Last Bus To Woodstock

'What colour bra would your wife wear under a white blouse?'

'A lightish-coloured one, I suppose.'

'She wouldn't wear a black one?'

'It would show through.'

'Mm. By the way, Lewis, do you know when lighting-up time was yesterday evening?'

'Fraid I don't, off hand,' replied Lewis, 'but I can soon find out for you.'

'No need for that,' said Morse. 'According to the diary you just inspected, yesterday, 29 September, was St. Michael and All Angels' day and lighting-up time was 6.40 p.m.'

Lewis followed his superior officer down the narrow stairs, and wondered what was coming next. Before they reached the front door, Morse half turned his head: 'What do you think of Women's Lib, Lewis?'

At 11.00 a.m. Sergeant Lewis interviewed the manager of the Town and Gown Assurance Company, situated on the second and third storeys above a flourishing tobacconist's shop in the High. Sylvia had worked there — her first job — for just over a year. She was a copy-typist, having failed to satisfy the secretarial college at which she had studied for two years after leaving school that the ungainly and frequently undecipherable scrawls in her shorthand note-book bore sufficient relationship to the missives originally dictated. But her typing was reasonably accurate and clean, and the company, the manager assured Lewis, had no complaints about its late employee. She had been punctual and unobtrusive.

'Attractive?'

'Well — er, yes. I suppose she was,' replied the manager. Lewis made a note and wished Morse were there; but the Inspector said he felt thirsty and had gone into The Minster across the way.

'She worked, you say, with two other girls,' said Lewis. 'I think I'd better have a word with them if I can.'

'Certainly, officer.' The manager, Mr. Palmer, seemed a fraction relieved.

Lewis questioned the two young ladies at considerable length. Neither was 'a particular friend' of Sylvia. She had, as far as they knew, no regular beau. Yes, she had boasted occasionally of her sexual exploits — but so did most of the girls. She was friendly enough, but not really 'one of the girls'.

Lewis looked through her desk. The usual bric-a-brac. A bit of a broken mirror, a comb with a few blonde hairs in it, yesterday's Sun, pencils galore, rubbers, typewriter ribbons, carbons. On the wall behind Sylvia's desk was pinned a photograph of Omar Sharif, flanked by a typewritten holiday rota. Lewis saw that Sylvia had been on a fortnight's holiday in the latter half of July, and he asked the two girls where she'd been to.

'Stayed at home, I think,' replied the elder of the two girls, a quiet, serious-looking girl in her early twenties.

Lewis sighed. 'You don't seem to know much about her, do you?' The girls said nothing. Lewis tried his best to elicit a little more co-operation, but met with little success. He left the office just before midday, and strolled over to The Minster.

'Poor Sylvia,' said the younger girl after he had gone.

'Yes, poor Sylvia,' replied Jennifer Coleby.

Lewis eventually, and somewhat to his surprise, discovered Morse in the 'gentlemen only' bar at the back of The Minster.

'Ah, Lewis.' He rose and placed his empty glass on the bar, 'What's it to be?' Lewis asked for a pint of bitter. 'Two pints of your best bitter,' said Morse cheerfully to the man behind the bar, 'and have one yourself.'

It became clear to Lewis that the topic of conversation before his arrival had been horse racing. Morse picked up a copy of Sporting Life and walked over to the corner with his assistant.

'You a betting man, Lewis?'

'I sometimes put a few bob on the Derby and the National, sir, but I'm not a regular gambler.'

'You keep it that way,' said Morse, with a note of seriousness in his voice. 'But look here, what do you think of that?' He unfolded the racing paper and pointed to one of the runners in the 3.15 at Chepstow: The Black Prince. 'Worth a quid, would you say, sergeant?'

'Certainly an odd coincidence.'

'10 to 1,' said Morse, drinking deeply on his beer.

'Are you going to back it, sir?'

'I already have,' said Morse, glancing up at the old barman.

'Isn't that illegal, sir?'

'I never studied that side of the law.' Doesn't he want to solve this murder, thought Lewis, and as if Morse read his unspoken words he was promptly asked for a report on the deceased's position with Town and Gown. Lewis did his best, and Morse did not interrupt. He seemed rather more interested in his pint of beer. When he finished, Morse told him to get back to headquarters, type his reports, then get home and have some sleep. Lewis didn't argue. He felt dog-tired, and sleep was fast becoming a barely remembered luxury.

'Nothing else, sir?'

'Not until tomorrow when you'll report to me at 7.30 a.m. sharp — unless you want to put a few bob on The Black Prince.' Lewis felt in his pocket and pulled out 50p.

'Each way, do you think?'

'You'll kick yourself if it wins,' said Morse.