The Jewel That Was Ours

And that was it.

The strong-bodied American, with his rugged features, had spoken with a quiet simplicity; and as he'd watched him and heard him, Morse thought he could well have enjoyed a pint with the fellow. Yet in Morse's view it was always a good idea to ask a few inconsequential questions. So he did.

'You say you had a drink at Oxford Station?'

'Yep.'

'Which platform would that have been on?'

'Search me! But the same side the train came in, I'd swear to it.'

'And they have booze there, do they?'

'Sure do! I had a can — coupla cans. Expensive it was, too.'

Lewis's eyebrows lifted under a frown, and he looked across at his chief: 'I'm afraid that's not right, sir. Mr. Stratton couldn't have got any beer or lager at Oxford Station — not yesterday. There was a great big notice outside: 'No Refreshments' or something like that, due to modernisation.'

' 'Owing to' modernisation, Lewis.'

'I've never known the difference.'

'No need. Just say 'because of' and you'll always be right.'

'As I was saying, sir, the buffet was shut.'

'Interesting point!' remarked Morse, suddenly turning again to a now distinctly uncomfortable-looking Stratton. 'So if you didn't stay on the station between about five-thirty and six-thirty, where exactly were you, sir?'

Stratton sighed deeply, and seemed to be pondering his position awhile. Then he sighed again, before opening the palms of his hands in a gesture of resignation. 'Your Sergeant's right, Inspector. I asked if I could get a drink anything. But, like he says, they were refurbishing all the places there. I did stay, though. I stayed about half an hour longer, perhaps. I'd gotten myself a Herald Tribune and I sat reading it on one of the red seats there.'

'Bit chilly, wasn't it?'

Stratton remained silent.

'Was there someone outside you didn't want to meet?' suggested Morse.

'I didn't — I didn't want to go out of the station for a while. It, er, it might have been a little awkward for me — meeting someone who might. might be waiting for a bus, or a taxi.'

'You saw someone from the group on the train, is that what you're saying? Someone sitting in a compartment in front of you when you got on the train at Didcot?'

Stratton nodded. 'He'd not got on at Didcot, though. He must have come from Reading, I suppose—'

'Or Paddington,' added Morse quietly.

'Yes, or Paddington.'

Morse looked across at Lewis. Paddington was beginning to loom slightly larger than a man's hand on the horizon; Paddington was where the murdered Kemp had stood and phoned The Randolph the previous day. So was it too much to believe that it was Kemp that Stratton had seen — about five o'clock, hadn't he said?

'You'll have to tell me, you know that,' said Morse gently.

'It was Phil Aldrich,' replied Stratton quietly, his eyes searching those of the two policemen with a look of puzzlement — and perhaps of betrayal, too.

Phew!

'Let me ask you one more question, please, sir. Do you stand to profit much from your wife's death?'

'I do hope so,' replied Stratton, almost fiercely. 'You see, I'm pretty hard-up these days, and to be honest with you I'm certainly not going to say 'no' to any insurance money that might be pushed my way.'

'You're an honest man, Mr. Stratton!'

'Not always, Inspector!'

Morse smiled to himself, and was walking over to the door when Stratton spoke again: 'Can I ask you a favour?'

'Go ahead!'

'Can you leave me another coupla those Alka Seltzer things?'

CHAPTER THIRTY

Precision of communication is important, more important than ever, in our era of hair-trigger balances, when a false, or misunderstood word may create as much disaster as a sudden thoughdess act

(James Thurber, Lanterns and Lances)

MORSE THOUGHT IT must be the splendid grandfather clock he'd seen somewhere that he heard chiming the three-quarters (10.45 a.m.) as he and Lewis sat beside each other in a deep settee in the Lancaster Room. Drinking coffee.

'We're getting plenty of suspects, sir.'