by Colin Dexter
'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 shirt 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, Mother.'
'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.
'Well, that's who it is,' said her mother.
'Pardon?'
'The man up the tower, dear. It's the tramp.'
'Bit elegantly dressed for a tramp, wouldn't you say, Mother? White shirt and a—'
'I thought you said you hadn't seen the paper, dear.' The charge was levelled with a silky tongue.
Ruth took a deep breath. 'I just thought you'd like to find it for yourself, that's all.'
'You're beginning to tell me quite a few little lies, Ruthie, and you've got to stop it.'
Ruth looked up sharply. What was that supposed to mean? Surely her mother couldn't know about . . .? 'You're talking nonsense, Mother.'
'So you don't think it is the tramp?'
'A tramp wouldn't be wearing clothes like that.'
'People can change clothes, can't they?'
'You've been reading too many detective stories.'
'You could kill someone and then change his clothes.'
'Of course you couldn't.' Again Ruth was watching her mother carefully—'No
t just like that anyway. You make it sound like dressing up a doll or something.'
'It would be difficult, dear, I know that. But, then, life is full of difficulties, isn't it? It's not impossible, that's all I'm saying.'
'I've got two nice little steaks from Salisbury's, I thought we'd have a few chips with them.'
'You could always change a man's clothes before you killed him.'
'What? Don't be so silly! You don't identify a body by the clothes. It's the face and things like that. You can't change—'
'What if there's nothing left of his face, dear?' asked Mrs. Rawlinson sweetly, as if reporting that she'd eaten the last piece of Cheddar from the pantry.
Ruth walked over to the window, anxious to bring the conversation to a close. It was distasteful and, yes, worrying. And perhaps her mother wasn't getting quite so senile after all . . . In her mind's eye Ruth still had a clear picture of the 'tramp' her mother had been talking of, the man she'd known (though she'd never actually been told) to be Lionel Lawson's brother, the man who had usually looked exactly what he was—a worthless, feckless parasite, reeking of alcohol, dirty and degraded. Not quite always, though. There had been two occasions when she'd seen him looking more than presentable: hair neatly groomed, face shaven freshly, finger-nails clean, and a decently respectable suit on his back. On those occasions the family resemblance between the two brothers had been quite remarkable . . .
'. . . if they ask me, which doubtless they won't—' Mrs. Rawlinson had been chattering non-stop throughout, and her words at last drifted through to Ruth's consciousness.
'What would you tell them?'
'I've told you. Haven't you been listening to me, dear? Is there something wrong?'
Yes, there's a lot wrong. You, for a start. And if you're not careful, Mother dear, I'll strangle you one of these days dress you up in someone else's clothes, carry your skinny little body up to the top of the tower, and let the birds have a second helping! 'Wrong? Of course there isn't. I'll go and get tea.'
Rotten, black blotches appeared under the skin of the first potato she was peeling, and she took another from the bag she had just bought—a bag marked with the words 'Buy British' under a large Union Jack. Red, white and blue . . . And she thought of Paul Morris seated on the organ-bench, with his red hood, white shirt and blue tie; Paul Morris, who (as everyone believed) had run off with Brenda Josephs. But he hadn't, had he? Someone had made very, very sure that he hadn't; someone who was sitting somewhere—even now!—planning, gloating, profiting, in some way, from the whole dreadful business. The trouble was that there weren't many people left. In fact, if you counted the heads of those that were left, there was really only one who could conceivably . . . Surely not, though. Surely Brenda Josephs could have nothing to do with it, could she?
Ruth shook her head with conviction, and peeled the next potato.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ALTHOUGH HER HUSBAND (unbeknown to her) had borrowed on the mortgage of their house in Wolvercote, Mrs. Brenda Josephs was now comfortably placed financially, and the nurses' hostel in the General Hospital on the outskirts of Shrewsbury provided more than adequate accommodation. On Paul's specific instructions, she had not written to him once, and she had received only that one letter from him, religiously guarded under the lining of her handbag, much of which she knew by heart: ' . . . and above all don't be impatient, my darling. It will take time, perhaps quite a lot of time, and whatever happens we must be careful. As far as I can see there is nothing to worry us, and we must keep it that way. Just be patient and all will be well. I long to see you again and to feel your beautiful body next to mine. I love you, Brenda you know that, and soon we shall be able to start a completely new life together. Be discreet always, and do nothing until you hear from me again. Burn this letter—now!'
Brenda had been working since 7.30 a.m. on the women's surgical ward, and it was now 4.15 p.m. Her Friday evening and the whole of Saturday were free, and she leaned back in one of the armchairs in the nurses' common room and lit a cigarette. Since leaving Oxford her life (albeit without Paul) had been fuller and freer than she could ever have hoped or imagined. She had made new friends and taken up new interests. She had been made aware, too happily aware, of how attractive she remained to the opposite sex. Only a week after her appointment (she had given, as her referee, the name of the matron for whom she had worked prior to her nursing at the Radcliffe) one of the young married doctors had said to her, 'Would you like to come to bed with me, Brenda?' Just like that! She smiled now as she recollected the incident, and an unworthy thought, not for the first time, strayed across the threshold of her mind. Did she really want Paul all that badly now? With that son of his, Peter? He was a nice enough young boy, but . . . She stubbed out her cigarette and reached for the Guardian. There was an hour and a half to wait before the evening meal, and she settled down to a leisurely perusal of the day's news. Inflation figures seemed mildly encouraging for a change; but the unemployment figures were not, and she knew only too well what unemployment could do to a man's soul. Middle East peace talks were still taking place, but civil wars in various parts of Africa seemed to be threatening the delicate balance between the superpowers. In the Home News, at the bottom of page three, there was a brief item on the discovery of a body on the tower of an Oxford church; but Brenda didn't reach it. The young doctor sat down beside her, unnecessarily but not distressingly close.
'Hello, beautiful! What about us doing the crossword together?'
He took the paper from her, folded it over to the crossword, and undipped a biro from the top pocket of his white coat.
'I'm not much good at crosswords,' said Brenda.
'I bet you're good in bed, though.'
'If you're going to—'
'One across. Six letters. "Girl takes gun to district attorney." What's that, do you think?'
'No idea.'
'Just a minute! What about BRENDA? Fits, doesn't it? Gun—"bren"; district attorney—"D.A." Voilà!'
Brenda snatched the paper and looked at the clue: Girl in bed—censored. 'You're making it up,' she laughed.
'Lovely word "bed", isn't it?' He printed the letters of 'Brenda' on the margin of the paper, and then neatly ringed the three letters 'b', 'e', 'd' in sequence. 'Any hope for me yet?'
'You're a married man.'
'And you ran away.' He underlined the three remaining letters 'r', 'a', 'n', and turned impishly towards her. 'No one'll know. We'll just nip up to your room and—'
'Don't be silly!'
'I'm not silly. I can't help it, can I, if I lust after you every time I see you in your uniform?' His tone was light and playful, but he suddenly became more serious as the door opened and two young nurses came in. He spoke softly now. 'Don't get cross with me if I keep trying, will you? Promise?'
'Promise,' whispered Brenda.
He wrote BANNED into the squares for 1 Across, and read out the clue for 1 Down. But Brenda wasn't listening. She didn't wish to be seen sitting so closely to the young doctor as this, and soon made up an excuse to go to her room, where she lay back on her single bed and stared long and hard at the ceiling. The door was locked behind her, and no one would have known, would they? Just as he'd said. If only . . . She could hardly bring herself to read her own thoughts. If only he'd just walk up the stairs, knock on the door and ask her again, in his simple, hopeful, uncomplicated way, she knew that she would invite him in, and lie down—just as she lay there now—gladly unresistant as he unfastened the white buttons down the front of her uniform.
She felt tired, and the room was excessively stuffy—the radiator too hot to touch. Gradually she dozed off, and when she awoke her mouth was very dry. Something had woken her; and now she heard the gently reiterated knock-knock at the door. How long had she slept for? Her watch told her it was 5.45 p.m. She fluffed her hair, straightened her uniform, lightly smeared on a little lipstick and, with a little flutter of excitement in her tummy, walked across to the door of her room, newly p
ainted in dazzling white gloss.
It was lying by the same door that a member of the cleaning staff found her the next morning. Somehow she had managed to crawl across from the centre of the small room; and it was clear that her fingers had groped in vain for the handle of the door, for the lower panels were smeared with the blood coughed up from her throat. No one seemed to know exactly where she came from, but the letter the police found beneath the lining of her handbag suggested strongly that she was, or had been, on the most intimate terms with a man called 'Paul', who had given his address only as 'Kidlington', and who had urged the recipient to burn the evidence immediately.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IT WAS ON SATURDAY morning, and in the middle of page two of the long-delayed post-mortem report on the corpse found on the tower, that Morse came to the conclusion he might just as well be reading the Chinese People's Daily. He appreciated, of course, the need for some technical jargon, but there was no chance whatsoever for a non-medical man to unjumble such a farrago of physiological labellings. The first paragraph had been fairly plain sailing, though, and Morse handed the report over to Lewis:
The body is that of an adult Caucasian male, brachycephalic. Height: 5 ft 8 1/2 in. Age: not easy to assess with accuracy, but most likely between 35 and 40. Hair: light brown, probably cut a week or so before death. Eyes: colouring impossible to determine. Teeth: remarkably good, strongly enamelled, with only one filling (posterior left six). Physical peculiarities: none observable, although it cannot be assumed that there were no such peculiarities, since the largest patch of skin, taken from the lower instep (left), measures only . . .
Lewis passed the report back, for he had little wish to be reminded too vividly of the sight picked out so recently by the narrow beam of the verger's torch. Moreover, his next job promised to be quite gruesome enough for one morning, and for the next half-hour he sifted through the half-dozen transparent plastic bags containing the remnants of the dead man's clothes. Morse himself declined to assist in the unsavoury operation and expressed only mild interest when he heard a subdued whistle of triumph from his subordinate.