'I want to have a word with Miss Coleby. Confidential. I wonder if. .'
Palmer interrupted him. 'I'm awfully sorry, Inspector. She's not here this afternoon. She wanted to spend a long weekend in London and, well. . we do occasionally show a little er flexibility, you know. It sometimes helps the er the smooth running. .'
'London, you say?'
'Yes. She said she was going to spend the weekend with some friends. She caught the lunch-time train.'
'Did she leave an address?'
'I'm sorry. I don't think she did. I could try to er. .'
'No. Don't bother.'
'Can I take a message?'
'No. I'll get in touch with her when she comes back.' Perhaps he could see Sue again. . 'When will she be back, by the way?'
'I don't really know. Sunday evening I should think.'
'All right. Well, thank you.'
'Sorry I couldn't be. .'
'Not your fault.' Morse put down the phone with less than average courtesy.
'One of our birds has flown, Lewis.' He turned his attention to Bernard Crowther and decided to try the college first.
'Porter's Lodge.'
'Can you put me through to Mr. Crowther's rooms, please?'
'Just a minute, sir.' Morse drummed the table with the fingers of his left hand. Come on!
'Are you there, sir?'
'Yes. I'm still here.'
'No reply, I'm afraid, sir.'
'Is he in college this afternoon?'
'I saw him this morning, sir. Just a minute.' Three minutes later Morse was wondering if the wretched porter had taken a gentle stroll around the quad.
'Are you there, sir?'
'Yes, I'm still here.'
'He's away somewhere, sir, for the weekend. It's a conference of some sort.'
'Do you know when he's due back?'
'Sorry, sir. Shall I put you through to the college office?'
'No, don't bother. I'll ring again later.'
'Thank you, sir."
Morse held the phone in his hands for a few seconds and finally put it down with the greatest circumspection. 'I wonder. I wonder. .' He was lost in thought.
'It seems both of our birds have flown, sir.'
'I wonder if the conference is being held in London.'
'You don't think. .?'
'I don't know what to think,' said Morse.
Nor was he sure what to think when half an hour later the findings of the laboratory were phoned through. Lewis watched the Inspector's curious reactions.
'Are you sure. .? You're quite sure. .? Yes. Well, many thanks. You'll bring them over? Good. Thank you.'
'Well, Lewis, you're in for a surprise.'
'About the note?'
'Yes. About the note — the note someone wrote to the young lady who is now visiting "some friends" in London. They say they know whose typewriter it was.'
'And whose was it?"
'That's what's puzzling me. We've never heard of him before! He's a Mr. Peter Newlove.'
'And who's Mr. Peter Newlove?'
'It's time we found out.' He rang Lonsdale College for the second time that afternoon and found the same slow-motion porter presiding over the Lodge.
'Mr. Newlove, sir? No, I'm afraid he's not in college. Just let me check in the book. . No, sir.' He's away till Monday. Can I take a message? No? All right. Goodbye, sir.'
'Well, that's that,' said Morse. 'All our birds have flown. And I don't see much point in staying here, do you?' Lewis didn't.
'Let's just tidy up all this mess,' said Morse.
Lewis gathered together the papers on his side of the table — the photographs of Sylvia Kaye and the carefully drawn diagrams of the yard at The Black Prince, annotated in thin, spidery writing with details of everything found therein. He looked again at the close-ups of the murdered girl lying there, and felt a paternally protective urge to cover the harsh nakedness of her beautiful body.
'I'd like to get the bastard who did this,' he muttered.
'What's that?' Morse took the photographs from him.