Last Bus to Woodstock (18 page)

The room was arranged with subdued and delicate decorum: around a small, well-polished dance-floor tables were set at regular intervals, the silver cutlery gleaming on the white tablecloths and a red candle lit on each table, the blue and yellow flames tapering into a slimness, almost as exquisite, thought Morse, as Sue Widdowson herself. Several couples were already seated and it was sadly clear to Morse that some of her wretched friends were among them. A small band played some languorous melody that lingered in the mind and as they were shown to their table a young couple took the floor, blithely and obliviously, feeding deep upon each other’s eyes.

‘You’ve been here before?’

Sue nodded, and Morse followed the young couple with his eyes and decided not to give too free a rein to his imagination. A waiter came to them with the menu, and Morse welcomed the diversion.

‘Do they throw in the wine?’

‘We get a bottle between us.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Isn’t that enough?’

‘Well, it’s a special occasion, isn’t it?’ Sue was noncommittal. ‘What about a bottle of champagne?’

‘You’ve got to drive me home, remember?’

‘We could get a taxi.’

‘What about your car?’

‘Perhaps the police will pick it up.’ Sue laughed and Morse saw her white teeth and the fullness of her lips. ‘What do you say?’

‘I’m in your hands, Inspector.’ Would you were, he thought.

Several other couples were now dancing and Sue was watching them. ‘You enjoy dancing?’ Sue kept her eyes on the dancers and nodded. A young Adonis waved a hand in their direction.

‘’Lo Sue. All right?’ Sue raised a hand in greeting.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Morse aggressively.

‘Doctor Eyres. He’s one of the housemen at the Radcliffe.’ She seemed almost hypnotized by the scene. But she turned back into Morse’s orbit with the arrival of the champagne, and after a while the conversation took a freer course. Morse chattered as amiably and interestingly as he could and Sue seemed pleasantly relaxed. They ordered their meal, and Morse poured another glass of champagne. The band stopped; the couples on the floor clapped half-heartedly for a few seconds and retired to the perimeter tables. Dr Eyres and his heavily mascaraed young brunette made their way towards Morse’s table, and Sue seemed glad to see them.

‘Doctor Eyres this is Inspector Morse.’ The two men shook hands. ‘And this is Sandra. Sandra this is Inspector Morse.’ The leaden-eyed Sandra, it transpired, was also a nurse and worked with Sue at the Radcliffe Infirmary. The band resumed its plangent strains.

‘Mind if I had this dance with Sue, Inspector?’

‘Of course not,’ smiled Morse. You lousy, lecherous medico. Sandra sat down and looked at Morse with obvious interest in her eyes.

‘I’m awfully sorry not to be able to ask you to dance,’ he said, ‘but I’ve had an accident with my foot. Nearly better, though.’

Sandra was sympathy itself. ‘Oh dear. How did that happen?’

For the fiftieth time in the last seven days Morse repeated the attendant circumstances of his escapade. But his mind was all on Sue. As she escorted the houseman to the floor he thought of Coleridge:

He watched them dance; he saw Sue’s arms closely round her partner’s neck, her body close to his; and then his cheek was brushing her hair, her head happily resting on his shoulder. Morse felt sick of a jealous dread. He turned his eyes away from the smooching couples. ‘Do you know, I reckon I could just about cope with this dance myself,’ he said. ‘May I?’ He took her hand, led her to the floor and, firmly placing his right arm round her waist, drew her towards him. Rapidly, however, he realized the extent of his own stupidity. His injured foot was working like a dream, but lacking the confidence to lift his other foot more than a centimetre off the dance-floor he was soon kicking his partner’s toes with monotonous and ill-received regularity. Mercifully the dance was quickly over, and mumbling profuse apologies about his ill-educated feet Morse slopped his way back to the haven of his table. Sue was still talking in an animated way to Doctor Eyres, and after Sandra had rejoined them, the trio erupted into peals of laughter.

Ten minutes earlier Morse had anticipated that even the most succulent steak would taste tonight as dry as the Dead Sea apples, but he tucked into his meal with a will. At least he could eat. Even if he couldn’t dance, even if he’d forgotten how middle-aged he’d now become, even if Sue was yearning for someone else, he could still eat. And jolly good it was. They said little and when something was said, as they drank their coffees, it came as a big surprise.

‘Why did you ask me out, Inspector?’

Morse looked at her, the hair light-brown and lifted softly from her face, her face itself all freshness and delight, the cheeks now faintly flushed with wine; and above all the magic of those wide and doleful eyes. Had he asked her with any firm purpose? He wasn’t sure. He put his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his clasped hands. ‘Because I find you so very beautiful and I wanted to be with you.’

Sue looked at him for several seconds, her eyes unblinking and gentle. ‘Do you mean that?’ she asked quietly.

‘I don’t know if I meant it when I asked you. But I mean it now – I think you know I do.’ He spoke simply and calmly and he held her eyes with his own as he spoke. He saw two splendid tears forming on her lower lids and she reached across and laid her hand upon his arm.

‘Come and dance with me,’ she whispered.

The floor was crowded and they did little more than sway slowly to the sweet, low rhythm of the band. Sue leaned her head lightly against his cheek and Morse felt with a wonderful joy the moisture of her eyes. He wished the world would stop and that this heavenly moment could be launched on the eternal seas. He kissed her ear and said some awkward, loving things, and Sue nuzzled deeper and deeper into his arms and pulled him even more closely to her. They stood together as the music ended, and Sue looked up at him. ‘Can we go now, please. Somewhere on our own?’

Morse remembered little of the next few minutes. He had waited in a dream-like state beside the revolving doors and arm-in-arm the two had slowly walked along St Giles’ towards the car.

‘I want to talk to you,’ said Sue when they were sitting in the car.

‘I’m listening.’

‘You know when you said that you might not have meant . . . might not have meant what you said. Oh, I’m getting all muddled. What I mean is – you did want to ask me something, didn’t you?’

‘Did I?’ asked Morse.

‘You know you did. About Jennifer. That’s where we both came in, wasn’t it? You thought she’d got something to do with the Woodstock murder . . .’ Morse nodded. ‘And you wanted to ask me about her boy friends and that sort of thing.’

Morse sat silently in the darkness of his car. ‘I’m not going to ask you now, Sue. Don’t worry.’ He put his arm around her and drew her towards him and tenderly kissed the softest, heavenliest lips that ever the Almighty made. ‘When can we meet again, Sue?’ As soon as he had spoken he knew that something was wrong. He felt her body tauten; she moved away from him, felt for her handkerchief and blew her nose. She was on the verge of tears. ‘No,’ she said, ‘we can’t.’

Morse felt a hurt that he had never known before, and his voice was strained and unbelieving. ‘But why? Why? Of course we can meet again, Sue.’

‘We can’t.’ Her voice for the moment seemed matter-of-fact and final. ‘We can’t meet again, Inspector, because . . . because I’m engaged to be married.’ She just managed to blurt out the last word before burying her head on Morse’s shoulder and bursting into anguished tears. Morse kept his arm tightly around her and listened with unfathomable sadness to her convulsive sobs. The front window had steamed over with their breath and Morse perfunctorily wiped away the moisture with the back of his right hand. Outside he saw the massive outer wall of St John’s College. It was only 10.00 p.m. and a group of undergraduates were laughing gaily outside the Porter’s Lodge. Morse knew it well. He’d been an undergraduate there himself; but that was twenty years ago and life since then had somehow passed him by.

They drove in silence up to North Oxford and Morse pulled up the Lancia directly in front of Sue’s front door. As he did so the door opened and Jennifer Coleby came out with her car-keys in her hand, and walked towards them.

‘Hello, Sue. You’re home early, aren’t you?’

Sue wound the window down. ‘We didn’t want to get stopped for drinking and driving.’

‘Are you coming in for a coffee?’ asked Jennifer. The question was directed obliquely through the car window to Morse.

‘No. I think I’d better get home.’

‘See you in a minute then,’ said Jennifer to Sue. ‘Just going to put the car away.’ She climbed into a smart little Fiat and drove smoothly off to her rented garage in the next street.

‘Good little cars, Fiats,’ said Morse.

‘No better than English cars, are they?’ asked Sue. She was bravely trying not to make a fool of herself again.

‘Very reliable, I’m told. And even if something does go wrong, there’s a good agent pretty near, isn’t there?’ Morse hoped he sounded casual enough, but he didn’t really care.

‘Yes, right on the doorstep, really.’

‘I’ve always found Barkers pretty good myself.’

‘She does, too,’ said Sue.

‘Well, I suppose I’d better go.’

‘Are you sure you won’t come in for some coffee?’

‘Yes. I’m quite sure.’

Sue took his hand and held it lightly in her own. ‘You know I shall cry myself to sleep, don’t you?’

‘Don’t say that.’ He didn’t want to be hurt any more.

‘I wish you were going to sleep with me,’ she whispered.

‘I wish you were going to sleep with me for ever, Sue.’

They said no more. Sue got out of the car, waved as the Lancia slowly moved off, and turned towards the front door, her face blinded with tears.

Morse drove to Kidlington with a heavy heart. He thought of the first time he had seen Miss Dark-eyes and now he thought of the last. Would things had been otherwise! He thought of the saddest line of poetry he had ever read:

and felt no better for the thought. He didn’t want to go home; he had never realized before how lonely he had become. He stopped at the White Horse, ordered a double whisky and sat down in an empty corner. She hadn’t even asked his name . . . He thought of Doctor Eyres and his dark-eyed Sandra and supposed, without a hint of envy, that they were probably getting into bed by now. He thought of Bernard Crowther and doubted if his illicit liaisons with his girl in Blenheim Park were tinged with half the sadness that he himself now felt. He thought of Sue and her fiancé and hoped he was a good fellow. He bought another double whisky and, maudlin and fuddled, left soon after the landlord shouted time.

He put away the car with exaggerated care and heard the phone ringing before he could open the door. His heart raced. He rushed into the hall just as the phone stopped. Was it her? Was it Sue? He could always ring back. What was the number? He didn’t know. It was in his files at Police HQ. He could ring there. He picked up the phone – and put it down. It wouldn’t be Sue. If it was, she could ring back. She’d probably been ringing all the time he’d been sitting in the White Horse. Blast it. Ring again, Sue. Just to let me hear you speak. Ring again, Sue. But the telephone rang no more that night.

B
ERNARD
C
ROWTHER HAD
a hangover on Thursday morning. He would be lecturing in the Schools at 11.00 a.m. and he contemplated his notes on ‘Influences on Milton’s Poetical Style’ with a growing sense of apprehension. Margaret had brought him a cup of hot black coffee at a quarter to nine; she always knew – and usually said so. She had been up since half-past six, cooked the children’s breakfast, washed some shirts and blouses, made the beds, hoovered the bedrooms and she was now putting on her coat in the hall. She put her head round the door. ‘You all right?’ How Bernard hated the reminder!

‘Fine.’

‘Do you want anything from town – Milk of Magnesia tablets?’ They seemed perpetually in a state of eruptive belligerence, staring at each other over a long-disputed frontier. Margaret! Margaret! He wished he could talk to her.

‘No. No thanks. Look, Margaret, I’ve got to go down myself pretty soon. Can you wait a few minutes?’

‘No. Must be off. You home for lunch?’

What was the point? ‘No. I’ll have a bite to eat in college.’ He heard the front door bang and watched as she walked quickly to the end of the road and round the corner and out of sight. He went to the kitchen, filled a glass with cold water and dropped in two tablets of soluble Disprin.

Morse and Lewis conferred from nine to ten that morning. There were several loose ends to tie up and several interesting trails to follow. At least, that’s how Morse explained things to Lewis. After Lewis had left him, he had a call from a young reporter on the
Oxford Mail
, as a result of which a brief paragraph would appear in the evening edition. Routine answers. He couldn’t tell anyone much, but he tried to sound as confident as he could. It was good for morale.

He got the Kaye file and spent the next hour rereading the documents in the case. At 11.00 a.m. he put the file away, reached for the Oxford and District telephone directory, looked under the Cs for the number he wanted, and rang the manager of Chalkley and Sons, Botley Road. He was unlucky. John Sanders had not come in that morning; his mother had phoned – bad cold or something.

‘What’s your opinion of him?’ asked Morse.

‘He’s all right. Quiet, little bit surly, perhaps. But most of them are these days. Works well enough, I think.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you. I wanted a quick word with him, that’s all.’

‘About this murder at Woodstock?’

‘Yes. He found the girl, you know.’