But neither of the two sergeants could answer, for neither knew what it was that the chief inspector had asked, nor why it was that his eyes were gleaming with such triumphant intensity.
Morse looked cursorily through the other items from the handbag, quickly deciding that nothing merited further attention. His face was still beaming as he clapped a hand on Lewis's shoulder. 'You are — not for the first time in your life — a bloody genius, Lewis! As for you, Vickers, we thank you for your help, my friend. Forget what I said about that idiot colleague of yours! Please, excuse us! We have work to do, have we not, Lewis?'
'The Indian restaurant, is it?' asked Lewis as they got into the car.
'You hungry, or something?'
'No, sir, but—'
'I wouldn't say no to a curry myself, but not just for the time being. Put your foot down, my son!'
'Er — where to, sir?'
'Chipping Norton! Where else?'
Lewis saw that the fascia clock showed a quarter past twelve as the car passed through Woodstock.
'Fancy a pint?' asked a cheerful Lewis.
Morse looked at him curiously. 'What's the matter with you this morning? I hope you're not becoming an alcoholic?'
Lewis shook his head lightly.
'You want to be like me, Lewis. I'm a dipsomaniac'
'What's the difference?'
Morse pondered for a while. 'I think an alcoholic is always trying to give up drink.'
'Whereas such a thought has never crossed your mind, sir?'
'Well put!' said Morse, thereafter lapsing into the silence he habitually observed when being driven in a car.
As they neared the Chipping Norton turning off the A34, a woman driving a very ancient Ford Anglia passed them on her way down from Birmingham to spend a night at the Haworth Hotel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Tuesday, January 7th: P.M.
A certain document of the last importance has been purloined.
(EDGAR ALLAN POE)
'WELL, I'LL BE BUGGERED!' Morse shook his head in bewildered disappointment as he stood, once again, in Margaret Bowman's bedroom—The Complete Crochet Manual in his hands, it's gone, Lewis!'
'What's gone?'
'The card I showed you — the card from the Lake District — the one signed "Edwina".'
'You never showed it to me," protested Lewis.
'Of course I—. Perhaps I didn't. But the handwriting on that postcard was the same as the handwriting on the back of your whats-its-name Indian place in Walton Street. Exactly the same! I can swear to it! The postcard was from Ullswater or some place like that and' (Morse sought to bully his brain into a clearer remembrance) 'it said something like "It's Paradise Regained — I wish you were here". But, you know, it's a bit odd, on a postcard, to say "I wish you were here". Nineteen times out of twenty, people just say "Wish you were here", don't they? Do you see what I mean? That postcard didn't say "It's Paradise Regained" — then a dash—"I wish you were here"; it said "It's Paradise Regained minus one. Wish you were here". That card was from Margaret Bowman's lover, telling her there was only one thing missing from his Paradise—her!'
'Not much use if it's gone,' said Lewis dubiously.
'It is though! Don't you see? The very fact that Margaret Bowman came back a second time shows exactly how important it is. And I think I remember the postmark — it was August. All we've got to do is to find out who spent his holidays up in the Lake District last August!'
'It might have been the August before.'
'Don't be so pessimistic, man!' snapped Morse.
'But we ought to be pessimistic' persisted Lewis, remembering his recent experience with the beauty clinics. 'Millions of people go up to the Lakes every summer. And who's this "Edwina"?'
'He's the lover-boy. Tom Bowman would have been very suspicious, wanting to know who the fellow was if he'd signed his own name. But the man we're dealing with, Lewis—the man who almost certainly murdered Bowman—is pretty clever: he changed his name — but he didn't change it too much! And that gives us a whacking great clue. The fellow signs himself "T" on the Indian thing — and then signs himself "Edwina" on the postcard. So we've already got his Christian name, Lewis! The "T" doesn't stand for Tom — it stands for Ted. And "Ted" is an abbreviation of "Edward"; and he signs himself in the feminine form of it—"Edwina"! QE bloody D, Lewis — as we used to say in the Lower Fourth! All right! You say there are a few millions every year who look forward to hearing the rain drumming on their caravan roofs in Grasmere. But not all that many of them were christened "Edward", and about half of them would be too old — or too young — to woo our fair Margaret. And, what's more, he'll pretty certainly live in Oxford, this fellow we're looking for — or not too far outside. And if he can afford to spend a holiday in the Lake District, he's probably in work, rather than on the dole, agreed?'
'But—'
'And—just let me finish! — not everybody's all that familiar with Paradise Regained. Mr. Milton's not everybody's cup of tea in these degenerate days, and I'm going to hazard a guess that our man was a grammar-school boy!'
'But they're all comprehensives now, sir.'
'You know what I mean! He's in the top 25 per cent of the IQ range.'
'The case seems to be closed, then, sir!'
'Don't be so bloody sarcastic, Lewis!'
'I'm sorry, sir, but—'
'I've not finished! What was the colour of Bowman's hair?'
'Well — blondish, sort of.'
'Correct! And what have Robert Redford, Steve Cram and Ian Botham got in common?'
'All the girls go for them.'
'No! Physical appearance, Lewis.'
'You mean, they've all got blond hair?'
'Yes! And if Margaret Bowman's running to form, this new beau of hers has got fair hair, too! And if only about a quarter of Englishmen have got fair hair—'
'He could be a Swede, sir.'
'What? A Swede who's read Paradise Regained?'