The Jewel That Was Ours (19 page)

Left home earlyish for his visit by rail to London to see his publishers; been picked up by taxi at about 7.20 a.m., almost certainly to catch the 07.59, arriving Paddington at 09.03; obviously with only some fairly quick business to transact, since he'd appeared confident of meeting his commitments with the tourists at lunchtime at The Randolph, and then again during the afternoon; likely as not, then, he would originally have intended to catch the 11.30 from Paddington, arriving Oxford at 12.30.

'Have you checked with BR?'

'No need.' Lewis reached inside his breast-pocket and handed Morse the Oxford-London London-Oxford Network South-East timetable; but apart from briefly checking the arrival time of the 13.30 from Paddington, Morse seemed less than enthusiastic.

'Did you know, Lewis, that before nine o'clock the third-class rail fare—' 'Second-class, sir!'

'—is about, what, seven times - eight times! - more expensive than getting a coach from Gloucester Green to Victoria?'

'Five
times, actually. The coach fare's—' 'We ought to be subsidising public transport, Lewis!' 'You're the politician, sir - not me.' 'Remember Ken Livingstone? He subsidised the tube, and everybody used the tube.' 'Then they kicked him out.' 'You know what Ken Livingstone's an anagram of?' 'Tell me!'

' "Votes Lenin King." ‘

'They wouldn't be voting him king now, though.' 'I thought you might be interested in that little snippet of knowledge, that's all.' 'Sorry, sir.'

‘Why are you driving so slowly?'

'I make it a rule never to drive at more than forty-five in a built-up area.'

Morse made no reply, and two minutes later Lewis drew up in front of The Randolph.

'You've not forgotten Ashenden, have you, sir? I mean, he was the one who took the call from Kemp - and he was the one who wasn't looking round Magdalen.'

'I'd not forgotten Mr Ashenden,' said Morse quietly, opening the passenger door. 'In fact I'll get him to organise a little something for me straightaway. I'm sure that all these tourists
- almost
all these tourists - are as innocent as your missus is—'

'But one of 'em writes these peculiar sevens, right?'

'They're not "peculiar"! If you live on the Continent its
ours
that look peculiar.'

'How do we find out which one it is?'

Morse permitted himself a gentle grin: 'What date did the tour start?'

Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?

(Book of Common Prayer, Solemnization of Matrimony)

At just after 9.30 a.m., Morse sat with Lewis, Ashenden, Sheila Williams, and the (now fully apprised) Manager of The Randolph in a first-floor suite which the latter had readily put at police disposal. Without interruption, quietly, quickly, Morse spoke.

'I've no wish to hold up the tour a minute longer than necessary, Mr Ashenden, but I've got certain duties in this case which will involve your co-operation. Likewise, sir' (to the Manager) 'I shall be grateful if you can help in one or two practical ways - I'll tell you how in a few minutes. Mrs Williams, too - I shall. . . we, Sergeant Lewis and I, shall be grateful for your help as well.'

Morse proceeded to expound his preliminary strategy.

The tour, originally scheduled to leave at 9.30 a.m., could not now leave until well after a buffet lunch, if this latter could be arranged by the kitchen staff (the Manager nodded). A meeting of all the tourists would be summoned straightaway (Ashenden felt a pair of unblinking blue eyes upon him) - summoned to meet
somewhere
in the hotel (the Manager nodded again - the St John's Suite was free), and Morse himself would then address the group and tell them as much or as little as he wanted to tell them, believing, he admitted, that Rumour had probably lost little of her sprinting speed since Virgil's time, and that most of the tourists already had a pretty good idea of what had happened. After that meeting had finished, it would help police enquiries if the tourists could be kept amused for the rest of the morning. And if Mrs Williams - and how very grateful Morse was that she'd agreed to his earlier telephone request to be present! - if Mrs Williams could possibly think of some diversion . . . some talk, some walk. Yes, that would be excellent.

So! There was much to be done fairly quickly, was there not?

Ashenden left immediately, with the manifold brief of herding his flock together, of informing the coach-driver of the postponed departure, of phoning Broughton Castle to cancel the special out-of-season arrangements; of explaining to the Stratford hotel the cancellation of the thirty lunches booked for 1 p.m.; and finally of reassuring the lunchtime guest-speaker from the Royal Shakespeare Company that her fee would still be paid.

The Manager was the next to leave, promising that his secretary could very quickly produce thirty photocopies of the brief questionnaire that Morse had roughed out:

Name
 

Home address

(c) Whereabouts 3-6.30 p.m., Friday 2nd Nov.

(d) Name of one fellow-tourist able to corroborate details given in (c)

Date of arrival in UK
          

Signature
      
Date

Sheila Williams, however, appeared less willing to cooperate than her colleagues: 1 willingly agreed to come here, Inspector - you know that. But my only specialism is mediaeval manuscripts, and quite honestly not many of this lot are going to be particularly ecstatic about
them,
are they? I could - well, I
will,
at a pinch - traipse around these inhabited ruins and try to remember whether Queens is apostrophe "s" or "s" apostrophe. But like Dr Johnson I must plead ignorance, Inspector - sheer ignorance.'

Here Lewis chipped in with his first contribution: 'What about shipping them all off on one of these circular tours -you know, on the buses?'

Morse nodded.

'Or,' pursued an encouraged Lewis,' "The Oxford Story"
- brilliant,
that!'

'They went on it yesterday - most of them,' said Sheila.

'I suppose we could just ask them to stay in their rooms and watch the telly,' mused Morse; but immediately withdrew the suggestion. 'No! People will be arriving—'

'They could just walk around Oxford, couldn't they, sir? I mean there's an awful lot to see here.'

'Christ, Lewis! That's what I suggested, at the
start.
Don't you remember?'

'What about Cedric, Inspector?' (This from Sheila.) 'I'm pretty sure he's free this morning, and he's a wonderfully interesting man once he gets going.'

'Could he do the sort of talk Dr Kemp was going to give yesterday?'

'Well, perhaps not that. But he's a bit of a Renaissance Man, if you know what I mean. The only thing he's a bit dodgy on is modern architecture.'

'Good! That's fine, then. If you could ring this polymath pal of yours, Mrs Williams . . . ?'

'He'd take far more notice of
you
if you rang him, Inspector. And
...
he probably won't know yet about—'

'Not unless he was the one who murdered Kemp,' interposed Morse quietly.

* **

Cedric Downes had himself been on the phone for about five minutes, trying frustratedly to contact British Rail about times of trains to London that day; yet he could have had little notion of the irrational and frenetic impatience of the man who was trying to contact
him;
a man who was betweenwhiles cursing the incompetence of British Telecom and bemoaning the cussedness of the Universe in general.

'Hullo! Is that British Rail?' (It was, by the sound of it, Mrs Downes, surely.) 'What?' answered Morse.

'Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that my husband couldn't get through to BR, and he rang the operator and I thought. . .' Clearly Mrs Downes had little idea
what
she'd thought. Her manner was rather endearingly confused, and Morse switched on what he sometimes saw in himself as a certain charm.

'I do know what you mean. I've been trying to get your number . . . er . . . Mrs Downes, isn't it?'

'Yes. I'm Mrs Downes. Can I help you?'

'If you will. Chief Inspector Morse here.'

‘Oh!’

'Look, I'd much rather be talking to you than . . .'

'Ye-es?' The voice, as before, sounded a little helpless, more than a little vulnerable. And Morse liked it.

'. . . but is your husband in?'

'Ah! You want Cedric. Just a minute.'

She must, thought Morse, have put her hand over the mouthpiece, or perhaps Downes himself had been waiting silently (for some reason?) beside the phone, for there was no audible summons before a man's voice sounded in his ear.

'Inspector? Cedric Downes here. Can I be of help?'

'Certainly, if you will, sir. We have a bit of a crisis here with the American Tour. I'm speaking from The Randolph, by the way. The sad news is—'

'I know.' The voice was flat and unemotional. 'Theo's dead - I already knew.'

'Do you mind telling me
how
you know?'