Colin Dexter - Last Bus To Woodstock

Jennifer was busy on Tuesday afternoon. Palmer had sent her a draft letter and wanted her to look it through. Premiums on virtually everything were to be increased by 10 % after Christmas and all the company's clients had to be informed. The dear man, thought Jennifer; he's not so very bright really. The first paragraph of his letter was reminiscent of the tortuous exercises she'd been set in Latin prose. 'Which' followed 'which', which followed yet another 'which'. A coven of whiches, she thought, and smiled at the conceit. She amended the paragraph with a bold confidence; a full stop here, a new paragraph there, a better word here — much clearer. Palmer knew she was by far the brightest girl in the office, and over important drafts he always consulted her. She wouldn't be staying there much longer, though. She had applied for two jobs in the last week. But she wouldn't dream of telling anybody, not even Mr. Palmer. Not that it was unpleasant working where she was — far from it. And she earned almost as much as Mary and Sue put together. . Sue! She thought of Sunday evening when she had returned from London. How glad she had felt to find them like that! She visualized the scene again and a cruel smile played over her lips.

She took the amended drafts to Mr. Palmer's office, where Judith was trying to keep pace with the very moderate speed at which her employer was dictating a letter. She handed the draft to him. 'I've made a few suggestions.'

'Oh, thank you very much. I just rushed it off, you know. Put down the first things that came into my head. I realized it was, you know, a bit er a bit rough. Thanks very much. Jolly good.'

Jennifer said no more. She left, and as she walked up the corridor to the typists' room, the same nasty smile was playing about her pretty mouth.

The third of the triad, the undaunted, dumpy, freckled little Mary, worked for Radio Oxon. In the BBC she might have been accorded the distinguished title of 'continuity girl'; but she was in a dead-end job with the local radio station. Like Jennifer she had been thinking of a change, although unlike Jennifer she had few qualifications behind her. Jennifer had some A levels and all her shorthand and typing certificates; she must have been clever at school, thought Mary. Cool, sort of knowing all the time. . It worked well enough, the three of them living together; but she wouldn't mind a move. Sue was all right, she quite liked Sue really, although she'd been a bit moody and broody just recently. Men trouble. Had she fallen for that Inspector chap? She wouldn't blame her, though. At least Sue was human. She wasn't quite so sure about Jennifer.

After lunch on Tuesday one of the assistants came in to chat with her. He had a beard, a light-hearted manner, five young children and a roving eye for the ladies. Mary did not positively strive to discourage his attentions.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Thursday, Friday; 21,22 October

BERNARD CROWTHER WAS, in the words of the ward sister, 'satisfactory', and on Thursday afternoon he was sitting up in bed to receive his first visitor. Strangely, Morse had not seemed anxious to press his claims, and had waived his rights at the head of the queue.

Peter Newlove was glad to see his old friend looking so lively. They talked naturally and quietly for a few minutes. Some things just had to be said, but when Peter had said them, he turned to other matters and he knew that Bernard understood. It was almost time to go. But Bernard put his hand on his friend's arm and Peter sat down again beside the bed. An oxygen tube hung over the metal frame behind Bernard's head and a multi-dialled machine stood guard on the other side of the bed.

'I want to tell you something, Peter.'

Peter leaned forward slightly to hear him. Bernard was speaking more labouredly now and taking a deep breath before each group of words. "We can talk again tomorrow. Don't upset yourself now.'

'Please stay.' Bernard's voice was strained and urgent as he went on. 'I've got to tell you. You know all about that murder at Woodstock?' Peter nodded. 'I picked up the two girls.' He breathed heavily again and a light smile came to his lips. 'Funny really. I was going to meet one of them anyway. But they missed the bus and I picked them up. It ruined everything, of course. They knew each other and — well, it scared me off.' He rested a while, and Peter looked hard at his old friend and tried to keep the look of incredulity out of his eyes.

'To cut a long story short, I finished up with the other one. Think of it, Peter! I finished up with the other one! She was hot stuff, good Lord she was. Peter, can you hear me?' He leaned back, shook his head sadly, and took another deep breath.

'I had her — in the back of the car. She made me feel as randy as an old goat. And then — and then I left her. That's the funny thing about it. I left her. I drove back home. That's all.'

'You left her, you mean, at The Black Prince? '

Bernard nodded. 'Yes. That's where they found her. I'm glad I've told you.'

'Are you going to tell the police?'

'That's what I want to ask you, Peter. You see I. .' he stopped. 'I don't know whether I should tell you, and you must promise me never to breathe it to a living soul'—he looked anxiously at Peter, but seemed confident of his trust—'but I'm pretty sure that I saw someone else in the yard that night I didn't know who it was, of course.' He was becoming progressively more exhausted each time he spoke, and Peter rose to his feet anxiously.

'Don't go.' The uphill climb was nearly done. 'I didn't know — it was so dark. It worried me though. I had a double whisky at a pub near by and I drove home.' The words were coming very slowly. 'I passed her. What a stupid fool I was. She saw me.'

'Who do you mean? Who did you pass, Bernard?'

Bernard's eyes were closed, and he appeared not to hear. 'I checked up. She didn't go to her night class.' He opened his heavy eyes; he was glad he'd told somebody, and glad it was Peter. But Peter looked dazed and puzzled. He stood up and bent over and spoke as quietly but as clearly as he could into Bernard's ear.

'You mean you think it was — it was Margaret who killed her?' Bernard nodded.

'And that was why she. .' Bernard nodded his weary head once more.

'I'll call in again tomorrow. Try to rest.' Peter prepared to go and was already on his way when he heard his name called again.

Bernard's eyes were open and he held up his right hand with a fragile authority. Peter retraced his steps.

"Not now, Bernard. Get some sleep.'

'I want to apologize.'

'Apologize?'

'They've found out about the typewriter, haven't they?'

'Yes. It was mine.'

'I used it, Peter. I ought to have told you.'

'Forget it. What does it matter?'

But it did matter. Bernard knew that; but he was too tired and could think no more. Margaret was dead. That was the overwhelming reality. He was only now beginning to grasp the utter devastation caused by that one terrible reality: Margaret was dead .

He lay back and dozed into a wakeful dream. The cast of the scene was assembled and he saw it all again, yet in a detached, impersonal way, as if he were standing quite outside himself.

When he saw them he had known immediately it was her,but he couldn't understand why she was hitch-hiking. They exchanged no words and she sat in the back. She must have felt, as he had, how dangerous it had suddenly become; she obviously knew the other girl. It was almost a relief to him when she said she was getting off at Begbroke. He made an excuse — getting cigarettes — and they had whispered anxiously together. It was better to forget it for that night. He was worried. He couldn't afford the risk. But surely he could pick her up later, couldn't he? She had asked it with a growing anger. He'd sensed, as they were driving along, the jealousy she must have felt as the girl in the front had chatted him up. Not that he had given her any encouragement. Not then, anyway. But he felt genuinely worried, and, he told her so. They could meet again next week: he would be writing in the usual way. It was half a minute of agitated whispering — no longer; just inside the door of The Golden Rose . There had been exasperation and a glint of blind fury in her eyes. But he understood how she felt. He wanted her again, too — just as badly as ever.