'So why—?'
'No answer when I rang.'
'But how—?'
'I'm a detective, sir.'
'What do you want?'
A phone call made just before midnight to St. Aldate's Police Station had been relayed to the murder scene at Parson's Pleasure: Mrs. Marion Kemp, of 6 Cherwell Lodge, had reported that her husband, who had left for London early that morning, had still not arrived back home; that such an occurrence was quite unprecedented, and that she was beginning (had long begun!) to feel a little (a whole lot!) worried about him. She was herself a cripple, constantly in need of the sort of attention her husband had regularly given her in the evenings. She knew something, though not all, of his day's programme: she'd rung The Randolph at 10.45 p.m. and learned from the tour leader that her husband had not turned up at any point during the day to fulfil his commitments — and that in itself was quite out of character. After an evening of agonising and, now, almost unbearable waiting, she'd decided to ring the police.
Such was the message Lewis passed on, himself saying nothing for the moment of his own extraordinarily exciting find, but agreeing to pick up Morse in about ten minutes' time, after briefly reporting in to St. Aldate's.
'News? About Eddie?' asked an anxious Phil Aldrich, when the frowning Morse walked back into the bar.
Morse shook his head. 'We get all sorts of news, sir, in the Force: good news, sometimes — but mostly bad, of course. No news of Mr. Stratton, though. But I wouldn't worry too much, not about him, anyway. ' (the last words mumbled to himself). He wondered whether to tell the four of them seated there about the death of Dr. Kemp, for they'd have to know very soon anyway. But he decided they probably had enough on their minds for the moment; and swiftly tossing back the Glenlivet, he left them, making his way thoughtfully to the front entrance, and wondering something else: wondering whether any announcement of Kemp's death — Kemp's murder — would have come as too much of a surprise to one of the four people who still sat round their table in the Chapters Bar.
There was no time, however, for him to develop such a fascinating, and probably futile thought; for as he stood waiting on the pavement outside the hotel entrance, a taxi drew up, and with the help of the driver a very drunken man staggered stupidly into the foyer. Morse was usually reasonably tolerant about fellow-tipplers, and indeed occasionally rather enjoyed the company of slightly tipsy sirens; but the sight of this fellow pathetically fighting to extricate a wallet from an inner pocket, and then forking out and handing over three £10 notes — such a sight filled even Morse with mild disgust. Yet at least it was all a bit of a relief, wasn't it?
For the man was Eddie Stratton!
Clearly there could be little point in interviewing Stratton then and there; and already a solicitous (if censorious) Shirley Brown on one side, and a business-like (if unsmiling) Howard Brown on the other, were guiding the prodigal son to the guest-lift. No! Stratton could wait. With any luck he'd still be there the following morning.
Unlike the taxi driver.
Morse caught the man's arm, and held him back as he was walking down the steps. 'You must have brought him quite a way?'
'You wha'?'
'Thirty quid? Must have been — Banbury, was it?'
'Yeah — could a' bin. Nothin' to do with you, mate.'
'I'm not your mate,' said Morse, fishing for his warranty.
'So? Wha's the trouble?'
'Where did you pick him up?'
'North Oxford.'
'Expensive ride!'
'I didn't ask for—'
'You took it.'
'Not short of a quid or two though, these Yanks—'
'I quite like the Yanks.'
'Me too, officer.'
'There's a bottle there' (Morse pointed back to Reception). 'Leukaemia Fund. Doesn't look as if it's quite full yet.'
'How much?'
'Twenty?'
Shrugging, the taxi-man handed Morse two of the £10 notes.
'Where was it in North Oxford? What was the address?'
'I forget.'
'Shall we make it twenty-five?'
'Down the bottom of Hamilton Road, somewhere — ninety-seven, I think it was.'
'Name?'
'Same name as mine. Huh! Coincidence, eh?'
'I've always liked coincidences.'
'She rang up an' said, you know, take this fellah down to The Randolph.'
'Good! Thanks! Good night then, Mr., er. '
'Williams. Jack Williams.'
Lewis had pulled in behind the taxi, and was in time to find Morse slowly — reluctantly? — pushing two £10 notes into the slot of a Charity Bottle. He smiled happily. Morse had a bit of money — he knew that, but the chief's generosity, certainly in pubs, was seldom in evidence; and it was most reassuring to find that there was an unexpectedly munificent side to the chief inspector's soul. So Lewis watched, and said nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Duty is what one expects from others; it is not what one does one's self
(Oscar Wilde, A Woman of No Importance)
IT WAS NOT DIFFICULT for Lewis to find his way to the Kemps' home in Cherwell Lodge, the ground-floor flat on the extreme right of the three-storey building, since it was the only window in the whole street, let alone the block of flats, wherein electric light still blazed at a quarter to one that morning. By this time, Lewis had shown Morse the yellow A4 sheet; and Morse had seemed so delighted with it that he'd turned on the car's internal light in transit. He folded the sheet along its original creases, and was putting it inside his breast-pocket as Lewis quietly pulled the car alongside the pavement outside number 6.
'We can ring from there—be easier really,' suggested Morse, pointing to the Kemps' property. 'We'll need a WPC — there should be one at HQ, don't you think?'
Lewis nodded.
'And a doc,' continued Morse. 'Her doc, if he's not too far sunk in slumber or wine.'