The Jewel That Was Ours

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.

CHAPTER TWELVE

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!