The Jewel That Was Ours

'Heart attack. Massive coronary.'

'Thank you, Dr. — Swain, I think?'

'And you are?'

'I am Morse. Chief Inspector Morse.'

Swain got to his feet and handed Morse a sheet of paper, headed 'Oxfordshire Health Authority', with an impressively qualified column of medical men printed top right, in which (second from bottom) Morse read 'M. C. Swain, MA, MB, BCh, MRCP, MRCGP'.

'Congratulations!' said Morse.

'Pardon?'

'Sixteen, isn't it? Sixteen letters after your name, and I haven't got a single one after mine.'

'Well, er — that's how things go, isn't it? I'll be off now, if you don't mind. You've got my report. BMA dinner we've got this evening.'

Seldom was it that Morse took such an irrationally instant dislike to one of his fellow men; but there are always exceptions, and one of these was Dr. M. C. Swain, MA, MB, BCh, MRCP, MRCGP.

'I'm afraid no one leaves for the moment, Doctor. You know, I think, that we've got slightly more than a death here?'

'I'm told something valuable's been stolen. Yes, I know that. All I'm telling you is that the cause of death was a massive coronary. You can read it in that!' Swain flung his forefinger Morse's way, towards the sheet just handed over.

'Do you think that was before — or after — this valuable something went missing?'

'I–I don't know.'

'She died there — where she is now — on the bed?'

'On the floor, actually.'

Morse forced his features to the limits of credulity: 'You mean you moved her, Dr. Swain?'

'Yes!'

'Have you ever heard of murder in the furtherance of theft?'

'Of course! But this wasn't murder. It was a massive—'

'Do you really think it necessary to tell me things three times, sir?'

'I knew nothing about the theft. In fact I only learned about it five minutes ago — from the Manager.'

That's true, sir,' chipped in Lewis, greatly to Morse's annoyance.

'Yes, well, if the Doctor has a dinner to attend, Lewis — a BMA dinner! — who are we to detain him? It's a pity about the evidence, of course. But I suppose we shall just have to try our best to find the man — or the woman — responsible for this, er, this massive coronary, brought on doubtless by the shock of finding some thief nicking her valuables. Good evening, Doctor. Make sure you enjoy your dinner!' Morse turned to Lewis: 'Tell Max to get over here straightaway, will you? Tell him it's as urgent as they get.'

'Look, Inspector—' began Swain.

But Morse was doing a reasonably convincing impression of a deaf man who has just turned off his hearing-aid, and now silently held the door of Room 310 open as the disconcerted doctor was ushered out.

It was in the Manager's office, on the first floor of The Randolph, that for the first time Morse himself was acquainted with the broad outlines of the story. Laura Stratton had taken her key up to her room soon after 4.30 p.m.; she had earlier been complaining of feeling awfully weary; had taken a bath — presumably after hanging a DO NOT DISTURB notice outside her door; had been discovered at 5.20 p.m. when her husband, Mr. Eddie Stratton, had returned from a stroll around Broad Street with a fellow tourist, Mrs. Shirley Brown. He had found the door to 310 shut, and after being unable to get any response from within had hurried down to Reception in some incipient panic before returning upstairs to find. That was all really; the rest was elaboration and emotional overlay. Except of course for the handbag. But who is the man, with his wife lying dead on the carpet, who thinks of looking around to see if her handbag has disappeared?

Well, Mr. Eddie Stratton, it seemed.

And that for a most important reason.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Almost all modern architecture is farce

(Diogenes Small (1797–1812), Reflections)

THE RANDOLPH BOASTED many fine rooms for dinners, dances, conferences, and exhibitions: rooms with such splendid names as Lancaster, Worcester, and the like — and the St. John's Suite, a high-ceilinged room on the first floor where the reception had been arranged. In the daylight hours the view from the east window took in the Martyrs' Memorial, just across the street, with Balliol and St. John's Colleges behind. And even now, at 6.45 p.m., with the floral, carpet-length curtains drawn across, the room still seemed so light and airy, the twin candelabra throwing a soft light over the maroon and pink and brilliant-white decor. Even Janet Roscoe could find little to criticise in such a grandly appointed room.

Sheila Williams, a large gin and tonic in her left hand, was trying to be pleasantly hospitable: 'Now are we all here? Not quite I think? Have we all got drinks?'

News of Laura Stratton's death had been withheld from the rest of the group, with only Sheila herself being officially notified of that sad event. It was a burden for her, certainly; but also a wonderful excuse for fortifying the inner woman, and Sheila seldom needed any such excuse.

'Mrs. Roscoe! You haven't got a drink. What can I—?'

'I don't drink, Mrs. Williams!' Janet turned her head to a sheepish-looking Phil Aldrich, standing stoically beside her: 'I've already told her once, Phil!'

'Janet here is a deacon in our church back home, Mrs. Williams—'

But Sheila had already jerked into a tetchy rejoinder: 'Well I do drink, Mrs. Roscoe! In fact I'm addicted to the stuff. And my reasons for such addiction may be just as valid as your own reasons for abstinence. All right?'

With which well-turned sentence she walked back to the table just beside the main door whereon a dozen or so botdes of gin (Booth's and Gordon's), Martini (French and Italian), sherry (dry, medium, sweet) stood in competition with two large jugs of orange juice. She handed over her half-empty glass to the young girl dispensing the various riches.

'Gin — large one, please! — no ice — and no more tonic'

Thus, fully re-equipped for her duties, Sheila looked down once more at the yellow sheet of A4 which John Ashenden had earlier prepared, typed up, photocopied, and distributed. It was high time to get things moving. Of the tourists, only Howard and Shirley Brown (apart from Eddie Stratton) seemed now to be missing — no, that was wrong: apart from Eddie and Laura Stratton. Of the two distinguished speakers (three, if she herself were included), Theodore Kemp had not as yet put in an appearance. But the third of the trio, Cedric Downes, seemed to Sheila to be doing a splendid job as he stood behind a thinly fluted glass of dry sherry and asked, with (as she saw it) a cleverly concealed indifference, whence the tourists hailed and what their pre-retirement professions had been.

It was 7.25 p.m. before Dr. Kemp finally entered, in the company of a subdued-looking Ashenden; and it was almost immediately apparent to Sheila that both of them had now been informed of the disturbing events that had been enacted in the late afternoon. As her eyes had met Kemp's there was, albeit for a moment, a flash of mutual understanding and (almost?) of comradeship.

'Ladies and Gentlemen. ' Sheila knocked a table noisily and repeatedly with the bottom of an ash-tray, and the chatter subsided. 'Mr. Ashenden has asked me to take you through our Oxford itinerary — briefly! — so if you will all just look at your yellow sheets for a minute. ' She waved her own sheet; and then, without any significant addition (although with a significant omission) to the printed word, read vaguely through the dates and times of the itemised programme: