Free Inspector Morse 4 - Service Of All The Dead by Colin Dexter Page A

play—and yet he could summon up no enthusiasm for anything. What did he want? His listless mood persisted through to Sunday morning, when not even the few erotic titbits in the News of the World could cheer him. He sprawled gloomily in his armchair, his eyes vaguely scanning the multi-coloured spines along the bookshelves. Baudelaire might match his mood, perhaps? What was that line about the prince in 'Les Fleurs du Mal'? 'Riche, mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant très vieux . . .' And quite suddenly Morse felt better. Bloody nonsense! He was neither impotent nor senile—far from it! It was time for action.
    He rang the number and she answered.
    'Hello?'
    'Miss Rawlinson?'
    'Speaking.'
    'You may not remember me. I—I met you in St. Frideswide's last Monday.'
    'I remember.'
    'I was—er—thinking of going to church this morning—'
    'Our church, you mean?'
    'Yes.'
    'You'd better get a move on—it starts at half-past ten.'
    ‘Oh. I see. Well—er—thank you very much.'
    'You're very interested in us all of a sudden, Inspector.' There was a suggestion of friendly amusement in her voice, and Morse wanted to keep her on the phone.
    'Did you know I came to the social on Friday evening?'
    'Of course.' Morse felt a silly juvenile joy about that 'of course'. Keep going, lad!
    'I—er—I didn't see you afterwards. In fact I didn't realize that it was you in the play.'
    'Amazing what a blonde wig does, isn't it?'
    'Who is it?' Someone called behind her voice.
    'Pardon?' said Morse.
    'It's all right. That was my mother—asking who you are.'
    'Oh, I see.'
    'Well, as I say, you'd better hurry up if you're going—'
    'Are you going? Perhaps I could give you—'
    'No, not this morning. Mother's had one of her asthma attacks, and I can't leave her.'
    'Oh.' Morse hid his disappointment beneath a cheerful farewell, and said 'Bugger it!' as he cradled the phone. He was going, though. It wasn't Ruth Rawlinson he wanted to see. He just wanted to get the feel of the place—to pick up a few of those stray emanations. He told himself that it didn't matter two hoots whether the Rawlinson woman was there or not.
     
    Looking back on his first church attendance for a decade, Morse decided that it was quite an experience. St. Frideswide's must, he thought, be about as 'spikey' as they come in the Anglican varieties. True, there was no Peter's Pence at the back of the church, no bulletin from the pulpit proclaiming the infallibility of his Holiness; but in other respects there seemed little that separated the church from the Roman fold. There'd been a sermon, all right, devoted to St Paul's humourless denunciation of the lusts of the flesh, but the whole service had really centred round the Mass. It had not started all that well for Morse who, two minutes late, had inadvertently seated himself in the pew reserved for the churchwarden, and this had necessitated an awkward, whispered exchange as the people knelt to confess their wrongdoings. Fortunately, from his vantage-point at the rear, Morse was able to sit and stand and kneel in concert with the rest, although many of the crossings and genuflections proved equally beyond his reflexes as his inclinations. What amazed him more than anything was the number of the cast assembled around the altar, each purposefully pursuing his part: the celebrant, the deacon, the sub-deacon, the incense-swinger and the boat-boy, the two acolytes and the four torch-bearers, and conducting them all a youngish, mournful-faced master of ceremonies, his hands sticking out horizontally before him in a posture of perpetual prayer. It was almost like a floor-show, with everyone so well trained: bowing, crossing, kneeling, rising, with a synchronised discipline which (as Morse saw it) could profitably have been emulated by the Tap-Dance Troupe. To these manoeuvres the equally well-disciplined congregation would match its own reactions, suddenly sitting, as suddenly on its feet again, and occasionally giving mouth to