Death is Now My Neighbour

68

DEATH IS NOW MY NEIGHBOUR

'What do you make of this? One of the few interesting things there, as far as I could see.'

Lewis now considered the postcard handed to him. First, the picture on the front: a photograph of a woodland ride, with a sunlit path on the left, and a pool of azured bluebells to the right. Then turning over the card, he read the cramped lines amateurishly typed on the left-hand side:

Ten Times I beg, dear Heart, let's Wed!

(Thereafter long may Cupid reigne) Let's tread the Aisle, where thou hast led

The fifteen Bridesmaides in thy Traine. Then spend our honeyed Moon a-bed,

With Springs that creake againe - againe! (John Wilmot, 1672)

That was all.

No salutation.

No valediction.

And on the right-hand side of the postcard - nothing: no address, with the four dotted, parallel lines devoid of any writing, the top right-hand rectangle devoid of any stamp.

Lewis, a man not familiar with seventeenth-century love-lyrics, read the lines, then read them again, with only semi-comprehension.

'Pity she didn't get round to filling in the address, sir. Looks as if she might be proposing to somebody.'

'Aren't you making an assumption?'

'Pardon?'

COLIN DEXTER

'Did you see a typewriter in the house?'

'She could have typed it at work.'

"Yes. You must get along there soon.'

You're the boss.'

'Nice drop o' beer, this. In good nick.' Morse drained the glass and set it down in the middle of the slighdy rickety table, whilst Lewis took a gende sip of his orange juice; and continued to sit firmly fixed to his seat.

Morse continued:

'No! You're making a fake assumption - I think you are. You're assuming she'd just written this to somebody and dien forgotten die fellow's address, right? Pretty unlikely, isn't it? If she was proposing to him.'

'Perhaps she couldn't find a stamp.'

'Perhaps...'

Reluctandy Morse got to his feet and pushed his glass across die bar. *You don't want anything more yourself, do you, Lewis?'

'No thanks.'

"You've nodiing less?' asked die landlady, as Morse tendered a twenty-pound note. "You're die first ones in today and I'm a bit short of change.'

Morse turned round. 'Any change on you, by any chance, Lewis?'

"You see," continued Morse, 'you're still assuming she wrote it, aren't you?'

'And she didn't?'

'I think someone wrote die card to her, put it in an

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DEATH IS NOW MY NEIGHBOUR

envelope, and then addressed the envelope - not the card.'

'Why not just address the card?'

'Because whoever wrote it didn't want anyone else to read it.'

'Why not just phone her up?'

'Difficult - if he was married and his wife was always around.'

'He could ring her from a phone-box.'

'Risky - if anyone saw him.'

Lewis nodded without any conviction: 'And it's only a bit of poetry.'

'Is it?' asked Morse quiedy.

Lewis picked up the card again. 'Perhaps it's this chap called "Wilmot", sir - the date's just mere to mislead us.'

'Mislead you, perhaps. John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, was a court poet to Charles II. He wrote some delightfully pornographic lyrics.'

'So it's - it's all genuine?'

'I didn't say that, did I? The name's genuine, but not the poem. Any English scholar would know that's not seventeenth-century verse.'

Tm sure you're right, sir.'

'And if I'm right about the card coming in an envelope - fairly recently - we might be able to find the envelope, agreed? Find a postmark, perhaps? Even a bit of handwriting?'

Lewis looked dubious. 'I'd better get something organized, then.'

COLIN DEXTER

'All taken care of! I've got a couple of the DCs looking through the wastepaper baskets and the dustbin.'

"You reckon this is important, then?'

'Top priority! You can see that. She's been meeting some man - meeting him secretly. Which means he's probably married, probably fairly well known, probably got a prominent job, probably a local man-'

'Probably lives in Peterborough,' mumbled Lewis.

'That's exactly why the postmark's so vital!' countered an unamused Morse. 'But if he's an Oxford man ...'

'Do you know what the population of Oxford «?'

'I know it to the nearest thousand.' snapped Morse.

Then, of a sudden, the Chief Inspector's mood completely changed. He tapped the postcard.

'Don't be despondent, Lewis. You see, we know just a litde about this fellow already, don't we?'

He smiled benignly after draining his second pint; and since no other customers had as yet entered the lounge, Lewis resignedly got to his feet and stepped over to the bar once more.

Lewis picked up the postcard again.

'Give me a clue, sir.'

You know the difference between nouns and verbs, of course?'

'How could I forget something like that?'

'Well, at certain periods in English literature, all the nouns were spelt with capital letters. Now, as you can see, there are eight nouns in those six lines - each of them spelt with a capital letter. But there are nine capitals

DEATH IS NOW MY NEIGHBOUR

- forgetting the first word of each line. Now which is the odd one out?'

Lewis pretended to study the lines once more. He'd played this game before, and he trusted he could get away with it again, as his eyes suddenly lit up a litde.

'Ah ... I think -1 think I see what you mean.'

'Hits you in the eye, doesn't it, dial "Wed" in the first line? And that's what it was intended to do.'

'Obviously.'

'What's it mean?'

'What, "Wed"? Well, it means "marry" - you know, get hitched, get spliced, tie the knot-'

'What else?'

'Isn't that enough?'

'What else?

T suppose you're going to tell me it's Anglo-Saxon or something.'

'Not exactly. Not far off, though. Old English, in fact. And what's it short for?'

'"Wednesday"?' suggested Lewis tentatively.

Morse beamed at his sergeant. 'Woden's day - the fourth day of the week. So we've got a day, Lewis. And what else do you need, if you're going to arrange a date with a woman?'

Lewis studied the lines yet again. 'Time? Time, yes! I see what you mean, sir. "Ten Times" ... "fifteen Brides-maides" ... Well, well, well! Ten-fifteen!'

Morse nodded. 'With a.m. likelier than p.m. Doesn't say where though, does it5'

Lewis studied the lines for the fifth time.

' "Traine", perhaps?'

73

COLIN DEXTER

"Well done! "Meet me at the station to catch the ten-fifteen a.m. train" - that's what it says. And we know where that train goes, don't we?'

Taddington.'

'Exactly.'

'If only we knew who he was ..."

Morse now produced his second photograph - a small passport-sized photograph of two people: the woman, Rachel James (no doubt of that), turning partially round and slighdy upward in order to kiss die cheek of a considerably older man widi a pair of smiling eyes beneadi a distinguished head of greying hair.

'Who's he, sir?'

'Dunno. We could find out pretty quickly, though, if we put his photo in die local papers.'

'If he's local.'

'Even if he's not local, I should diink.'

'Bit dodgy, sir.'

'Too dodgy at this stage, I agree. But we can try another angle, can't we? Tomorrow's Tuesday, and die day after that's Wednesday - Woden's day..."

"You mean he may turn up at die station?'

'If die card's fairly recent, yes.'

'Unless he's heard she's been murdered.'

'Or unless he murdered her himself.'

'Worth a try, sir. And if he does turn up, it'll probably mean he didn't murder her..."