Colin Dexter - Last Bus To Woodstock

"You're quiet tonight,' said the chaplain, passing Bernard the claret.

'Sorry,' said Bernard. 'It must be all this food and drink.'

'You must learn to take the gifts the good Lord showers upon us, my boy. You know, as I get older I must confess to the greater appreciation of two things in life — natural beauty and the delights of the belly.'

He leaned back and poured half a glass of vintage claret towards his vast stomach. Bernard knew that some men were naturally fat — all to do with the metabolic rate, or something. But there were no fat men in Belsen. .

But whatever other confessions the good chaplain may have been about to divulge were cut short by the toast to Her Majesty and the clearing of the Principal's throat as he rose to his feet to begin his encomium of Felix Tompsett. They had all heard it all before. A few necessary alterations in the hackneyed, hallowed phrases — but basically the same old stuff. Felix would be leaving holes in so many aspects of college life; it would be difficult to fill the holes. . Bernard thought of Margaret. Why not leave the bloody holes unfilled. . One of the foremost scholars of his generation. . Bernard looked at his watch. 9.15 p.m. He couldn't go yet. Anecdotes and laughter. . Bernard felt pretty sure they would all be reminded of that incident when a disgruntled undergraduate had pissed all over Felix's carpet two years ago. . Back to the academic stuff. Top-of-the-head. Phoney. . His work on the Elizabethan lyric poets. . why, the old bastard had spent most of his time doing first-hand research on the historic inns of Oxfordshire. Or with the women. . For the first time Bernard wondered if Felix had made any overtures to Margaret. He'd better not. .

Felix spoke well. Slightly drunk, amiable, civilized — quite moving really. Come on! 9.45 p.m. The presentation was made and the company broke up by 10.00 p.m. Bernard rushed out of college and ran through the Broad to St. Giles', where he found a taxi immediately. But even before the taxi stopped, he saw some movement outside the darkened house. His heart raced in panic-stricken despair. James and Caroline stood beside the front door.

'You might have. .' began Caroline.

Bernard hardly heard, 'Where's your mother?' His voice was hard and urgent.

'Don't know. We thought she must have been with you.'

'How long have you been waiting?' He spoke with a clipped authority the children had seldom heard.

' 'Bout half an hour. Mum's always been here before. .'

Bernard opened the front door. 'Ring up the tech. at Headington. Ask if they've finished.'

'You do it, Caroline.'

Bernard brought his right hand with vicious force across James's face. 'Do it!' he hissed.

He went to the gate. No one. He prayed for the sound of a car, any car. Car! A cold sweat formed on his forehead as he darted to the garage. The door was locked. He found the key. His hand shook convulsively. He opened the door.

'What on earth are you doing?'

Bernard started, and his heart blessed all the gods that were and are and are to be. "Where the hell have you been?' In a fraction of a second his terrible, agonized fear had flashed to anger — relieved, fierce, beautiful anger.

'As a matter of fact the starter-motor's gone on the Mini. I couldn't get anyone to fix it and in the end I had to catch a bus.'

'You could have let me know.'

'Oh yes, of course. You want me to ring round all the garages, then you, and then presumably the kids.' Margaret herself was becoming very angry. "What's all the fuss about? Just because I'm late for a change!'

'The children have been waiting no end of a time.'

'So what!' Margaret stormed into the house, and Bernard heard the high-pitched voices within. He closed the front gate and then the garage. He locked and bolted the front door. He felt happy, happier than he had felt for many days and many hours.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Wednesday, Thursday; 6, 7 October

MORSE DID NOT know what had persuaded him, after seven months of promises and prevarications, to fill in the ragged gaping hole above the kitchen door where the electrician had led in the wires for a new power-point. Everything had been wrong from the start anyway. The Polyfilla powder, purchased some two years previously, had hardened into a solid block of semi-concrete within its packet; the spatula he used for cracking eggs and filling cracks had mysteriously vanished from the face of the earth; and the primitive household steps never had stood four-square on their rickety legs. Perhaps he had taken inspiration from Mr. Edward de Bono and his recipe for lateral thought. But whatever the motive for his sudden urge to see the wretched hole filled in, Morse had taken a vertical plunge, like some free-fall parachutist, from the top of the steps, when the cord restraining the uprights to a functional 30° angle suddenly snapped and the whole apparatus collapsed into a straight line beneath him. Like Hephaestus, thrown o'er the crystal battlements, he landed with an agonizing jolt upon his right foot, lay with a feeling of nausea for two or three minutes, wiping the cold sweat which formed upon his brow, and finally limped his way to the front room and lay breathing heavily on the settee. After a while the foot was a little easier and he felt somewhat reassured; but half an hour later the swelling began and a fitful, sharp pain nagged away at his instep. He wondered if he could drive, but knew it would be foolish to try. It was 8.30 p.m. on Tuesday, 5 October. Only one thing for it. He hobbled and hopped across to the telephone and rang Lewis, and within the half hour he was sitting disconsolately in the accident room of the Radcliffe Infirmary, waiting for the result of the X-ray. A young boy sitting on the bench next to Morse was wringing his left hand in some agony (car door) and two men badly injured in a road accident were wheeled by for priority treatment. He felt a little less depressed.

He was finally seen by an almost unintelligible Chinese doctor who held up his X-ray pictures to the light with the disinterestedness of a bored guest having a casual glance at one of the holiday slides of his host. 'Nobrocken. Creepancrushes.' From the competent nurse into whose hands he was now delivered, Morse gathered that no bones were broken and that the treatment prescribed was crepe bandage and hospital crutches.

He expressed his thanks to nurse and doctor as he swung along diffidently towards the waiting Lewis. 'You,' shouted the doctor after him. "You, Mr. Morse. Nowork twodays. You rest. OK?'

'I think I shall be all right, thanks,' said Morse.

'You, Mr. Morse. Youwangebetter, eh? Nowork. Two days. Rest. OK?'

'OK. Oh God!'

Morse hardly slept through Tuesday night; he had a vicious toothache in each of the toes on his foot. He swallowed Disprin after Disprin and finally towards dawn dozed off from sheer exhaustion. Lewis called several times during the prolonged agonies of Wednesday and watched the Inspector fall into a blessedly deep sleep at about 9.00 p.m.

When Lewis greeted him the next morning, Morse felt better; and because he felt better, his mind reverted to the murder of Sylvia Kaye, and because his mind was not now wholly preoccupied with the tribulations of his right foot, he felt a great depression grow upon him. He felt like a quiz contestant who had almost got some of the answers right, had others on the tip of his tongue, but had finished up with nothing. One always longed to start again. .

He lay with these troubled thoughts on his mind. Lewis was fussing around. Good old Lewis. They'd all be having a good laugh at the station, he thought. Humiliating, falling off a ladder. Well he hadn't fallen off a ladder. He'd fallen through one.

'Lewis! You told everybody what happened, I suppose?'