Colin Dexter - Last Bus To Woodstock

The next Wednesday, the 29th September, I drove out to Woodstock again, leaving the house a good ten minutes earlier than usual, parked my car further along the village, and walked back to the street into which Bernard had turned the previous week. I didn't know where to wait and I felt silly and conspicuous, but I found a safe enough little spot on the left of the road — I was terrified that Bernard would see me — if he came that was — and I waited there and watched every car that came round the corner. It was child's play to see the cars turning in — and the occupants as well. He came at quarter-past seven and I felt myself trembling frantically. He was not alone — a young girl with long fair hair, in a white blouse, was sitting next to him in the front seat. I thought they must see me because the car turned — oh, only six or seven yards ahead of me — into the car park of The Black Prince. My legs were shaking and the blood was pounding in my ears, but something made me go through with it. I walked cautiously up to the yard and peered in. There were several cars there already and I couldn't see Bernard's for several minutes. I edged round the back of one car — just to the left of the yard — and then I saw them. The car was on the same side at the far end, with the boot towards the wall — he must have backed in. They were sitting in the front — talking for a while. I felt a cold anger inside me. Bernard and a blowzy blonde — about seventeen she looked! I saw them kissing. Then they got out of the front and into the back. I couldn't see any more — at least I was spared that.

I can't really explain what I felt. As I write now it all seems so flat — and so unimportant somehow. I felt more anger than jealousy I know that. Burning anger that Bernard had shamed me so. It was about five minutes later when they got out. They said something — but I couldn't hear what it was. There was a lever — a long tire-lever — I found it on the floor of the yard, and I picked it up. I don't know why. I felt so frightened and so angry. And suddenly the engine of the car was switched on and then the lights and the whole yard was lit up. The car moved off and out of the yard, and after it had gone the darkness seemed even blacker than before. The girl stood where he had left her, and I crept behind the three or four cars between us and came up behind her. I said nothing and I'm sure she didn't hear me. I hit her across the back of the head with an easy strength. It seemed like a dream. I felt nothing — no remorse — no fear — nothing. I left her where she was, against the far wall. It was still very dark. I didn't know when or how she would be found — and I didn't care.

Bernard knew all along that I had murdered Sylvia Kaye — he passed me on my way back to Oxford. He must have seen me because I saw him. He was right behind me for some time and must have seen the number plate. I saw his car as clear as daylight when he overtook me.

I know what you have suspected about Bernard. But you have been wrong. I don't know what he's told you — but I know you have spoken to him. If he has told you lies, it has only been to shield me. But I need no one to shield me any longer. Look after Bernard and don't let him suffer too much because of me. He did what hundreds of men do, and for that I blame myself and no one else. I have neither been a good wife to him nor a good mother to his children. I am just so tired — so desperately tired of everything. For what I have done I am now most bitterly sorry — but I realize that this is no excuse. What else can I say — what else is there to say?

Margaret Crowther.

Morse's voice trailed away and the room was very still. Lewis felt very moved as he heard the letter read aloud, almost as if Margaret Crowther were there. But she would never speak again. He thought of his visit to her and guessed how cruelly she must have suffered these last few months.

You thought it was something like that, didn't you, sir?'

'No,' said Morse.

'Comes as a bit of a shock, doesn't it? Out of the blue, like.'

'I don't think much of her English style,' said Morse. He handed the letter over to Lewis. 'She uses far too many dashes for my liking.' The comment seemed heardess and irrelevant Lewis read the letter to himself.

'She's a good, clean typist anyway, sir.'

'Bit odd, don't you think, that she typed her name at the end instead of using her signature?'

Give Morse a letter and his imagination soared to the realms of the bright-eyed Seraphim. Lewis groaned inwardly.

'You think she wrote it, don't you, sir?'

Morse reluctantly reined back the wild horses. 'Yes. She wrote it'

Lewis thought he understood the Inspector's feelings. There would have to be a bit of tidying up, of course, but the case was now substantially over. He'd enjoyed most of his time working with the irascible, volatile inspector, but now. . The phone rang and Morse answered. He said 'I see' a dozen times and replaced the receiver.

'Crowther's in the Radcliffe — he's had a mild heart attack. He's not allowed to see anyone for two days at least.'

'Perhaps he couldn't tell us much more,' suggested Lewis.

'Oh yes he could,' said Morse. He leaned back, put his hands on his head like a naughty schoolboy, and stared vacantly at the farthest corner of the wall. Lewis thought it best to keep quiet, but he grew uncomfortably restless as the minutes ticked by.

'Would you like a coffee, sir?' Morse didn't seem to hear him. 'Coffee? Would you like a coffee?' Morse reminded him of a very deaf person with his hearing-aid switched off. Minute after minute slipped by before the grey eyes refocused on the world around him.

'Well, that's cleared up one thing, Lewis. We can cross Mrs. Crowther off our list of suspects, can't we?'

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Tuesday. 19 October., p.m.

AT MIDDAY PETER NEWLOVE was sitting in his rooms. He was expecting no one. Normally Bernard might have dropped in about now for a gin, but the news had swept the college that morning: Margaret had killed herself and Bernard had suffered a heart attack. And the double-barrelled news hit no one harder than Peter. He had known Margaret well and had liked her; and Bernard was his best friend in that academic, dilettante style of friendship which springs up in most collegiate universities. He had rung up the hospital, but there was no chance of visiting Bernard until Thursday at the earliest. He had sent some flowers: Bernard liked flowers and had no wife to send them now. . He had enquired, too, about the children. They had gone to stay with an aunt in Hendon, though Peter couldn't imagine how such an arrangement could possibly help them very much.

There was a knock on the door. 'It's open.'

He had not met Inspector Morse before and was pleasantly surprised that his offer of a drink was accepted. Morse explained in blunt, unequivocal terms why he had called.

'And it was written on that one?' Newlove frowned at the open portable typewriter on the table.

'No doubt about it."

Newlove looked mildly perplexed, but said nothing.

'Do you know a young lady named Jennifer Coleby, Miss Jennifer Coleby?'

'I don't, I'm afraid.' Newlove's frown grew deeper.

'She works in the High, not far from here. Town and Gown. Assurance place.'

Newlove shook his head. 'I might have seen her, of course. But I don't know her. I've not heard the name before.'

'And you've never written to anyone of that name?'

'No. How could I? As I say, I've never heard of the woman.'

Morse pursed his lips and continued. 'Who else could have used your typewriter, sir?'

'Well, I don't know really. I suppose almost anyone in a way. I don't lock the place up very much unless there are question papers about.'