Last Bus To Woodstock

'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 boyfriends 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:

Not a line of her writing have I, not a thread of her hair.

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 fiance 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

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Thursday, 14 October

BERNARD CROWTHER 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.