, 'when you've finished with your squatters, you'd better get a squad of lads to dig up old Lawson's coffin, because I reckon – just reckon, mind – that you might not find old Lawson in it. ' Morse's face beamed with a mischievous pleasure, and he got up to go.
'That's a bloody fool's thing to say.'
'Is it?'
'Not all that easy, either,' It was Bell who was enjoying himself now.
'No?'
'No. You see, they cremated him.'
The news appeared to occasion little surprise or disappointment on Morse's face. 'I knew a minister once- '
'Well, well!' mumbled Bell.
' – who had one of his feet amputated in the First World War. He got it stuck in a tank, and they had to get him out quick because the thing was on fire. So they left his foot there.'
'Very interesting.'
'He was very old when I knew him,' continued Morse. 'One foot already in the grave.'
Bell pushed his own chair back and got up. ’Tell me about it some other time.'
'He was in a discussion one day about the respective merits of burial and cremation, and the old boy said he didn't mind two hoots what they did with him. He said he'd sort of got a foot in both camps.'
Bell shook his head in slow bewilderment. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
'By the way,' said Morse. 'What was the name of Paul Morris' son?'
'Peter, I think. Why-?' But Morse left without enlightening Bell on the point.
P.M. THIS P.M., Bell had said; and as he drove the Jaguar up to Carfax the initials kept repeating themselves to his mind: postmortem, post meridiem, prime minister, Paul McCartney, Post Master, putrefying mess, Perry Mason, Provost Marshal, Peter Morris… The lights were red at the end of Cornmarket, and as Morse sat waiting there for them to change he looked up yet again at the tower of St Frideswide's looming overhead, and at the great west window which only last night had glowed in the dark when he and Lewis… On a sudden impulse he pulled round the corner into Beaumont Street and parked his car outside the Randolph. A uniformed young flunkey pounced upon him immediately.
'You can't leave your car here.'
'I can leave the bloody car where I like,' snapped Morse. 'And next time you speak to me, lad, just call me "sir", all right?'
The north porch was locked, with a notice pinned to it: 'Due to several acts of wanton vandalism during the past few months, we regret that the church will now be closed to the public from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. on weekdays.' Morse felt he would have liked to recast the whole sentence, but he satisfied himself by crossing through 'due' and writing 'owing'.
Chapter Seventeen
Morse rapped briskly on the door marked 'Enquiries', put his head round the door, and nodded 'Hello' to a nice-looking school secretary.
'Can I help you, sir?'
'Headmaster in?'
'Is he expecting you?'
'Doubt it,' said Morse. He walked across the narrow office tapped once on the study door and entered.
Phillipson, headmaster of the Roger Bacon School, was only too pleased to be of help.
Paul Morris, it seemed, had been a music master of the first water. During his short stay at the school, he'd been popular both with his teaching colleagues and with his pupils, and his G.C.E. O-Level and A-Level results had been encouragingly good. Everyone had been mystified – for a start anyway – when he'd left so suddenly, without telling a soul; right in the middle of term, too, on (Phillipson consulted his previous year's diary) 26 October, a Wednesday. He had turned up for school perfectly normally in the morning and presumably gone off, as he often did on Wednesdays, to have lunch at home. And that was the last they'd seen of him. His son, Peter, had left the school just after lessons finished at a quarter to four, and that was the last they'd seen of him. The next day several members of staff had pointed out that both of them were absent from school, and no doubt someone would have gone round to the Morris residence if it hadn't been for a call from the Oxford City Police. It seemed that some anonymous neighbour had tipped them off that Morris and his son had left Kidlington and gone off to join a woman ('I suppose you know all about this, Inspector?') – a Mrs Josephs. Inspector Bell had called personally to see Phillipson and told him that a few enquiries had already been made, and that s
everal of Morris' neighbours had seen a car answering the description of Mrs Josephs' Allegro parked somewhere nearby several times during the previous months. In fact, the police had learned from other sources that in all probability Morris and Mrs Josephs had been lovers for some time. Anyway, Bell had asked Phillipson to soft-pedal the whole thing; make up some story about Morris having to be away for the rest of the term – death of one of his parents – anything he liked. Which Phillipson had done. A temporary stand-in had taken over Morris' classes for the remainder of the autumn term, and a new woman appointed from January. The police had visited the house that Morris had rented furnished, and found that most of the personal effects had been taken away, although for some reason a fair number of books and expensive record-player had been left behind. And that was all, really. Phillipson had heard nothing more from that day to this. To the best of his knowledge no one had received any communication from Morris at all. He had not applied for a reference, and perhaps, in the circumstances, was unlikely to.
Not once had Morse interrupted Phillipson, and when finally he did say something it was totally irrelevant. 'Any sherry in that cupboard, Headmaster?'
Ten minutes later Morse left the headmaster's study and leaned over the young secretary's shoulder.
'Making out a cheque for me, miss?'
'"Mrs"; Mrs Clarke.' She wound the yellow cheque from the typewriter carriage, placed it face downwards on her desk, and glared at Morse defiantly. His lack of manners when he'd come in had been bad enough, but-
'You look pretty when you're cross,' said Morse.
Phillipson called her through to his study. 'I've got to go out, Mrs Clarke. Take Chief Inspector Morse along to the first-year-sixth music group, will you? And wash up these glasses when you get back, please.'
Tight-lipped and red-cheeked, Mrs Clarke led the way along the corridors and up to the music-room door. 'In there,' she said.
Morse turned to face her and laid his right hand very gently on her shoulder, his blue eyes looking straight into hers. 'Thank you, Mrs Clarke,' he said quietly. 'I'm awfully sorry if I made you angry. Please forgive me.'
As she walked back down the steps, she felt suddenly and marvellously pleased with life. Why had she been so silly? She found herself wishing that he would call her back about something. And he did.
'When do the staff get their cheques, Mrs Clarke?'
‘On the last Friday in the month. I always type them the day before.'
'You weren't typing them just now, then?'
'No. We're breaking up tomorrow, and I was just typing an expenses cheque for Mr Phillipson. He had a meeting in London yesterday.'
'I hope he's not on the fiddle.'
She smiled sweetly. 'No, Inspector. He's a very nice man.'
'You're very nice, too, you know,' said Morse.
She was blushing as she turned away, and Morse felt inordinately envious of Mr Clarke as he watched the secretary's legs disappearing down the stairs. Last Friday in the month, she'd said. That would have been 28 October, and Morris had left two days before his cheque was due. Very strange!
Morse knocked on the music-room door and entered.
Mrs Stewart stood up immediately and made as if to turn off the record-player; but Morse held up his right hand, waved it slightly, and sat down on a chair by the wall. The small class was listening to Fauré's Requiem; and with an almost instant ecstasy Morse closed his eyes and listened again to the ethereal sweep of the 'In Paradisum': aeternam habeas requiem… 'that thou mayest have eternal rest'… Too quickly the last notes died away into the silence of the room, and it occurred to Morse that rather too many people had all too recently had a premature dose of that eternal rest thrust forcibly upon them. The score stood at three at the minute; but he had a grim foreboding that soon it might be four.
He introduced himself and his purpose, and was soon surveying the seven girls and the three boys who were in the first year of their A-Level music course. He was making enquiries about Mr Morris; they'd all known Mr Morris; there were various business matters which had to be cleared up, and the police weren't sure where Mr Morris had gone to. Did any of them know anything at all about Mr Morris that might just possibly be of any help? The class shook their heads, and sat silent and unhelpful. So Morse asked them a lot more questions, and still they sat silent and unhelpful. But at least two or three of the girls were decidedly decorative – especially one real honey at the back whose eyes seemed to flash the inner secrets of her soul across the room at him. Morris must have looked at her lustfully just once in a while? Surely so…
But he was getting nowhere slowly, that was obvious; and he changed his tactics abruptly. His target was a pallid-looking, long-haired youth in the front row. 'Did you know Mr Morris?'
'Me?' The boy swallowed hard. 'He taught me for two years, sir.'
'What did you call him?'
'Well, I – I called him "Mr Morris".' The rest of the class smirked silently to each other, as if Morse must be a potential idiot.
'Didn't you call him anything else?'
'No.'
'You never called him "sir"?'
'Well, of course. But- '
'You don't seem to realise the seriousness of this business, lad. So I'll have to ask you again, won't I? What else did you call him?'
'I don't quite see what you mean.'
'Didn't he have a nickname?'
'Well, most of the teachers- '
'What was his?'
It was one of the other boys who came to the rescue. 'Some of us used to call him "Dapper".'
Morse directed his gaze towards the new voice and nodded wisely. 'Yes. So I've heard. Why was it, do you think?'
It was one of the girls now, a serious-looking soul with a large gap between her front teeth. 'He alwayth drethed very nithely, thir.' The other girls tittered and twittered amongst themselves, and nudged each other knowingly.
'Any more contributions?'
It was the third boy who took up the easy theme. 'He always wore a suit, you see, sir, and most of the staff – well' (more sniggering) 'well, you know, most of 'em have beards, the men, I mean' (a great guffaw from the class now) 'and wear jeans and sweaters and all that. But Mr Morris, he always wore a suit and looked – well, smart, like.'
'What sort of suits did he wear?'
'Well' (it was the same boy) 'sort of dark, you know. Party suits, sort of thing. So, well, we called him "Dapper" – like we said.'
The bell rang for the end of the lesson, and several members of the class began to gather their books and file-cases together.
'What about his ties?' persisted Morse. But the psychological moment had passed, and the colour of Morris' ties seemed to have faded from the collective memory.
As he walked up the drive to his car, Morse wondered if he ought to talk to some of the staff; but he hadn't quite enough to go on yet, and decided it would be better to wait for the pathologist's report.
He had just started the engine when a young girl appeared at the driving-window. 'Hello, beautiful,' he said. It was the girl from the back row, the girl with the radar eyes, who leaned forward and spoke. 'You know you were asking about ties? Well, I remember one tie, sir. He often wore it. It was a light-blue tie. It sort of went with the suits he used to wear.'
Morse nodded understandingly. 'That's most helpful. Thank you very much for telling me.' He looked up at her and suddenly realised how tall she was. Strange how all of them looked about the same size when they were sitting down, as if height were determined not so much from the bottom to the shoulder as by the length of the legs – in this case by the length of some very beautiful legs.
'Did you know Mr Morris well?'
'Not really, no.'
'What's your name?'
'Carole – Carole Jones.'
'Well, thank you, Carole. And good luck.'
Carole walked thoughtfully back to the front entrance and made her way to the next lesson. She wondered why she so often felt so attracted to th
e older men. Men like this inspector fellow; men like Mr Morris… Her mind went back to the time they'd sat in the car together; when his hand had lightly touched her breasts, and when her own left hand had gently pushed its way between the buttons of his white shirt – beneath the light-blue tie he'd worn that day; the time when he'd asked her to his house, when he'd answered the door and told her that an unexpected visitor had just arrived and that he'd get in touch with her again – very soon. But he never had.
Chapter Eighteen
Morse was still asleep the next morning when his bedside phone rang. It was Superintendent Strange of the Thames Valley Police H.Q.
'I've just had a call from the City Police, Morse. You still in bed?'
'No, no,' said Morse. 'Decorating the lavatory, sir.'
'I thought you were on holiday.'
'A man's got to use his leisure hours profitably- '
'Like clambering over church roofs at the dead of night, you mean.'
'You heard?'
'Heard something else, too, Morse. Bell 's got flu. And since you seem to have taken over the case already I just wondered whether you'd like to sort of – take over the case. Officially, I mean.'
Morse shot upright in bed. 'That's good news, sir. When-?'
'From now. It'll be better if you work from St Aldates. All the stuff's there, and you can work from Bell 's office.'
'Can I have Lewis?'
'I thought you'd already got him.'
Morse's face beamed with pleasure. 'Thank you, sir. I'll just slip a few clothes on and- '
'Decorating in your pyjamas, Morse?'
'No. You know me, sir. Up with the lark- '
'And to bed with the Wren. Yes, I know. And it wouldn't be a bad thing for morale here if you got to the bottom of things, would it? So what about getting out of bed?'
Five minutes later Morse got through to Lewis and reported the good news. 'What are you doing today, old friend?'
'My day off, sir. I'm going to take the wife over to- '