Colin Dexter - The Jewel That Was Ours

That the tongue will shortly fit into its buckle once more is due to the philanthropy of Mr. Palmer and to the gracious co-operation and interest of his wife, (now) Mrs. Laura M. Stratton. The only major problem remaining to be resolved (according to Dr. Theodore Kemp of the Ashmolean Museum) is the exact purpose of this most beautifully wrought artefact, henceforth to be known, in its entirety, as 'The Wolvercote Jewel'. Whether it was the clasp of some royal garment, or whether it served some symbolic or ceremonial purpose, is a matter of fascinating speculation. What is certain is that The Wolvercote Jewel — tongue and buckle at last most happily conjoined will now be numbered amongst the finest treasures of the Ashmolean Museum.

'You write this, sir?' asked Morse.

Kemp nodded bitterly: the whole bloody thing now cancelled (Morse learned) — the ceremony that was all fixed up — the presentation — the press — TV. God!

'We learnt the dates of the kings and queens of England at school,' said Morse. Trouble is we started at William the First.'

'You ought to have gone back earlier, Inspector — much earlier.'

'Oh, I'm always doing that, sir.' Morse fixed his eyes on the pallid face across the table. 'What were you doing earlier this evening between four-thirty and five-fifteen, Dr. Kemp?'

'What? What wath I doing?' He shook his head like a man most grievously distraught. 'You don't — you can't understand, can you! I wath probably buggering around in. ' he pointed vaguely over Morse's head in the direction of the Ashmolean. 'I don't know. And I don't care!' He picked up the pile of leaflets and, with a viciousness of which Morse would not have thought the effeminate fingers capable, tore them across the middle, and threw them down on the desk.

Morse let him go.

Kemp was the second witness that evening who had been less than forthcoming in answering the only pertinent question that had been put to him.

'You didn't like him much, did you, sir?'

'What's that got to do with anything?'

'Well, somebody must have stolen this Wolvercote thing.'

'Nobody pinched it, Lewis! They pinched the handbag.'

'I don't see it. The handbag's worth virtually nothing — but the, you know, it's priceless, he says.'

'Abtholutely pritheless!' mimicked Morse.

Lewis grinned. 'You don't think he stole it?'

'I'd rather not think at all about that inflated bladder of wind and piss. What I know is that he'd be the last person in Oxford to steal it. He's got everything lined up — he's got this literature all ready — he'll get his name in the papers and his face on the telly — he'll write a monograph for some learned journal — the University will give him a D.Litt or something. No, he didn't pinch it. You see you can't sell something like that, Lewis. It's only "priceless" in the sense of its being unique, irreplaceable, crucial for historical and archaeological interpretation. You couldn't sell the Mona Lisa, could you?'

'You knew all about it, did you, sir? This Wolvercote thing?'

'Didn't you? People come from far and wide to view the Wolvercote Tongue—'

' "Buckle", isn't it, sir? Isn't it just the buckle that's there?'

'I've never heard of the bloody thing,' growled Morse.

'I've never even been inside the Ashmolean, sir.'

'Really?'

'The only thing we learned about King Alfred was about him burning the cakes.'

'That's something though, isn't it? It's a fact— perhaps it's a fact. But they don't go in for facts in History these days. They go in for empathy, Lewis. Whatever that is.'

'What's the drill then, sir?'

So Morse told him. Get the body moved quietly via the luggage-lift while the tourists were still at dinner; get a couple of DCs over from Kidlington to help with statements from the group, including the speakers, re their whereabouts from 4.30 to 5.15 p.m.; and from the occupants of bedrooms adjacent or reasonably proximate to Room 310. Maids? Yes, better see if any of them were turning down counterpanes or restocking tea-bags or just walking around or. Morse suddenly felt himself utterly bored with the whole business. 'Find out the system, Lewis! Use a bit of initiative! And call round in the morning. I'll be at home— trying to get a few days' furlough.'

'We're not going to search the rooms then, sir?'

'Search the rooms? Christ, man! Do you know how many rooms there are in The Randolph?'

Morse performed one final task in what, by any criterion, had hitherto been a most perfunctory police enquiry. Briefly he spoke with Mr. Eddie Stratton, who earlier had been sympathetically escorted up to the Browns' quarters in Room 308. Here, Morse found himself immediately liking the tall, bronzed Californian, in whose lived-in sort of face it seemed the sun might soon break through from behind the cloud of present adversity. Never particularly competent at expressing his personal feelings, Morse could do little more than mumble a few cliches of condolence, dredged up from some half-remembered funerals. But perhaps it was enough. For Stratton's face revealed little sign of grief; certainly no sign of tears.

The Manager was standing by Reception on the ground floor; and Morse thanked him for his co-operation, explaining that (as invited) he had made some, er, little use of the, er, the facilities available in the Manager's office. And if Sergeant Lewis and his men could continue to have the use of the office until.?

The Manager nodded his agreement: 'You know it's really most unfortunate. As I told you, Inspector, we always advise our guests that it's in their own best interests never to leave any unattended valuables in their rooms—'

'But she didn't leave them, did she?' suggested Morse mildly.

'She didn't even leave the room. As a matter of fact, sir, she still hasn't left it. '

In this last assertion Morse was somewhat behind the times, for Lewis now came down the main staircase to inform both of them that at that very moment the body of the late Laura M.

Stratton was being transferred from Room 310, via the luggage-lift, en route for the Chapel of Rest in the Radcliffe Infirmary, just up the Woodstock Road.

'Fancy a drink, Lewis?'

'Not for me, sir. I'm on duty.'

The faithful sergeant allowed himself a wry grin, and even Morse was vaguely smiling. Anyway, it would save him, Lewis, a quid or two — that was for sure. Morse never seemed to think it was his round; and Lewis had occasionally calculated that on about three-fifths of his chief's salary he usually bought about three-quarters of the considerable quantities of alcohol consumed (though little by himself) on any given case.

Morse nodded a curt understanding, and walked towards the Chapters Bar.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Water taken in moderation cannot hurt anybody

( Mark Twain )

POURING A MODICUM of slim-line tonic into the large gin that her present drinking companion had just purchased for her, Sheila Williams asked the key question: 'Might you have to cancel the rest of the tour, John?'

'Oh, I don't think it need come to that. I mean, they've all paid for it, haven't they? Obviously we could refund if, well, if Mr. Stratton or—'

'He's fine. I've spoken to him. You haven't.'

'I can't do everything, you know.'

'Please don't misunderstand me, John, but wasn't it perhaps a little unfortunate that you were nowhere within hailing distance when one of your charges busts her arteries and gets burgled into the bargain?'

Ashenden took a sip from his half-pint glass of bitter, appearing to acknowledge the truth of what Sheila had just said, though without volunteering any further comment. He'd once read (or heard) — Disraeli, was it? (or Jimmy Bowden?) — that a man ought never to apologise; never to explain.