'I, er—'
'Meet John Ashenden, Inspector — our leader!'
Morse nodded across, hesitated, then surrendered, now positioning himself and his pint with exaggerated care.
'John was just saying he'd been round Magdalen this afternoon. That's right, isn't it, John?'
'Yep. It's, er, not a college I've ever got to know really. Wonderful though, isn't it? I'd known about the deer-park, but I'd never realised what a beautiful walk it was along the Cherwell there — those hundreds of acres of fields and gardens. As well as the tower, of course. Surely one of the finest towers in Europe, wouldn't you agree, Inspector?'
Morse nodded, seeming that evening to have a particular predisposition to nodding. But his brain was suddenly engaged, as it had never been engaged at any other point since arriving on the scene.
He had always claimed that when he had to think he had to drink — a dictum indulgently interpreted by his colleagues as an excellent excuse for the disproportionate amount of time the chief inspector seemed to spend at various bars. Yet Morse himself was quite convinced of its providential truth; and what is more, he knew that the obverse of this statement was similarly true; that when he was drinking he was invariably thinking! And as Ashenden had just spoken, Morse's blue eyes had narrowed slightly and he focused on the leader's face with a sudden hint of interest, and just the slightest tingle of excitement.
It was twenty minutes later, after a dinner during which they had spoken little, that Howard and Shirley Brown sat brooding over their iced tomato-juices at a table just inside the main bar.
'Well,' maintained Howard, 'you've gotten yourself an alibi OK, Shirl. I mean, you and Eddie. No prarblem! What about me, though?' He grinned wryly, good-humouredly: 'I'm lying there next door to Laura, right? If I'd wanted to, well—'
'What you thinking of, honey? Murder? Theft? Rape?'
'You don't think I'm capable of rape, Shirl!'
'No, I don't!' she replied, cruelly.
'And you saw Ashenden, you say. That gives him an alibi, too.'
'Half an alibi.'
'He saw you—you're sure?'
'Sure. But I don't reckon he thought we saw him.'
'Down Holywell Street, you say?'
'Uh-huh! I noticed the sign.'
'What's down there?'
'Eddie looked it up on the street map. New College, then Magdalen College — that's without the "e".'
DCs Hodges and Watson were now going systematically through their lists; and, almost simultaneously, Hodges was re-questing both Mrs. Williams and Mr. Ashenden to accompany him to the Manager's office, with Watson asking Howard and Shirley Brown if they would please mind answering a few questions in the deserted ballroom.
On the departure of his two drinking companions — the lady reluctantly, the gentleman with fairly obvious relief — Morse looked again at the Osbert Lancaster paintings on the walls around him and wondered if he really liked these illustrations for Zuleika Dobson. Perhaps, though, he ought at last to read Beerbohm's book; even discover whether she was called 'Zuleeka' or 'Zuleyeka'.
His glass was empty and he returned to the bar, where Michelle, the decidedly bouncy brunette, declined to accept his proffered payment.
'The lady, sir. The one that was with you. She paid.'
'Uh?'
'She just said to get a pint for you when you came up for a refill.'
'She said "when", did she?'
'She probably knows your habits, sir,' said Michelle, with an understanding smile.
Morse went to sit in the virtually deserted Annexe now, and thought for more than a few minutes of Sheila Williams. He'd had a girl-friend called Sheila when he'd been an undergraduate just across St. Giles' at St. John's — the very college from which A. E. Housman, the greatest Latinist of the twentieth century, had also been kicked out minus a degree. A hundred years ago in Housman's case, and a thousand years in his own. Sheila. the source, in Milton's words, of all our woe.
After his fourth pint of beer, Morse walked out to Reception and spoke to the senior concierge.
'I've got a car in the garage.'
'I'll see it's brought round, sir. What's the number?'
'Er. ' For the moment Morse could not recall the number. 'No! I'll pick it up in the morning if that's all right.'
'You a resident here, sir?'
'No! It's just that I don't want the police to pick me up on the way home.'
'Very sensible, sir. I'll see what I can do. Name? Can I have your name?'
'Morse. Chief Inspector Morse.'
'They wouldn't pick you up, would they?'
'No? Funny lot the police, you know.'
'Shall I call a taxi?'
'Taxi? I'm walking. I only live at the top of the Banbury Road, and a taxi'd cost me three quid at this time of night. That's three pints of beer.'
'Only two here, sir!' corrected Roy Halford as he watched the chief inspector step carefully — a little too carefully? — down the shallow steps and out to Beaumont Street.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Solvitur ambulando
(The problem is solved by walking around)
(Latin proverb)
AS HE WALKED UP the Banbury Road that Thursday night, Morse was aware that by this time Lewis would know considerably more than he did about the probable contents of Laura Stratton's handbag, the possible disposition of the loot, and the likely circle of suspects. Yet he was aware, too, that his mind seemed — was! — considerably more lucid than he deserved it to be, and there were a few facts to be considered — certainly more facts than Lewis had gleaned in his school-days about Alfred the Great.
Facts: carrying her handbag, a woman had gone up to Room 310 at about 4.35 p.m.; this woman had not been seen alive again — or at least no one so far would admit to seeing her alive again; inside 310 a bath had been run and almost certainly taken; a coffee-sachet and a miniature tub of cream had been used; a DO NOT DISTURB sign had been displayed on the outside door-knob at some point, with the door itself probably left open; the woman's husband had returned at about 5.15 p.m., and without reporting to Reception had gone up to the third floor, in the guest-lift, with a fellow tourist (female); thence a hurried scuttle down to Reception via the main staircase where a duplicate key was acquired. On finally gaining access to his room, the husband had discovered his wife's body on the floor, presumably already dead; the hotel's house-doctor had arrived some ten or fifteen minutes later, and the body duly transferred from floor to bed — all this by about 5.40 p.m. At some point before, during, or after these latter events, the husband himself had noticed the disappearance of his wife's handbag; and at about 6 p.m. a call had been received by St. Aldate's CID with a request for help in what was now looking a matter of considerably more moment than any petty theft.
Yes, those were the facts.
So move on, Morse, to a few non-factual inferences in the problem of the Wolvercote Tongue. Move on, my son — and hypothesize! Come on, now! Who could have stolen it?
Well, in the first place, with the door to 310 locked, only those who had a key: the Manager, the housekeeper, the room-maids — namely, anyone with, or with access to, a duplicate key to the aforementioned room. Not the husband. In the second place, with the door to 310 open, a much more interesting thieves' gallery was open to view: most obviously, anyone at all who would happen to be passing and who had glimpsed, through the open door, a handbag that had proved too tempting an opportunity. Open to such temptation (if not necessarily susceptible to it) would have been the room-maids, the occupants of nearby rooms, any casual passer-by. But just a moment! Room 310 was off the main corridor, and anyone in its immediate vicinity would be there for a reason: a friend, perhaps, with a solicitous enquiry about the lady's feet; a fellow tourist wanting to borrow something; or learn something. Then there was Ashenden. He'd said he would be going around at some point to all the rooms to check up on the sachets, shampoos, soaps, switches. Opportunity? Yes! But hardly much of a motive, surely? What about the three guest speakers? Out of the question, wasn't it? They hadn't been called to the colours at that point — weren't even in The Randolph. Forget them! Well, no — not altogether, perhaps; not until Lewis had checked their statements.