Last Bus To Woodstock im-1

by Colin Dexter

  The road was clear as he left Oxford and he cursed himself savagely every other minute. He should have gone in — stupid fool. He knew deep down he wasn't a stupid fool, but it didn't help much.

  Lewis was waiting for him. 'Well, what's the programme, sir?'

  'I thought we'd take a gentle bus ride a little later, Lewis.' Ah well. His not to reason why. 'Yes. I thought we'd go to Woodstock on the bus together. What about that?'

  'Has the car conked out again?'

  'No. Going like a dream. So it should. Had a bill for the bloody battery this morning. Guess how much.'

  'Six, seven pounds.'

  'Nine pounds twenty-five!'

  Lewis screwed up his nose. 'Cheaper if you'd gone to the tire and battery people up in Headington. They don't charge for any labour. I've always found them very good.'

  'You sound as if you're always haying car trouble.'

  'Not really. Had a few punctures lately, though.'

  'Can't you change a tire yourself?'

  'Well yes. Course I can. I'm not an old woman you know, but you've got to have a spare.'

  Morse wasn't listening. He felt the familiar tingle of the blood freezing in his arms. 'You're a genius, Sergeant. Pass me the telephone directory. Consult the yellow pages. Here we are — only two numbers. Which shall we try first?'

  'What about the first one, sir?'

  A few seconds later Morse was speaking to Cowley Tire and Battery Services. 'I want to speak to the boss of the place. It's urgent. Police here.' He winked at Lewis. 'Ah, hullo. Chief Inspector Morse here. Thames Valley. . No, no. Nothing like that. . Now, I want you to look up your records for the week beginning 27 September. . Yes. I want to know if you supplied a battery or mended a puncture for a Miss Jennifer Coleby. C-O-L-E-B-Y. Yes. It might have been any day — probably Tuesday or Wednesday. You'll ring me back? Get on with it straight away, please. It's most urgent. Good. You've got my number? Good. Cheers.' He rang the second number and repeated the patter. Lewis was turning over the Sylvia Kaye file that lay open on Morse's desk. He studied the photographs — large, glossy, black and white photographs with amazingly clear delineation. He looked again at the shots of Sylvia Kaye as she lay that night in the yard of The Black Prince. She'd been really something, he thought The white blouse had been torn sharply on the left-hand side, and only the bottom of the four buttons remained fastened. The left breast was fully revealed and Lewis was strongly reminded of the provocative poses of the models in the girlie magazines. It could almost have been an erotic experience — looking through those pictures; but Lewis remembered the back of die blonde head and the cruelly shattered skull. He thought of his own darling daughter — thirteen now; she was getting a nice little figure. . God, what a world to bring up children in. He hoped and prayed that she would be all right, and he felt a deep and burning need to find the man who did all that to Sylvia Kaye.

  Morse had finished.

  'Can you put me in the picture, sir?' asked Lewis.

  Morse sat back and thought for a few minutes. 'I suppose I ought to have told you before, Lewis. But I couldn't be sure — well, can't be sure now — about one or two things. Pretty well from the beginning I thought I had a good idea of the general picture. I thought it was like this. Two girls want a lift to Woodstock and we've got some fairly substantial evidence that they were picked up—both of them.' Lewis nodded. 'Now neither the driver nor the other girl came forward. The question I asked myself was "why" Why were both these people anxious to keep quiet? There were pretty obvious reasons why one of them should keep his mouth shut. But why both? It seemed most improbable to me that the pair of them could be partners in crime. So. What are we left with? One very strong possibility, as I saw it, was that they knew each other. But that didn't seem quite good enough, somehow. Most people don't withhold evidence, certainly don't tell complicated lies, just because they know each other. But what if they have, between them, some guilty reason for wanting to keep things very quiet indeed? And what if such a guilty reason is the fact that they know each other rather too well? What if they are — not to put too fine a point on things — having an affair with each other? The situation's not so good for them, is it? With a murder in the background — not so good at all.' Lewis wished he'd get on with it. 'But let's go back a bit. On the face of it our evidence suggested from the word go that the encounter between the two girls and the driver of the car was pure chance: Mrs. Jarman's evidence is perfectly clear on that point. Now we have discovered, after a good deal of unnecessary trouble, who the driver of the red car was: Crowther. In his evidence he admits that he is having an affair with another woman and that the venue for these extramarital excursions is Blenheim Park. Furthermore, again on his own evidence, he was going to see his lady-love on the night of Wednesday, 29 September. Now at this point I took a leap in the dark. What if the lady-love was one of the girls he picked up?'

  'But. .' began Lewis.

  'Don't interrupt, Lewis. Now, was the lady-love Sylvia Kaye? I don't think so. We know that Mr. John Sanders had a date, however vague, with Sylvia on the 29th. It doesn't prove things one way or the other, but Sylvia is the less likely choice of the two. So. We're left with our other passenger — Miss, or Mrs. X. It is clear from Mrs. Jarman's evidence that Miss X seemed anxious and excited, and I think no one gets too anxious and excited about going to Woodstock unless that person has a date, and an important date at that, and not very much time to spare. Crowther said an hour or so at the most, remember?'

  'But. .' He thought better of it.

  'We also learned from what Mrs. Jarman said that Sylvia knew the other girl. There was that business of having a giggle about it in the morning. So, we try the place where Sylvia works and we find an extraordinary, quite inexplicable letter written to Miss Jennifer Coleby, who has become my odds-on favourite for the Miss X title. I agree that the evidence of the letter is not conclusive; worth following up though. She's a clever girl, our Jennifer. She has two spanners to throw in the works. First, she seems to have been at a pub this side of Woodstock instead of in Blenheim Park; second — and this really worried me and still does — why does she have to bus to Woodstock, or hitch-hike, if she's got a car? Which, as we know, she has. It seemed a fatal objection. But is it? My car wouldn't start on Wednesday morning because the battery was flat. You said that you had a few punctures recently and you said you could mend them. You said you were not an old woman. Now Jennifer Coleby is not an old woman — but she's a woman. What if she discovered that her car wouldn't start? What would she do? Ring up her garage. That was pretty obvious and hence your visit to Barkers, where you drew a blank. I thought I saw the light, though, this morning. I had a bill for my car-battery and you mentioned the tire and battery people. The real question then is when did Jennifer discover her car was out of order? Surely not before she got back from work, at about 5.30 p.m. Now not many garages these days are going to do much at that time; the staff has all gone. But your little tire and battery men don't work, methinks, to union hours, and they are worth trying. I must assume that Jennifer could get no one to see to her car that night — not because they couldn't do it, but because they couldn't do it in time. She may not have discovered the trouble until about 6.15 or 6.30 p.m. But I think she tried to get something done — and failed. Well, what's she to do? Naturally, she can get a bus. She's never had to bus before, but she's seen the Woodstock buses often enough and that's why I believe it was Jennifer who was seen at Fare Stage 5 on the night Sylvia was murdered. She meets an impatient fellow-traveller, Sylvia, and the two of them decide to hitchhike. They walk past the roundabout and a car stops: Crowther's car. It's hardly a coincidence, is it? He's got to get to Woodstock, too, and he's bound to be going there at roughly the same time as Jennifer. Whether he knew it was her — it was getting fairly dark — I just don't know. I suspect he did.' Morse stopped.

  'And what happened then, do you think, sir?'

  'Crowther has told us what happened for the next few miles.'r />
  'Do you believe him?'

  Morse sat thoughtfully and didn't answer immediately. The phone rang. 'No,' said Morse, 'I don't believe him.' Lewis watched the Inspector. He could not hear what was being said on the other end of the line. Morse listened impassively.

  'Thank you very much,' he said finally. 'What time would be convenient? All right. Thank you.'

  He put down the phone, and Lewis looked at him expectantly.

  'Well, sir?'

  'I told you Lewis. You're a genius.'

  'Her car was out of order?'

  Morse nodded. 'Miss Jennifer Coleby rang the Cowley Tire and Battery Co. at 6.15 p.m. on the evening of Wednesday, 29 September. She said it was urgent — a very flat front tire. They couldn't get there until sevenish and she said that was too late.'

  'We're making headway, sir.'

  'We are, indeed. Now what about our bus ride?'

  The two men caught the 11.35 4A to Woodstock. It was half empty and they sat in the front seat on the upper deck. Morse was silent and Lewis mulled over the strange developments in the case. The bus made good speed and stopped only four times before reaching Woodstock. At the third of these stops Morse gave his sergeant a dig in the ribs and Lewis looked out to see where they were. The bus had pulled into a shallow lay-by just outside Begbroke, at a large, thatched house with its garden crowded with tables and chairs set under brightly striped umbrellas; he bent his head down to the bottom of the side window to see the name of the public house and read the two words Golden Rose.

  'Interesting?' said Morse.

  'Very,' replied Lewis. He thought he might as well say some thing.

  They alighted at Woodstock and Morse led the way. 'Ready for a pint, Sergeant?'

  They walked into the cocktail bar of The Black Prince. 'Good morning, Mrs. McFee. You won't remember me, I suppose?'

  'I remember you very well, Inspector.'

  'What a memory,' said Morse.

  'What can I get for you, gentlemen?' She was clearly not amused.

  'Two pints of best bitter, please.'

  'Official business?' Her dislike of Morse's manner was not quite enough to stifle her natural curiosity.

  'No. No. Just a friendly visit to look at you again.' He's in good spirits this morning, thought Lewis.

  'I see from the paper that you're hoping. .' she fumbled for the words.

  'We're making progress, aren't we, Sergeant?'

  'Oh yes,' said Lewis. After all, he was the other half of those intensive inquiries.

  'Don't they ever give you a few hours off?" asked Morse.

  'Oh, they're very good really.' She was softening a little towards him; it was always nice to be reminded how hard she worked. 'As a matter of fact I've got tonight and all of Saturday and Sunday off.'

  'Where shall we go?' asked Morse.

  The hostess smiled professionally. 'Where do you suggest, Inspector?' Good for you, my girl, thought Lewis.

  Morse asked for the menu and studied it in some detail.

  'What's the food like here?' asked Morse.

  'Why don't you try it?'

  Morse appeared to consider the possibility but asked instead if there was a good fish-and-chip shop near by. There wasn't. Several customers had come in and the policemen left by the side entrance and walked into the yard. To their right, a car was sitting up on its haunches, with each of the front wheels off. Underneath the car, suitably protected from the grease and oil, and wielding a formidable wrench, lay the landlord of The Black Prince, and by his side the folding tool-box which had so recently housed a long and heavy tire-spanner.

  Unnoticed by Morse and Lewis as they left the premises, a young man had entered the cocktail bar and ordered a tonic water. Mr. John Sanders had apparently made a sufficient recovery from his bouts of shivery fever to join once more in the social life of Woodstock, if not to resume his duties with Messrs Chalkley and Sons.

  On the bus journey back Morse was deeply engrossed in a Midland Counties bus time-table and a map of North Oxford. Occasionally he looked at his watch and made a brief entry in a note-book. Lewis felt hungry. It had been a pity about the fish-and-chip shop.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Friday, 15 October, p.m.

  A BULKY ENVELOPE marked 'confidential' arrived on Morse's desk at 3.30 that afternoon—'from the Principal'. He had done a very careful and thorough job — that was quite clear. There were ninety-three typewriters, it appeared, in Lonsdale College. Most of them belonged to the college and had found their various ways into the rooms of the fellows; over twenty were the personal property of members of the college. Ninety-three sheets of paper, each numbered, were neatly arranged beneath a bull-dog clip. Two further sheets, stapled together, provided the key to the typewritten specimens, and, appropriately enough, the Principal's typewriter was given the no. 1 designation. Morse riffled the sheets. It was going to be a bigger job than he'd thought, and he rang the laboratory boys. He learned it would take an hour or so.

  Lewis had spent most of the afternoon typing his reports and did not return to Morse's office until 4.15 p.m.

  'You hoping to have the weekend off, Lewis?'

  'Not if there's something you want me for, sir.'

  'I'm afraid we have rather a lot to do. I think it's time we had a little confrontation, don't you?'

  'Confrontation?'

  'Yes. A gentle little confrontation between a certain Miss Coleby and a certain Mr. Crowther. What do you think?'

  'Might clear the air a bit.'

  'Ye-es. Do you think the old establishment could run to four clean cups of coffee in the morning?'

  'You want me to join you?'

  'We're a team, Lewis, my boy. I've told you that before.' Morse rang Town and Gown and asked for Mr. Palmer.

  'Hew shell I see is calling?' It was the prim little Judith.

  'Mister Plod," said Morse.

  'Hold on, please, Mr. Plod. . you're threw.'

  'I didn't quite catch your name, sir? Palmer here.'

  'Morse. Inspector Morse.'

  'Oh, hullo, Inspector.' Stupid girl!

  'I want to have a word with Miss Coleby. Confidential. I wonder if. .'

  Palmer interrupted him. 'I'm awfully sorry, Inspector. She's not here this afternoon. She wanted to spend a long weekend in London and, well. . we do occasionally show a little er flexibility, you know. It sometimes helps the er the smooth running. .'

  'London, you say?'

  'Yes. She said she was going to spend the weekend with some friends. She caught the lunch-time train.'

  'Did she leave an address?'

  'I'm sorry. I don't think she did. I could try to er. .'

  'No. Don't bother.'

  'Can I take a message?'

  'No. I'll get in touch with her when she comes back.' Perhaps he could see Sue again. . 'When will she be back, by the way?'

  'I don't really know. Sunday evening I should think.'

  'All right. Well, thank you.'

  'Sorry I couldn't be. .'

  'Not your fault.' Morse put down the phone with less than average courtesy.

  'One of our birds has flown, Lewis.' He turned his attention to Bernard Crowther and decided to try the college first.

  'Porter's Lodge.'

  'Can you put me through to Mr. Crowther's rooms, please?'

  'Just a minute, sir.' Morse drummed the table with the fingers of his left hand. Come on!

  'Are you there, sir?'

  'Yes. I'm still here.'

  'No reply, I'm afraid, sir.'

  'Is he in college this afternoon?'

  'I saw him this morning, sir. Just a minute.' Three minutes later Morse was wondering if the wretched porter had taken a gentle stroll around the quad.

  'Are you there, sir?'

  'Yes, I'm still here.'

  'He's away somewhere, sir, for the weekend. It's a conference of some sort.'

  'Do you know when he's due back?'

  'Sorry, sir. Shall I put you through to th
e college office?'

  'No, don't bother. I'll ring again later.'

  'Thank you, sir."

  Morse held the phone in his hands for a few seconds and finally put it down with the greatest circumspection. 'I wonder. I wonder. .' He was lost in thought.

  'It seems both of our birds have flown, sir.'

  'I wonder if the conference is being held in London.'

  'You don't think. .?'

  'I don't know what to think,' said Morse.