Last Bus to Woodstock (20 page)

‘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 tyre 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 tyre 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.’

‘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 Tyre and Battery Co. at 6.15 p.m. on the evening of Wednesday, 29 September. She said it was urgent – a very flat front tyre. 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 layby 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 something.

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 tyre-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.

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.

‘Howld 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 the 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.

Nor was he sure what to think when half an hour later the findings of the laboratory were phoned through. Lewis watched the Inspector’s curious reactions.

‘Are you sure . . .? You’re quite sure . . .? Yes. Well, many thanks. You’ll bring them over? Good. Thank you.’

‘Well, Lewis, you’re in for a surprise.’

‘About the note?’

‘Yes. About the note – the note someone wrote to the young lady who is now visiting “some friends” in London. They say they know whose typewriter it was.’

‘And whose was it?’

‘That’s what’s puzzling me. We’ve never heard of him before! He’s a Mr Peter Newlove.’

‘And who’s Mr Peter Newlove?’

‘It’s time we found out.’ He rang Lonsdale College for the second time that afternoon and found the same slow-motion porter presiding over the Lodge.

‘Mr Newlove, sir? No, I’m afraid he’s not in college. Just let me check in the book . . . No, sir. He’s away till Monday. Can I take a message? No? All right. Goodbye, sir.’

‘Well, that’s that,’ said Morse. ‘
All
our birds have flown. And I don’t see much point in staying here, do you?’ Lewis didn’t.

‘Let’s just tidy up all this mess,’ said Morse.

Lewis gathered together the papers on his side of the table – the photographs of Sylvia Kaye and the carefully drawn diagrams of the yard at the Black Prince, annotated in thin, spidery writing with details of everything found therein. He looked again at the close-ups of the murdered girl lying there, and felt a paternally protective urge to cover the harsh nakedness of her beautiful body.

‘I’d like to get the bastard who did this,’ he muttered.

‘What’s that?’ Morse took the photographs from him.

‘He must be a sex maniac, don’t you think, sir? Tearing off her clothes like that and leaving her for anyone and everyone to see. God, I wish I knew who he was!’

‘Oh, I don’t think there’s much difficulty about that,’ said Morse.

Lewis looked at him incredulously. ‘You mean you
know
?’

Morse nodded slowly, and locked away the file on Sylvia Kaye.

S
UE SAW
D
AVID
off on the Birmingham train at 7.13 on Sunday evening. She told him what a marvellous weekend it had been – and so it had. On Saturday they had gone to the cinema, had a delicious Chinese meal and generally luxuriated in being together. Most of Sunday they had spent in Headington at the home of David’s parents, pleasant, warm-hearted people, sensible enough to leave the two young love-birds alone for the greater part of the day. They hoped to marry some time next autumn, after David had finished his postgraduate year of research in metallurgy at the University of Warwick. He was hopeful (for he had taken a ‘first’) of getting a lectureship somewhere, and Sue encouraged him: she would rather be married to a lecturer than to an industrial chemist, or whatever metallurgists became. She thought that was the only thing about David of which she couldn’t wholeheartedly approve – his choice of metallurgy. It had something to do with her own schooldays and the distaste she’d always felt amid the smells and silver slivers of the metalwork shop. There was something, too, about the
hands
of people who worked with metal: a sort of ingrained griminess, however patiently they were scrubbed.