The Jewel That Was Ours

From the other end of the line there was no manic laughter; no silly protestation; no threat of lawyers to be consulted. Just the simple, gentle confession: 'Oh yes! Including that, Inspector.'

For the moment, Morse was completely wrong-footed, and he would have discontinued the exchange without further ado. But Downes himself was not quite finished:

'It was Sheila, I know that, who saw me yesterday afternoon. And I don't blame her in the slightest for telling you. If you have got a murder on your hands, it's the duty of all of us to report anything, however insignificant or innocent it may appear. So I may as well tell you straightaway. As I biked up St. Giles' yesterday afternoon I passed one of the group walking up to North Oxford. Would you like to know who that was, Inspector?'

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

It is a matter of regret that many low, mean suspicions turn out to be well founded

(Edgar Watson Howe, Ventures in Common Sense)

AS LEWIS SAW THINGS, Morse's talk to the tourists was not one of his chief's more impressive performances. He had informed his silent audience of the death — just 'death'—of Dr. Kemp; explained that in order to establish the, er, totality of events, it would be necessary for everyone to complete a little questionnaire (duly distributed), sign and date it, and hand it in to Sergeant Lewis; that the departure of the coach would have to be postponed until late afternoon, perhaps, with lunch by courtesy of The Randolph; that Mr. Cedric Downes had volunteered to fix something up for that morning, from about 10.45 to 12.15; that (in Morse's opinion) activity was a splendid antidote to adversity, and that it was his hope that all the group would avail themselves of Mr. Downes's kind offer; that if they could all think back to the previous day's events and try to recall anything, however seemingly insignificant, that might have appeared unusual, surprising, out-of-character — well, that was often just the sort of thing that got criminal cases solved. And here, sad to relate, was more than one case — not only the theft of a jewel, but also two deaths: of the person who was to present that jewel to the Ashmolean, and of the person who was to take official receipt of such benefaction.

When he had finished Morse had the strong feeling that what he had just implied was surely true: there must be some connection between the disturbing events which had developed so rapidly around the Wolvercote Tongue. Surely, too, it must be from within the group of American tourists, plus their tutors and their guide, that the guilty party was to be sought. And fifteen minutes later, with all the completed questionnaires returned, there was good reason to suppose that Morse could be right, since three of those concerned, Eddie Stratton, Howard Brown, and John Ashenden, appeared temporarily unable to provide corroboration of their individual whereabouts and activities during the key period of the previous afternoon — the afternoon when the original groups, three of them, had been re-formed slightly (following Kemp's telephone call), and when anyone wishing to absent himself for some purpose would have been presented with a wonderful opportunity so to do. And keeping check on who was doing what, and when, and where, could well have proved as complicated as calling the roll after Dunkirk.

For Morse, the information gleaned from the questionnaires was eminently pleasing; and when, at 10.50 a.m., Cedric Downes led the way out of The Randolph towards South Parks Road and the University Museum, with every single member of the group present (except Mr. Eddie Stratton), he looked tolerably pleased with himself. Especially of interest was the fact that one of the two men clearly experiencing difficulty with section (c) on the examination paper, Howard Brown (Morse wondered why his wife hadn't been willing to cover for him), had filled in section (e) with the correct date of arrival, 27 October; or, to be more precise about the matter, '27 October'.

Nor would Morse be forgetting the only man who had not been present at the meeting — the man who still lay with a wicked headache and a barely touched breakfast-tray beside him in Room 201, to which room Shirley Brown had shepherdessed him when, after his unexplained absence, he had reeled into The Randolph the previous night.

But it was with Ashenden that Morse's attention was immediately engaged. Ashenden! — the man whom Cedric Downes now claimed to have passed on his bicycle; the man who had lied about his visit to Magdalen; the man who, like Howard Brown (and possibly Eddie Stratton?), was as yet unable to produce a single witness to his whereabouts the previous afternoon.

Three of them. How easy it had been almost immediately to uncover three possible suspects for the murder of Theodore Kemp!

Too easy, perhaps?

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Myself when young did eagerly frequent

Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument

About it and about: but evermore

Came out by the same Door as in I went

(Edward FitzGerald, The Rubaiyat)

'HOW ARE YOU, MORSE?'

'Optimistic'

'Oh!' Max appeared disappointed by the reply as he peered down again at the grisly work on which he was engaged.

The contrast between the two men would have struck any observer that morning. The stout, hump-backed surgeon — circumspect, but perky and confident; Morse — looking distinctly weary, his jowls semi-shaven by an electric razor that had seemingly passed peak efficiency, and yet somehow, somewhere underneath, a man on the side of the angels.

'There's some deep bruising here,' began Max, pointing to Kemp's left temple, 'but the main blow'—he jerked the head towards him before caressing the crushed skull with a gentle reverence—'was here.'

Characteristically Morse sought to swallow back the bitter-tasting fluid that had risen in his gorge; and the surgeon, with understanding, pulled the rubber sheet over the head again.

'Bit messy, isn't it? Bled a lot, too. Whoever killed him had a bucket of blood to wipe away.'