by Colin Dexter
There was a sudden communal intake of breath from the audience, and clearly no need for Morse to spell things out further. But he did:
'Yes! Afr Eddie Stratton:
'No, sir!'
The voice from the back of the room caused every head to crane round, although the mild tones of Phil Aldrich were known so well by now to everyone.
'You have my testimony, sir, and you have Eddie's too that we—'
'Mr Aldrich! I do accept your point, and I shall explain. Let us return to Stratton briefly. He had become a small-time mortician, specialising in the beautification - please allow the word! - of corpses that had died an ugly or disfiguring death. And a bachelor. Until two and a bit years ago, that is, when he met and married the widow of a middle-bracket philanthropist. The marriage was mostly an accommodation of interests; a convenience. Eddie did the shopping, tended the garden, mended the taps and the fuses, and serviced the family car. Laura - Laura Stratton as she now was - was reasonably content with the new arrangements: she was less anxious about burglars, she was chauffeured to her twice-weekly consultations with the latest chiropodist, she forgot most of her worries about the upkeep of the household, and she still found herself able to indulge the twin passions of her life, smoking cigarettes and playing contract bridge -simultaneously, wherever possible.
'But there had been disappointed expectations, on both sides, when the estate of the late philanthropist had finally, well almost finally, been settled, with the lawyers still growing fat on the pickings. Objets d’art there were aplenty, but most of them were held in trust for some collection or gallery. And so the prospects of a happily-monied marriage of convenience were ever diminishing, until an idea occurred to the pair of them - certainly to Laura Stratton. The Wolvercote Tongue was insured for half a million dollars, and one of the safest ways of transferring it over to England had got to be on the person of the traveller: few people would entrust such an item to letter-post or parcel-post or courier-service; and even if they did, the insurance-risk premium would be prohibitive. So the Strattons took it themselves - and then made sure it was stolen. That was their plan. The reason the plan went so sadly askew was the not-wholly-unexpected but extremely untimely death of Laura Stratton herself, though whether this was occasioned by her own complicity, excitement, remorse - whatever! - we shall never really know. The plan - a simple one - was for the Tongue to be stolen immediately after Laura had installed herself in her room at The Randolph. She would be sure to make such a song and dance about her aching feet that she would get right to the head of the queue for the room-key -well, apart from Mrs Roscoe, naturally!'
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.
56
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.
It had been the night at the University Arms in Cambridge that Plan B had been agreed. Such a simple plan, that 'plan' seemed far too grand an appellation: audibly (not a difficult task!) Laura would complain about her feet on the journey to Oxford; quite naturally (for her regular seat was on the row second to the front) she would be first in the queue at Reception in The Randolph - even Mrs Roscoe probably conceding her customary prerogative; she would leave her handbag immediately inside the allocated, unlocked bedroom; she would take a bath; she would leave the thief the childishly simple assignment of putting a hand inside the door. His own role? Principally to keep as far away from his room as possible. The police (no way in which they could not be involved) would be primarily interested in who was going to profit from any insurance, and he, Stratton himself, would have to vie with Caesar's wife in immunity from any suspicion. As it happened, he'd already prepared the ground for that by making something of a fuss of Shirley Brown; not at all difficult, because he wanted to make a fuss of Shirley Brown; and that lady had been flattered to follow his suggestion for a twilit stroll round Radcliffe Square - a stroll on which they'd seen their courier, Ashenden, and in turn been seen by the all-seeing Roscoe, a woman whom no one could abide, yet one whom everyone believed. Clever little touch, that! The problem that had worried Stratton about the earlier (now discarded) Plan A was where on earth he was going to dispose of the handbag. But need he have worried? Would it really have mattered if the bag had been found fairly soon in the nearest litter-bin? No, it wouldn't! The only thing that had to be disposed of was the jewel itself - not only because the insurance money must not be put in jeopardy, but also because someone else desired Kemp to be deprived of it. Desired it desperately.
Then Laura had to put her foot in it! Put her goddamned, aching, corny, foot right in it.
She'd gone and died.
Not that he (Stratton) had been involved in any way in that first death. No! But as far as the second death was concerned? Ah! That was a different matter. And whatever happened he would never tell the whole truth about that to anyone - not voluntarily - not even to that smart-alec copper, Chief Inspector Morse himself.
Yet he respected the man; couldn't help it, remembering the initial broadside on the transatlantic telephone, when Morse had immediately breached the outer fortifications.
'No, Inspector. There's nothing I can tell you about Kemp's death. Nothing.'
'I was more interested in the jewel, sir.'
'Ah! "The jewel that was
ours", as Laura used to think of it.' 'Come off it!' 'Pardon, Inspector?' 'I said "Bullshit!"'
57
What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet
(Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet)
Although it had been a rather chilly morning, several of the people seated in the Beau Nash Room wished that the central heating could be turned down a few degrees. Howard Brown wiped his high forehead with a large handkerchief, and John Ashenden brushed the sleeve of his sports jacket across his upper lip where he felt the sweat-prickles forming. Morse himself drew a forefinger half a circuit round the neck of his slightly over-tight collar, and continued:
'I know who stole the Wolvercote Tongue. I know where it is, and I am quite sure that it will soon be recovered. I also know which one of you - which one of you here - killed Dr Kemp.' The hush was now so intense that Lewis found himself wondering whether his involuntary swallow had been audible, as for thirty seconds or so Morse stood silent and still, only his eyes moving left and right, and left and right again across the central aisle. No one in the audience moved either. No one dared even to cough.
'I'd hoped that the guilty person would have come forward by now. I say that because you may have read of several cases in England recently where the police have been criticised - in some cases rightly so - for depending for a prosecution on the uncorroborated confessions of accused persons, confessions which, certainly in one or two cases, might have been extorted in less than safe and satisfactory circumstances. How much better it would have been, then, if Kemp's murderer came forward - comes forward - in the presence of his friends and fellow tourists . . .' Morse again looked around the room; but if there were any one person upon whom those blue eyes focused, it was not apparent to the others seated there. 'No?'
