Last Bus to Woodstock (29 page)

‘When did you first think it was Miss Widdowson, sir?’ Lewis asked his question with an unwonted gentleness, for at last he had begun to understand.

Morse stared wearily and sadly at the desk in front of him, the fingers of the left hand drumming nervously on the surface. ‘I suppose there were the vaguest hints – oh, I don’t know. But I wasn’t certain until last Friday. Perhaps the first time I began to suspect the truth was when I checked the evening-class register for Margaret Crowther’s attendance record. I happened to notice, purely by accident really, that by some divine mischance Palmer’s wife was a member of the same class. And it made me wonder; it made me wonder a lot. I thought it most improbable that Jennifer Coleby was the sort of person to grant a lot of favours without getting some in return; and I pondered on the bond that must exist between her and the other girl. In a roundabout way I considered the possibility of both girls being in similar circumstances, in the same sort of relationship with other people. With men. And so I did a lot of guessing, and I thought of Crowther with somebody and Jennifer with somebody; and then Palmer fitting in somewhere perhaps? And then . . . Well, and then I thought of Sue Widdowson, and suddenly the pieces began to click together. Could Jennifer be having an affair with Palmer? So often in this sort of situation it’s someone you meet at work; and who was there at Town and Gown but Palmer? He was the only man on the premises. I kept wondering what it was that Jennifer was getting out of the bargain. And it suddenly struck me that there was one thing that she would want above all. Do you know what that was, Lewis?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve no experience in that sort of thing, sir.’

‘Nor have I,’ said Morse.

‘Well, I suppose you’d want a place where you could be alone together . . . Oh, I see. You mean . . .’

‘Yes, Lewis. Someone could offer Jennifer a room where she could be alone with Palmer. Mary wasn’t out all that much. But whenever she was, the coast was clear, because the other member of the trio could also arrange to be conveniently absent at the same time. And that’s what she did.’

‘Just a minute, sir.’ Some worry was nagging away at the back of Lewis’s mind. He was thinking back to the night of Wednesday, 29 September . . . Then he had it. ‘But the house would have been free, wouldn’t it, on that Wednesday night? I thought you said that Mary had gone to the pictures or something.’

‘We’ll make a detective of you yet, Lewis.’ Morse got up from his leather chair, clapped his hand on his sergeant’s shoulder, and stood watching the threatening clouds roll slowly westward. It had stopped raining now and the shallow puddles in the yard lay undisturbed. ‘That was another of Jennifer’s lies, I’m afraid. Mary was at home that night – she told me so. But even if Mary had been out, I don’t think it would have made any difference. I’m pretty sure that Jennifer’s job was to drive Sue to meet Crowther. That was her part of the bargain. And on Wednesday, 29 September, they both had their dates – as we know.’

‘But why didn’t they . . .’ Lewis appeared reluctant to continue the sentence, and Morse did it for him.

‘Why didn’t the four of them take the opportunity of using the house whenever Mary was out? Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it was a pretty safe bet for Palmer, of course. He lives a good way off and very few people would be likely to know him in North Oxford. Anyway it was a reasonable risk. In fact I know he’s been there. I had the house watched all last week, and on Wednesday night Palmer’s car was parked in the next road. McPherson found it – I’d put him on special duty.’ A slightly pained expression crossed Lewis’s face, but Morse ignored it. ‘He didn’t actually see Palmer go in, but he saw him come out, and I saw Palmer myself on Friday night when I had it all out with him.’

‘But it was too risky for Crowther?’

‘What do you think? He lived only a stone’s throw from the place. No, it would be the stupidest thing imaginable for him to do. He’d lived there for years. Virtually everyone knew him, and he walked along the same street almost every night when he went for a drink at the Fletcher’s Arms. People would have started talking immediately. No, no. That was not on from the start.’

‘So when they both had dates . . .’

‘It was Jennifer’s job to give Sue a lift, yes.’

‘So if Jennifer hadn’t suddenly found a puncture in her tyre that night, Sylvia might never have been murdered.’

‘No, she wouldn’t.’ Morse crossed the room and sat down again in his chair. He had almost finished. ‘On the night of the murder, Sue Widdowson was impatient and probably a bit annoyed with Jennifer. I don’t know. Anyway she felt she couldn’t wait while Jennifer was ringing up about the puncture, and finally finding some decent old boy across the way who might take ages. She thought she’d be late and so she decided to catch a bus. She walked over to the Woodstock Road and she stood at Fare Stage 5 and . . . well you know the rest. She found someone else waiting. She found Miss Sylvia Kaye.’

‘If only she’d waited.’

Morse nodded. ‘If only she’d waited, yes. Jennifer got the puncture mended in no more than five or ten minutes, so she says. She’d arranged to meet Palmer at the Golden Rose that night. You see she always took Sue to Woodstock and it was convenient for her and Palmer to meet at some pub near by – Begbroke, Bladon, or Woodstock itself. And they met that night, we know that. In fact, in spite of all her troubles, Jennifer was there before Palmer. She bought herself a lager and lime and went out to sit in the garden to watch out for him coming.’

‘Funny, isn’t it, sir. If Sue Widdowson . . .’

‘You’re full of “ifs”, Lewis.’

‘Life
is
full of “ifs”, sir.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘But you were still guessing, weren’t you? I mean, you had no solid evidence to go on.’

‘Perhaps not then. But everything was adding up. Sue and Jennifer were about the same height, same sort of colouring, except . . .’

‘Except what, sir?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Forget it. Dress? I saw the coat that Mrs Jarman described; I saw the same sort of slacks; and Sue Widdowson was wearing them. On Friday night I showed Mrs Jarman a photograph of Sue and she recognized her immediately. No wonder the poor woman couldn’t pick anybody out at the identity parade. The girl she had seen at the bus stop just wasn’t there.’

‘People do make mistakes, sir.’

‘If only they did, Lewis. If only they did!’

‘But it’s still not
proof
.’

‘No, I suppose it isn’t. But I found something else. When I called at the Radcliffe to see Crowther’s body, I got his keys from the ward-sister – they’d been in his trouser pocket. I asked her if anyone from the nursing staff had been along to see him, and she said that no one had. But she said that Staff Nurse Widdowson had asked her how he was getting along and that she had stood at the top of the ward and looked for a long time at the bed where Crowther lay.’

Morse’s voice was growing agitated, but he pulled himself together as quickly as he could. Once more he walked over to the window and saw the sun beginning to filter through the thinning cloud. ‘I went to Lonsdale College and I looked through Crowther’s room. I found only one drawer locked up in the whole place, one of the drawers in his table desk – the bottom drawer on the left, if you’re interested.’ He turned round and glared at Lewis, and his voice sounded harsh and fierce. ‘I opened the drawer, and I found . . . I found a photograph of Sue.’ His voice had suddenly become very quiet and he turned again to look out of the window. ‘A copy of the same photograph she gave to me.’ But he spoke these last words so softly that Lewis was unable to catch them.

I
T WAS DONE
.

Lewis drove home for his lunch, hoping that his wife was feeling better. He passed a newspaper placard with bold, large headlines:
WOODSTOCK MURDER
–
WOMAN HELPING POLICE
. He didn’t stop to buy a copy.

Morse went along once more to the cell block, and spent a few minutes with Sue. ‘Anything you want?’

There were tears in her eyes as she shook her head, and he stood by her in the cell, awkward and lost. ‘Inspector?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps you can’t believe me, and it doesn’t matter anyway. But . . . I loved you.’

Morse said nothing. He felt his eyes prickling and he rubbed his left hand across them, and prayed that she would notice nothing. For a while he could not trust himself to speak, and when he did he looked down at his darling girl and said only, ‘Goodbye, Sue.’

He walked outside and locked the door of the cell behind him. He could say no more. He tore himself away and walked along the corridor, and he heard her voice for the last time.

‘Inspector?’

He turned. She stood by the bars of the cell, her face streaming with tears of anguish and despair. ‘Inspector, you never did tell me your Christian name.’

It was getting dark when Morse finally left his office. He climbed into his Lancia, drove out of the yard on which the puddles now had almost dried, and turned left into the main stream of the city-bound traffic. As he passed the ring-road roundabout, he saw two people standing on the grass verge thumbing a lift. One was a girl, a pretty girl by the look of her. Perhaps the other was a girl, too. It was difficult to tell. He drove on to his home in Oxford.