'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.
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.