Last Bus To Woodstock

At 9.50 p.m. that same evening an excited Sergeant Lewis put through a call to Chief Inspector Morse. 'A break, sir. I think we've got a break.'

'Oh?'

"Yes. A witness, sir. A Mrs. Mabel Jarman. She saw the murdered girl. .'

'You mean," interrupted Morse, 'she saw the girl who was later murdered, I suppose.'

'That's it. We can get a full statement as soon as we like.'

'You mean you haven't got one yet?'

'She only rang five minutes ago, sir. I'm going over straight away. She's local. I wondered if you wanted to come."

'No,' said Morse.

'All right, sir. I'll have the whole thing typed up and ready for you in the morning.'

'Good.'

'Bit of luck, though, isn't it? We'll soon get on to this other girl.'

'What other girl?' said Morse quietly.

'Well, you see, sir. .'

'What's Mrs. Jarman's address?' Morse reluctantly took off his bedroom slippers, and reached for his shoes.

'Bit late on parade tonight, Bernard. What's it to be?'

Bernard was well liked at The Fletcher's Arms, always ready to fork out for his round — and more. All the regulars knew him for a man of some academic distinction; but he was a good listener, laughed as heartily as the next at the latest jokes, and himself occasionally waxed eloquent on the stupidity of the government and the incompetence of Oxford United. But tonight he spoke of neither. By 10.25 p.m. he had drunk three pints of best bitter with his usual practised fluency and got up to go.

' 'Nother one before you go, Bernard?'

'Thanks, no. I've had just about enough of that horse piss for one night.'

'You in the dog house again?'

'I'm always in the bloody dog house.'

He walked back slowly. He knew that if the bedroom light was on, his wife, Margaret, would be reading in bed, waiting only for her errant husband to return. If there was no light, she would probably be watching TV. He came to a decision as foolish as the ones he had made as a boy when he would race a car to the nearest lamppost. If she was in bed, he would go straight in, if she was still up, he would ring the police. He turned into the road, and saw immediately that the bedroom light was on.

Mrs. Jarman gave her testimony in a brisk, if excited, fashion. Her memory proved surprisingly clear, and Sergeant Lewis's notes grew fat with factual data. Morse left things to him. He wondered if Lewis had been right in thinking this was the big break, and considered, on reflection, that he was. He himself felt impatient and bored with the trained and thorough pedanticism with which his sergeant probed and queried the chronology of the bus stop encounter. But he knew it had to be done and he knew that Lewis was doing it well. For three-quarters of an hour he left them to it.

'Well, I want to thank you very much, Mrs. Jarman.' Lewis closed his note-book and looked, in a mildly satisfied manner, towards his chief.

'Perhaps,' said Morse, 'I could ask you to come to see us in the morning? Sergeant Lewis will have your statement typed out, and we'd like you to have a look through it to see that he's got it all right — just a formality, you know.'

Lewis stood up to go, but Morse's veiled glance told him to sit down again.

'I wonder, Mrs. Jarman,' he said, 'if you could do us one last favour. I'd just love a cup of tea. I know it's late but. .'

'Why, of course, Inspector. I wish you'd said so before.' She hurried off and the policemen heard a spurt of water and a clatter of cups.

'Well, Sergeant, you've done a good job.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Now listen. That bus. Get on to it as soon as you can.'

'But you said you'd checked the buses, sir.'

'Well check 'em again.'

'All right.'

'And,' said Morse, 'there's that articulated lorry. With a bit of luck we can trace that.'

'You think we can?'

'You've got a definite time — what else do you want, man?'

'Anything else, sir?' said Lewis in a subdued voice.

'Yes. Stay and make a few more notes. I won't be long.'

The kitchen door opened and Mrs. Jarman reappeared. 'I was just wondering whether you gentlemen would like a little drop of whisky, instead of tea. I've had a bottle since Christmas — I don't usually drink myself.'

'Now, now,' said Morse, 'you are a very resourceful woman, Mrs. Jarman.' Lewis smiled wanly. He knew what was coming. Deja vu.

'I think a little drop of Scotch would do me the power of good. Perhaps you'll have a drop yourself?'

'Oh no, sir, I'll have a cuppa, if you don't mind.' She opened a drawer in the cupboard and brought out two glass tumblers.

'Just the one glass then, Mrs. Jarman,' said Morse. 'It's a pity, I know, but Sergeant Lewis here is on duty and you will appreciate that a policeman is not allowed to consume any alcoholic drink whilst on duty. You wouldn't want him to break the law, would you?'

Lewis muttered to himself.

Morse smiled into his liberal dose of whisky whilst his assistant soberly stirred a diminutive cup of wickedly dark brown tea.

'Mrs. Jarman I just want to ask you one or two more questions about what you've said to Sergeant Lewis. I hope you don't feel too tired?'

'Oh no.'

'Do you remember how this "other girl" seemed? Was she a bit cross? A bit nervous?'

'I don't think she was — well, I don't know. Perhaps she was a bit nervous.'

'A bit frightened?'

'Oh no. Not that. A bit sort of, er, excited. Yes, that's it, a bit excited.'

'Excited and impatient?'

'I think so.'

'Now, I want you to think back. Just close your eyes if you like, and picture yourself at the bus stop again. Can you recall anything, anything at all, that she said. She asked you if the next bus went to Woodstock. You've told us that. Anything else?'