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  CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR

  Colin Dexter

  The Remorseful Day

  ‘Morse’s last case is a virtuoso piece of plotting . . . by quitting the game on the top of his form [Dexter] has set his fellow crime-writers an example they will find hard to emulate’ Sunday Times

  Death Is Now My Neighbour

  ‘Dexter has created a giant among fictional detectives and has never short-changed his readers’

  The Times

  The Daughters of Cain

  ‘This is Colin Dexter at his most excitingly devious’

  Daily Telegraph

  The Way Through the Woods

  ‘Morse and his faithful Watson, Sergeant Lewis, in supreme form . . . Hallelujah’ Observer

  The Jewel that Was Ours

  ‘Traditional crime writing at its best; the kind of book without which no armchair is complete’

  Sunday Times

  The Wench Is Dead

  ‘Dextrously ingenious’

  Guardian

  The Secret of Annexe 3

  ‘A plot of classic cunning and intricacy’

  Times Literary Supplement

  The Riddle of the Third Mile

  ‘Runs the gamut of brain-racking unputdownability’

  Observer

  The Dead of Jericho

  ‘The writing is highly intelligent, the atmosphere melancholy, the effect haunting’

  Daily Telegraph

  Service of All the Dead

  ‘A brilliantly plotted detective story’

  Evening Standard

  The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn

  ‘Morse’s superman status is reinforced by an ending which no ordinary mortal could have possibly unravelled’

  Financial Times

  Last Seen Wearing

  ‘Brilliant characterization in original whodunnit’

  Sunday Telegraph

  Last Bus to Woodstock

  ‘Let those who lament the decline of the English detective story reach for Colin Dexter’

  Guardian

  SERVICE OF

  ALL THE DEAD

  Colin Dexter graduated from Cambridge University in 1953 and has lived in Oxford since 1966. His first novel, Last Bus to Woodstock, was published in 1975. There are now thirteen novels in the series, of which The Remorseful Day is, sadly, the last.

  Colin Dexter has won many awards for his novels, including the CWA Silver Dagger twice, and the CWA Gold Dagger for The Wench Is Deadand The Way Through the Woods. In 1997 he was presented with the CWA Diamond Dagger for outstanding services to crime literature, and in 2000 was awarded the OBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours List.

  The Inspector Morse novels have been adapted for the small screen with huge success by Carlton/Central Television, starring John Thaw and Kevin Whately.

  THE INSPECTOR MORSE NOVELS

  Last Bus to Woodstock

  Last Seen Wearing

  The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn

  Service of All the Dead

  The Dead of Jericho

  The Riddle of the Third Mile

  The Secret of Annexe 3

  The Wench Is Dead

  The Jewel that Was Ours

  The Way Through the Woods

  The Daughters of Cain

  Death Is Now My Neighbour

  The Remorseful Day

  Also available in Pan Books

  Morse’s Greatest Mystery and Other Stories

  The First Inspector Morse Omnibus

  The Second Inspector Morse Omnibus

  The Third Inspector Morse Omnibus

  The Fourth Inspector Morse Omnibus

  First published 1979 by Macmillan

  First published in paperback 1980 by Pan Books

  This edition published 2007 by Pan Books

  This electronic edition published 2008 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Rd, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-330-46861-9 in Adobe Reader format

  ISBN 978-0-330-46860-2 in Adobe Digital Editions format

  ISBN 978-0-330-46864-0 in Microsoft Reader format

  ISBN 978-0-330-46863-3 in Mobipocket format

  Copyright © Colin Dexter 1979

  The right of Colin Dexter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases.

  For John Poole

  I had rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my

  God: than to dwell in the tents of ungodliness

  (Psalm 84:10)

  The First Book

  of Chronicles

  CHAPTER ONE

  LIMPLY THE REVEREND Lionel Lawson shook the last smoothly gloved hand, the slim hand of Mrs. Emily Walsh-Atkins, and he knew that the 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 chat of fêtes and summer hats, whilst the organist played his exit voluntary, and whilst the now discassocked choirboys tucked their T-shirts into flare-line jeans, Mrs. Walsh-Atkins invariably spent a few further minutes on her knees in what had sometimes seemed to Lawson a slightly exaggerated obeisance to the Almighty. Yet, as Lawson knew full well, she had plenty to be thankful for. She was eighty-one years old, but managed still to retain an enviable agility in both mind and body, only her eyesight was at last beginning to fail. She lived in north Oxford, in a home for elderly gentlewomen, screened off 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 and silver-polish, she could look out on to the well-tended paths and lawns where each morning the resident caretaker unobtrusively collected up the Coca Cola tins, the odd milk-bottle and the crisp-packets thrown over 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 streets of 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-pound note.

  ‘Thank you for the message, Vicar.'

  'God bless you!'

  This brief dialogue, which had never varied by a single word in the ten years since Lawson had been appointed to the parish of St. Frideswide's, was the ultimate stage in non-communication between a priest and his parishioner. In the early days of his ministry, Lawson had felt vaguely uneasy about 'the message' since he was conscious that no passage from his sermons had ever been declaimed with particularly evangelistic fervour; and in any case the role of some divinely appointed telegram-boy was quite inappropriate—indeed, quite distasteful—to a man of Lawson's moderately high-church leanings. Yet Mrs. Walsh-Atkins appeared
to hear the humming of the heavenly wires whatever his text might be; and each Sunday morning she reiterated her gratitude to the unsuspecting harbinger of goodly tidings. It was purely by chance that after his very first service Lawson had hit upon those three simple monosyllables—magical words which, again this Sunday morning, Mrs. Walsh-Atkins happily clutched to her bosom, along with her Book of Common Prayer, as she walked off with her usual sprightly gait towards St. Giles', where her regular taxi-driver would be waiting in the shallow lay-by beside the Martyrs' Memorial.

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

  Apart from the organist, Mr. Paul Morris, who had now reached the last few bars of what Lawson recognised as some Mozart, Mrs. Brenda Josephs was the only person left in the main body of the building. Dressed in a sleeveless, green summer frock, she sat at the back of the church, a soberly attractive woman in her mid—or late thirties, one bare browned arm resting along the back of the pew, her finger-tips caressing its smooth surface. She smiled dutifully as Lawson walked past; and Lawson, in his turn, inclined his sleek head in a casual benediction. Formal greetings had been exchanged before the service, and neither party now seemed anxious to resume that earlier perfunctory conversation. On his way to the vestry Lawson stopped briefly in order to hook a loose hassock into place at the foot of a pew, and as he did so he heard the door at the side of the organ bang shut. A little too noisily, 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 trailed off, his right hand, clutching a half-consumed tube of fruit gums, drawn furtively 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 bit boring sometimes, don't you think?' The pedagogic tone of Lawson's earlier words had softened now, and he laid his hand on the boy's head and ruffled his hair lightly.

  Peter Morris, the organist's only son, looked up at Lawson with a quietly cautious grin. Any subtlety of tone was completely lost upon him; yet he realised that everything was all right, and he darted away along the 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 Brenda Josephs talking together in animated whispers in the north porch; but Paul Morris 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'. Lawson turned 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 of figures in the church register: first, the number of persons in the congregation, rounded up or down to the nearest five; second, the sum taken in the offertory, meticulously calculated to the last half-penny. By most reckonings, the Church of St. Frideswide's was a fairly thriving establishment. Its clientele was chiefly drawn from the more affluent sectors of the community, 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's warden, then checked by the vicar himself, and thereafter transferred to the church's number-one account with Barclays Bank in the High, were not inconsiderable. This morning's takings, sorted by denominations, lay on Lawson's desk in the vestry: one five-pound note; about fifteen one-pound notes; a score or so of fifty-pence pieces and further sundry piles of smaller coinage, neatly stacked in readily identifiable amounts.

  'Another goodly congregation, Harry.' 'Goodly' was a favourite word in Lawson's vocabulary. Although it had always been a matter of some contention in theological circles whether the Almighty took any great interest in the counting of mere heads, it was encouraging, on a secular assessment, to minister to a flock that was at least numerically fairly strong; and the word 'goodly' seemed a happily neutral word to blur the distinction between the 'good', by purely arithmetical reckoning, and the 'godly', as assessed on a more spiritual computation.

  Harry nodded and made his entries. 'Just check the money quickly if you will, sir. I made it a hundred and thirty-five in the congregation, and I make it fifty-seven pounds twelve pence in the collection.'

  'No ha'pennies today, Harry? I think some of the choirboys must have taken my little talk to heart.' With the dexterity of a practised bank-clerk he riffled through the pound notes, and then passed his fingers over the piles of coins, like a bishop blessing heads at a confirmation service. The addition of monies was correct.

  'One of these days, Harry, you're going to surprise me and make a mistake.'

  Josephs' eyes darted sharply to Lawson's face, but the expression there, as the minister put his signature to the right-hand column of the church register, was one of bland benignity.

  Together vicar and warden placed the money in an ancient Huntley & Palmer biscuit-tin. It looked an unlikely repository for any great store of wealth; but when at one of its recent meetings the church council had discussed the problem of security no one had come up with any brighter suggestion, except for the possibility that a slightly later vintage of a similar tin might perhaps more firmly corroborate the notion that the receptacle open to view on the back seat of Josephs' Allegro contained nothing more precious than a few ginger-snaps and arrowroots left over from a recent social.

  ‘I’ll be off, then, Vicar. The wife'll be waiting.'

  Lawson nodded and watched his warden go. Yes, Brenda Josephs would be waiting; she had to be. Six months previously Harry had been found guilty on a charge of drunken driving, and it was largely through Lawson's plea for mitigation that the magistrate's sentence of a fifty-pound fine and one year's suspension had seemed so comparatively lenient. The Josephs' home was in the village of Wolvercote, some three miles north of the city centre, and buses on Sundays were a rarer sight than five-pound notes on a collection-plate.

  The small vestry window looked out on the south side of the church, and Lawson sat down at the desk and stared blankly into the graveyard where the grey, weathered tombstones tilted at their varied angles from the vertical, their crumbling legends long since overgrown with moss or smoothed away by centuries of wind and rain. He both looked and felt a worried man, for the simple truth was that there should have been two five-pound notes in the collection that morning. Was there just a possibility, though, that Mrs. Walsh-Atkins had at last exhausted her store of five-pound notes and put five separate one-pound notes into the co
llection? If she had, though, it would have been the first time for—oh, years and years. No. There was a much more probable explanation, an explanation that disturbed Lawson greatly. Yet there was still the slimmest chance that he was mistaken. 'Judge not that ye be not judged.' Judge not—at least until the evidence is unequivocal. He took out his wallet and from it drew a piece of paper on which earlier that same morning he had written down the serial number of the five-pound note which he himself had sealed in a small brown envelope and placed in the morning collection. And only two or three minutes ago he had checked the last three numbers of the five-pound note which Harry Josephs had placed in the biscuit-tin: they were not the numbers he had written down.

  Something of this sort Lawson had suspected for several weeks, and now he had proof of it. He should, he knew, have asked Josephs to turn out his pockets on the spot: that was his duty, both as a priest and as a friend (friend?), for somewhere on Josephs' person would have been found the five-pound note he had just stolen from the offertory. At last Lawson looked down at the piece of paper he had been holding and read the serial number printed on it: AN 50 405546. Slowly he lifted his eyes and stared across the churchyard once more. The sky had grown suddenly overcast, and when half an hour later he walked down to the vicarage in St Ebbe's the air was heavy with the threat of rain. It was as if someone had switched off the sun.