The voice from the back of the room caused every head to crane round, although the mild tones of Phil Aldrich were known so well by now to everyone.
'You have my testimony, sir, and you have Eddie's too that we—'
'Mr. Aldrich! I do accept your point, and I shall explain. Let us return to Stratton briefly. He had become a small-time mortician, specialising in the beautification — please allow the word! — of corpses that had died an ugly or disfiguring death. And a bachelor. Until two and a bit years ago, that is, when he met and married the widow of a middle-bracket philanthropist. The marriage was mostly an accommodation of interests; a convenience. Eddie did the shopping, tended the garden, mended the taps and the fuses, and serviced the family car. Laura — Laura Stratton as she now was — was reasonably content with the new arrangements: she was less anxious about burglars, she was chauffeured to her twice-weekly consultations with the latest chiropodist, she forgot most of her worries about the upkeep of the household, and she still found herself able to indulge the twin passions of her life, smoking cigarettes and playing contract bridge — simultaneously, wherever possible.
'But there had been disappointed expectations, on both sides, when the estate of the late philanthropist had finally, well almost finally, been settled, with the lawyers still growing fat on the pickings. Objets d'art there were aplenty, but most of them were held in trust for some collection or gallery. And so the prospects of a happily-monied marriage of convenience were ever diminishing, until an idea occurred to the pair of them — certainly to Laura Stratton. The Wolvercote Tongue was insured for half a million dollars, and one of the safest ways of transferring it over to England had got to be on the person of the traveller: few people would entrust such an item to letter-post or parcel-post or courier-service; and even if they did, the insurance-risk premium would be prohibitive. So the Strattons took it themselves—and then made sure it was stolen. That was their plan. The reason the plan went so sadly askew was the not-wholly-unexpected but extremely untimely death of Laura Stratton herself, though whether this was occasioned by her own complicity, excitement, remorse — whatever! — we shall never really know. The plan — a simple one — was for the Tongue to be stolen immediately after Laura had installed herself in her room at The Randolph. She would be sure to make such a song and dance about her aching feet that she would get right to the head of the queue for the room-key — well, apart from Mrs. Roscoe, naturally!'
For the first time during Morse's analysis, his audience was seen reluctantly to smile as it acknowledged the primacy of the perpetually belly-aching little lady from California.
'Once she had the key, and whilst her husband signed the formalities, she was to go up to her room, put the handbag containing the Tongue — and money, pearls, and so on — on a ledge as near as possible to a door which was going to be left deliberately ajar. Meanwhile Eddie Stratton was to enthuse about a quick stroll around the centre of Oxford before it got too dark, and an invitation to accompany him was accepted by Mrs. Brown, a woman with whom he'd become friendly on the tour, and who probably felt a little flattered to be asked. All he had to do then was to make it known that he had promised to leave Laura alone so that she could have a rest in peace, to make an excuse about paying a brief visit to the Gents, to go up to bis room — probably via the guest-lift — to stick his hand inside the room and grab the handbag, to take out the jewel before dumping the handbag, and then. '
Morse stopped, but only briefly. 'Not a terribly convincing hypothesis, are you thinking? I tend to agree with you. Everyone would be trying to use the lift at that point — probably queuing for it. And it would be impossible to use the main staircase, because as you'll recall it is immediately next to Reception there. And where does he ditch the emptied handbag? For it was never found. However quickly he may have acted, the actual taking of the handbag must have taken more time than seems to have been available — since Eddie Stratton and Shirley Brown were seen walking out of The Randolph almost immediately, if the evidence of at least two of you here is to be believed, the evidence of Mr. Brown and Mrs. Roscoe. So! So I suggest that something a little more sophisticated may have taken place. Let me tell you what I think. The plan, whatever it was, must have been discussed well in advance of the tour's arrival in Oxford, but a few last-minute recapitulations and reassurances would have been almost inevitable. Perhaps you've noticed that it's often difficult, on a bus or a train, to assess how loudly you are talking? Yes? Too loudly? And where were the Strattons sitting?' Morse pointed dramatically (as he hoped) to the two empty seats just behind Janet Roscoe. 'If they did discuss things on the coach, who were the likeliest people to eavesdrop? I'm told, for example, that you, Mrs. Roscoe, have quite exceptionally acute hearing for a woman of—'
This time the little lady stood up, if thereby adding only some seven or eight inches in stature to her seated posture. 'Such innuendo, Chief Inspector, is wholly without foundation, and I wish you to know that one of my friends back home is the fiercest libel lawyer—'
But, again, and with the same patient smile, Morse bade the excitable lady to hold her peace, and bide her time.
'You were not the only one in earshot, Mrs. Roscoe. In the seats immediately across the gangway from the Strattons sat Mr. and Mrs. Brown. and in front of them, in the courier's seat. ' Eyes, including Morse's, now turned as if by some magnetic attraction towards John Ashenden, who sat, his eyes unblinking, in the front row of the seats.
'You see,' resumed Morse, 'Stratton never went up at all to his room in The Randolph — not at that point. But someone did, someone here did — someone who had overheard enough of the original plan; someone who had sensed a wonderfully providential opportunity for himself, or for herself, and who had capitalised upon that opportunity. How? By volunteering to steal the Wolvercote Tongue, in order that the Strattons could immediately claim — claim without any suspicion attaching to them — the tempting prize of the insurance money!
'Let me put the situation to you simply. The person who had eavesdropped on the proposed intrigue performed Stratton's job for him; stole the jewel; slid thereafter into the background; and disposed at leisure of the superfluous pearls and the petty cash. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is no wild hypothesis on my part; it is the truth. Stratton was presented with an offer he could hardly refuse. At the time, though, he was not aware — could never have been aware — of the extraordinary service he would have to render as the quid pro quo of the agreement. But he was to learn about it soon enough. In fact, he was to learn of it the very next day, and he duly performed his own half of the bargain with a strangely honourable integrity. As it happens'—Morse consulted his watch ostentatiously—'he is very shortly due to take off from Kennedy Airport to fly back to Heathrow, and he has already made a substantial confession about his part in the strange circumstances surrounding the Wolvercote Tongue and Dr. Theodore Kemp. But — please believe me! — it was not he who actually stole the one. or murdered the other. Yet I am looking forward to meeting Mr. Stratton again, because thus far he has refused point-blank to tell me who the murderer was. '
At the Trout Inn, the frogmen were now seated before a blazing log-fire in the bar. The landlady, an attractive, buxom woman in her mid-forties, had brought them each a hugely piled plate of chilli-con-carne, with a pint of appropriately chilly lager to wash it all down. None of the four had met Morse yet, and didn't know how strongly he would have disapproved of their beverage. But they knew they were working for him, and each of them was hoping that if the jewel were found it would be he who would have found it. Some acknowledgement, some gratitude from the man — that was an end devoutly to be wished.
But still nothing. Nothing, that is, except a child's tricycle, an antique dart-board, and what looked like part of a fixture from a household vacuum-cleaner.
