A Taste for Death by P. D. James Read Free Book Online

he had no need to inquire the way. As always, he had mapped his route before setting out. They were driving up the Harrow Road and had just passed the complex of St Mary's Hospital when the campanile of St Matthew's came suddenly into view on their left. With its crossed bands of stone, its high arched windows and copper cupola it reminded Dalgliesh of the brick towers he had laboriously erected as a child, brick on precarious brick, until they toppled in noisy disorder on the nursery floor. It held for him some of the same hubristic impermanence and, even as he gazed, he half expected it to bend and sway.
    Without speaking, Massingham took the next turning to the left and drove towards it down a narrow road bordered on each side by a terrace of small houses. They were identical with their small upper windows, narrow porches and square bays, but it was obvious that the road w.as coming up in the world. Some few still showed the tell-tale signs of multiple occupation, dishevelled lawns, peeling paint and drawn secretive curtains. But these were succeeded by bright little bandboxes of social aspiration; newly painted doors, carriage lamps, an occasional hang-ing basket, the front garden paved to provide standing for the car. At the end of the road the huge bulk of the church with its soaring walls of smoke-blackened brick looked as much out of keeping as it was out of scale with this small domestic self-sufficiency.
    The huge north door, large enough for a cathedral, was closed. Beside it a grime encrusted board gave the name and address of the parish priest and the time of services, but there was nothing else to suggest that the door was ever opened. They drove slowly down a narrow asphalt
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    drive between the southern wall of the church and the railing bordering the canal, but still there was no sign of life. It was obvious that the news of a murder hadn't yet spread. There were only two cars parked outside the south porch. One, he guessed, belonged to Detective Sergeant Robins and the red Metro to Kate Miskin. He wasn't surprised that she was there before them. She opened the door before Massingham had time to ring, her handsome shield-shaped face composed under the light brown fringe, and looking in her shirt, slacks and leather jerkin as ele-gantly informal as if she had just come in from a country walk. She said:
    'The DI's compliments, sir, but he had to get back to the station. They've got a homicide at Royal Oak. He left as soon as Sergeant Robins and I arrived. He'll be avail-able from midday if you need him. The bodies are here, sir. They call it the Little Vestry.'
    It was typical of Glyn Morgan not to have disturbed the scene. Dalgliesh had a respect for Morgan as a man and a detective but was grateful that either duty, tact or a mixture of both had taken him away. It was a relief not to have to soothe and propitiate an experienced detective who could hardly be expected to welcome a commander from the new Cl squad intruding on his patch.
    Kate Miskin pushed open the first door on the left and stood aside for Dalgliesh and Massingham to enter. The Little Vestry was garishly lit like a film set. Under the glare of the fluorescent light the whole bizarre scene, Berowne's sprawled body and severed throat, the clotted blood, the tramp propped like a stringless marionette against the wall, looking for a moment unreal, a Grand Guignol tableau too overdone and too contrived to be convincing. Hardly glancing at Berowne's body Dalgliesh picked his way across the carpet to Harry Mack and squatted beside him. Without turning his head he asked:
    'Were the lights on when Miss Wharton found the bodies?'
    'Not in the passage, sir. But she says this light was on. The boy confirms it.'
    'Where are they now?'
    'In the church, sir. Father Barnes is with them.'
    'Have a word with them will you, John? Tall them I'll
    to them as soon as I'm free. And try to cmct the
    mother. We ought to get him away from &re as as possible. Then I want