Last Bus To Woodstock im-1

by Colin Dexter

  Give Morse a letter and his imagination soared to the realms of the bright-eyed Seraphim. Lewis groaned inwardly.

  'You think she wrote it, don't you, sir?'

  Morse reluctantly reined back the wild horses. 'Yes. She wrote it'

  Lewis thought he understood the Inspector's feelings. There would have to be a bit of tidying up, of course, but the case was now substantially over. He'd enjoyed most of his time working with the irascible, volatile inspector, but now. . The phone rang and Morse answered. He said 'I see' a dozen times and replaced the receiver.

  'Crowther's in the Radcliffe — he's had a mild heart attack. He's not allowed to see anyone for two days at least.'

  'Perhaps he couldn't tell us much more,' suggested Lewis.

  'Oh yes he could,' said Morse. He leaned back, put his hands on his head like a naughty schoolboy, and stared vacantly at the farthest corner of the wall. Lewis thought it best to keep quiet, but he grew uncomfortably restless as the minutes ticked by.

  'Would you like a coffee, sir?' Morse didn't seem to hear him. 'Coffee? Would you like a coffee?' Morse reminded him of a very deaf person with his hearing-aid switched off. Minute after minute slipped by before the grey eyes refocused on the world around him.

  'Well, that's cleared up one thing, Lewis. We can cross Mrs. Crowther off our list of suspects, can't we?'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Tuesday. 19 October., p.m.

  AT MIDDAY PETER NEWLOVE was sitting in his rooms. He was expecting no one. Normally Bernard might have dropped in about now for a gin, but the news had swept the college that morning: Margaret had killed herself and Bernard had suffered a heart attack. And the double-barrelled news hit no one harder than Peter. He had known Margaret well and had liked her; and Bernard was his best friend in that academic, dilettante style of friendship which springs up in most collegiate universities. He had rung up the hospital, but there was no chance of visiting Bernard until Thursday at the earliest. He had sent some flowers: Bernard liked flowers and had no wife to send them now. . He had enquired, too, about the children. They had gone to stay with an aunt in Hendon, though Peter couldn't imagine how such an arrangement could possibly help them very much.

  There was a knock on the door. 'It's open.'

  He had not met Inspector Morse before and was pleasantly surprised that his offer of a drink was accepted. Morse explained in blunt, unequivocal terms why he had called.

  'And it was written on that one?' Newlove frowned at the open portable typewriter on the table.

  'No doubt about it."

  Newlove looked mildly perplexed, but said nothing.

  'Do you know a young lady named Jennifer Coleby, Miss Jennifer Coleby?'

  'I don't, I'm afraid.' Newlove's frown grew deeper.

  'She works in the High, not far from here. Town and Gown. Assurance place.'

  Newlove shook his head. 'I might have seen her, of course. But I don't know her. I've not heard the name before.'

  'And you've never written to anyone of that name?'

  'No. How could I? As I say, I've never heard of the woman.'

  Morse pursed his lips and continued. 'Who else could have used your typewriter, sir?'

  'Well, I don't know really. I suppose almost anyone in a way. I don't lock the place up very much unless there are question papers about.'

  'You mean you leave your doors open and let anybody just walk in and help himself to your booze or your books — or your typewriter?'

  'No, it's not like that. But quite a few of the Fellows do drop in.'

  'Who in particular, would you say?'

  'Well, there's a new young don here this term, Melhuish, for example. He's been in quite a few times recently.'

  'And?'

  'And a dozen others.' He sounded a little uneasy.

  'Have you ever seen any of these er friends of yours using your typewriter?'

  'Well, no. I don't think I have.' They'd use their own, wouldn't they?'

  'Yes. I suppose they would.'

  'Not much "suppose" about it, is there, sir?' said Morse.

  'No.'

  'You've no idea then?'

  'I'm not being very helpful, I know. But I've no idea at all.'

  Morse abruptly switched his questioning. 'Did you know Mrs. Crowther?'

  'Yes'

  'You've heard about her?'

  'Yes,' said Newlove quietly.

  'And Bernard Crowther?' Newlove nodded. 'I understand he's one of your best friends?' Again Newlove nodded. 'I've been to his room this morning, sir. If you want to put it crudely I've been snooping around. But you see, I often have to snoop around. I take no particular delight in it.'

  'I understand,' said Newlove.

  'I wonder if you do understand, sir.' There was a clipped impatience in his voice now. 'He often drops in to see you, is that right?'

  'Quite often.'

  'And do you think he'd come to you if he wanted anything?'

  'You mean rather than to somebody else?'

  'Yes.'

  'He'd come to me.'

  'Did you know that his typewriter can't even cope with a comma?'

  'No, I didn't,' lied Newlove.

  After dropping Morse at Lonsdale College, Lewis had his own duties to perform. For the life of him he couldn't understand the point of this particular errand, but Morse had said it was of vital importance. Something had galvanized the Inspector into new life. But it wasn't the gay, rumbustious Morse of the early days of the case. Something grim had come over him and Lewis found him a little frightening sometimes. He only hoped they got no more letters upon which Morse could practise his misdirected ingenuity.

  He pulled the official police car into the small yard of the Summertown Health Centre, situated on the corner of the Banbury Road and Marston Ferry Road. It was a finely built, large, red-stone structure with steps up to a white porch before the front door — one of the many beautiful large houses built by the well-to-do along the Banbury Road in the latter half of the nineteenth century. Lewis was expected and had only a minute or so to wait before being shown into the consulting room of the senior partner.

  'That's the lot, Sergeant.' Dr. Green handed over a file to Lewis.

  'Are you sure it's all here, sir? Inspector Morse was very anxious for me to get everything.'

  Dr. Green was silent for a moment. 'The only thing that's not there is. . is er any record that we had er may have had about any er conversation we er may have had with Miss Kaye about her er private sex life. You understand, I know, Sergeant, that there are er there is the ethical side of er the er confidential nature of the er doctor's relationship with the er patient.'

  'You mean she was on the pill, doctor.' Lewis stepped boldly with his policeman's boots where the angelic Green had so delicately feared to tread.

  'Er. . I er didn't say that, did I, Sergeant? I er said that we er it is er improper yes improper to er betray to betray the confidences that we er we er hear in the consulting room.'

  'Would you have told us if she wasn't on the pill?' asked Lewis innocently.

  'Now that's er a very difficult er question. You er we er you er you are putting words into my er mouth a bit aren't you, Sergeant? All I'm saying is er. .'

  Lewis wondered what the senior partner would say to a patient who had malignant cancer. It would be, he was sure, a most protracted er interview. He thanked the good doctor and left as quickly as he could, although he was half-way down the porch steps before he finally shook off the er persistent Green. He'd have to tell his wife about er Doctor Green.

  As they had agreed, Lewis picked up Morse outside Lonsdale College at one o'clock. He told the Inspector about the troubled state of Doctor Green's conscience on the problem of professional confidentiality, but Morse was cynically unimpressed.

  'We know she was on the pill, remember?' Lewis should have remembered. He had read the reports; in fact Morse had specially asked him to get to know them as well as he could. It hadn't seemed very important at th
e time. Perhaps, even then, Morse had seen its relevance? But he doubted it, and his doubts, as it happened, were well justified.

  As Lewis drove out of the city, Morse asked him to turn off to the motel at the Woodstock roundabout. 'We'll have a pint and a sandwich, eh?'

  They sat in the Morris Bar, Morse engrossed in the medical reports on Sylvia Kaye. They covered, at intermittent stages, the whole of her pathetically brief little life, from the mild attack of jaundice at the age of two days to an awkward break of her arm in the August before she had died. Measles, warts on fingers, middle-ear infection, dysmenorrhoea, headaches (myopia?). A fairly uneventful medical history. Most of the notes were reasonably legible, and oddly enough the arch-apostle of indecision, the conscientious Green, had a beautifully clear and rounded hand. His only direct contacts with Sylvia had been over the last two affliction:, the headaches and the broken arm. Morse passed the file over to Lewis, and went to refill the glasses. Some of the details had appeared in the post-mortem report anyway, but his memory wasn't Lewis's strongest asset.

  'Have you ever broken your arm?' asked Morse.

  'No.'

  'They say it's very painful. Something to do with the neurological endings or something. Like when you hurt your foot, Lewis. Very, very painful.'

  'You should know, sir.'

  'Ah, but if you've got a basically strong constitution like me, you soon recover.' Lewis let it go. 'Did you notice,' continued Morse, 'that Green saw her on the day before she died?'

  Lewis opened the file again. He had read the entry, but without noticing the date. He looked again and saw that Morse was right. Sylvia had visited the Summertown Health Centre on Tuesday, 28 September, with a letter from the orthopaedic surgeon at the RadclifFe Infirmary. It read: 'Arm still very stiff and rather painful. Further treatment necessary. Continuation of physiotherapy treatment recommended as before — Tuesday and Thursday a.m.'

  Lewis could imagine the consultation. And suddenly a thought flashed into his mind. It was being with Morse that did it. His fanciful suspicions were getting as wild as the Inspector's. 'You don't think, surely, that er. .' He was getting as bad as Green.

  'That what?' said Morse, his face strangely grave.

  'That Green was having an affair with Sylvia?'

  Morse smiled wanly and drained his glass. 'We could find out, I suppose.'

  'But you said this medical stuff was very important.'

  'That was an understatement.'

  'Have you found what you wanted, sir?'

  'Yes. You could say that. Let's say I just wanted a bit of confirmation. I spoke to Green on the telephone yesterday.'

  'Did he er did he er er,' mimicked Lewis. It was an isolated moment of levity in the last grim days of the case.

  Sue had Tuesday afternoon off, and she was glad of it. Working in the casualty department was tiring, especially on her feet. The other girls were out and she made herself some toast and sat in the little kitchen staring with her beautiful, doleful eyes at the white floor-tiles. She'd promised to write to David and she really must get down to it this afternoon. She wondered what to say. She could tell him about work and she could tell him how lovely it had been to see him last weekend and she could tell him how much she looked forward to seeing him again. Yet all seemed empty of delight. She blamed herself bitterly for her own selfishness; but even as she did so, she knew that she was more concerned with her own wishes and her own desires than with anyone else's. With David's — particularly David's. It was futile, it was quite impossible, it was utterly foolish, it was even dangerous to think of him — to think about Morse, that is. But she wanted him so badly. She longed for him to call — she longed just to see him. Anything. . And as she sat there in the little kitchen staring at the white tiles still, she felt an overwhelming sense of self-reproach and loneliness and misery.

  Jennifer was busy on Tuesday afternoon. Palmer had sent her a draft letter and wanted her to look it through. Premiums on virtually everything were to be increased by 10 % after Christmas and all the company's clients had to be informed. The dear man, thought Jennifer; he's not so very bright really. The first paragraph of his letter was reminiscent of the tortuous exercises she'd been set in Latin prose. 'Which' followed 'which', which followed yet another 'which'. A coven of whiches, she thought, and smiled at the conceit. She amended the paragraph with a bold confidence; a full stop here, a new paragraph there, a better word here — much clearer. Palmer knew she was by far the brightest girl in the office, and over important drafts he always consulted her. She wouldn't be staying there much longer, though. She had applied for two jobs in the last week. But she wouldn't dream of telling anybody, not even Mr. Palmer. Not that it was unpleasant working where she was — far from it. And she earned almost as much as Mary and Sue put together. . Sue! She thought of Sunday evening when she had returned from London. How glad she had felt to find them like that! She visualized the scene again and a cruel smile played over her lips.

  She took the amended drafts to Mr. Palmer's office, where Judith was trying to keep pace with the very moderate speed at which her employer was dictating a letter. She handed the draft to him. 'I've made a few suggestions.'

  'Oh, thank you very much. I just rushed it off, you know. Put down the first things that came into my head. I realized it was, you know, a bit er a bit rough. Thanks very much. Jolly good.'

  Jennifer said no more. She left, and as she walked up the corridor to the typists' room, the same nasty smile was playing about her pretty mouth.

  The third of the triad, the undaunted, dumpy, freckled little Mary, worked for Radio Oxon. In the BBC she might have been accorded the distinguished title of 'continuity girl'; but she was in a dead-end job with the local radio station. Like Jennifer she had been thinking of a change, although unlike Jennifer she had few qualifications behind her. Jennifer had some A levels and all her shorthand and typing certificates; she must have been clever at school, thought Mary. Cool, sort of knowing all the time. . It worked well enough, the three of them living together; but she wouldn't mind a move. Sue was all right, she quite liked Sue really, although she'd been a bit moody and broody just recently. Men trouble. Had she fallen for that Inspector chap? She wouldn't blame her, though. At least Sue was human. She wasn't quite so sure about Jennifer.

  After lunch on Tuesday one of the assistants came in to chat with her. He had a beard, a light-hearted manner, five young children and a roving eye for the ladies. Mary did not positively strive to discourage his attentions.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Thursday, Friday; 21,22 October

  BERNARD CROWTHER WAS, in the words of the ward sister, 'satisfactory', and on Thursday afternoon he was sitting up in bed to receive his first visitor. Strangely, Morse had not seemed anxious to press his claims, and had waived his rights at the head of the queue.

  Peter Newlove was glad to see his old friend looking so lively. They talked naturally and quietly for a few minutes. Some things just had to be said, but when Peter had said them, he turned to other matters and he knew that Bernard understood. It was almost time to go. But Bernard put his hand on his friend's arm and Peter sat down again beside the bed. An oxygen tube hung over the metal frame behind Bernard's head and a multi-dialled machine stood guard on the other side of the bed.

  'I want to tell you something, Peter.'

  Peter leaned forward slightly to hear him. Bernard was speaking more labouredly now and taking a deep breath before each group of words. "We can talk again tomorrow. Don't upset yourself now.'

  'Please stay.' Bernard's voice was strained and urgent as he went on. 'I've got to tell you. You know all about that murder at Woodstock?' Peter nodded. 'I picked up the two girls.' He breathed heavily again and a light smile came to his lips. 'Funny really. I was going to meet one of them anyway. But they missed the bus and I picked them up. It ruined everything, of course. They knew each other and — well, it scared me off.' He rested a while, and Peter looked hard at his old friend and tried to k
eep the look of incredulity out of his eyes.

  'To cut a long story short, I finished up with the other one. Think of it, Peter! I finished up with the other one! She was hot stuff, good Lord she was. Peter, can you hear me?' He leaned back, shook his head sadly, and took another deep breath.

  'I had her — in the back of the car. She made me feel as randy as an old goat. And then — and then I left her. That's the funny thing about it. I left her. I drove back home. That's all.'

  'You left her, you mean, at The Black Prince?'

  Bernard nodded. 'Yes. That's where they found her. I'm glad I've told you.'

  'Are you going to tell the police?'

  'That's what I want to ask you, Peter. You see I. .' he stopped. 'I don't know whether I should tell you, and you must promise me never to breathe it to a living soul'—he looked anxiously at Peter, but seemed confident of his trust—'but I'm pretty sure that I saw someone else in the yard that night I didn't know who it was, of course.' He was becoming progressively more exhausted each time he spoke, and Peter rose to his feet anxiously.