Colin Dexter - Service of All the Dead (Inspector Morse 4)

For John Poole

I had rather be a doorkeeper in the house

of my God: than to dwell in the tents

of ungodliness

(Psalm 84, v.10)

Limply the Reverend Lionel Lawson shook the last smoothlygloved hand, the slim hand of Mrs Emily Walsh-Atkins, and he knew thatthe pews in the old church behind him were now empty. It was always the same:whilst the other well-laundered ladies were turning their heads to chatof fetes and summer hats, whilst the organist played his exit voluntary, andwhilst the now discassocked choirboys tucked their T-shirts into flare-linejeans, Mrs Walsh-Atkins invariably spent a few further minutes on herknees in what had sometimes seemed to Lawson a slightly exaggerated obeisanceto the Almighty. Yet, as Lawson knew full well, she had plenty to be thankfulfor. She was eighty-one years old, but managed still to retain anenviable agility in both mind and body, only her eyesight was at last beginningto fail. She lived in north Oxford, in a home for elderly gentlewomen, screenedoff from the public gaze by a high fence and a belt of fir-trees. Here,from the front window of her living-room, redolent of faded lavender andsilver-polish, she could look out on to the well-tended paths andlawns where each morning the resident caretaker unobtrusively collected up theCoca Cola tins, the odd milk-bottle and the crisp-packets thrownover by those strange, unfathomably depraved young people who, in Mrs Walsh-Atkins'view, had little right to walk the streets at all - let alone the streetsof her own beloved north Oxford. The home was wildly expensive; but Mrs W.-A.was a wealthy woman, and each Sunday morning her neatly sealed brown envelope,lightly laid on the collection-plate, contained a folded five-poundnote.

Thank you for the message, Vicar.'

'God bless you!'

This brief dialogue, which had never varied by a single wordin the ten years since Lawson had been appointed to the parish of StFrideswide's, was the ultimate stage in non-communication between apriest and his parishioner. In the early days of his ministry, Lawson had feltvaguely uneasy about 'the message' since he was conscious that no passage fromhis sermons had ever been declaimed with particularly evangelistic fervour; andin any case the role of some divinely appointed telegram-boy was quiteinappropriate - indeed, quite distasteful - to a man of Lawson'smoderately high-church leanings. Yet Mrs Walsh-Atkins appeared tohear the humming of the heavenly wires whatever his text might be; and eachSunday morning she reiterated her gratitude to the unsuspecting harbinger ofgoodly tidings. It was purely by chance that after his very first serviceLawson had hit upon those three simple monosyllables - magical wordswhich, again this Sunday morning, Mrs Walsh-Atkins happily clutched toher bosom, along with her Book of Common Prayer, as she walked off with herusual sprightly gait towards St Giles', where her regular taxi-driverwould be waiting in the shallow lay-by beside the Martyrs' Memorial.

The vicar of St Frideswide's looked up and down the hotstreet. There was nothing to detain him longer, but he appeared curiouslyreluctant to re-enter the shady church. A dozen or so Japanese touristsmade their way along the pavement opposite, their small, bespectacled ciceronereciting in a whining, staccato voice the city's ancient charms, his sing-songsyllables still audible as the little group sauntered up the street past thecinema, where the management proudly presented to its patrons the opportunityof witnessing the intimacies of Continental-style wife-swapping.But for Lawson there were no stirrings of sensuality: his mind was on otherthings. Carefully he lifted from his shoulders the white silk-lined hood(M.A. Cantab.) and turned his gaze towards Carfax, where already the lounge-bardoor of The Ox stood open. But public houses had never held much appeal forhim. He sipped, it is true, the occasional glass of sweet sherry at some of thediocesan functions; but if Lawson's soul should have anything to answer forwhen the archangel bugled the final trumpet it would certainly not be thecharge of drunkenness. Without disturbing his carefully parted hair, he drewthe long white surplice over his head and turned slowly into the church.

Apart from the organist, Mr Paul Morris, who had now reachedthe last few bars of what Lawson recognised as some Mozart, Mrs Brenda Josephswas the only person left in the main body of the building. Dressed in asleeveless, green summer frock, she sat at the back of the church, a soberlyattractive woman in her mid- or late thirties, one bare browned armresting along the back of the pew, her finger-tips caressing its smoothsurface. She smiled dutifully as Lawson walked past; and Lawson, in his turn,inclined his sleek head in a casual benediction. Formal greetings had beenexchanged before the service, and neither party now seemed anxious to resumethat earlier perfunctory conversation. On his way to the vestry Lawson stoppedbriefly in order to hook a loose hassock into place at the foot of a pew, andas he did so he heard the door at the side of the organ bang shut. A little toonoisily, perhaps? A little too hurriedly?

The curtains parted as he reached the vestry and a gingery-headed,freckle-faced youth almost launched himself into Lawson's arms.

'Steady, boy. Steady! What's all the rush?'

'Sorry, sir. I just forgot... ' His breathless voice trailedoff, his right hand, clutching a half-consumed tube of fruit gums, drawnfurtively behind his back.

'I hope you weren't eating those during the sermon?'

'No, sir.'

'Not that I ought to blame you if you were. I can get a bitboring sometimes, don't you think?' The pedagogic tone of Lawson's earlierwords had softened now, and he laid his hand on the boy's head and ruffled hishair lightly.

Peter Morris, the organist's only son, looked up at Lawsonwith a quietly cautious grin. Any subtlety of tone was completely lost uponhim; yet he realised that everything was all right, and he darted away alongthe back of the pews.

'Peter!' The boy stopped in his tracks and looked round.'How many times must I tell you? You're not to run in church!'

'Yes, sir. Er - I mean, no, sir.'

'And don't forget the choir outing next Saturday.'

' 'Course not, sir.'

Lawson had not failed to notice Peter's father and BrendaJosephs talking together in animated whispers in the north porch; but PaulMorris had now slipped quietly out of the door after his son, and Brenda, it seemed,had turned her solemn attention to the font: dating from 1345, it was,according to the laconic guidebook, number one of the 'Things to Note'. Lawsonturned on his heel and entered the vestry.

Harry Josephs, the vicar's warden, had almost finished now.After each service he entered, against the appropriate date, two sets offigures in the church register: first, the number of persons in thecongregation, rounded up or down to the nearest five; second, the sum taken inthe offertory, meticulously calculated to the last half-penny. By mostreckonings, the Church of St Frideswide's was a fairly thriving establishment.Its clientele was chiefly drawn from the more affluent sectors of thecommunity, and even during the University vacations the church was often half-full.It was to be expected, therefore, that the monies to be totalled by the vicar'swarden, then checked by the vicar himself, and thereafter transferred to thechurch's number-one account with Barclays Bank in the High, were notinconsiderable. This morning's takings, sorted by denominations, lay onLawson's desk in the vestry: one five-pound note; about fifteen one-poundnotes; a score or so of fifty-pence pieces and further sundry piles ofsmaller coinage, neatly stacked in readily identifiable amounts.