The Jewel That Was Ours (41 page)

For the first time during Morse's analysis, his audience was seen reluctantly to smile as it acknowledged the primacy of the perpetually belly-aching little lady from California.

'Once she had the key, and whilst her husband signed the formalities, she was to go up to her room, put the handbag containing the Tongue - and money, pearls, and so on - on a ledge as near as possible to a door which was going to be left deliberately ajar. Meanwhile Eddie Stratton was to enthuse about a quick stroll around the centre of Oxford before it got too dark, and an invitation to accompany him was accepted by Mrs Brown, a woman with whom he'd become friendly on the tour, and who probably felt a little flattered to be asked. All he had to do then was to make it known that he had promised to leave Laura alone so that she could have a rest in peace, to make an excuse about paying a brief visit to the Gents, to go up to bis room - probably via the guest-lift - to stick his hand inside the room and grab the handbag, to take out the jewel before dumping the handbag, and then . . .'

Morse stopped, but only briefly. 'Not a
terribly
convincing hypothesis, are you thinking? I tend to agree with you. Everyone would be trying to use the lift at that point -probably queuing for it. And it would be impossible to use the main staircase, because as you'll recall it is immediately next to Reception there. And where does he ditch the emptied handbag? For it was never found. However quickly he may have acted, the actual taking of the handbag must have taken more
time
than seems to have been available - since Eddie Stratton and Shirley Brown were seen walking out of The Randolph almost immediately, if the evidence of at least two of you here is to be believed, the evidence of Mr Brown and Mrs Roscoe. So! So I suggest that something a little more sophisticated may have taken place. Let me tell you what I think. The plan, whatever it was, must have been discussed well in advance of the tour's arrival in Oxford, but a few last-minute recapitulations and reassurances would have been almost inevitable. Perhaps you've noticed that it's often difficult, on a bus or a train, to assess how loudly you are talking? Yes? Too loudly? And where were the Strattons sitting?' Morse pointed dramatically (as he hoped) to the two empty seats just behind Janet Roscoe. 'If they
did
discuss things on the coach, who were the likeliest people to eavesdrop? I'm told, for example, that you, Mrs Roscoe, have quite exceptionally acute hearing for a woman of—'

This time the little lady stood up, if thereby adding only some seven or eight inches in stature to her seated posture. 'Such innuendo, Chief Inspector, is wholly without foundation, and I wish you to know that one of my friends back home is the fiercest libel lawyer—'

But, again, and with the same patient smile, Morse bade the excitable lady to hold her peace, and bide her time.

'You were not the only one in earshot, Mrs Roscoe. In the seats immediately across the gangway from the Strattons sat

Mr and Mrs Brown . . . and in front of them, in the courier's seat. . .' Eyes, including Morse's, now turned as if by some magnetic attraction towards John Ashenden, who sat, his eyes unblinking, in the front row of the seats.

'You see,' resumed Morse, 'Stratton never went up at all to his room in The Randolph - not at that point. But someone did, someone
here
did - someone who had overheard enough of the original plan; someone who had sensed a wonderfully providential opportunity for himself, or for herself, and who had capitalised upon that opportunity. How? By volunteering to steal the Wolvercote Tongue, in order that the Strattons could immediately claim - claim without any suspicion attaching to them - the tempting prize of the insurance money!

'Let me put the situation to you simply. The person who had eavesdropped on the proposed intrigue
performed Stratton's job for him;
stole the jewel; slid thereafter into the background; and disposed at leisure of the superfluous pearls and the petty cash. And
that,
ladies and gentlemen, is no wild hypothesis on my part; it is the truth. Stratton was presented with an offer he could hardly refuse. At the time, though, he was not aware - could never have been aware - of the extraordinary service he would have to render as the
quid pro quo
of the agreement. But he was to learn about it soon enough. In fact, he was to learn of it the very next day, and he duly performed his cwn half of the bargain with a strangely honourable integrity. As it happens' - Morse consulted his watch ostentatiously - 'he is very shortly due to take off from Kennedy Airport to fly back to Heathrow, and he has already made a substantial confession about his part in the strange circumstances surrounding the Wolvercote Tongue and Dr Theodore Kemp. But - please believe me! - it was not
he
who actually stole the one
...
or murdered the other. Yet I am looking forward to meeting Mr Stratton again, because thus far he has refused point-blank to tell me who the murderer was . . .'

* * *

At the Trout Inn, the frogmen were now seated before a blazing log-fire in the bar. The landlady, an attractive, buxom woman in her mid-forties, had brought them each a hugely piled plate of chilli-con-carne, with a pint of appropriately chilly lager to wash it all down. None of the four had met Morse yet, and didn't know how strongly he would have disapproved of their beverage. But they knew they were working for him, and each of them was hoping that if the jewel were found it would be
he
who would have found it. Some acknowledgement, some gratitude from the man - that was an end devoutly to be wished.

But still nothing. Nothing, that is, except a child's tricycle, an antique dart-board, and what looked like part of a fixture from a household vacuum-cleaner.

Frequently, when Eddie Stratton had flown in the past, his heart had missed a beat or two whenever he heard the 'ding-dong' tones on the aircraft intercom. Indeed, he had sometimes felt that the use of such a system, except in times of dire emergency, should be prohibited by international law. No one Eddie had ever met wished to be acquainted with the pilot and his potential problems. So why not keep an eye on the steering, and forgo any announcement to interested passengers that there was now, say, a splendid view of the Atlantic Ocean down below?
No
announcements,
no
news - that's what passengers wanted. But now, ten minutes before takeoff, Stratton felt most curiously relaxed about the possibility of an aerial disaster. Would such an eventuality be a welcome release? No, not really. He would speak to Morse again, yes. But Morse would never learn - at least not from
him
- the name of the person who had murdered Theodore Kemp.

And as the smart ship grew In stature, grace, and hue, In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too
(Thomas Hardy,
'The Convergence of the Twain')

Sergeant Lewis had been gratified by the brief mention of himself in despatches, and he was in any case revising (upwards) his earlier judgement on Morse's rhetorical skills. All right, he (Lewis) now knew the whole picture, but it was good to have the details rehearsed again in front of a different audience. He had never been near the top of the class in any of the subjects he had been taught at school, yet he'd often thought he wouldn't have been all that far below the high-fliers if only some of the teachers had been willing to go over a point a second time; or even a third time. For once Lewis
did
get hold of a thing firmly - suggestion, idea, hypothesis, theory - he could frequently see its significance, its implications, almost as well as anyone; even Morse. It was just that the initial stages were always a bit of a problem; whereas for Morse - well,
he
seemed to jump to a few answers here and there before he'd even read the question-paper. That was one of the big things he admired most about the man, that ability to leap ahead of the field almost from the starting-stalls - albeit occasionally finding himself on completely the wrong race-course. But it wasn't the
biggest
thing. The biggest thing was that Morse appeared to believe that Lewis was not only usually up with him in the race, galloping happily abreast, but that Lewis could sometimes spot something in the stretches ahead that Morse himself had missed, as the pair of them raced on towards the winning-post. It was ridiculous, of course. But Lewis ever found himself trusting that such a false impression might long be perpetuated.

The man's diction is slightly pedantic, thought Dr Moule, but he actually speaks in
sentences
- unusual even for a preacher, let alone a policeman. And - heaven be praised! - he doesn't stand there with his hands jingling the coins in his pockets. He reminded her of her Latin master, on whom she'd had an extra-special crush, and she wondered whether she wouldn't have had the same for this man. He looked overweight around the midriff, though nowhere else, and she thought perhaps that he drank too much. He looked weary, as if he had been up most of the night conducting his investigations. He looked the sort of man she would like to be going with, and she wondered whether he'd ever been unfaithful to his wife . . . But surely no wife would allow her husband abroad in such an off-white apology for a laundered shirt? Dr Moule smiled quietly, and trusted she was looking her attractive best; and tried to stop herself hoping he had holes in his socks.

As the TWA Tristar turned slowly at the head of the runway, Lieutenant Al Morrow tried to pull out a final inch or two from the safety-belt that clamped his enormous girth to the seat. At the same time he unfastened the handcuffs which united him to his fellow-passenger. Morrow had a good deal of experience of the criminal classes, but this particular villain was hardly one of the potentially-dangerous-on-no-account-to-be-accosted variety. OK. He'd accompany him to the loo. But for the rest, the fellow would be fine, imprisoned in his window-seat between the fuselage on the one side and the mighty mountain of flesh that was Morrow on the other. The lieutenant opened his reading matter,
The Finer Arts of Fly-Fishing,
and, as the great jet raced and roared its engines, glanced quickly once again at the man who sat beside him: the features immobile, yet in no way relaxed; the eyes staring, yet perhaps not seeing at all; the forehead unfurrowed, yet tense, it seemed, as though his mind was dwelling on unhappy memories.

'You want sump'n to read, pal?'

Stratton shook his head.

It was as the lieutenant had suspected . . .

...
It had been extraordinary how the two things had synchronised so perfectly at Oxford: a bit like the iceberg growing as the SS
Titanic
drew ever closer.

It was Laura's fault, of course! The woman could never keep her voice down - a voice that was usually double the decibels needed in normal conversation; and in whispered, conspiratorial communication, just about as loud as normal speech. And particularly on any form of public transport the dotty but endearing old biddy could never seem to gauge the further limits of her penetrating tones. Constantly, had she been fitted with a volume-control attachment somewhere about her person, Stratton would have turned it down. Frequently, as it was, he had inquired of his fairly recently acquired bride whether she was anxious for
the whole world
to know her business! Well, perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration. Yet someone
had
overheard their plan; or heard enough of their plan to make a firm four out of two and two. And the glory of the thing had been that this someone had been just as anxious - more anxious! - to spirit away the Wolvercote Tongue as Laura was. As
he
was.