Colin Dexter - The Jewel That Was Ours

Shirley Brown had disengaged her arm as she and Eddie Stratton crossed into Beaumont Street at ten-past five.

'Whatever you say, Ed, I'd still like to know where he was going.'

'Like I say, forget it, Shirl!'

'He was trying to get out of sight — quick. You know he was.'

'You still reckon he saw us?'

'I still reckon he saw us,' said Shirley Brown, in her Californian drawl. They were the only two in the guest-lift; and Eddie bade his temporary leave as they reached the third floor.

'See you in a little while, Shirl.'

'Yeah. And tell Laura I hope her feet are rested.'

Eddie Stratton had made no reply as he walked towards Room 310.

CHAPTER TEN

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds

( Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essays)

TOO LONG HAD Morse been in the police business for him to believe that a death and a theft, or (as he was now beginning to think) a theft and a death, were likely to be a pair of fortuitously contingent events. Not that he was even remotely hopeful about the theft. He would never mind pitting his brains against a murderer; but he'd always discounted his chances against a reasonably competent burglar — even, come to think of it, against a reasonably incompetent burglar. And if, as seemed the consensus of opinion now, Laura Stratton had left her door ajar for her husband to let himself in; if she had carelessly left her handbag on the bedside table immediately inside her partially opened door; if someone had known of these things — even if someone had not known of these things. well, certainly, the odds were pretty strong on the prompt disappearance of the handbag. Give it fifteen minutes? At the outside, thought Morse. We all might pray (some of us might pray) 'Lead us not into temptation', yet most people seemed perfectly happy to stick their cameras, binoculars, radios, squash rackets, handbags. mm. yes, stick any of 'em on the back seats of their cars, and then complain to the police when they found their rear windows smashed into splinters and—

Come off it!

The truth was, of course, that Morse had virtually lost all interest in the case already, his only enduring memory being the admiration he'd felt for the alcoholic capacity of a lady named Mrs. Sheila Williams.

He just managed to hide the tumbler when without even a sociable knock Max put his head round the door and, seeing Morse in the Manager's chair, promptly entered and seated himself.

'They told me I'd find you here. Not that I needed much direction. Any pathologist worth his meagre remuneration tends to develop a fairly keen sense of smell.'

'Well?'

'Heart attack. Massive coronary.' (Swain's words.)

Morse nodded slowly.

'God knows why you ask me along here to confirm the obvious..Where's the booze, by the way?'

Reluctantly, Morse pointed to the drinks-cabinet.

'You're not paying for it, are you?'

'What do you fancy?'

'Nothing for me, Morse. I'm on duty.'

'All right.'

'Is, er, is it drinkable — the Scotch?'

Morse got to his feet, poured a miniature into a plastic cup, and handed it over. For a few minutes the two old enemies sat sipping in friendly silence.

'You quite sure, Max.?'

'Not so bad, is it, this stuff?'

'. about the time of death?'

'Between four-thirty and five-fifteen.'

'Really?' Never before had Morse heard anything remotely approaching such a definitive statement from the lips of the hump-backed police-surgeon. 'How on earth—?'

'Girl at Reception, Morse. Said the poor old dear had gone up to her room at four-thirty, on her own two tootsies, too. Then your people told me she was found by her ever-loving husband at five-fifteen.' Max took a large swallow of the Glenfiddich. 'We professionals in the Force, Morse, we have to interpret all the available clues, you know.' He drained his cup with deep appreciation.

'Another?'

'Certainly not! I'm on duty. And anyway I'm just off to a very nice little dinner.'

A distant temple-bell was tinkling in Morse's mind: 'Not the same nosh-up as whatshisname?'

'The very same, Morse.'

'He's the house-doctor here.'

'Try telling me something I don't know.'

'It's just that he looked at Mrs. Stratton, that's all.'

'And you didn't have much faith in him.'

'Not much.'

'He's considered quite a competent quack, they tell me.'

'To be honest, I thought he was a bit of a. '

'Bit of a membrum virile? You're not always wrong, you know. Er, small top-up, perhaps, Morse?'

'You know him?'

'Oh yes. And you're quite wrong, in this case. He's not just a — No, let's put it the other way: he's the biggest one in Oxford.'

'She still died of a heart attack, though?'

'Oh yes! So don't go looking for any silly bloody nonsense here. And it's not Swain who's telling you, Morse — it's me.'

When, some ten minutes later, Max had departed for his BMA dinner, Morse had already performed what in political parlance would be termed a compromising U-turn. And when Lewis came in, with Dr. Theodore Kemp immediately in tow, Morse knew that he had erred in his earlier thinking. The coincidence of a theft and a death (in whichever order) might often be shown to be causally connected.

But not in this case.

Lewis would have to interview them all, of course; or most of them. But that would be up to Lewis. For himself, Morse wished for nothing more fervently than to get back to his bachelor flat in North Oxford, and to listen once again to the Second Movement of the Bruckner No. 7.

But he'd better see one or two of them.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

History, n. An account mostly false, of events mostly unimportant, which are brought about by rulers mostly knaves, and soldiers mostly fools

( Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary)

ALMOST IMMEDIATELY Kemp slotted into Morse's preconceptions of the we-are-an-Oxford-man, although he was aware that he could well be guilty of yet another instant inaccuracy. The bearded, clever-looking, ugly-attractive man (late thirties — Sheila's age?) who sat down only after lightly dusting the seat with a hyper-handkerchief, had clearly either been told (by Sheila?) or heard (gossip inevitable) something of what had occurred. Other persons might have been irritated only temporarily by the man's affected lisp. Not so Morse.

'Abtholutely pritheless, Inthpector!'

'Perhaps you could tell us a little more about the Wolvercote Tongue, sir.'

Kemp was well prepared. He opened his black brief-case, took out a pile of pale-blue leaflets, and handed one across the desk to Morse, one to Lewis.

The Wolvercote Jewel

During the last century or so archaeologists and historians have become increasingly conscious of the splendid workmanship of the late Saxon period, and the discovery in 1931 of a gold 'buckle' at Wolvercote had been extremely exciting. Particularly so since this buckle linked up with a corresponding 'tongue', fully documented and authenticated, known to be in the collection of one Cyrus C. Palmer Jnr, a citizen of Pasadena, California. The cloisonné enamel of the pear-shaped tongue, set in a solid gold frame, decorated in a distinctive type of delicate filigree, and set (originally) with three large ruby-stones, appeared to match the Ashmolean buckle with exact precision. And if further proof were sought, the tongue's lettering — [AE]LFRED¹ MEC HE[HT GEWYR] CAN — was identical in figuration and engravure to that of the gold buckle — into which (as all experts now concur) the tongue had once fitted.

¹ Alfred the Great, AD 871–901. For a full discussion, see Pre-Conquest Craftsmanship in Southern Britain, Theodore S. Kemp, Babbington Press, June 1991.