'And you work here?' continued Lewis.
'I've been here seven months.'
'You had quite a bit of time off over Christmas, I understand?'
'We had from Christmas Eve to last Thursday.'
'Last Thursday, let's see — that was January the second?'
'Yes.'
"The day after New Year's Day.'
Margaret Bowman said nothing, although clearly the man had expected — hoped? — that she would make some comment.
'You had plenty of things to occupy you, I suppose,' continued Lewis. 'Christmas shopping, cooking the mince pies, all that sort of thing?'
'Plenty of shopping, yes.'
'Summertown's getting a very good shopping centre. I hear.'
'Very good; yes.'
'And the Westgate down in the centre — they say that's very good, too.'
'Yes. it is.'
'Did you shop in Summertown here — or down in Oxford?'
'I did all my shopping at home.'
'You didn't come into Oxford at all, then?'
Why was she hesitating? Was she lying? Or was she just thinking back over things to make sure?
'No — I didn't.'
'You didn't go to the hairdressers'?'
Margaret Bowman's right hand went up to the top of her head, gently lifting a few strands of her not-so-recently-dyed-blonde hair, and she permitted herself a vague and tired-looking smile: 'Does it look like it?'
No, it doesn't, thought Lewis. 'Do you go to any beauty salons, beauty clinics, you know the sort of thing I mean?'
'No. Do you think I ought to?' Miraculously almost, she was feeling very much more at ease now, and she took a paper handkerchief from her black leather handbag and held it under her nose as she snuffled away some of the residual phlegm from a recent cold.
For his own part, Lewis was conscious that his questioning was not yet making much progress. 'Does your husband work in Oxford?'
'Look! Can you please give me some idea of why you're asking me all these things? Am I supposed to have done something wrong?'
'We'll explain later, Mrs. Bowman. We're trying to make all sorts of important inquiries all over the place, and we're very glad of your co-operation. So, please, if you don't mind, just answer the questions for the minute, will you?'
'He works in Chipping Norton.'
'What work does he do?'
'He's a postman.'
'Did he have the same time off as you over Christmas?'
'No. He was back at work on Boxing Day.'
'You spent Christmas Day together?'
'Yes.'
'And you celebrated the New Year together?'
The question had been put, and there was silence in the Secretary's office. Even Morse who had been watching a spider up in the far corner of the ceiling stopped tapping his lower teeth with a yellow pencil he had picked up, its point needle-sharp. How long was the well nigh unbearable silence going to last?
It was the Secretary herself who suddenly spoke, in a quiet but firm voice: 'You must tell the police the truth, Margaret — it's far better that way. You didn't tell the truth just now — about being in Oxford, did you? We saw each other in the Westgate Car Park on New Year's Eve, you'll remember. We wished each other a Happy New Year.'
Margaret Bowman nodded. 'Oh yes! Yes, I do remember now.' She turned to Lewis. 'I'm sorry, I'd forgotten. I did come in that Tuesday — I went to Sainsbury's.'
'And then you went back and you spent the New Year at home with your husband?'
'No!'
Morse, whose eyes had still been following the little spider as it seemed to practise its eight-finger exercises, suddenly shifted in his chair and turned round fully to face the woman.
'Where is your husband, Mrs. Bowman?' They were the first six words he had spoken to her, and (as events were to work themselves out) they were to be the last six. But Margaret Bowman made no direct answer. Instead, she unfastened her bag, drew out a folded sheet of paper and handed it over to Lewis. It read as follows:
31st December
Dear Maggie
You've gone into Oxford and I'm here sitting at home. You will be upset and disappointed I know but please try and understand. I met another woman two months ago and I knew straightaway that I liked her a lot. I've just got to work things out that's all. Please give me that chance and don't think badly of me. I've decided that if we can go away for a few days or so we can sort things out. You are going to want to know if I love this woman and I don't know yet and she doesn't know either. She is not married and she is thirty one. We are going in her car up to Scotland if the roads are alright. Nobody else need know anything. I got a week off work quite officially though I didn't tell you. I know what you will feel like but it will be better for me to sort things out.
Tom
Lewis read through the letter quickly — and then looked at Mrs. Bowman. Was there — did he notice — just a brief flash of triumph in her eyes? Or could it have been a glint of fear? He couldn't be sure, but the interview had obviously taken a totally unexpected turn, and he would have welcomed at that point a guiding hand from Morse. But the latter still appeared to be perusing the letter with inordinate interest.
'You found this note when you got back home?' asked Lewis.
She nodded. 'On the kitchen table.'
'Do you know this woman he mentions?'