Colin Dexter - Last Bus to Woodstock (Inspector Morse 1)

Last Bus toWoodstock Colin Dexter Prelude 'Let's waitjust a bit longer, please,' said the girl in dark-blue trousers and the lightsummer coat. 'I'm surethere'll one due pretty soon.' She wasn't quitesure though, and for the third time she turned to study the time-table affixedin its rectangular frameto Fare Stage 5. But her mind had never journeyed with any confidence in theworld of columns andfigures, and the finger tracing its tentatively horizontal course from the leftof the frame had little chanceof meeting, at the correct coordinate, the finger descending in a vaguelyvertical line from the top. Thegirl standing beside her transferred her weight impatiintly from one foot tothe other and said, 'I don'know abou' you.' 'Just a minute.Just a minute.' She focused yet again on the relevant columns: 4, 4A (notafter 18.00 hours), 4E,4X (Saturdays only). Today was Wednesday. That meant...

If 2 o'clock was 14.00 hours, thatmeant... "Look,sweethear', you please yourself bu' I'm going to hitch i' Sylvia's habit ofomitting all final 't's seemedirritatibngly slack. 'It' in Sylvia's diction was little more than the most,indeterminate of vowel sounds,articulated without the slightest hint of a consonantal finale. If they everbecame better friends, it wassomething that ought to be mentioned. What time was itnow? 6.45 p.m. Yes. Yes.

She was getting somewhere at last. 'Come on. We'llget a lift in no time, you see. Tha's wha' half these fellas are looking for -a gi' of skir'.' And, in truth,there appeared no reason whatsoever to question Sylvia's brisk optimism. No accommodatingmotorist could fail to be impressed by her minimal skirting and the lovelyinvitation of the legs below. For a brief whilethe two girls stood silently, in uneasy, static truce.

A middle-agedwoman was strolling towards them, occasionally stopping and turning her head togaze down thedarkening length of the road that led to the heart of Oxford. She came to ahalt a few yards away from thegirls and put down her shopping bag. 'Excuse me' saidthe first girl. 'Do you know when the next bus is?" 'There should beone in a few minutes, love.' She peered again into the grey distance. 'Does it go toWoodstock?' 'No, I don'tthink so - it's just for Yarnton. It goes to the village, and then turns roundand comes back.' 'Oh.' She steppedout towards the middle of the road, craned her neck, and stepped back as alittle convoy of carsapproached.

Already, as the evening shaded into dusk, a few drivers hadswitched on theirside-lights. No bus was in sight, and she felt anxious. 'We'll be allrigh',' said Sylvia, a note of impatience in her voice. 'You see. We'll be'avin' a giggle abou' i'in the morning." Another car. Andanother.

Then again the stillness of the warm autumn evening. "Well, youcan stay if you like - I'm off.' Her companion watched as Sylvia made her waytowards the Woodstockroundabout, some two hundred yards up the road. It wasn't a bad spot for thehitch- hiker, for therethe cars slowed down before negotiating the busy ring-road junction. And then shedecided. 'Sylvia, wait!'; and holding one gloved hand to the collar of herlightweight summer coat, sheran with awkward, splay-footed gait in pursuit. The middle-agedwoman kept her watch at Fare Stage 5.

She thought how many things had changed since she wasyoung. But Mrs MabelJarman was not to wait for long. Vaguely her mind toyed with a few idle, random thoughts - nothingof any moment. Soon she would be home. As she was to remember later on, she could describeSylvia fairly well: her long, blonde hair, her careless and provocativesensuality. Of the other girl shecould recall little: a light coat, dark slacks - what colour, though? Hair -lightish brown? 'Please try ashard as you can, Mrs Jarman.

It's absolutely vital for us that you remember asmuch as you can ...' Shenoticed a few cars, and a heavy, bouncing articulated lorry, burdened with an improbably largenumber of wheel-less car-bodies. Men? Men with no other passengers? She wouldtry so hard torecall. Yes, there had been men, she was sure of that. Several had passed herby. At ten minutes toseven an oblong pinkish blur gradually assumed its firmer delineation. Shepicked up her bag as thered Corporation bus slowly threaded its way along the stops in the greymid-distance.

Soon she couldalmost read the bold white lettering above the driver's cab. What was it? Shesquinted to see it moreclearly: WOODSTOCK. Oh dear! She had been wrong then, when that nicely spokenyoung girl had askedabout the next bus. Still, never mind! They hadn't gone far. They would eitherget a lift or see the busand manage to get to the next stop, or even the stop after that. 'How long hadthey been gone, MrsJarman?' She stood back alittle from the bus stop, and the Woodstock driver gratefully passed her by.

Almost as soon asthe bus was out of sight, she saw another, only a few hundred yards behind.This must be hers. Thedouble-decker drew into the stop as Mrs Jarman raised her hand. At two minutespast seven she washome. Though a widownow, with her two children grown up and married, her pride-and-poverty semi- detached wasstill her real home, and her loneliness was not without its compensations. Shecooked herself agenerous supper, washed up, and turned on the television. She could neverunderstand why there was so muchcriticism of the programmes.

She herself enjoyed virtually everything and often wished she couldview two channels simultaneously. At 10 o'clock she watched the main items onthe News, switchedoff, and went to bed. At 10.30 she was sound asleep. It was at 10.30p.m., too, that a young girl was found lying in a Woodstock courtyard. She hadbeen brutallymurdered. 1 Search for agirl 1 Wednesday, 29September From St Giles' inthe centre of Oxford two parallel roads run due north, like the prongs of atuning fork.

On thenorthern perimeter of Oxford, each must first cross the busy northernring-road, along which streams offrenetic motorists speed by, gladly avoiding the delights of the old universitycity. The easternbranch eventually leads to the town of Banbury, and thence continues its rather unremarkablecourse towards the heart of the industrial midlands; the western branch soonbrings the motorist to thesmall town of Woodstock, some eight miles north of Oxford, and thence toStratford- upon-Avon. The journey fromOxford to Woodstock is quietly attractive. Broad grass verges afford a pleasing sense ofspaciousness, and at the village of Yarnton, after only a couple of miles, adual carriageway, with a tree-linedcentral reservation, finally sweeps the accelerating traffic past the airportand away from its earlierparalysis. For half a mile immediately before Woodstock, on the left-hand side,a grey stone wall marksthe eastern boundary of the extensive and beautiful grounds of Blenheim Palace,the mighty mansionbuilt by good Queen Anne for her brilliant general, John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough. Highand imposing wrought-iron gates mark the main entrance to the Palace drive, and hither flock thetourists in the summer season to walk amidst the dignified splendour of thegreat rooms, to standbefore the vast Flemish tapestries of Malplaquet and Oudenarde, and to see theroom in which was bornthat later scion of the Churchill line, the great Sir Winston himself, nowlying in the once-peacefulchurchyard of nearby Bladon village.

Today Blenheimdominates the old town. Yet it was not always so. The strong grey houses which line the mainstreet have witnessed older times and could tell their older tales, though nowthe majority are sprucelyconverted into gift, antique and souvenir shops - and inns. There was always,it appears, a goodly choice ofhostelries, and several of the hotels and inns now clustered snugly along thestreets can boast notonly an ancient lineage but also a cluster of black AA stars on their brightyellow signs. The Black Princeis situated half-way down a broad side-street to the left as one is journeyingnorth. Amidst theWoodstock peerage it can claim no ancient pedigree, and it seems highlyimprobable, alas, that the warriorson of King Edward III had ever laughed or cried or tippled or wenched in anyof its precincts.