we now seem to be heading for investigation by correspondence column. This is patently absurd. As I read things, the present business is pretty certainly a hoax in any case, with its perpetrator enjoying himself (or I suppose herself?) most hugely as various correspondents vie with one another in scaling ever steeper and steeper peaks of interpretive ingenuity. If the thing is not a hoax, I must urge that all investigation into the matter be communicated in the first instance to the appropriate police personnel, and most certainly not to radio, TV, or newspapers, so that the case may be solved through the official channels of criminal investigation.
Yours sincerely,
Peter Armitage
(former Assistant Commissioner, New Scotland Yard)
PS I need hardly add, I feel sure, that this letter is not for publication in any way.
But this must almost certainly have been written before its author had seen the latest communiqué from the most intrepid mountaineer so far: the writer of the quite extraordinary letter – which had appeared in the correspondence columns of The Times the previous morning, Strange now turned to Lewis. 'You realize it's the break, don't you’
Lewis, like every other police officer at HQ, had read the letter; and yes, he too thought it was the break. How else? But he couldn’t understand why Strange had asked him – him – along this morning. He was very tired anyway, and should by rights have been a-bed. On both Saturday and Sunday nights, like most officers in the local forces, his time had been spent until almost dawn behind a riot-shield, facing volleys of bricks and insults from gangs of yobbos clapping the skidding-skills of youths in stolen cars – amongst whom (had Lewis known it) was a seventeen-year-old schoolboy who was later to provide the key to the Swedish Maiden mystery.
`'Lewis! You're listening, aren't you?'
'Sorry, sir?'
'You do remember Morse belly-aching about transferring the search from Blenheim to Wytham?'
'Yes, sir. But he wasn't on the case more than a day or so.'
'I know that,' snapped Strange. 'But he must have had some reason, surely?'
'I've never quite been able to follow some of his reasons.'
'Do you know how much some of these bloody searches cost?
'No, sir.'
Nor perhaps did Strange himself, for he immediately changed tack: 'Do you think Morse was right?'
'I dunno, sir. I mean, I think he's a great man, but he sometimes gets things awfully wrong, doesn't he?'
'And he more often gets things bloody right' said Strange with vehemence.
It was an odd reversal of roles, and Lewis hastened to put the record straight. 'I think myself, sir, that-'
'I don't give a sod what you think, Sergeant! If I want to search Wytham Woods I'll bloody well search 'em till a year next Friday if I – If I think it's worth the candle. All right?'
Lewis nodded wordlessly across the table, watching the rising florid exasperation in the Super's face.
'I'm not sure where I come into all this – ' he began.
'Well, I'll tell you! There's only one thing you can do and I can't, Sergeant, and that's to get the morose old bugger back to work here – smartish. I'm under all sorts of bloody pressure…'
'But he's on holiday, sir.'
'I know he's on bloody holiday. I saw him yesterday, drinkin shampers and listening to Schubert – with some tart or other.'
'Sure it was champagne, sir?'
But quietly now, rather movingly, Strange was making his plea 'Christ knows why, Lewis, but he'll always put himself out a for you. Did you realize that?'
He rang from Morse's own (empty) office.
'Me, sir. Lewis.'
'I'm on holiday.'
'Super's just had a word with me-'
'Friday – that's what I told him.'
'You've seen the letter about Wytham, sir?'
'Unlike you and your philistine cronies, Lewis, my daily reading includes the royal circulars in The Times, the editorials – '
‘ What do I tell the Super, sir? He wants us – you and me – to take over straightaway.'
‘Tell him I'll be in
Yours sincerely,
Peter Armitage
(former Assistant Commissioner, New Scotland Yard)
PS I need hardly add, I feel sure, that this letter is not for publication in any way.
But this must almost certainly have been written before its author had seen the latest communiqué from the most intrepid mountaineer so far: the writer of the quite extraordinary letter – which had appeared in the correspondence columns of The Times the previous morning, Strange now turned to Lewis. 'You realize it's the break, don't you’
Lewis, like every other police officer at HQ, had read the letter; and yes, he too thought it was the break. How else? But he couldn’t understand why Strange had asked him – him – along this morning. He was very tired anyway, and should by rights have been a-bed. On both Saturday and Sunday nights, like most officers in the local forces, his time had been spent until almost dawn behind a riot-shield, facing volleys of bricks and insults from gangs of yobbos clapping the skidding-skills of youths in stolen cars – amongst whom (had Lewis known it) was a seventeen-year-old schoolboy who was later to provide the key to the Swedish Maiden mystery.
`'Lewis! You're listening, aren't you?'
'Sorry, sir?'
'You do remember Morse belly-aching about transferring the search from Blenheim to Wytham?'
'Yes, sir. But he wasn't on the case more than a day or so.'
'I know that,' snapped Strange. 'But he must have had some reason, surely?'
'I've never quite been able to follow some of his reasons.'
'Do you know how much some of these bloody searches cost?
'No, sir.'
Nor perhaps did Strange himself, for he immediately changed tack: 'Do you think Morse was right?'
'I dunno, sir. I mean, I think he's a great man, but he sometimes gets things awfully wrong, doesn't he?'
'And he more often gets things bloody right' said Strange with vehemence.
It was an odd reversal of roles, and Lewis hastened to put the record straight. 'I think myself, sir, that-'
'I don't give a sod what you think, Sergeant! If I want to search Wytham Woods I'll bloody well search 'em till a year next Friday if I – If I think it's worth the candle. All right?'
Lewis nodded wordlessly across the table, watching the rising florid exasperation in the Super's face.
'I'm not sure where I come into all this – ' he began.
'Well, I'll tell you! There's only one thing you can do and I can't, Sergeant, and that's to get the morose old bugger back to work here – smartish. I'm under all sorts of bloody pressure…'
'But he's on holiday, sir.'
'I know he's on bloody holiday. I saw him yesterday, drinkin shampers and listening to Schubert – with some tart or other.'
'Sure it was champagne, sir?'
But quietly now, rather movingly, Strange was making his plea 'Christ knows why, Lewis, but he'll always put himself out a for you. Did you realize that?'
He rang from Morse's own (empty) office.
'Me, sir. Lewis.'
'I'm on holiday.'
'Super's just had a word with me-'
'Friday – that's what I told him.'
'You've seen the letter about Wytham, sir?'
'Unlike you and your philistine cronies, Lewis, my daily reading includes the royal circulars in The Times, the editorials – '
‘ What do I tell the Super, sir? He wants us – you and me – to take over straightaway.'
‘Tell him I'll be in
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