A Taste for Death by P. D. James Page B

his jugular?'
    'Or his killer was taking no chances on the bodies being discovered too soon. If Father Barnes took it into his head to ring and got no reply he'd probably come round to see
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    ifBerowne was all right. If he continued to get the engaged sound he'd probably assume that Berowne was having an
    evening of telephoning and let it go.'
    'We might get a palm print, sir.'
    'Unlikely, John. If this is murder, we're not dealing with a fool.'
    He continued his exploration. With his gloved hands, he pulled open the top drawer and found a stack of white writing paper, of cheap quality, headed with the name ot the church, and a box of envelopes. Apart from these, the desk held nothing of interest. Against the left-hand wall was an assortment of canvas and metal chairs neatly stacked, presumably for the occasional use of the parochial church council. Beside them was a five-drawer metal filing cabinet, and next to it a small glass-fronted bookcase. He slipped the catch and saw that it contained an assortment of old prayer books, missals, devotional pamphlets, and a pile of booklets about the history of the church. There were only two easy chairs, one set on each side of the fireplace; a compact brown chair in torn leather with a patchwork cushion, and a grubby, mor/ modern chair with fitted pads. One of the stacked chairs had been up-righted. A white towel hung over its back and on the seat rested a brown canvas bag, its zip open. Massingham rummaged gently inside and said:
    'A pair of pyjamas, a spare pair of socks, and a table napkin wrapped round half a sliced loaf, wholemeal, and a piece of cheese. Roquefort by the look of it. And there's
    an apple. A Cox if that's relevant.'
    'Hardly. Is that all, John?'
    'Yes, sir. No wine. Whatever he thought he was doing here, it doesn't look like an assignation, not with a woman anyway. And why choose this place with the whole of London open to him? Bed too narrow. No comfort.'
    'Whatever he was looking for, I don't think it was comfort.'
    Dalgliesh had moved over to the fireplace, a plain
    wooden overmantel with an iron surround patterned with . grapes and convolvulus set in the middle of the right-hand
    wall. It must, he thought, have been decades since a fire was lit in it for warmth. In front of the grate was a tall electric fire with artificial coals, a high curved back and a triple set of burners. He moved it gently forward and saw that the grate had, in fact, been recently used; someone had tried to burn a diary. It lay open in the firebasket, its leaves curled and blackened. Some pages had apparently been torn out and separately burnt; the brittle fragments of black ash had floated down to lie on top of the debris under the grate, old twisted matchends, coal dust, carpet fluff, the accumulated grit of years. The blue cover of the diary with the year clearly printed had been more resistant to the flames; one corner only was slightly scorched. Whoever had burnt it had evidently been in a hurry, unless, of course, he had been concerned only to destroy certain pages. Dalgliesh made no attempt to touch it. This was a job for Ferris, the scene of crime officer, already hovering impatiently in the passage. The Ferret was never happy when anyone other than himself was examining a scene of crime and it seemed to Dalgliesh that his im-patience to get on with the job came through the wall as a palpable force. He crouched low and peered into the debris under the grate. Among the fragments of blackened paper he saw a used safety match, the unburnt half of the stem clean and white as if it had only recently been struck. He said:
    'He could have used this to burn the diary. But, if so, where is the box? Have a look in the jacket pockets will you, John.'
    Massingham walked over to Berowne's jacket hanging on a hook at the back of the door and felt in the two outer and one inner pockets. He said:
    'A wallet, sir, a Parker fountain pen and a set of keys. No lighter and no matches.'
    And there