The Jewel That Was Ours

'Thank you, Lewis.'

'The lift's just along here—'

'Lift? We're not climbing the Empire State Building!'

'Quite a few stairs, sir,' said Lewis quietly, suspecting (rightly) that his chief was going through one of his temporary get-a-little-fitter phases.

'Look! Don't you worry too much about me, Lewis. If by any chance things become a bit too strenuous in the ascent, I shall stop periodically and pant, all right?'

Lewis nodded, happy as always (almost always) to be working with the curmudgeonly Morse once more.

For a few seconds Morse stood outside Room 310, breathing heavily and looking down at the door-knob. He raised his eyebrows to Lewis.

'No, sir — waste of time worrying. Four or five people been in.'

'Who's in there now?' asked Morse quietly.

'Only the quack — Doc Swain — he's been the house-doctor here for a few years.'

'Presumably the corpse as well, Lewis?'

'The corpse as well, sir.'

'Who else has been in?'

'The Manager, Mr. Gascoigne, and Mr. Stratton — that's the husband, sir. He was the one who found her — very shaken up, I'm afraid, he is. I asked Mr. Gascoigne to take him to his office.' Lewis pointed vaguely to one of the lower floors.

'No one else?'

'Me, of course.'

Morse nodded, and almost smiled.

Mrs. Laura Stratton lay neatly supine on the nearer side of the double bed. She wore a full-length peach- coloured dressing robe, and (so far as Morse could see) little else. And she was dead. Morse glanced briefly at the face, swallowed once, and turned away.

Dr. Swain, a fresh-faced, youngish-looking man (early thirties?) was seated at the low dressing table, writing. He turned his head and almost immediately answered Morse's unspoken question.

'Heart attack. Massive coronary.'

'Thank you, Dr. — Swain, I think?'

'And you are?'

'I am Morse. Chief Inspector Morse.'

Swain got to his feet and handed Morse a sheet of paper, headed 'Oxfordshire Health Authority', with an impressively qualified column of medical men printed top right, in which (second from bottom) Morse read 'M. C. Swain, MA, MB, BCh, MRCP, MRCGP'.

'Congratulations!' said Morse.

'Pardon?'

'Sixteen, isn't it? Sixteen letters after your name, and I haven't got a single one after mine.'

'Well, er — that's how things go, isn't it? I'll be off now, if you don't mind. You've got my report. BMA dinner we've got this evening.'

Seldom was it that Morse took such an irrationally instant dislike to one of his fellow men; but there are always exceptions, and one of these was Dr. M. C. Swain, MA, MB, BCh, MRCP, MRCGP.

'I'm afraid no one leaves for the moment, Doctor. You know, I think, that we've got slightly more than a death here?'

'I'm told something valuable's been stolen. Yes, I know that. All I'm telling you is that the cause of death was a massive coronary. You can read it in that!' Swain flung his forefinger Morse's way, towards the sheet just handed over.

'Do you think that was before — or after — this valuable something went missing?'

'I–I don't know.'

'She died there — where she is now — on the bed?'

'On the floor, actually.'

Morse forced his features to the limits of credulity: 'You mean you moved her, Dr. Swain?'

'Yes!'

'Have you ever heard of murder in the furtherance of theft?'

'Of course! But this wasn't murder. It was a massive—'

'Do you really think it necessary to tell me things three times, sir?'

'I knew nothing about the theft. In fact I only learned about it five minutes ago — from the Manager.'