The Jewel That Was Ours Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 -1 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.'
    That's true, sir,' chipped in Lewis, greatly to Morse's annoyance.
    'Yes, well, if the Doctor has a dinner to attend, Lewis -a BMA dinner! - who are we to detain him? It's a pity about the evidence, of course. But I suppose we shall just have to try our best to find the man - or the woman - responsible for this, er, this massive coronary, brought on doubtless by the shock of finding some thief nicking her valuables. Good evening, Doctor. Make sure you enjoy your dinner!' Morse turned to Lewis: 'Tell Max to get over here straightaway, will you? Tell him it's as urgent as they get.'
    'Look, Inspector—' began Swain.
    But Morse was doing a reasonably convincing impression of a deaf man who has just turned off his hearing-aid, and now silently held the door of Room 310 open as the disconcerted doctor was ushered out.
    It was in the Manager's office, on the first floor of The Randolph, that for the first time Morse himself was acquainted with the broad outlines of the story. Laura Stratum had taken her key up to her room soon after 4.30 p.m.; she had earlier been complaining of feeling awfully weary; had taken a bath - presumably after hanging a do not disturb notice outside her door; had been discovered at 5.20 p.m. when her husband, Mr Eddie Stratton, had returned from a stroll around Broad Street with a fellow tourist, Mrs Shirley Brown. He had found the door to 310 shut, and after being unable to get any response from within had hurried down to Reception in some incipient panic before returning upstairs to find . . . That was all really; the rest was elaboration and emotional overlay. Except of course for the handbag. But who is the man, with his wife lying dead on the carpet, who thinks of looking around to see if her handbag has disappeared?
    Well, Mr Eddie Stratton, it seemed.
    And that for a most important reason.

7

    Almost all modern architecture is farce
    (Diogenes Small (1797-1812), Reflections)

    The Randolph boasted many fine rooms for dinners, dances, conferences, and exhibitions: rooms with such splendid names as Lancaster, Worcester, and the like - and the St John's Suite, a high-ceilinged room on the first floor where the reception had been arranged. In the daylight hours the view from the east window took in the Martyrs' Memorial, just across the street, with Balliol and St John's Colleges behind. And even now, at 6.45 p.m., with the floral, carpet-length curtains drawn across, the room still seemed so light and airy, the twin candelabra throwing a soft light over the maroon and pink and brilliant-white decor. Even Janet Roscoe