Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

guessed that the cause of her brief sojourn was probably the paucity of any

sins worthy of confession As she left.  Morse could see some of the contents

of the carrier bag: a Hovis loaf and a bottle of red plonk.

 Bread and wine.

The door clicked to behind her, and Morse stepped over to meet St Anthony,

wondering whence had sprung that oddly intrusive 'h'.

According to the textual blurb at the base of the statue, this great and good

man was clearly capable of performing quite incredible miracles for those who

almost had sufficient faith.  Morse picked up a candle from the box there and

stuck it in an empty socket on the top row.  At which point (it appeared)

most worshippers would have prayed fervently for a miracle.  But Morse wasn't

at all sure what miracle he wanted.  Nevertheless the elegant, elongated

candle was of importance to him; and on some semi-irrational impulse he took

a second candle and placed it beside the first.  Together, side by side, they

seemed to give a much stronger light than both of them separate.

A notice suggested an appropriate donation per candle, and Morse pushed a 1

coin into the slot in the wall behind St Anthony.  Half of bitter.  Then,

remembering that he'd doubled his investment, the reluctant hagiolater pushed

in a second 1 coin.  A whole pint.

As he walked down to St Giles', the man who had virtually no faith in the

Almighty and even less in miracles noted that the past few minutes had

slipped by quickly.  It was now just after 11 a.  m.  ; and when he came in

sight of the Bird and Baby on his right, he saw that the front door was open.

He went in.

172

chapter thirty-seven Careless talk costs lives (Second World War slogan)

I think men who have a pierced ear are better prepared for marriage.

They've experienced pain and bought jewelry (Rita Rudner) five days after

morse had declined the free draw for a miracle at the Oratory, at noon, at

Lower Swinstead, at the bar of the Maiden's Arms, Tom Biffen stood leaning

forward on his tattooed arms.  Very quiet so far for a Saturday.  Just the

two hardy perennials, horns already locked over their continuous cribbage;

and the pale-faced, ear-pierced, greasy-haired youth already squaring up to

the fruit machine.

It was twenty minutes later that the fourth customer arrived.

Usual?  "

The newcomer nodded and placed the requisite monies on the counter.

The white van in the car park economically proclaimed the newcomer's

profession: "J.  Ban-on, Builder'.

"Not out at Debbie's today, John?"

"What do you think?  The day after the funeral?"

"No.  Have you seen her since Harry .  .  .?"

"No.  Well, I wouldn't have gone last weekend anyway, would I?  Thought

they'd like being on their own, like you know, the day after they'd let him

out and all that."

"No."

 The youth was standing beside them, a 10-note folded length ways between

the index and middle fingers of his right hand.

"You're taking all me change," complained Biffen as he exchanged the note for

ten 1 coins from the till.

"You'll have bugger all left for the honeymoon," ventured the builder; but

the youth, un hearing or uncaring, had already walked back to what was perhaps

the first great love of his life.

At the bar a few low-voiced confidences were being exchanged.

"When's the wedding.  Biff?"

"Five weeks today."

"Nice bit o' skirt?"

"Yeah.  Dental receptionist down in Oxford somewhere."

"Glad one of 'em's earning!"  The builder half-turned towards the

unremunerative machine.

"Nobody earns much of a living on them things."

"Except the Company," corrected the landlord.

"Except Tom Biffen," corrected one of the cribbagers.

The landlord grunted.

Odd really.  Most men in their latish seventies would ever have been

susceptible to deafness, arthritis, baldness, sciatica, haemorrhoids,

incontinence, impotence, cataracts, dementia, and all the rest.  And perhaps

(for all the landlord knew) the two old codgers suffered from every single

one of them except quite certainly the first.

Biffen lowered his voice: "Did you get to the crematorium?"

"No.  Family, wasn't it?  I wasn't exactly a friend of the family."

"I thought you builders and plumbers were friends of every- body, especially

a strapping young fellow like you?"

"Young?"

But the landlord had a point.  John Barron, tall and well built, with dark

close-cropped hair and clean-cut features, certainly looked younger than his

forty-one years; and what

appeared a genuinely open smile appealed to all the local ladies except his

wife, who had been known occasionally to feel jealous.

"What exactly are you doing for Debbie?"

"In the back passage, off the kitchen you know, the old coal-shed and the old

loo.  Knocking 'em into one so she can get her washing machine in re-tiling

the floor re-plastering the walls new electrical sockets usual sort of thing."

"Just at weekends?"

"Yeah, well.  .  ."

"Bit o' moonlighdng?  Cash payment?"

For a second or two Barren's mouth tightened distastefully, but he made no

direct reply.

"I was hoping to finish it off before Harry was out."