The Jewel That Was Ours

'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 cloisonne 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]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.

? 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