The Jewel That Was Ours

which the time of the final item that day had been crossed through boldly in blue Biro, with the entry now reading:

7.30 8.00 pm Dinner

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

You did not come,

And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb

(Thomas Hardy, A Broken Appointment)

THE PARKING PLOTS on either side of St. Giles' were now virtually empty and Morse drew the Jaguar in outside St. John's. It was two minutes past midnight when he walked through into the Chapters Bar, where a dozen or so late-night (early-morning) drinkers were still happily signing bills. Including Ashenden.

'Inspector! Can I get you a drink?'

After 'a touch of the malt' had been reasonably accurately translated by Michelle, the white-bloused, blue- skirted bar-maid, as a large Glenlivet, Morse joined Ashenden's table: 'Howard and Shirley Brown, Inspector — and Phil here, Phil Aldrich.' Morse shook hands with the three of them; and noted with approval the firm, cool handshake of Howard Brown, whose eyes seemed to Morse equally firm and cool as he smiled a cautious greeting. The reason for such a late session, Ashenden explained, was simple: Eddie Stratton. He had not been seen again since he was observed to leave the hotel just after lunch; observed by Mrs. Roscoe (who else?) — and also, as Morse knew, by Lewis himself. No one knew where he'd gone; everyone was worried sick; and by the look of her, Shirley Brown was worried the sickest: what could a man be doing at this time of night, for heaven's sake? Well, perhaps supping Glenlivet, thought Morse, or lying with some lovely girl under newly laundered sheets; and indeed he would have suggested to them that it was surely just a litde early to get too worried — when the night porter came through and asked Chief Inspector Morse if he was Chief Inspector Morse.

'How the hell did you know I was here, Lewis?'

'You said you were off home.'

'So why—?'

'No answer when I rang.'

'But how—?'

'I'm a detective, sir.'

'What do you want?'

A phone call made just before midnight to St. Aldate's Police Station had been relayed to the murder scene at Parson's Pleasure: Mrs. Marion Kemp, of 6 Cherwell Lodge, had reported that her husband, who had left for London early that morning, had still not arrived back home; that such an occurrence was quite unprecedented, and that she was beginning (had long begun!) to feel a little (a whole lot!) worried about him. She was herself a cripple, constantly in need of the sort of attention her husband had regularly given her in the evenings. She knew something, though not all, of his day's programme: she'd rung The Randolph at 10.45 p.m. and learned from the tour leader that her husband had not turned up at any point during the day to fulfil his commitments — and that in itself was quite out of character. After an evening of agonising and, now, almost unbearable waiting, she'd decided to ring the police.

Such was the message Lewis passed on, himself saying nothing for the moment of his own extraordinarily exciting find, but agreeing to pick up Morse in about ten minutes' time, after briefly reporting in to St. Aldate's.

'News? About Eddie?' asked an anxious Phil Aldrich, when the frowning Morse walked back into the bar.

Morse shook his head. 'We get all sorts of news, sir, in the Force: good news, sometimes — but mostly bad, of course. No news of Mr. Stratton, though. But I wouldn't worry too much, not about him, anyway. ' (the last words mumbled to himself). He wondered whether to tell the four of them seated there about the death of Dr. Kemp, for they'd have to know very soon anyway. But he decided they probably had enough on their minds for the moment; and swiftly tossing back the Glenlivet, he left them, making his way thoughtfully to the front entrance, and wondering something else: wondering whether any announcement of Kemp's death — Kemp's murder — would have come as too much of a surprise to one of the four people who still sat round their table in the Chapters Bar.

There was no time, however, for him to develop such a fascinating, and probably futile thought; for as he stood waiting on the pavement outside the hotel entrance, a taxi drew up, and with the help of the driver a very drunken man staggered stupidly into the foyer. Morse was usually reasonably tolerant about fellow-tipplers, and indeed occasionally rather enjoyed the company of slightly tipsy sirens; but the sight of this fellow pathetically fighting to extricate a wallet from an inner pocket, and then forking out and handing over three ?10 notes — such a sight filled even Morse with mild disgust. Yet at least it was all a bit of a relief, wasn't it?

For the man was Eddie Stratton!

Clearly there could be little point in interviewing Stratton then and there; and already a solicitous (if censorious) Shirley Brown on one side, and a business-like (if unsmiling) Howard Brown on the other, were guiding the prodigal son to the guest-lift. No! Stratton could wait. With any luck he'd still be there the following morning.

Unlike the taxi driver.

Morse caught the man's arm, and held him back as he was walking down the steps. 'You must have brought him quite a way?'

'You wha'?'

'Thirty quid? Must have been — Banbury, was it?'

'Yeah — could a' bin. Nothin' to do with you, mate.'

'I'm not your mate,' said Morse, fishing for his warranty.

'So? Wha's the trouble?'