Last Bus To Woodstock

'Nearly a year.'

'Didn't you think it a bit dangerous — telling someone else?'

'I suppose it was. But it meant we could have a room once a week.'

'Palmer told you this morning that I knew?'

'Yes.' She had answered mildly enough thus far. But the old flash blazed in her eyes once more. 'How did you know?'

'I had to guess. But there had to be some reason. It was accidental, really. I checked the night-school register for Wednesday, 29 September, to see whether Mrs. Crowther had been present. She wasn't. But I noticed another name on the list, and she had been present, a Mrs. Josephine Palmer. Well. .'

'You've got a suspicious mind, Inspector.'

'And when did this business of the letters start?'

'In the summer. Stupid really. But it worked all right — so they said.'

'Can you give me your solemn word, Miss Coleby, that you will say nothing of this to anyone?'

'Yes, Inspector. I think I owe you that at least.'

Morse got up. 'Well, get someone to take her back to work, Lewis. We've taken up enough of Miss Coleby's time.' A flabbergasted Lewis gaped at them like a fish out of water, and Jennifer looked round and gave him a wan, sad smile.

'You're not being very fair to me are you, sir?' Lewis seemed downcast and annoyed.

'What do you mean?' asked Morse.

'You said the case was nearly over.'

'It is over,' said Morse.

'You know who murdered her?'

'A person has already been arrested and charged with the murder of Sylvia Kaye.'

'When was this?'

'This morning. Here!' Morse took out the letter which Lewis himself had brought from Jennifer Coleby, and passed it over. Lewis took out the sheet of paper and read with blind, blank, uncomprehending disbelief the one line answer that Miss Coleby had written to Morse's question.

'Yes,' said Morse softly. 'It's true.'

Lewis was full of questions, but he received no answers. 'Look, Lewis, I want to be alone. You go home and look after your wife for a change. I'll talk to you on Monday.'

The two men left the office. Lewis got his coat and was soon away. But Morse walked slowly to the cells at the far end of the north wing.

'Want to go in, sir?' said the sergeant on duty.

Morse nodded. 'Leave us alone, will you?'

'Anything you say, sir. Cell number 1.'

Morse took the keys, unbolted the main door to the cells and walked along to cell number 1. He put his hands on the bars and stood staring sadly through.

'Hello, Sue,' he said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Monday, 25 October

THE DAY HAD BROKEN bright and clear, but by mid-morning a melancholy army of heavy grey cloud had massed overhead; and flurries of light rain were already sprinkling the window panes of Morse's office as, for the last time on the case of Sylvia Kaye, the two detectives faced each other across the desk.

'What did we know about Miss X?' asked Morse, and proceeded to answer the question himself. 'We knew roughly what she looked like, we knew roughly what she was wearing, and we knew roughly what age she was. It was a start, but it could never have got us very far. But we also knew that the two girls waiting at the bus stop not only knew each other but that they would be seeing each other again the following morning. Now this, without a doubt, was by far the most important single piece of evidence we ever got, and we acted upon it immediately. Naturally we assumed that we could narrow down the field of our inquiries, and quite properly we concentrated our attentions on the office girls who worked with Sylvia Kaye. Of course, it could have been a friend of Sylvia's, someone she would be meeting at lunchtime perhaps, or someone she would be meeting on the bus. It could have been a hundred and one things. But we didn't think so. And we didn't think so because our suspicions were very soon aroused, and with every justification, by the peculiar behaviour of one of the girls who worked in the same office as Sylvia — Miss Jennifer Coleby. But although we didn't know it at the time, there was someone else Sylvia would be meeting that next morning, and if we'd been a fraction brighter earlier on, Lewis, we might have got on to it more quickly. Sylvia was undergoing physiotherapy treatment at the Radcliffe Infirmary for her broken arm, and she was going for this treatment regularly on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. That is, she would be reporting for physiotherapy to the staff nurse in charge of the Accident Outpatients' Department on the morning of Thursday, 30 September. In other words, she would be reporting to Staff Nurse Widdowson.' Lewis got up to close the windows upon which the rain was splattering more heavily now. 'This, of course,' continued Morse, 'meant nothing very much by itself. But we learned that Sylvia didn't have many close girl friends, didn't we? It was interesting. Yes, at the very least it was interesting.' Morse's attention wandered momentarily, and he stared as Lewis had done through the windows to the concrete yard outside, now gleaming under the lowering sky. 'But let's return to Jennifer Coleby. Crowther wrote to her — that's established now beyond any question of doubt. But Crowther didn't write the note for Jennifer: she was merely the messenger boy. She's admitted that, and she had no option really. When I wrote to her I didn't ask her to accuse anyone of murder; but I did ask her if the letter was meant for Sue Widdowson, and