Inspector Morse 4 - Service Of All The Dead Read Online Free PDF

had flushed the Malaysian jungles of all the terrorists. His legs had grown thinner, especially round the thighs, but they were still muscular and strong. Stronger than Paul's, but . . . She stemmed the gathering flood of thoughts, and unfolded the tin-foil round the sandwiches.
    She averted her eyes from her husband as he slowly masticated the tinned salmon. What was happening to her? The poor fellow couldn't even eat now without her experiencing a mild disgust. She would have to do something, she knew that. And soon. But what could she do?
    It was not on that joyless day at Bournemouth (although it was very soon after) that Brenda Josephs recognised the ugly fact that had been standing at the threshold of her mind: she now hated the man she had married.
     
    'Have you heard that somebody might be helping himself from the collection? It's only a rumour but. . . ' It was the following morning when Morris heard the first whisperings; but in his mind—as in many others'—the alleged hebdomadal thefts were already firmly substantiated in the higher courts of heaven and now stood only in need of a little terrestrial corroboration. There were—surely—only two obvious opportunities, and two possible suspects: Lawson at the altar and Josephs in the vestry. And during the penultimate verse of the offertory hymn Morris turned the organ-mirror slightly to the right and adjusted the elevation so that he had a good view of the large, gilt crucifix standing on the heavily brocaded altar-cloth; and of Lawson holding high the collection-plate, then lowering it and leaning forward in a tilted benediction before handing it back to the vicar's warden. It had been impossible to see Lawson's hands clearly, but nothing had been taken—Morris could have sworn to it. So it must be that contemptible worm Josephs! Much more likely—counting the cash all alone in the vestry. Yes. And yet . . . And yet, if the church funds were being pilfered, wasn't there a much likelier culprit than either? The scruffy-looking man from the Church Army hostel, the man who had been there again this morning, sitting next to Josephs at the back of the church, the man Lawson had befriended—and the man whom Morris himself had encountered the previous morning in the vicarage.
    A few minutes later he closed the organ-door quietly behind him and managed a cheerful 'Good morning' to Mrs. Walsh-Atkins as she finally rose from her knees. But in truth he was far from cheerful; and as he walked slowly up the central aisle his mind for once was not wholly preoccupied with thoughts of Brenda Josephs, whom he could now see waiting for him by the font. Like Lawson at this time a week ago, he felt a very worried man.
     

CHAPTER FIVE

    O N WEDNESDAY OF the same week, no one seemed to mind the woman as she stood by the shop-window examining with slow deliberation one bulky sample-book after another. 'Just looking,' she told the assistant. She'd known what would happen, of course: from the bus-stop in Woodstock Road he would walk down South Parade (where Cromwell had once arranged his Roundheads), turn right into Banbury Road, and then go into the licensed betting-office just opposite the carpet-shop. And he had already done so. She knew, too, that he would have to come out sooner rather than later, since he was due home for lunch—lunch with her —at about one o'clock; and he had another call to pay before then, had he not?
    It was 11.20 a.m. when Harry Josephs at last emerged, and his wife drifted quietly behind a line of vertically stacked linoleum rolls, watching him. Back up to South Parade, where he pushed the button at the pelican crossing and waited to cross the Banbury Road. Just as she'd thought. She left the shop with a guilty 'Thank you', and kept well behind him as he walked with his slightly splay-footed gait up towards north Oxford, his brown suit clearly visible beyond the other pedestrians. He would turn right very soon now (how much she knew!) into Manning