A Spiraling Body Count

By morning, he felt ready to face whatever else the case might be likely to throw at him. It was just as well for that was the day things spiraled horribly out of control.

It had seemed a fine sort of day at the start. The interview with the Pawlen brothers' old schoolmaster had went all right even though Morse had feared Dr. Starkie might be too old to remember much of any use. No worries there. His mind was still as sharp as a tack even if it did wander about a fair bit. Peacocks and peahens and the meaning of names, Morse admirably holding onto his patience, and Lewis trying to keep a straight face. They'd come away knowing enough about the Pawlen brothers to make the late Reverend Pawlen more than a prime suspect.

That was a good deal more than they found at either Paul Morris' or the weeping widow's to Morse's exasperation. And, it was much, much better than what they found at the scene of the crime after Lewis had managed to open up the massive, wooden door at St. Oswald's and they'd climbed the steps to the tower.

Lewis had not been eager to take that climb following Lionel Pawlen's footsteps from the day before. And he thought, when he'd looked at Morse and asked if he wanted to go up the tower, that the chief inspector was no more eager. By the time they'd reached the bells and pushed on towards the top, he'd decided Morse's reluctance had more to do with the climb itself. It was a struggle for the older man.

In the end, Morse pressed himself against the wall and motioned Lewis to pass on. "Go ahead," he panted. "I need a breather." Lewis was happy to do so. The stairwell was a tight fit for a tall man; that, along with his unwelcome thoughts of Pawlen making his way up through it the day before, made him more than glad to duck out the small door at the top. The view that greeted him was more than worth the climb.

"You can nearly see Scotland!" he called back to Morse. A jagged-edged balustrade surrounded the tower roof making it, as far as Lewis was concerned, perfectly safe to amble up and down the sloped surface of the roof itself to admire the sights from all sides.

Morse muttered, "What did I come up here for?"

"The view!" Lewis answered before he turned and saw that Morse wasn't enjoying the view. He'd come out of the door and was now standing with his back pressed tightly against the high wall behind him and his eyes were most definitely not on the view.

"You all right?" Lewis called over his shoulder as he made his way once more up and down the slope wondering if he might be able to spot his own rooftop from the right vantage point.

"Fine. Fine. Just not as fit as I should be, that's all," Morse answered. Lewis took him at his word even though looking back at it he would realize that the chief inspector hadn't sounded all that convincing.

"It's the beer," he said offhandedly.

"Shut up about the beer!" And that was enough to finally get Lewis' attention. Morse grumbled and grouched through his days in a way that Lewis had learned not only to expect but also to regard almost fondly. In most cases, it meant nothing at all; just the way Morse was in the habit of carrying on. This, however, didn't sound like his boss' habitual disgruntlement with the world in general.

He paused and asked, "What's the matter?"

"I'm scared of bloody heights, you stupid sod!" Morse hollered at him. Nothing to get too worked up about then, Lewis thought. Still, just in case it would help Morse feel a bit more comfortable, Lewis changed his direction and came across to look out over the balustrade closest to where Morse stood pressed against the side of the wall that rose above their heads. That would have to do or he'd have Morse grumbling about being coddled.

Lewis, gamboling around the rooftop like a mountain goat, had most decidedly never felt even the slightest hint of fear as far as heights were concerned. Therefore, he didn't take Morse's problem all that seriously though he did recall having a great-auntie who had the same trouble…what was it she'd done when—his thoughts quite abruptly ended there when he happened to look down onto the roof of the building next.

"Sir," he said and something must have sounded in his voice.

"What is it?" Morse asked from where he was still very much glued to the wall.

Looking down at Paul Morris' battered, cold, and quite dead body, Lewis knew that Morse would have to see for himself before it was all said and done. Reluctantly Morse scuttled around the edge of the corner and then was forced to move down the slope to reach Lewis. Trying to decide if Morris had misjudged the jump or if his dead body had landed right where his killer had intended, Lewis didn't think to offer Morse a hand.

Morse was left to skitter awkwardly and helplessly down and around Lewis. He reached out and grabbed Lewis' arm to slow his descent before coming to a stop against the balustrade. Lewis was aware of Morse there beside him surveying the scene, but he didn't spare him a glance. Therefore, when there was a clatter, and he looked over to see what it was about, he was quite surprised to see Morse out cold on the rooftop.

Rather belatedly realizing that the chief inspector's fear of heights had been something to worry about after all, Lewis rushed to Morse's side.

"Sir!' he called as he loosened Morse's tie and wondered just how he was going to get the chief inspector down those stairs when Morse had almost been unable to get himself up them. He couldn't very well leave the poor man while he ran down and put in a call for backup. Well, he could. But he wouldn't want to. What if Morse woke up to find himself alone and flat out on the roof? That surely wouldn't be good for him in the state he already was. And…well, it would do Morse no good if word of this got around the station.

"Sir!" Could he put Morse over his back and carry him down? Possibly. But it had been a long way up and quite steep and the chief inspector was not the thinnest of sorts. He thought he probably could do it if the building was on fire or the like, but he wouldn't like to have to give it a go.

Thankfully, there was a groan then from Morse. His eyes opened and blinked up at Lewis.

"It's all right, Sir. Just the vertigo, I expect. You'll be right as rain in a minute."

Morse gingerly sat up and shook his head. He looked sheepishly at Lewis and said, "If one word of—"

"No, Sir," Lewis assured him shocked Morse thought he needed to mention it. "But…if you could just sit there a bit, Sir, while I run down and call…" he motioned his head vaguely in the direction where the body still lay.

Morse swallowed and nodded his agreement. Lewis headed down at a run. Faintly, he heard Morse's voice calling after him, "Don't be long." No. He wouldn't do that to the man.

He'd managed to talk the chief inspector off the roof before Max and the others made their appearance. Morse seemed a bit shaken, perhaps, but right enough. No one would ever guess what had just happened, and, as Lewis would never breathe a word of it to anyone, they'd never know either.

Max was in fine form, giving the body a quick look over and muttering, "I don't know why they let Morse stay on this case. It's a murder a minute," in a voice meant to reach both Lewis and the chief inspector. And so, not a misjudged jump, but another murder. Lewis took a minute to contemplate that.

Morse understood the implications immediately. "Lewis, see if they've found the boy yet," he told his sergeant.

"What boy?" Max demanded.

Morse's voice was quiet when he answered, "He has a twelve-year-old son...or at least I hope so."

About then, Miss Rawlinson arrived. Lewis reckoned she'd had quite the week of it. What with Harry Josephs, and the vicar, and now Paul Morris. The evidence clerk back at the nick must think they'd hired a professional identifier with her name appearing again and again on the books. He took her bicycle from her—and how she could ride one after the vicar, he didn't know—and directed her to Morse.

There was a voice calling, "Sir!" and he received the discouraging news that Peter Morris was nowhere to be found. Not the sort of news he'd hoped to be able to pass on. Leaving Miss Rawlinson's bike against a tree, he located Morse. The chief inspector was talking quietly to Miss Rawlinson. Their heads close together and their voices low, there was something intimate about their encounter even before Morse put a hand on her shoulder. Ah, so, that's the way it was then? He might have guessed. Morse had been to see her more than once in the course of the investigation, always on his own…Morse and women.

Lewis could see from the look on Max's face that he was thinking much the same thing. Exchanging knowing looks with the pathologist, Lewis grinned. His grin didn't last long. Miss Rawlinson looked at the body, said the words, and then almost collapsed in Morse's arms. Poor woman.

By the time Morse had her sorted and Chief Superintendent Bell briefed and temporarily placated, there was still no sign of Peter Morris. But Miss Rawlinson had an idea where Mrs. Josephs might have gotten herself off to so at least they had that.

Only they didn't. Because by the time they could track her down in Marlow, Mrs. Josephs would be floating down the Thames in a borrowed boat very much dead. And before they'd learn that, there was the boy to find.

Lewis was yawning over some telly program of Val's, wondering where else they could look for Peter Morris, and pondering over the case when Morse rang the door and offered to buy him a drink. Well, why not? The kids were tucked up, and he wasn't fit company for Val brooding over the case as he was. He gave her a quick goodbye kiss and grabbed his windcheater. He'd had some thoughts he wanted to discuss with Morse anyway.

"I was thinking to myself—" he began once they had their beers in front of them. (Morse finding himself without any money, it was Lewis that had brought them in after all.)

"Night thoughts are bred of loneliness and depression, Lewis. Ignore them," Morse advised him.

Lewis scratched his head over that, a quote most like. From someone Lewis had never heard of. "I was thinking there might be something in what you were saying."

"I doubt it," Morse commented, and Lewis thought maybe that depression line was Morse's after all. After Lewis had gone on to explain his thoughts anyway, Morse said, "In order to think about that, Lewis, I shall have to have another pint." In calling for that pint, Morse sent the pub landlord scurrying down to the cellar for another cask. And it was the thought of the cellar that sent them back to St. Oswald's once again.

And there he was, a twelve-year-old boy, buried under a forgotten pile of coke in the vault below the church.

Before they'd finished with all that finding Peter Morris under that pile of coke entailed, the call had come in informing them that Mrs. Josephs was also dead. They'd started out the day with two dead and finished it with five. It was all too much.