In Oxford Frensic was up and about and finding it when Baby returned to her own compartment and left Piper sleeping exhaustedly next door. Frensic had got up early and had breakfasted before eight. By half past he had found the Cynthia Bogden Typing Service in Fenet Street. With what he hoped was the expectant look of an American tourist he haunted the church opposite and sat in one of the pews staring back through the open door at the entrance to the Bogden bureau. If he knew anything about middle-aged women who were divorced and ran their own businesses, Miss Bogden would be the first to arrive in the morning and the last to leave at night. By quarter past nine Frensic certainly hoped so. The trail of women he had seen entering the office were not at all to his taste but at least the first to arrive had been the most presentable. She had been a large woman but Frensic's brief glimpse had told him that her legs were good and that if Mr Cadwalladine had been right about her being forty-five she didn't look it. Frensic left the church and pondered his next step. There was no point in going into the Agency and asking Miss Bogden point blank who had sent her Pause. Her tone the previous day had indicated that more subtle tactics were necessary.
Frensic made his next move. He found a flower shop and went inside. Twenty minutes later two dozen red roses were delivered to the Bogden Typing Service with a note which said simply, 'To Miss Bogden from an Admirer.' Frensic had thought of adding 'ardent' but had decided against it. Two dozen expensive red roses argued an ardency by themselves. Miss Bogden or more properly Mrs Bogden, and the reversion indicated a romantic direction to that lady's thoughts, would supply the adjective. Frensic wandered round Oxford, had coffee in the Ship and lunch back at the Randolph. Then, gauging that enough time had elapsed for Miss Bogden to have digested the implications of the roses, he went to Professor Facit's room and phoned the Agency. As before, Miss Bogden answered. Frensic took a deep breath, swallowed and presently heard himself asking with an agony of unaffected coyness if she would do him the honour and privilege of having dinner with him at the Elizabeth. There was a sibilant pause before Miss Bogden replied.
'Do I know you?' she asked archly. Frensic squirmed.
'An admirer,' he murmured.
'Oo,' said Miss Bogden. There was another pause while she observed the proprieties of hesitation.
'Roses,' said Frensic garrottedly.
'Are you quite sure? I mean it's rather unusual...'
Frensic silently agreed that it was. 'It's just that...' he began and then took the plunge, 'I haven't had the nerve before and...' The garrotte tightened.
Miss Bogden on the other hand breathed sympathy. 'Better late than never,' she said softly.
'That's what I thought,' said Frensic who didn't
'And you did say the Elizabeth?'
'Yes,' said Frensic, 'shall we say eight in the bar?'
'How will I know you?'
'I know you,' said Frensic and giggled involuntarily. Miss Bogden took it as a compliment.
'You haven't told me your name.'
Frensic hesitated. He couldn't use his own and Facit was in Pause. It had to be someone else. 'Corkadale,' he muttered finally, 'Geoffrey Corkadale.'
'Not the Geoffrey Corkadale?' said Miss Bogden.
'Yes,' stammered Frensic hoping to hell that Geoffrey's epicene reputation hadn't reached her ears. It hadn't. Miss Bogden cooed.
'Well in that case...' She left the rest unsaid.
'Till eight,' said Frensic.
'Till eight,' echoed Miss Bogden. Frensic put the phone down and sat limply on the bed.
Then he lay down and had a long nap. He woke at four and went downstairs. There was one last
