Last Bus to Woodstock (24 page)

‘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.

B
ERNARD
C
ROWTHER 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 on 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 more 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 hitchhiking. 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.

He got back into the car and drove on to Woodstock. Now that she had the field to herself, the blonde girl seemed even freer from any inhibitions. She leaned back with a relaxed and open sensuality. The top button of her thin, white blouse was unfastened, and the blouse itself seemed like a silken seed-pod ready to burst open, her breasts swelling like two sun-ripened seeds beneath it.

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m at the University.’

‘Lecturer?’

‘Yes.’ Their eyes met. It had gone on like that until they reached Woodstock. ‘Well, where shall I drop you?’

‘Oh, anywhere really.’

‘You going to see the boy friend?’

‘Not for half an hour or so. I’ve got plenty of time.’

‘Where are you meeting him?’

‘The Black Prince. Know it?’

‘Would you like to come for a drink with me first?’ He felt very nervous and excited.

‘Why not?’

There was a space in the yard and he backed in, up against the far left-hand wall.

‘Perhaps it’s not such a good idea to have a drink here,’ she said.

‘No, perhaps not.’

She lay back again in the seat, her skirt rising up around her thighs. Her legs were stretched out, long, inviting, slightly parted.

‘You married?’ she asked. He nodded. Her right hand played idly and irregularly with the gear lever, her fingers caressing the knob. The windows were gradually misting over with their breath and he leaned over to the compartment on the near side of the dashboard. His arm brushed her as he did so and he felt a gentle forward pressure from her body. He found the duster and half-heartedly cleaned her side window. He felt the pressure of her right hand against his leg as he moved slightly across her, but she made no effort to remove it. He put his left arm around the back of her seat and she turned towards him. Her lips were full and open and tantalizingly she licked her tongue along them. He could resist her no longer and kissed her with an abrupt and passionate abandon. Her tongue snaked into his mouth and her body turned towards him, her breasts thrusting forward against him. He caressed her legs with his right hand, revelling in sheer animal joy as she swayed slightly and parted them with wider invitation. She broke off the long and frenzied kissing and licked the lobe of his ear and whispered, ‘Undo the buttons on my blouse. I’m not wearing a bra.’

‘Let’s get in the back,’ he said hoarsely. His erection was enormous.

It was over all too soon, and he felt guilty of his own reactions. He wanted to get away from her. She seemed quite different now – metamorphosed in a single minute.

‘I’d better go.’

‘So soon?’ She was slowly fastening her blouse but the spell was broken now.

‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’

‘You enjoyed it, didn’t you?’

‘Of course. You know I did.’

‘You’d like to do it again some time?’

‘You know I would.’ He was getting more and more anxious to get away. Had he imagined someone out there? A peeping Tom, perhaps?

‘You’ve not told me your name.’

‘You’ve not told me yours.’

‘Sylvia. Sylvia Kaye.’

‘Look Sylvia.’ He tried to sound as loving towards her as he could. ‘Don’t you think it would be better if we, you know, just thought of this as something beautiful that happened to us. Just the once. Here tonight.’

She turned nasty and sour then. ‘You don’t want to see me again, do you? You’re just like the rest. Bi’ of sex and a blow out and you’re off.’ She spoke differently, too. She sounded like a common slut, a cheap, hard pick-up from a Soho side-street. But she was right, of course – absolutely right. He’d got what he wanted. But hadn’t she? Was she a prostitute? He thought of his days in the army and the men who’d caught a dose of the pox. He must get out of here; out of this claustrophobic car and this dark and miserable yard. He put his hand in his pocket and found a £1 note. But for some loose silver, he had no more money on him.

‘A pound no’! One bloody pound no’! Chris’ – you must think I’m a cheap bi’ of goods. You ’ave a bi’ of money on you nex’ time mate – or else keep your bloody ’ands off.’

He felt a deep sense of shame and corruption. She got out of the car and he followed her.

‘I’ll find ou’ who you bloody are, mister. I will – you see!’

What had happened then he didn’t know. He remembered saying something and he vaguely remembered that she had said something back. He remembered his headlights swathing the yard and he remembered waiting for a gap in the traffic as he reached the main road. He remembered stopping to buy a double whisky and he remembered driving fast down the dual carriageway; and he remembered coming up behind a car and then swerving past it and flying through the night, his mind reeling. And on Thursday afternoon he had read in the
Oxford Mail
of the murder of Sylvia Kaye.

It had been foolish to write that letter, of course, but at least Peter would be out of trouble now. It was always asking for trouble – putting anything down on paper; but it had been a neat little arrangement until then. It was her suggestion anyway, and it seemed necessary. The post in North Oxford was really dreadful – 10.00 a.m. or later now – and no one seemed to mind the girls at the office getting letters. And so often he couldn’t be quite sure until the last minute. Sometimes things got into a complex tangle, but more often the arrangement had worked very smoothly. They had worked out a good system between them. Quite clever really. No one even looked at the date anyway. Sometimes he had incorporated a brief message, too – like that last time. That last time . . . Morse must have had his wits about him, but he hadn’t been quite clever enough to see the whole picture . . . He couldn’t have told Morse the whole truth, of course, but he hadn’t deliberately meant to mislead him. A bit, certainly. That height business, for example . . . He’d like to see Morse. Perhaps under other circumstances they could have got to know each other, become friends . . .

He dozed off completely and it was dark when he awoke. The lights were dim. The silent, white figure of a nurse sat behind a small table at the far end of the ward, and he saw that most of the other patients were lying asleep. The real world rushed back at him, and Margaret was dead. Why? Why? Was it as she said in the letter? He wondered how he could ever face life again, and he thought of the children. What had they been told?

Sharp spasms of agonizing pain leaped across his chest and he knew suddenly and with certitude that he was going to die. The nurse was with him, and now the doctor. He was drenched with sweat. Margaret! Had she killed Sylvia or had he? What did it matter? The pains were dying away and he felt a strange serenity.

‘Doctor,’ he whispered.

‘Take it gently, Mr Crowther. You’ll feel better now.’ But Crowther had suffered a massive coronary thrombosis and his chances of living on were tilted against him in the balances.

‘Doctor. Will you write something for me?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘To Inspector Morse. Write it down.’ The doctor took his note-book out and wrote down the brief message. He looked at Crowther with worried eyes: the pulse was weakening rapidly. The machine was working, its black dials turned up to their maximum readings. Bernard felt the oxygen mask over his face and saw in a strangely lucid way the minutest details of all around him. Dying was going to be much easier than he had ever hoped. Easier than living. He knocked away the mask with surprising vigour, and spoke his last words.