The Wench is Dead (14 page)

Then, too, the behaviour of Oldfield and Musson
after
the murder seemed to Morse increasingly a matter of considerable surprise, and it was difficult to understand why Counsel for the
Defence had not sought to ram into the minds of Judge and Jury alike the utter
implausibility
of what, allegedly, they did and said. It was not unknown, admittedly, for the odd psychopath to
act in a totally irrational and irresponsible manner. But these men were
not
a quartet of psychopaths. And, above all, it seemed quite extraordinary to Morse that, even after (as was
claimed) the crew had somehow and for some reason managed to murder Joanna Franks, they were – some twenty-four, thirty-six hours later – still knocking back the booze, still damning
and blasting the woman’s soul to eternity. Morse had known many murderers, but never one who had subsequently acted in such a fashion – let alone
four
. No! It just didn’t
add up; didn’t add up at all. Not that it mattered, though – not really – after all these years.

Morse flicked open the index of the stout volume recording the misdeeds of Old Salopians, and his eye caught ‘Shropshire Union Canal (The)’. He turned idly to the page reference, and
there read through the paragraph, and with growing interest. (Well done, Mrs Lewis!) The author was still most horribly enmeshed in his barbed-wire style, still quite incapable of calling a spade
anything else but a broad-bladed digging-tool; but the message was clear enough:

Morse’s eyes were beginning to close, too, and he laid the book aside. The point had been made: boatmen were a load of crooks who often nicked bits of their cargoes. Hence
Walter Towns, aka Walter Thorold, and the rest. All as simple as that – once you knew the answers. Perhaps it would
all
be like that one day, in that Great Computer Library in the Sky,
when the problems that had beset countless generations of sages and philosophers would be answered immediately, just by tapping in the questions on some celestial key-board.

The youth with the portable saline-drip walked in, nodded to Morse, picked up a small TV control-panel from somewhere, and began flicking his way around the channels with, for Morse, irritating
impermanence. It was time to get back to the ward.

As he was leaving his eyes roamed automatically over the book-case, and he stopped. There, on the lower row, and standing side by side, were the titles
Victorian Banbury
and
OXFORD
(Rail Centres Series). Having extracted both, he walked back. Perhaps, if you kept your eyes open, you didn’t need any Valhallan VDUs at all.

Walter Algernon Greenaway had been trying, with little success, to get going with the
Oxford Times
crossword. He had little or no competence in the skill, but it had
always fascinated him; and when the previous day he had watched Morse complete
The Times
crossword in about ten minutes, he felt most envious. Morse had just settled back in his bed when
Greenaway (predictably known to his friends, it appeared, as ‘Waggie’) called across.

‘You’re pretty good at crosswords—’

‘Not bad.’

‘You know anything about cricket?’

‘Not much. What’s the clue?’

‘“Bradman’s famous duck”.’

‘How many letters?’

‘Six. I saw Bradman at the Oval in 1948. He got a duck then.’

‘I shouldn’t worry too much about cricket,’ said Morse. ‘Just think about Walt Disney.’

Greenaway licked the point of his pencil, and thought, unproductively, about Walt Disney.

‘Who’s the setter this week?’ asked Morse.

‘Chap called “Quixote”.’

Morse smiled. Coincidence, wasn’t it! ‘What was
his
Christian name?’

‘Ah! I have you, sir!’ said Waggie, happily entering the letters at 1 across.

E
MBARRAS DE RICHESSES
– for Morse couldn’t have chosen a more informative couple of books if he’d sauntered all day round the
shelves in the local Summertown Library.

First, from
Victorian Banbury
, he gleaned the information that by about 1850 the long-distance stage-coach routes via Banbury to London had been abandoned, almost entirely as a result of
the new railway service from Oxford to the capital. Yet, as a direct result of this service, coaches between Banbury and Oxford had actually
increased
, and regular and efficient
transportation was readily available between Banbury and Oxford (only twenty miles to the south) during the 1850s and 1860s. Furthermore, the author gave full details of the actual stage-coaches
that would have been available, on the day in question, and about which Joanna Franks must have made enquiry: quite certainly coach-horses would have been seen galloping southwards on three
separate occasions in the earlier half of the following day, delivering passengers picked up at the Swan Inn, Banbury, to the Angel Inn in the High at Oxford. That for the sum of
2
s
/l
d
. Even more interesting for Morse was the situation pertaining at Oxford itself, where trains to Paddington, according to his second work of reference, were far more frequent,
and far quicker, than he could have imagined. And presumably Joanna herself, at Banbury on that fateful day, had been presented with
exactly
the same information: no less than
ten
trains daily, leaving at 2.10 a.m., 7.50 a.m., 9 a.m., 10.45 a.m., 11.45 a.m., 12.55 p.m., 2.45 p.m., 4.00 p.m., 5.50 p.m., and 8.00 p.m.
Embarras du choix
. Admittedly, the fares seemed
somewhat steep, with 1st-, 2nd-, and 3rd-class carriages priced respectively at 16
s
, 10
s
, and 6
s
, for the 60-odd-mile journey. But the historian of Oxford’s railways was
fair-minded enough to add the fact that there were also three coaches a day, at least up until the 1870s, making the comparatively slow journey to London via the Henley and Reading turnpikes:
The Blenheim
and
The Prince of Wales
, each departing at 10.30 a.m., with
The Rival
an hour later, the fare being a ‘whole shilling’ less than the 3rd-class railway
fare. And where did they finish up in the metropolis? It was quite extraordinary. The Edgware Road!

So, for a few minutes Morse looked at things from Joanna’s point of view – a Joanna who (as he had no option but to believe) was
in extremis
. Arriving at Banbury, as she had,
in the latish evening, she would very soon have seen the picture. No chance of anything immediately, but the ready opportunity of a stay overnight in Banbury, in one of the taverns along the
quayside, perhaps. Not four-star AA accommodation – but adequate, and certainly costing no more than 2
s
or so. Then one of the coaches to Oxford next morning – the book of words
mentioned one at 9.30 a.m., reaching Oxford at about 1 p.m. That would mean no difficulty at all about catching the 2.45 p.m. to Paddington – or one of the three later trains, should any
accident befall the horses. Easy! If she
had
eventually made a firm decision to escape her tormentors for good, then the situation was straightforward. 2
s
overnight, say,
2
s
/1
d
coach-fare, 6s 3rd-class rail-fare – that meant that for about 10s she was offered a final chance of saving her life. And without much bother, without much expense, she
could
have done so.

But she hadn’t
. Why not? Received wisdom maintained that she hadn’t got a penny-piece to her name, let alone half a guinea. But had she nothing she could sell, or pawn? Had
she no negotiable property with her? What
had
she got in those two boxes of hers? Nothing of any value whatsoever? Why, then, if that were so, could there ever have been the slightest
suspicion of
theft
? Morse shook his head slowly. Ye gods! – how he wished he could have a quick look into one of those boxes!

It was tea-time, and Morse was not aware that his wish had already been granted.

N
ORMAL SHIFTS FOR
the staff at the JR2 were Early (07.45–15.45), Late (13.00–21.30) and Night (21.00– 08.15). Always more of an owl
than a lark, Eileen Stanton shared none of the common objections that were levelled against the Night shift: born with a temperament slightly tinged with melancholy, she was perhaps a natural
creature of the dark. But this particular week had been unusual. And that day she was on Late.

Married at the age of nineteen and divorced at twenty, she was now, five years later, living out at Wantage with a man, fifteen years her senior, who had celebrated his fortieth birthday the
previous evening (hence the re-arrangements). The party had gone splendidly until just after midnight when the celebrant himself had been involved in a pathetic little bout of fisticuffs, over
her
! Now, in films or on TV, after being knocked unconscious with a vicious blow from an iron bar, the hero has only to rub the sore spot for a couple of minutes before resuming his mission.
But life itself, as Eileen knew, wasn’t like that – the victim was much more likely to end up in the ICU, with permanent brain-damage, to boot. Much more cruel. Like last night (this
morning!) when her cohabitee had been clouted in the face, his upper lip splitting dramatically, and one of his front teeth being broken off at the root. Not good for his looks, or his pride, or
the party, or Eileen, or anybody. Not good at all!

For the umpteenth time her mind dwelt on that incident as she drove into Oxford, parked her applejack-green Metro in the Staff Only park of the JR2, and walked down to the Basement Cloak Room to
change her clothes. It would do her good to get back on the Ward, she knew that. She’d found it easy enough so far to steer clear of any emotional involvement with her patients, and for the
moment all she wanted was to get a few hours of dutiful nursing behind her – to forget the previous night, when she’d drunk a little too freely, and flirted far too flagrantly with a
man she’d never even met before … No hangover – although she suddenly began to wonder if she
did
have a hangover after all: just didn’t notice it amid her other mental
agitations. Anyway, it was high time she forgot all her own troubles and involved herself with other people’s.

She’d noticed Morse (and he her) as he’d walked along to the Day Room; watched him walk back, half an hour later and spend the rest of the afternoon reading. Bookish sort of fellow,
he seemed. Nice, though – and she would go and have a word with him perhaps once he put his books down. Which he didn’t.

She watched him again, at 7.40 p.m., as he sat against the
pillows; and more particularly watched the woman who sat beside him, in a dark-blue dress, with glints of gold and auburn in her hair, the regular small-featured face leaning forward slightly as
she spoke to him. To Eileen the pair of them seemed so eager to talk to each other – so different from the conversational drought which descended on so many hospital visitations. Twice, even
as she watched, the woman, in the middle of some animated little passage of dialogue, placed the tips of her fingers against the sleeve of his gaudy pyjamas, fingers that were slim and sinewy, like
those of an executant musician. Eileen knew all about
that
sort of gesture! And what about him, Morse? He, too, seemed to be doing his level, unctuous best to impress
her
, with a
combination of that happily manufactured half-smile and eyes that focused intently upon hers. Oh yes! She could see what each of them was feeling – nauseating couple of bootlickers! But she
knew she envied them; envied especially the woman – Waggie’s clever-clogs of a daughter! From the few times she’d spoken to Morse, she knew that his conversation – and
perhaps, she thought, his life, too – was so
interesting
. She’d met just a few other men like that – men who were full of fascinating knowledge about architecture, history,
literature, music … all the things after which over these last few years she’d found herself yearning. How relieved she suddenly felt that most probably her swollen-lipped forty-year-old
wouldn’t be able to kiss her that evening!

A man (as she now realized) had been standing patiently at the desk.