Last Bus to Woodstock

by Colin Dexter

  Lewis was glad to know that he had been of value somewhere along the line, and he knew what Morse was referring to, for he had himself interviewed all the drivers of vehicles parked in the yard that night. The driver of the car beside which Sylvia had been found had earlier parked in an awkward position just outside the yard of the Black Prince; but he had been anxious about blocking other cars and he had immediately taken the opportunity, on seeing a car drive out from the yard, of backing his own car into the space left vacant. His light of course could not possibly have picked up Sylvia’s body, and when he got out of the driving seat the body was against the wall on the other side of the car.

  ‘Well,’ continued Morse, ‘by this time, for one reason or another we managed to get on to Crowther. Or rather the Crowthers. Perhaps we shall never know the exact part each of them played that night. But one thing I think we can confidently suggest – that as a result of what happened Margaret thought that Bernard had murdered Sylvia. Whether she killed herself just because of what she suspected, I don’t know, though it was surely one of the factors that drove her to it. But that’s only half the matter. I think, too, that Bernard thought that Margaret had murdered Sylvia. If I’m right about this, it seems to me to explain a lot of things. Bernard had two overwhelming reasons for keeping quiet. First, his love affair would almost certainly be brought out into the open, with all the consequences that would entail. But second, and even more important, his evidence might well help us find the murderer who, as Bernard saw things, was probably his own wife, Margaret. Oh dear, Lewis, if only they had spoken to each other about it! You don’t suspect someone else of a crime if you’ve done it yourself. And I think each of them was quite genuine in suspecting the other. So we can say with every confidence that neither of them did it. And if Bernard had shown any intelligence he would have known how improbable it was that Margaret was actually involved in the murder. He passed his wife on the way back to Oxford! Now we know from Margaret’s evidence that she’s a slowish driver and perhaps most cars would pass her anyway. But if he left for Oxford before her, it is a physical impossibility for him to have overtaken her. Agreed?’

  ‘Unless he called for a drink or something, sir.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Morse slowly. ‘But it isn’t a vital point. Let’s go on. Now the key person in the case from the beginning has been Miss X – the Miss X who was with Sylvia in Bernard Crowther’s car. What did we learn about her? The most vital fact we learned was something Mrs Jarman heard; and she’s utterly convinced that she did hear it – I saw her again last night. She heard Sylvia say, “We’ll have a giggle about it in the morning.” So. We find the field narrowed very considerably, do we not? We investigate the Town and Gown Assurance Co. and we discover some interesting facts. And the most interesting fact of all is that someone tells Miss Jennifer Coleby to keep her mouth shut.’ Lewis opened his own mouth, but got no further. ‘I know you think I’ve been anti that young lady from the beginning, but I am now convinced – more than ever convinced – that the letter we found addressed to Jennifer Coleby was written to her by Bernard Crowther. If you want chapter and verse, it was written on the afternoon of Friday, 1 October in the rooms of Mr Peter Newlove in Lonsdale College on the same Mr Peter Newlove’s typewriter. That, Lewis, is a fact.’

  Again Lewis made an effort to protest, and again Morse waved the protest aside. ‘Hear me out, Lewis. Jennifer Coleby lied from the word go. In fact of all the people in this case, it’s Jennifer Coleby who had the monopoly of the lies. Lies, lies and more lies. But why should she lie? Why should anyone be so anxious to mislead us to the extent that she did? I felt sure, fairly early on, that the reason was pretty simple really. The young lady who sat in the back of Bernard’s car was his mistress, and everything we learned from Margaret confirmed the truth of his own admission that he did in fact have a mistress. Now I needn’t go over all the lies we got from Jennifer; but there was some truth amid the tangled web of all the lies. And the one thing she told us that seemed the biggest whopper of the lot was just about the one thing that was true. She said she’d got a car.’

  Lewis could restrain himself no longer. ‘But she had a puncture, sir. We know all about that.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt she had a puncture. We know she did. She rang up the Battery and Tyre people. But if they couldn’t mend it, someone else could, eh? If you remember, Jennifer didn’t ask the tyre man to call some other time; and she didn’t have it done at Barkers. But somebody mended her puncture, Lewis. Perhaps she did it herself? She’s not a fool, is she? Perhaps she asked the man next door? I don’t know. But you can repair a puncture in five minutes without much trouble, and Jennifer Coleby is a practical girl and she had to have a car that night.’

  ‘I don’t follow that at all,’ said the mystified Lewis.

  ‘You will, have no fear.’ Morse looked at his watch. ‘I want you to go and pick her up, Lewis.’

  ‘You mean Miss Coleby?’

  ‘Who the hell else?’

  Morse followed Lewis out, knocked at the office of Chief Superintendent Strange and went in.

  Some half an hour later the door was opened, and Strange stood on the threshold with Morse. Both men looked stern-faced, and Strange nodded his head gravely as the Chief Inspector said a few final words.

  ‘You look tired, you know, Morse. I think you ought to put in for a fortnight’s furlough now this is over.’

  ‘Well, not quite over, sir.’

  Morse walked slowly back to his office.

  When Jennifer Coleby arrived Morse asked her to sit down and then walked over to Lewis. ‘I want this to be private, Lewis. You understand, I know.’

  Lewis didn’t understand and he felt hurt. But he left them together, and walked along to the canteen.

  ‘Look Inspector. I really thought that after your sergeant saw me yesterday that you’d finished . . .’

  Morse interrupted her sharply. ‘I’ve asked you here and I’ll do the talking. You just sit back and shut up for a few minutes.’ There was thinly veiled menace in his voice, and Jennifer Coleby, looking very much on her guard, did as Morse had bidden her.

  ‘Let me tell you what I suspected long ago in this case, Miss Coleby. You can interrupt me if I go wrong, but I want no more of your miserable lies.’ She glanced viciously into his hard eyes, but said nothing. ‘Let me tell you what I think. I think that two girls were picked up by a man one night and that one of the girls was the man’s mistress. I think that this mistress usually travelled by car to see her lover, but on that particular night she couldn’t get there by car, and that was why she either had to catch a bus or hitch-hike. Unfortunately, and by sheer chance, she was picked up by the very man she was going to see. Unfortunately, too, there were two girls, and he had to pick them both up, and these two girls knew each other. Now the whole thing suddenly seemed too dangerous – this is what I think, Miss Coleby, you understand – and somehow they decided to forget their date and wait until the next opportunity arose. I think that this girl, the mistress, asked to be dropped off somewhere on the way. She probably made some perfectly natural excuse – she was a good liar – and she asked him to drop her off. But she knew where the other girl was going – no doubt the other girl had told her – and she felt uncontrollaby jealous that night. She’d perhaps sensed something as they’d all driven along together. You see, the girl who was sitting in the front was very attractive to men. And perhaps? Who knows? The man, the man she knew so well, had been unfaithful to his wife. He had been unfaithful with her! Why not with some other girl? So I think this is what happened. She got out of the car, but she didn’t return home. No. She waited for a bus and one came almost immediately. How she must have cursed her luck. If only she’d not hitched a lift! Anyway, she caught the bus and found her way to the place where she knew she might find them. And she did find them. It was dark there and she couldn’t see very much, but she saw enough. And she felt a murderous jealousy welling up inside her, not so much
against her lover, but against that cheap slut of a girl, a girl she’d got to know but never liked, a girl she now hated with unspeakable fury. I think perhaps they may have spoken to each other when the man had gone – but I can only guess, and I may be wrong. I think that the girl who had just got out of the car could sense the deadly fury in the other girl’s face, and I think she tried to run away. But as she did a vicious blow crashed across her skull and she lay dead in a heap upon a cobbled yard. I think the dead girl was dragged by the arms into the darkest corner of the yard and I think the girl who murdered her walked out into the night and caught a bus that took her home.’

  Morse stopped, and there was utter silence in the room. ‘Do you think that’s how it happened, Miss Coleby?’

  She nodded her head.

  ‘We both know who murdered Sylvia, don’t we?’ Morse spoke so very softly that she could only just catch his words. Again she nodded.

  Morse rang Lewis and told him to come in. ‘Take a few notes, Sergeant. Now, Miss Coleby. A few more questions, please. Who mended your puncture for you?’

  ‘The man across the road. Mr Thorogood.’

  ‘How long did it take him?’

  ‘Five, ten minutes. Not long. I helped him.’

  ‘How long have you been the mistress of your employer, Mr Palmer?’ Lewis lifted his eyes in amazement.

  ‘Nearly a year.’

  ‘Didn’t you think it a bit dangerous – telling someone else?’

  ‘I suppose it was. But it meant we could have a room once a week.’

  ‘Palmer told you this morning that I knew?’

  ‘Yes.’ She had answered mildly enough thus far. But the old flash blazed in her eyes once more. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I had to guess. But there had to be some reason. It was accidental, really. I checked the night-school register for Wednesday, 29 September, to see whether Mrs Crowther had been present. She wasn’t. But I noticed another name on the list, and she had been present, a Mrs Josephine Palmer. Well . . .’

  ‘You’ve got a suspicious mind, Inspector.’

  ‘And when did this business of the letters start?’

  ‘In the summer. Stupid really. But it worked all right – so they said.’

  ‘Can you give me your solemn word, Miss Coleby, that you will say nothing of this to anyone?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector. I think I owe you that at least.’

  Morse got up. ‘Well, get someone to take her back to work, Lewis. We’ve taken up enough of Miss Coleby’s time.’ A flabbergasted Lewis gaped at them like a fish out of water, and Jennifer looked round and gave him a wan, sad smile.

  ‘You’re not being very fair to me are you, sir?’ Lewis seemed downcast and annoyed.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Morse.

  ‘You said the case was nearly over.’

  ‘It is over,’ said Morse.

  ‘You know who murdered her?’

  ‘A person has already been arrested and charged with the murder of Sylvia Kaye.’

  ‘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.

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  * * *

  Monday, 25 October

  THE 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.’