Last Bus to Woodstock (28 page)

‘When was this?’

‘This morning. Here!’ Morse took out the letter which Lewis himself had brought from Jennifer Coleby, and passed it over. Lewis took out the sheet of paper and read with blind, blank, uncomprehending disbelief the one line answer that Miss Coleby had written to Morse’s question.

‘Yes,’ said Morse softly. ‘It’s true.’

Lewis was full of questions, but he received no answers. ‘Look, Lewis, I want to be alone. You go home and look after your wife for a change. I’ll talk to you on Monday.’

The two men left the office. Lewis got his coat and was soon away. But Morse walked slowly to the cells at the far end of the north wing.

‘Want to go in, sir?’ said the sergeant on duty.

Morse nodded. ‘Leave us alone, will you?’

‘Anything you say, sir. Cell number 1.’

Morse took the keys, unbolted the main door to the cells and walked along to cell number 1. He put his hands on the bars and stood staring sadly through.

‘Hello, Sue,’ he said.

T
HE DAY HAD
broken bright and clear, but by mid-morning a melancholy army of heavy grey cloud had massed overhead; and flurries of light rain were already sprinkling the window panes of Morse’s office as, for the last time on the case of Sylvia Kaye, the two detectives faced each other across the desk.

‘What did we know about Miss X?’ asked Morse, and proceeded to answer the question himself. ‘We knew roughly what she looked like, we knew roughly what she was wearing, and we knew roughly what age she was. It was a start, but it could never have got us very far. But we also knew that the two girls waiting at the bus stop not only knew each other but that
they would be seeing each other again the following morning
. Now this, without a doubt, was by far the most important single piece of evidence we ever got, and we acted upon it immediately. Naturally we assumed that we could narrow down the field of our inquiries, and quite properly we concentrated our attentions on the office girls who worked with Sylvia Kaye. Of course, it could have been a friend of Sylvia’s, someone she would be meeting at lunchtime perhaps, or someone she would be meeting on the bus. It could have been a hundred and one things. But we didn’t think so. And we didn’t think so because our suspicions were very soon aroused, and with every justification, by the peculiar behaviour of one of the girls who worked in the same office as Sylvia – Miss Jennifer Coleby. But although we didn’t know it at the time, there was someone else Sylvia would be meeting that next morning, and if we’d been a fraction brighter earlier on, Lewis, we might have got on to it more quickly. Sylvia was undergoing physiotherapy treatment at the Radcliffe Infirmary for her broken arm, and she was going for this treatment regularly on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. That is, she would be reporting for physiotherapy to the staff nurse in charge of the Accident Outpatients’ Department
on the morning of Thursday, 30 September
. In other words, she would be reporting to Staff Nurse Widdowson.’ Lewis got up to close the windows upon which the rain was splattering more heavily now. ‘This, of course,’ continued Morse, ‘meant nothing very much by itself. But we learned that Sylvia didn’t have many close girl friends, didn’t we? It was interesting. Yes, at the very least it was interesting.’ Morse’s attention wandered momentarily, and he stared as Lewis had done through the windows to the concrete yard outside, now gleaming under the lowering sky. ‘But let’s return to Jennifer Coleby. Crowther wrote to her – that’s established now beyond any question of doubt. But Crowther didn’t write the note
for
Jennifer: she was merely the messenger boy. She’s admitted that, and she had no option really. When I wrote to her I didn’t ask her to accuse anyone of murder; but I did ask her if the letter was meant for Sue Widdowson, and she confirmed that it was. You’ll never know, Lewis, how much I dreaded the truth of all this . . .’

The rain plashed across the yard, and the room was sombre and dark. Electric lights flashed on in several adjoining rooms, but not in Morse’s office. ‘Just consider a minute, Lewis.
Jennifer had a car
. That was a central fact in the case. And in spite of the temporary trouble she had with a puncture,
she used her car on the night of the 29th
. She said she did, remember? And she did. I didn’t believe her at the time, but I was wrong. She met someone that night who saw her car and saw Jennifer Coleby in it. Someone who had nothing whatsoever to do with Sylvia’s murder. And that was someone with whom Jennifer was having an affair – her employer, Mr Palmer. So, although the evidence had pointed at almost every stage to Jennifer Coleby, she suddenly acquired for herself a wholly incontrovertible alibi. Up to that point I had felt utterly convinced that the other girl in this affair was Jennifer; but I now had to face the undoubted, unchallengeable fact that whoever it was who sat behind Sylvia Kaye that night in Bernard Crowther’s car, it was not, quite definitely
not
, Jennifer Coleby. Who was it, then? Although I was forced to abandon Jennifer as suspect number one – indeed, forced to abandon her as a suspect at all – I stuck stubbornly to my original idea that whoever the girl was, she was Crowther’s mistress, and that it was to her that Crowther had sent his message. So let us look at things from Crowther’s angle for a few minutes. I think that without a shadow of doubt he must have been a very frightened man. Just put yourself in his shoes, Lewis. He had left Sylvia Kaye alive and well – he knew that – on the Wednesday night. And the next day – what does he discover? He reads in the press that this same girl has been found murdered. But not murdered
anywhere
. Murdered on the very spot where he had last seen her – in the courtyard of the Black Prince. Who
knew
that he’d been there? Just himself and Sylvia – and she could never again say anything to anyone. But Sue Widdowson would have
guessed
, because Sylvia would have told her where she was going. He must have been worried out of his wits, and certainly for an intelligent man he doesn’t seem to have been very sensible in what he did. Again and again the thought must have flashed across his mind: would Sue realize how dangerous it would be to say one single word to a living soul? He must have thought she would surely realize this. But still the doubts must have nagged away at his mind. She was the one person who could upset the whole applecart – not only bring him under suspicion for Sylvia’s murder but throw the whole of his family-life into a turmoil he felt he couldn’t face. He just had to make sure, or at least he had to do
something
. He daren’t see her. So he wrote.’ Lewis showed the familiar signs of unease and Morse nodded his understanding. ‘I know, Lewis. Why does he write to
Jennifer
?’

‘Why did he write at all, sir? Why not just ring?’

‘Yes. I’m coming to that. But first let’s be absolutely certain about the
fact
of the matter – and the fact is that Crowther
did
write to Jennifer Coleby. For if we fully recognize the significance of that, we can begin to answer the perfectly valid question you raise. Why not ring her? Why not? The answer is fairly straightforward, I think.
Who
was he to ring, and
where
? Let’s assume for the minute that he wants to ring up Jennifer – the faithful messenger girl. At work? No. It was too dangerous. All the girls in the office knew Palmer’s views on using his company’s phones, and they played it fair because he turned a blind eye to personal correspondence coming in. But more than that. It was also far too dangerous, because all incoming telephone calls – except to the private phone in Palmer’s office, which his personal secretary handled – came through the switchboard; and as you well know anyone on the switchboard can listen in with complete impunity to whatever’s being said. No. That was out. Well? Why not ring Sue Widdowson herself? Why not ring his mistress and speak to her direct, either at her home or at the hospital? Again it’s not difficult to see why he didn’t. If he rang Sue up at home, he could never be sure that the other two weren’t there, could he? He could risk Jennifer, but not Mary. He must have felt pretty certain – and I’m sure he was right – that listening in, even to a one-sided telephone call, is a temptingly easy and interesting pastime.’

After politely knocking on Morse’s door, the young girl with the office correspondence entered brightly and placed the inspector’s morning mail into his in-tray.

‘Not a very nice day, sir.’

‘No,’ said Morse.

‘It’ll probably clear up later.’ She gave him a warm and pleasant smile as she left, and Morse nodded in a kindly way. It was some vague consolation to know that life was still going on around him. He stared absently out of the window and noticed that the rain had slackened. Perhaps she was right. It would probably clear up later . . .

‘But why couldn’t he ring her at work, sir?’

‘Ah yes. I’m sorry, Lewis. Why couldn’t he ring her at work, you say? I found the answer to that only last Friday. It is virtually impossible for any outsider, even for the police, to get into direct contact with any of the nursing staff at the Radcliffe. I tried it myself, and you might as well ask directory enquiries for a number if you haven’t got the address. There’s an old battle-axe of a matron there . . .’

‘Couldn’t Crowther have written to her, though? Surely . . .’

‘He could, yes. And I don’t know why he didn’t really, except . . . You see, Lewis, he’d got into this routine with Sue Widdowson. Let me try to explain how it must have started. As you know, the post gets worse and worse everywhere. But in North Oxford it seems it’s particularly bad. It seldom arrives before ten in the morning – far too late for anyone to receive a letter before setting off for work. And even if it arrived early, say at eight, it would still not be in time. Why not write to her at the hospital, then? The answer is that our dear Matron puts her foot down there as well; she positively forbids all private mail being accepted in the hospital.’

‘But if Crowther had posted a letter to her home address, she would have got it as soon as she came back from work, wouldn’t she?’

‘Yes, you’re right. But you put your finger right on the central difficulty, and this is why I should think Jennifer Coleby was brought into the picture in the first place. Bernard Crowther, you see, like most of these University fellows, didn’t work any regular hours at Lonsdale College. Something would always be cropping up at odd times – disciplinary matters, unexpected visitors, unscheduled meetings – and he could never plan his extra-marital escapades with any more than the hopeful anticipation that he might be free at any particular time in the days ahead. But much more important than this, he had to keep a very careful eye on the day-to-day comings and goings of his own family. Margaret might arrange something, the children might get a half-day holiday out of the blue, or be ill or – well, here, too, there was plenty that could go wrong and mess up the best-laid plans completely. So it seems to me that Crowther often didn’t know for certain until the day itself, even perhaps until a few hours beforehand, if and when and where he was going to be free to meet his mistress. But, Lewis,
Lonsdale College is no more than a hundred yards or so
from the premises of the Town and Gown Assurance office in the High.’

‘You mean Crowther just walked along and dropped a note in?’

‘He did just that.’

‘But Jennifer wouldn’t be able to contact Sue during the day either, would she? You just said . . .’

‘I know what you’re going to say. He might just as well have written to Sue’s home address. She wouldn’t get the message any earlier, because the letter would be lying on the door-mat when she got in. In fact she’d almost certainly get it later. But all this is assuming that Crowther could write
the day before
to arrange a meeting, and as I say I suspect that he very often couldn’t. But there’s another much more important point, Lewis. You say that Jennifer couldn’t contact Sue during the day.
But she could, and she often did
. The two of them met fairly regularly for a snack at lunchtime. They met in a little café next to M and S. I know that, Lewis. I’ve been there.’ Morse intoned the last words in a melancholy, mechanical way, and Lewis looked at him curiously. There was something that Morse had said a few minutes ago. It was almost as if . . .

‘Jennifer Coleby must have known all about this then, sir.’

‘I don’t know about
all
. She knew enough, though. Too much. I suppose . . .’ He lapsed into silence for a few minutes, but when he resumed there was more spring and spirit in his voice. ‘I don’t know how it started, but at some stage they must have told each other about themselves. They tell me that women, and men, too, for that matter, enjoy talking to someone else about their conquests; and some chance remark probably brought the two of them together, and a bond of conspiracy was soon forged. I think there can be no doubt about that. I suspect it was Crowther, perhaps after a couple of misunderstandings and disappointments over meetings with Sue, who suggested the idea of dropping some harmless-looking note addressed to Jennifer Coleby into the letter-box of Town and Gown. I’m pretty sure he had the sort of mind that enjoyed the idea of cryptic messages, and the practice grew and this became their normal channel of communication. He would stroll past and put a letter or a postcard through the front door of the office. Simple – not even out of his way. It probably only happened at first when an unexpected opportunity arose, but as time went on it became the normal practice, so normal that he even followed it for his last and crucial message to her. And quite apart from being a neat and extremely useful device, it must have seemed a godsend to Crowther not to have to write any actual letters as such to Sue. Like most people in such illicit affairs he must have had a dread of a letter going astray, being opened by the wrong person, or being found somewhere. No one could learn very much this way, could he, even if he did find the letters?’