The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (9 page)

infinitely better than that of the other four. But then the sheik's son had doubtless had the privilege of high-class private tuition. Ah well. There would be plenty of opportunity for him to try to jack up the standards of his own pupils a bit before next summer . . .

He left the room, licking the flap of the envelope as he did so, and walked through to

the school secretary's office.

It was just after noon, too, that Morse returned to Pinewood Close. He made no effort

to move on the curious crowd who thronged the narrow crescent, for he had never

understood why the general public should so frequently be castigated for wishing to

eye-witness those rare moments of misfortune or tragedy that occurred in their vicinity.

(He would have been one of them himself.) He threaded his way past the three police

cars, past the ambulance, its blue light flashing, and entered the house once more.

There were almost as many people inside as outside.

'Sad thing, death,' said Morse.

'
Mors, mortis
, feminine,' mumbled the ageing police surgeon.

Morse nodded morosely. 'Don't remind me.'

'Never mind, Morse. We're all dying slowly.'

'How long's he been dead?'

'Dunno. Could be four, five days—not less than three, I shouldn't think.'

'Not too much help, are you?'

'I shall have to take a closer look at him.'

'Have a guess.'

'Unofficially?'

'Unofficially.'

'Friday night or Saturday morning.'

'Cyanide?'

'Cyanide.'

'You think it took long?'

'No. Pretty quick stuff if you get the right dose down you.'

'Minutes?'

'Much quicker. I'll have to take the bottle and the glass, of course.'

Morse turned to the two other men in the room who had been brushing the likeliest-

looking surfaces with powder.

'Anything much?'

'Seems like his prints all over the place, sir.'

'Hardly surprising.'

'Somebody else's, though.'

'The cleaner's, most likely.'

'Just the one set of prints on the bottle, sir—and on the glass.'

'Mm.'

'Can we move the body?'

'Sooner the quicker. I suppose we'd better go through his pockets, though.' He turned

again to the surgeon. 'You do it, will you, doc?'

'You getting squeamish, Morse? By the way, did you know he wore a hearing aid?'

At one minute to two, Morse got to his feet and looked down at Lewis.

Time for another if you drink that up smartish.'

'Not for me, sir. I've had enough.'

'The secret of a happy life, Lewis, is to know when to stop and then to go that little bit further.'

'Just a half, then'

Morse walked to the bar and beamed at the barmaid. But in truth he felt far from happy.

He had long since recognized the undoubted fact that his imagination was almost

invariably fired by beer, especially by beer in considerable quantities. But today, for

some reason, his mind seemed curiously disengaged; sluggish even. After the body

had been removed he had spent some time in the downstairs front room, used by

Quinn as a bedroom-cum-study; he had opened drawers, looked through papers and

folders, and half-stripped the bed. But it had all been an aimless, perfunctory exercise, and he had found nothing more incriminating than the previous month's copy of

Playboy
; and it was whilst sitting on the uncovered mattress scanning a succession of naked breasts and crotches that Lewis, after completing his tedious inventories, had

found him.

'Anything interesting, sir?'

'No.' Morse had guiltily returned the magazine to the desk and fastened up his

overcoat.

Just as they were about to leave, Morse had noticed the green anorak on one of the

clothes pegs in the narrow hallway.

BARTLETT KNEW THAT the man had been drinking and found himself feeling surprised

and disappointed. He had been expecting the call all the afternoon, but it had not

come through until half past three. The four of them had been seated in his office since

lunchtime (the red light on outside) talking in hushed voices amongst themselves

about the shattering news. Graphically Martin had recounted again and again the

details of his morning discovery, and had taken some muted pleasure, even in these

grim moments, at finding himself, quite unprecedentedly, at the1 centre of his

colleagues' attention. But invariably the conversation had reverted to the perplexing

question of who had been the last to see Quinn alive—and where. They all agreed, it

seemed, that it had been on Friday, but exactly when and exactly where no one

seemed able to remember. Or cared to tell . . .

Monica Height watched the Inspector carefully as he came in, and told herself, as they

were briefly introduced, that his eyes held hers a fraction longer than was strictly

necessary. She liked his voice, too; and when he informed them that each would be

interviewed separately, either by himself or by Sergeant Lewis (standing silently by

the door), she found herself hoping that in her case it would be him. Not that she need

have worried on that score: Morse had already mentally allocated her to himself. But

first he had to see what Bartlett could tell him.

'You've locked Quinn's door, I hope, sir.'

'Yes. Immediately I got your message.'

'Well, I think you'd better tell me something about this place: what you do, how you do

it, anything at all you think may help. Quinn was murdered, sir—little doubt about that;

and my job's to find out who murdered him. There's just a possibility, of course, that his murder's got nothing at all to do with this place, or with the people here; but it seems

much more probable that I may be able to find something in the office here that will

give me some sort of lead. So, I'm afraid I shall be having to badger you all for a few

days—you realize that, don't you?'

Bartlett nodded. 'We shall all do our best to help you, Inspector. Please feel

completely free to carry out whatever inquiries you think fit.'

'Thank you, sir. Now, what can you tell me?'

During the next half-hour Morse learned a great deal. Bartlett told him about the

purpose, commitments, and organization of the Syndicate, about the personnel

involved at all stages in the running of public examinations. And Morse found himself

surprised and impressed: surprised by the unexpected complexities of the operations

involved; and, above all, impressed by the extraordinary efficiency and grasp of the

Pickwickian little Secretary sitting behind his desk.

'What about Quinn himself?'

Bartlett opened a drawer and took out a folder. 'I looked this out for you, Inspector. It's Quinn's application for the job here. It'll tell you more than I can.'

Morse opened the folder and his eyes hurriedly scanned the contents: curriculum

vitae, testimonials, letters from three referees, and the application form itself, across the top of which Bartlett had written: 'Appointed w.e.f. 1st Sept'. But again Morse's

mind remained infuriatingly blank. The cogs in the machine were beginning to turn all

right, but somehow they refused to engage. He closed the folder, defensively

mumbling something about studying it later, and looked again at Bartlett. He

wondered how that clear and supremely efficient mind would be tackling the problem

of Quinn's murder, and it appeared that Bartlett could almost read his thoughts.

'You know that he was deaf, don't you, Inspector?'

'Deaf? Oh yes.' The police surgeon had mentioned it, but Morse had taken little notice.

'We were all very impressed by the way he coped with his disability.'

'How deaf was he?'

'He would probably have go1ne completely deaf in a few years' time. That was the

prognosis, anyway.'

For the first time since Bartlett had been talking the merest flicker of interest showed

itself in Morse's eyes. 'Little surprising you appointed him, perhaps, sir?'

'I think it's you who would have been surprised, Inspector.

You could hardly tell he was deaf, you see. Apart from dealing with the phone, which

was
a problem, he was quite remarkable. He really was.'

'Did you, er, did you appoint him, you know, because he
was
deaf?'

'Did we feel sorry for him, you mean? Oh no. It seemed to the, er, the, er, committee

that he was the best man in the field.'

'Which committee was that?'

Did Morse catch a hint of guardedness in Bartlett's eyes? He wasn't sure. What he did

know was that the teeth of the smallest cog had now begun to bite. He sat back more

happily in his chair.

'We, er, had all twelve Syndics on that committee—plus myself, of course.'

'Syndics? They're, er—?'

'They're like governors of a school, really.'

'They don't work here?'

'Good gracious, no. They're all university dons. They just meet here twice a term to

see if we're doing our job properly.'

'Have you got their names here?'

Morse looked with interest down the typed list that Bartlett handed to him. Printed

beside the name of each of the Syndics were full details of university, college,

degrees, doctorates and other academic honours, and one name in the list jumped out

at him. 'Most of them Oxford men, I see, sir.'

'Natural enough, isn't it?'

'Just one or two from Cambridge.'

'Ye-es.'

'Wasn't Quinn at Magdalene College, Cambridge?' Morse began to reach for the

folder, but Bartlett immediately confirmed the fact.

'I see that Mr. Roope was at the same college, sir.'

'Was he? I'd never noticed that before.'

'You notice most things, if I may say so.'

'I always associate Roope with Christ Church, I suppose. He's been appointed a

fellow there: "student", rather, if we want to be pedantic, Inspector.' His eyes were utterly guileless now, and Morse wondered if he might earlier have been mistaken.

'What's Roope's subject?'

'He's a chemist.'

'Well, well.' Morse tried to suppress the note of excitement in his voice, but realized

that he wasn't succeeding. 'How old is he? Do you know?'

'Youngish. Thirty or so.'

'About Quinn's age, then?'

'About that.'

'Now, sir. Just one more thing.' He looked at his watch and found that it was already a

quarter to five. 'When did you last see Quinn? Can you remember?'

'Last Friday, sometime. I know that. But it's a funny thing. Before you came in, we were

all trying to think when we'd last seen him. Very difficult, you know, to pinpoint it

exactly. I certainly saw him late on Friday morning; but I can't be sure about Friday

afternoon. I had to go to a meeting in Banbury at three o'clock, and I'm just not sure if I saw him before I went.'

'What time did you leave the office, sir?'

'About a quarter past two.'

'You must drive pretty fast.'

'I've got a fast car.'

'Twenty-two, twenty-three miles?'

Bartlett's eyes twinkled. 'We've all got our little weaknesses, Inspector, but I try to keep within the speed limits.'

Morse heard himself say he hoped so, and decided it was high time he saw Miss

Monica Height. But before he did so he had a very much more urgent call to pay.

'Where's the nearest Gents? I'm dying for—'

'There's one right here, Inspector.' He got up and opened the door to the right of his

desk. Inside was a tiny lavatory with a small wash basin tucked away behind the door;

and as Morse blissfully emptied his aching bladder, Bartlett was reminded of the

mighty outpourings of Niagara.

After only a few minutes with Monica Height, Morse found himself wondering how the