The Jewel That Was Ours

'No! No! No!'

But Morse appeared wholly unperturbed. 'Please tell me, Mr. Downes, how the key came to be in your possession? Under the mat in the driver's seat, was it? Or in the glove compartment? Can you explain that? Are you going to tell me that it was someone who came back on the train from London who gave you the key?'

'Wha—?'

'Couldn't have been your wife, could it?'

'What's Lucy got to do with—?'

'The key!' roared Morse. 'What about the key?'

'Key? You mean.?' Downes's cheeks were very white, and slowly he started to get up from his chair.

'Sit down!' thundered Morse with immense authority; and simply, silently Downes did as he was bidden.

'Do you remember the number of the key, sir?'

'Of course.'

'Please tell me,' said Morse quietly.

'Number sixty-seven.'

'That's correct. That's correct, Mr. Downes.' Morse briefly placed his right hand on WPC Wright's arm, and gave her a scarce-perceptible nod of encouragement. It would be vital, as he knew, for the next few exchanges to be transcribed with unimpeachable certitude. But as Downes spoke, with a helpless little shrug of his shoulders, the newly sharpened pencil of WPC Wright remained poised above the page.

'That's the key to my locker at the North Oxford Golf Club, Inspector.'

Suddenly, Interview Room Two was still and silent as the grave.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Darkness is more productive of sublime ideas

than light

(Edmund Burke, On the Sublime and Beautiful)

THE TRAFFIC ALONG Western Avenue had been quiet, and it was only an hour and a quarter after leaving Oxford that Lewis was speaking to the Night Sister on the third floor of the hospital, a neat, competent-looking brunette who appeared rather more concerned about the unprecedented police interest in matters than in the medical condition of her most recent road-casualty, now lying behind a curtained bed in Harley Ward. A casualty not all that badly injured, anyway: broken left humerus, broken left clavicle, some nasty bruising and laceration round the left shoulder — but no broken legs or ribs, and fairly certainly no head injuries, either. Yes, said Sister, Mrs. Downes had been remarkably lucky, really; and, yes, Sergeant Lewis could see her for a short while. He would find her under sedation — a bit dopey and drowsy, and still in a state of some disorientation and shock. Quite lucid, though. 'And,' added Sister, 'you'd better have something ready to tell her if she asks you when her husband's coming. We've put her off as best we can.'

Lewis stood by the bed and looked down at her. Her eyes were open, and guardedly she smiled an instant recognition. She spoke softly, lisping slightly, and Lewis immediately noticed (what he had not been told) that two teeth in the upper left of her jaw had been broken off.

'We met this morning, didn't we?'

'Yes, Mrs. Downes.'

'Cedric knows I'm all right, doesn't he?'

'Everything's in hand. Don't worry about anything like that.'

'He'll be here soon, though?'

'I've told you,' said Lewis gently, 'we're looking after everything. No need for you to worry at all.' 'But I want to see him!'

'It's just that the hospital don't want you to have any visitors — not just for the time being. The doctors, you know, they've got to patch you up a bit.'

'I want to thee Thedric,' she moaned quietly, her lips quivering and her eyes now brimming with tears as the good Lewis laid a hand on the pristine-white plaster encasing her upper arm.

'Soon. In good time. As I say—'

'Why can you see me if he can't?'

'It's just routine — you know — accidents. We have to make reports on—'

'But I've seen the police already.'

'And you told them—?'

'I told them it was my fault — it wasn't the driver's fault.' Her eyes looked pleadingly up at Lewis.

'Would you just repeat what you said. Please, Mrs. Downes.'

'There was nothing to say. It was my fault, what else do you want me to say?'

'Just how, you know. '

'I was walking along there. I was in a hurry to catch the tube — it was the rush hour — I didn't want to miss the train — Cedric. you see, Cedric was waiting—'