Last Bus To Woodstock im-1

by Colin Dexter

  'Want some help, sir?' The desk sergeant was a kindly man, and had known the Inspector for several years. Morse waited by the desk. He was angry with himself and he had many reasons for feeling so. But why he should think he had a right to take things out on one of his old friends he could not imagine. He cursed his own selfishness and discourtesy.

  'Yes, Sergeant, I could do with some help.' It had not been Morse's day.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Wednesday, 13 October, a.m.

  A FREAK STORM struck the Oxford area in the early hours of Wednesday morning, demolishing chimneys, blowing down television aerials and lifting roof-tiles in its path. The 7.00 a.m. News reported a trail of devastation in Kidlington, Oxon, where a Mrs. Winifred Fisher had a narrow escape when the roof of a garage broke its moorings and crashed through an upstairs window. 'I just can't describe it,' she said. 'Terrifying.' The portable radio stood on the bedside table along with a telephone and an alarm clock which, at 6.50 a.m., had wakened Morse from a long, untroubled sleep.

  He got out of bed when the news had finished and peered through the curtains. At least his own garage seemed intact. Funny, though, that the storm had not awakened him. Gradually the memory of yesterday's events filtered through his consciousness and settled like a heavy sediment at the bottom of his mind. Gone were the flights of angels that had guarded him in sleep and he sat on the edge of his bed fingering the rough stubble on his chin and wondering what this day would bring. Increasingly, as the case progressed, the graph of his moods was resembling a jagged mountain range, peaks and valleys, troughs and elations.

  At a quarter to eight he was shaved, washed and dressed, and feeling fresh and confident. He swilled out the dregs from his late-night cup of Horlicks, rinsed his late-night whisky glass filled the kettle and turned his attention to a major problem.

  For the last few days he had worn, around his wounded foot, an outsize white plimsoll, loosely laced, and slit down the hell. It was time to get back to something normal. He was loath to appear in the court in such eccentric footwear and he could hardly believe that Miss Widdowson would be overjoyed with a semi-plimsolled escort at the dance. He had two pairs of shoes only and a dangerously low supply of suitable socks; and with such limited permutastions of possibilities, the prospect of being presentably shod that day was somewhat remote. He slipped his faithful battered plimsoll back on, and decided to buy a large pair of shoes from M and S, his favourite store. It was going to be an expensive day. He drank a cup of tea, and looked out of the window. His dustbin lid was leaning against the front gate, with litter everywhere. He must remember to have a look at the roof-tiles. .

  In retrospect he thought he had got yesterday's events out of all perspective; he had been standing too close to the trees, and now he thought he saw again the same familiar wood, labyrinthine, certainly, as before — but still the sane. He was feeling his old resilient self, or almost so. But the drastic course of action he had contemplated — what about that? He would have to consider things again; he had a more immediate problem on his mind. Where were his pen, his comb and his wallet. Amazingly, and with deep relief, he found them all in the same heap on the bedroom mantelpiece.

  The faithful old Lancia was still there. It had been a good buy. Powerful, reliable, and 300 miles on a full tank. He had often thought of changing it but never had the heart. He eased himself into the narrow gap between the door of the driver's seat and the whitewashed wall of the garage. It was always a tricky manoeuvre and he was getting no thinner. But it felt good to sit at the wheel again. He gave the old girl a bit more choke than usual — after all she had been standing idle for a week — and pressed the starter. Chutter. . chutter. . chutter. . chutter. No. Bit more choke? But he mustn't flood her. Again. Chutter. . chutter. . chutter. . chutter. . chutter. . Odd. He'd never had much difficulty before. Third time lucky, though. Chutter. . chutter. . chutter. Battery must be getting a bit low. Oh dear. Give her a minute or two's rest. Let her get her breath back. This time, then! Chutter. . chutter. . Bugger! Once more. Chutt. . 'Just my bloody luck,' he said to himself. 'How the hell am I supposed to get about without. .' He stopped and shivered involuntarily. A grey dawn was breaking in his mind and the purple mysteries of the morning were shot with the rays of the rising sun. 'Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive.' Wordsworth, wasn't it? It had been in The Times crossword last week. The waves were at last receding from the beach. The white crests of the breakers rolled ceaselessly and tirelessly towards the shore, but their strength was gone. He saw the Grand Design before him and the last little sand-castle had survived the mighty sea.

  The manager of Barker's garage in Oxford was so impressed by Inspector Morse's courteous call upon his services that a new battery was on its way in ten minutes, and installed in fifteen. The clouds were high and white and the sun shone brightly. Open weather, as Jane Austen would have called it. Morse retrieved the dustbin lid, and meticulously gathered up all the litter from his garden.

  The university city of Oxford was busy this morning, the third full day of the Michaelmas term. First-year undergraduates, with spankingly new college scarves tossed over their shoulders, eagerly explored the bookshops of the Broad, and a trifle self-consciously strode down the High into the crowded Cornmarket, into Woolworths and Marks and Spencer and thence, according to taste, into the nearest pubs and coffee shops. At 1.00 p.m. Morse was sitting on a chair in the self-service men's shoe department in the basement of M and S. He normally took size 8, but was now experimenting with patience and determination. Size 9 seemed of little use, and after considerable trafficking in stockinged feet between the show counter and his chosen chair, he plumped for size-10 black leather slip-ons. They seemed huge and were, of course, potentially useless in the long run. But who cared? He could wear two pairs of socks on his left foot. Which reminded him. He paid for the shoes, adjusted his plimsoll, much to the bewilderment of a large, morose-looking cashier, who looked as if she might wear size 10 herself, and proceeded to the hosiery counter where he purchased half a dozen gaudy pairs of lightweight socks. If he had been able, he would have walked out into Cornmarket with a light step. The car was functioning, the courts were finished, the case was flourishing.

  Others, too, were making their purchases. Trade was thriving this morning, and not only in the large stores in the main streets in Oxford city centre. At about the same time that Morse, the megapode, tucked his purchases beneath his arm, one further swift, uncomplicated transaction was being effected in the rundown back street behind the Botley Road, and it could be argued that this time, at least, John Sanders had struck the better bargain.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Wednesday, 13 October, p.m.

  AT LONSDALE COLLEGE Wednesday, 13th was the first full guest-night of the Michaelmas term and Bernard Crowther left home a little earlier than usual. At 6.15 p.m. he knocked on Peter Newlove's rooms and walked in, not waiting for a reply.

  'That you, Bernard?'

  'It's me.'

  'Pour yourself a drink. Shan't be a minute.'

  Bernard had passed the Lodge as he came in and had picked up three letters from his pigeon-hole. Two he opened raggedly and relegated cursorily to his jacket pocket. The third was marked 'confidential', and contained a card 'From the Principal':

  The police, in the course of their investigations into the recent murder at Woodstock, are anxious to trace the provenance of a typed letter which has come into their possession and which they think may be material evidence in their inquiries. I have been asked by the police to see that every typewriter in the college is checked and I am asking all my colleagues to comply with this request. The Bursar has agreed to undertake this duty and it is my view, and also that of the Vice-Principal, that we must readily accede to this proper request. I have therefore informed Chief Inspector Morse, who is heading the murder inquiries that we as a collegiate body are most anxious to cooperate in any way possible. The Bursar has an inventory of all college typewriters; but there may be pri
vate typewriters in the rooms of several fellows, and I ask that information concerning them should be given to the Bursar immediately. Thank you for your help.'

  'What's up, Bernard? Don't you want a drink?' Peter had come in from the bathroom and stood combing his thinning hair with a thinning comb.

  'Have you had one of these?'

  'I have indeed received a communication from our revered and reverend Principal, if that's what you mean.'

  'What's it all about?' '

  'I don't know, dear boy. Mysterious though, isn't it?'

  'When's the great investigation due?'

  'Due? It's done. At least mine is. Little girl came in this afternoon — with the Bursar, of course. Typed out some cryptic message and then she was gone. Pity really. Lovely little thing. I must try to spend a bit more time in the Bursary.'

  'I shan't be able to help much myself, I'm afraid. That bloody thing of mine was manufactured in the Middle Ages and hasn't had a ribbon in it for six months. I think it's what they call "seized-up", anyway.'

  'Well, that's one suspect less, Bernard. Now are you going to have a drink or not?'

  'Don't you think we shall have enough booze tonight?'

  'No, dear boy, I don't.' Peter sat down and pulled on an expensive pair of heavy, brown brogues: size 10s, but not purchased from the self-service shoe department at Marks and Spencer.

  'We've just got time for a quick one, I think.' It was almost 7.30 p.m. "What would you like?'

  'Dry sherry for me, please. I shan't be a minute. Must powder my nose.' She went off to the cloakroom. There were only a few people in the lounge bar and Morse, served without delay, took the drinks over to the corner of the room and sat down.

  The Sheridan was the most fashionable of the Oxford hotels and most visiting stars of stage, screen, sport and television found themselves booked in at this well-appointed, large, stone building just off the bottom of St. Giles'. A striped canopy stretched out over the pavement and a flunkey stood his station beside the gleaming name-plate on the shallow steps leading down to the street from the revolving doors. Morse suspected that the management kept a red carpet rolled up somewhere on the premises. Not that it had been rolled out this evening; in fact he had been unable to find any parking space at all in the hotel's narrow yard and had been forced to park his car along St. Giles'. It wasn't perhaps the best of starts, and they had said little to each other.

  He watched her as she came back. She had parted with her coat and walked with enviable elegance towards him, her long deep-red velvet dress gently affirming the lines of her graceful body. And suddenly, sweetly his heart beat stronger, and their eyes met and she smiled. She sat beside him and he was aware again, as he had been as she sat beside him in the car, of the strange and subtle promise of her perfume.

  'Cheers, Sue.'

  'Cheers, Inspector.'

  He didn't know what to do about this name trouble. He felt like an ageing schoolmaster meeting one of his old pupils and being rather embarrassed by the 'sirs' in every other sentence, and yet feeling it phoney to have it otherwise. He let the 'Inspectors' pass. Things could change, of course. Morse offered her a cigarette but she declined. As she sipped her sherry Morse noticed the long and delicately manicured fingers: no rings, no nail-polish. He asked her about her day's work and she told him. It was all a little strained. They finished their drinks and walked out of the lounge and up the stairs to the Evans Room, Sue lifting her dress slightly as she negotiated the stairs, and Morse trying to forget the tightness in his right shoe and frenziedly arching the left foot to prevent the shoe from falling off completely.

  The room was arranged with subdued and delicate decorum: around a small, well-polished dance-floor tables were set at regular intervals, the silver cutlery gleaming on the white tablecloths and a red candle lit on each table, the blue and yellow flames tapering into a slimness, almost as exquisite, thought Morse, as Sue Widdowson herself. Several couples were already seated and it was sadly clear to Morse that some of her wretched friends were among them. A small band played some languorous melody that lingered in the mind and as they were shown to their table a young couple took the floor, blithely and obliviously, feeding deep upon each other's eyes.

  'You've been here before?'

  Sue nodded, and Morse followed the young couple with his eyes and decided not to give too free a rein to his imagination. A waiter came to them with the menu, and Morse welcomed the diversion.

  'Do they throw in the wine?'

  'We get a bottle between us.'

  'Is that all?'

  'Isn't that enough?'

  'Well, it's a special occasion, isn't it?' Sue was non-committal. 'What about a bottle of champagne?'

  'You've got to drive me home, remember?'

  'We could get a taxi.'

  'What about your car?'

  'Perhaps the police will pick it up.' Sue laughed and Morse saw her white teeth and the fullness of her lips. 'What do you say?

  'I'm in your hands, Inspector.' Would you were, he thought.

  Several other couples were now dancing and Sue was watching them. 'You enjoy dancing?' Sue kept her eyes on the dancers and nodded. A young Adonis waved a hand in their direction.

  ' 'lo Sue. All right?' Sue raised a hand in greeting.

  'Who's that?' asked Morse aggressively.

  'Doctor Eyres. He's one of the housemen at the Radcliffe.' She seemed almost hypnotized by the scene. But she turned back into Morse's orbit with the arrival of the champagne, and after a while the conversation took a freer course. Morse chattered as amiably and interestingly as he could and Sue seemed pleasantly relaxed. They ordered their meal, and Morse poured another glass of champagne. The band stopped; the couples on the floor clapped half-heartedly for a few seconds and retired to the perimeter tables. Dr. Eyres and his heavily mascaraed young brunette made their way towards Morse's table, and Sue seemed glad to see them.

  'Doctor Eyres this is Inspector Morse.' The two men shook hands. 'And this is Sandra. Sandra this is Inspector Morse.' The leaden-eyed Sandra, it transpired, was also a nurse and worked with Sue at the Radcliffe Infirmary. The band resumed its plangent strains.

  'Mind if I had this dance with Sue, Inspector?'

  'Of course not,' smiled Morse. You lousy, lecherous medico. Sandra sat down and looked at Morse with obvious interest in her eyes.

  'I'm awfully sorry not to be able to ask you to dance,' he said, but I've had an accident with my foot. Nearly better, though.'

  Sandra was sympathy itself. 'Oh dear. How did that happen?'

  For the fiftieth time in the last seven days Morse repeated the attendant circumstances of his escapade. But his mind was all on Sue. As she escorted the houseman to the floor he thought of Coleridge:

  The bride hath paced into the hall,

  Red as a rose is she.

  He watched them dance; he saw Sue's arms closely round her partner's neck, her body close to his; and then his cheek was brushing her hair, her head happily resting on his shoulder. Morse felt sick of a jealous dread. He turned his eyes away from the smooching couples. 'Do you know, I reckon I could just about cope with this dance myself,' he said. 'May I?' He took her hand, led her to the floor and, firmly placing his right arm round her waist, drew her towards him. Rapidly, however, he realized the extent of his own stupidity. His injured foot was working like a dream, but lacking the confidence to lift his other foot more than a centimetre off the dance-floor he was soon kicking his partner's toes with monotonous and ill-received regularity. Mercifully the dance was quickly over, and mumbling profuse apologies about his ill-educated feet Morse slopped his way back to the haven of his table. Sue was still talking in an animated way to Doctor Eyres, and after Sandra had rejoined them, the trio erupted into peals of laughter.

  Ten minutes earlier Morse had anticipated that even the most succulent steak would taste tonight as dry as the Dead Sea apples, but he tucked into his meal with a will. At least he could eat. Even if he couldn't dance, even if h
e'd forgotten how middle-aged he'd now become, even if Sue was yearning for someone else, he could still eat. And jolly good it was. They said little and when something was said, as they drank their coffees, it came as a big surprise.

  'Why did you ask me out, Inspector?'

  Morse looked at her, the hair light-brown and lifted softly from her face, her face itself all freshness and delight, the cheeks now faintly flushed with wine; and above all the magic of those wide and doleful eyes. Had he asked her with any firm purpose? He wasn't sure. He put his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his clasped hands. 'Because I find you so very beautiful and I wanted to be with you.'

  Sue looked at him for several seconds, her eyes unblinking and gentle. 'Do you mean that?' she asked quietly.

  'I don't know if I meant it when I asked you. But I mean it now — I think you know I do.' He spoke simply and calmly and he held her eyes with his own as he spoke. He saw two splendid tears forming on her lower lids and she reached across and laid her hand upon his arm.