Colin Dexter - Last Bus To Woodstock

'But you just said that the letter wasn't written on. .'

'I didn't say it was a letter, sir.'

'But people do write letters on typewriters don't they, Sergeant?'

'They do, sir.'

'You know, Sergeant, you're beginning to make me feel guilty.'

'I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to do that. But in a job like ours you've got to suspect everybody really. I've told you all I can, sir. Whatever typewriter we're looking for wasn't the one in your house. But there's more than one typewriter in the world, isn't there, sir?'

Crowther did not contest the truth of the assertion. A large bay window gave a glorious view on to the silky grass of the second court, smooth and green as a billiard table. Before the window stood a large mahogany desk, littered with papers and letters and essays and books. And in the centre of this literary clutter there sat, four-square upon the desk, a large, ancient, battered typewriter.

On his way back to Kidlington Lewis drove through the broad tree-lined sweep of St. Giles' and took the right fork to follow the Banbury Road up through North Oxford. As he passed the large engineering block on his right, he saw a tallish woman in dark slacks and a long heavy coat walking along, every few steps sticking out a thumb in what seemed a particularly demoralized and pessimistic way. She had long blonde hair, natural by the look of it, reaching half-way down her back. Lewis thought of Sylvia Kaye. Poor kid. He passed the blonde just as she turned her head, and he blinked hard. What a world we live in! For the lovely blonde had a lovely beard and side-whiskers down to his chin. Interesting thought. .

Morse had been unable to conceal his exasperation when Lewis had reported to him earlier and when, with ridiculous rapid certitude, he had established that the letter on which he had pinned his faith had neither been written on Crowther's personal typewriter nor on any of the brands of writing paper so carefully niched from Crowther's personal store. His one worry then had been to paper over the cracks of irregularity in police procedure, and it was for this reason that he had immediately dispatched Lewis to talk to Crowther. To the report of this interview he listened with care, if without enthusiasm, when Lewis returned at 1.00 p.m.

'Not the happiest of mornings then, Sergeant.'

'No. I'd rather not do that sort of thing again, sir.'

Morse sympathized. 'I don't think we've done any harm though, have we, Lewis? I'm not worried so much about Crowther — he's hardly been above-board with us, has he? But Mrs. Crowther. . could have been tricky. Thanks, anyway.' He spoke with genuine feeling.

'Never mind, sir. At least we tried.' Lewis felt much better.

'What about a drink?' said Morse. The two men went off in lighter spirits.

It had occurred to neither of the policemen that women of the intelligence and experience of Mrs. Margaret Crowther would do anything but automatically and unquestioningly accept the bona fides of any Tom, Dick and Harry of a tradesman. Furthermore, Mrs. Crowther had herself been a confidential secretary before she married Bernard; in fact the typewriter was hers and that very morning she herself had typed out two letters on the same machine, one addressed to her husband and one addressed to Inspector Morse, c/o Thames Valley Police HQ, Kidlington. The typewriter was in perfect order, she knew that; and she had seen the nervous man from Kimmons Typewriters as he had slid open the drawers of Bernard's desk. She wondered what he was looking for, but she didn't really care. In a gaunt, weary way she had even smiled as she closed the door behind him. She would fairly soon be ready to post the two letters. But she wanted to be sure.

Morse worked at his desk through most of the afternoon. The report on Crowther's car had come in, but appeared to signify little. One long blonde hair, heavily peroxided, was found on the floor behind the nearside driving seat, but that was about it. No physical traces whatsoever of the second girl. Several other reports, but again nothing that appeared to advance the progress of the investigation. He turned his attention to other matters. He had to appear the next morning in the Magistrates' Court: there were briefs and memorandums to read. His mind was grateful to have, for a change, some tangible data to assimilate and he worked through the material quite oblivious to the passage of time. When he looked at his watch at 5.00 p.m. he was surprised how swiftly the afternoon had gone by. Another day over — almost. New day tomorrow. For some reason he felt contented and he wondered to himself if that reason had anything to do with Wednesday and Sue Widdowson.

He rang Lewis, who was about to go home. Yes, of course he could come along. Perhaps he could just ring his long-suffering wife? She'd probably just got the chips in the pan. 'You say, Lewis, that Crowther has got another typewriter in his rooms in college. I think we ought to check. Well?'

'Anything you say, sir.'

'But you'd like to do it straight this time, wouldn't you?'

'I think that would be best, sir.'

'Anything you say, Lewis.'

Morse knew the Principal of Lonsdale College fairly well and he rang him up there and then. Lewis was a little surprised at Morse's request. The chief really was doing it properly this time. He listened to the monologue. 'How many typewriters would there be? Yes. Yes. Including those. . Yes. As many as that? But it could be done? Well that would be an enormous help, of course. . You'd rather it that way? No, doesn't matter to me. . By the end of the week? Good. Most grateful. Now listen carefully. .'

Morse gave his instructions, iterated his thanks at inordinate length, and beamed at his sergeant when he finally cradled the phone. 'Co-operative chap that, Lewis.'

'Not much option, had he?'

'Perhaps not. But it will save us a lot of time and trouble.'

'You mean save me a lot of time and trouble.'

'Lewis, my friend, we're a team you and me, are we not?' Lewis nodded a grudging assent. 'By the end of the week we shall have evidence from every typewriter in Lonsdale College. What about that?'

'Including Crowther's?'

'Of course.'

'Wouldn't it have been a bit easier. .'

'To fire straight at the bull's-eye? It would. But you said you wanted to do this in accordance with the great unprejudiced principles of English law, did you not? We haven't got a thing on Crowther. He's probably as innocent as my Aunt Freda.'

Since Lewis had never seen or heard of the said Aunt Freda he refrained from direct comment. 'Do you think Crowther's our man, sir?'

Morse stuck his thumb in the corner of his mouth. 'I don't know, Lewis. I just don't know.'

'I had a bit of an idea today, sir,' said Lewis after a pause. 'I saw what I thought was a girl and when I got close and she turned round she wasn't a she, she was a he.'

'You explain yourself very succinctly, Sergeant.'

'But you know what I mean.'

"Yes, I do. When we were boys we tried to look like boys; if you looked like a girl you were a cissy. Nowadays you've got young fellows with eye make-up and handbags. Makes you wonder.'

But Morse hadn't quite seen his point and Lewis filled in the picture. He was no ideas man, he'd always realized that, and felt great diffidence in putting his notion forward. 'You see, sir, I was just thinking. We know Mrs. Jarman saw the two girls' (he needn't have gone on, but Morse held his peace) 'at the bus stop. She must have been right, surely. She actually spoke to one of them and the other one was Sylvia Kaye. All right. The next thing is that the lorry driver, Baker, saw the girls being picked up at the other side of the roundabout by a man in a red car. But it was getting dark. He said they were two girls. But he might have been wrong . I could have sworn I saw a girl this morning — but I was wrong. Everybody has been dazzled by Sylvia — all the eyes were on her and no wonder. But what if the lorry driver had seen Sylvia and another person, and what if this other person looked like a girl but wasn't. The other person could have been a man . Remember, sir, the other girl Mrs. Jarman saw was wearing slacks, and the descriptions we had from Baker fitted so well we thought they must be the same two people. But what if the other girl decided in the end not to hitch-hike to Woodstock. What if she caught up with Sylvia, told her she wasn't going to bother to go to Woodstock after all, and what if Sylvia met up with some man, probably someone she knew anyway, who'd been waiting for a lift before she got there, and the two of them hitched together. I know you've probably thought of this anyway, sir' (Morse gave no indication either way — he hadn't) 'but I thought I ought to mention it. We've been trying to find the man who did this and I just thought he might have been in the car with Sylvia all along.'