by Colin Dexter
-[AE]LFRED 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.
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.
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.
'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 DLitt 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.
12
Water taken in moderation cannot hurt anybody
(Mark Twain)
Pouring a modicum of slim-line tonic into the large gin that her present drinking companion had just purchased for her, Sheila Williams asked the key question: 'Might you have to cancel the rest of the tour, John?'
'Oh, I don't think it need come to that. I mean, they've all paid for it, haven't they? Obviously we could refund if, well, if Mr Stratton or—'
'He's fine. I've spoken to him. You haven't.'
'I can't do everything, you know.'
'Please don't misunderstand me, John, but wasn't it perhaps a little unfortunate that you were nowhere within hailing distance when one of your charges busts her arteries and gets burgled into the bargain?'
Ashenden took a sip from his half-pint glass of bitter, appearing to acknowledge the truth of what Sheila had just said, though without volunteering any further comment. He'd once read (or heard) - Disraeli, was it? (or Jimmy Bowden?) - that a man ought never to apologise; never to explain.
He did neither now.
'We go ahead with everything, Sheila - except for the presentation bit, of course.' 'Unless they find it.' 'Which they won't.' 'Which they won't,' agreed Sheila. 'In spite of this
fellow—'
'That's him!' whispered Sheila, laying a beautifully manicured hand across Ashenden's fore-arm. 'That’s Morse!' Ashenden looked across at the greying man, of middle
height and middle age, who beamed briefly at the brunette behind the bar as he ordered a pint of best bitter.
'Drinks too much - beer,' volunteered Ashenden, sticking in the last word rapidly as he found Sheila's eyes switch to his with a glare of displeasure. 'Bit overweight - round the middle - that's all I meant.'
'Yes! I know.' Her eyes softened, and Ashenden was aware - had often been aware - that he found her attractive, especially (what a cussed world it all was!) as she was now, when all that seemed required was a pair of strong arms to cart her up to the nearest bed.
But she suddenly ruined every bloody thing!
She had moved closer to him, and spoke close to his ear -softly and sensuously: 'I shouldn't really tell you this, John, but I find him awfully attractive. Sort of, you know, dishy, and . . . sexy . . .'
Ashenden removed the hand that had found his sleeve once more. 'For Christ's sake, Sheila!'
'Clever, too, John! Very clever - so they say.'
'And what's that supposed to mean?' Ashenden's voice sounded needlessly tense.
'I'll tell you,' replied Sheila, the clarity of her articulation beginning to disintegrate: 'He's going to wanna know wha' – wha’ you were up to between - between - about - four-thirty and five-fifteen.'
'What's that got to do with Aim?'
'It's not me wants to know, darling. All I say is, that's . . . that's wha' he's goin' to ashk - ask you. That's wha' he's goin' to ask everybody’
Ashenden looked down silently at his drink.
'Where were you, John?' (Was the lovely Sheila sober once again already?)
'There's no law against anyone having a look round the colleges, is there?'
'Quite a few people were wondering where you'd got
to—'
'I've just told you, for heaven's sake!'
'But where exactly was it you went, John? Tell me! Come on! Tell mummy all about it!'
Ashenden decided to humour her: 'If you must know I went and had a look round Magdalen—'
But he got no further. A few yards away Morse was walking towards the Bar-Annexe as Sheila greeted him:
'Inspector! Inspector Morse! Come and join us!'
Morse's half-smile, grudging and potentially aloof, suggested he might have preferred his own company. But Sheila was patting the settee beside her, and Morse found himself looking down into the same dark-brown, pleading eyes that had earlier held such a curious fascination for him on the floor above.
'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 requesting 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, air!' corrected Roy Halford as he watched the chief inspector step carefully - a little too carefully? - down the shallow steps and out to Beaumont Street.
13
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 co
nsidered -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 hypothesise! 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.
