The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn - Inspector Morse 03

by Colin Dexter

  Apart from the illegibly scrawled signature, that was all.

  Morse frowned slightly as he looked at the envelope, which was addressed to G. Bland, Esq, MA, and marked 'STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL’ in bold red capitals. But his face quickly cleared, and he handed the letter back to Lewis without a word. It really was time they went.

  Idly he opened the Letts diary again and his eyes fell upon the calendar inside the front page. And suddenly the blood began to freeze in his arms, and from the quiet, urgent tone of his voice Lewis immediately realized that the Inspector was strangely excited.

  'What's the date of the postmark on that envelope, Lewis?' Third of March.' This year?'

  Lewis looked again. ‘Yes, sir.' 'Well, well, well!' ‘What is it?'

  'Funny, wouldn't you say, Lewis? Friday the 20th, it says in the letter. But which Friday the 20th?' He looked down at the calendar again. ‘Not March. Not April. Not May. Not June. Not July. And it must refer to entry forms for last summer's examinations.'

  'Somebody could have made a mistake over the date, sir. Could have been using last year's—'

  But Morse wasn't listening. He picked up the letter again and studied it for several minutes with a fierce intensity. Then he nodded slowly to himself and a quiet smile spread over his face. "Lewis, my boy, you've done it again!'

  'I have, sir?'

  'I'm not saying we're much nearer to finding out the identity of the person who murdered Nicholas Quinn, mind you. But I'll tell you one thing: I'm beginning to think we've got a pretty good idea why he was murdered! Unless it's a cruel coincidence—'

  ‘Hadn't you better explain, sir?'

  ‘Look at the letter again, Lewis, and ask yourself why such a seemingly trivial piece of correspondence was marked "Strictly Private and Confidential". Well?'

  Lewis shook his head. 'I agree, sir, that it doesn't seem very important but—'

  ‘But it is important, Lewis. That's just the point! We start reading from the left and then go across, agreed? But they tell me that some of these cockeyed foreigners start from the right and read down!'

  Lewis studied the letter once more and his eyes gradually widened. 'You're a clever old bugger, sir.'

  'Sometimes, perhaps,' conceded Morse.

  At 7.35 p.m. the caretaker knocked deferentially and put his head round the door. 'I don't want to interrupt, sir, if—'

  ‘Don't, then,' snapped Morse, and the door was quietly reclosed. The two policemen looked across the table at each other - and grinned happily.

  WHEN?

  nine

  Morse had never been in the slightest degree interested in the technicalities of the science of pathology, and on Wednesday morning he read the reports before him with the selectivity of a dedicated pornophilist seeking out the juciest crudities. The smallest dose which has proved fatal is a half drachm of the pharmacopoeial acid, or 0.6 gram of anhydrous hydrocyanic acid ... rapidly altered in the body after death, uniting with sulphur...' Ah, here we are: '... and such in this instance were the post-mortem appearances that there is reason to believe that death must have occurred almost immediately ... fruitless, in the absence of scratches or abrasions, to speculate on the possibility of the body having been moved after death...' Interesting. Morse skipped his way along. '... would suggest a period of between 72-120 hours before the body was discovered. Any greater precision about these time limits is precluded in this case ...' As in all cases you ever have, muttered Morse. He had never ceased to wonder why, with the staggering advances in medical science, all pronouncements concerning times of death remained so disconcertingly vague. For that was the real question: when had Quinn died? If Aristotle could be believed (why not?) the truth would probably lie somewhere in the middle 94 hours, say. That meant Friday lunchtime or thereabouts. Was that possible? Morse put the report aside, and reconsidered the little he as yet knew of Quinn's whereabouts on the previous Friday. Yes. Perhaps he should have asked Quinn's colleagues where they were on Friday, not when they had last seen Quinn. But there was plenty of time; he would have to see them all again soon, anyway. At least one thing was clear. Whoever had tinkered with Quinn's sherry bottle had known something about poison - known a great deal about poison, in fact. Now who ... ? Morse went to his shelves, took down Glaister and Rentoul's bulky and definitive tome on Medical Jurisprudence and Toxicology, and looked up 'Hydrocyanic Acid' (page 566); and as he skimmed over the headings he smiled to himself. The compiler of the medical report he had just read had beaten him to it: some of the sentences were lifted almost verbatim. Why not, though? Cyanide wasn't going to change much over the years ... He recalled Hider and his clique in the Berlin bunker. That was cyanide, wasn't it? Cyanide. Suicide! Huh! The obvious was usually the very last thing that occurred to Morse's mind; but he suddenly realized that the most obvious answer to his problem was this: that Quinn had committed suicide. Yet, come to think of it, that was no real answer either. For if he had, why on earth ... ?

  Lewis was surprised when half an hour later Morse took him to his home in North Oxford. It was two years since he had been there, and he was pleasurably surprised to find how comparatively neat and clean it was. Morse disappeared for a while, but put his head round the door and told Lewis to help himself to a drink.

  'I'm all right, sir. Shall I pour one for you?'

  ‘Yes. Pour me a sherry. And pour one for yourself.'

  'I'd rather—'

  ‘Do as you're told for a change, man!'

  It wasn't unusual for Morse suddenly to turn sour, and Lewis resigned himself to the whims of his superior officer. The cabinet was well-stocked with booze, and Lewis took two small glasses and filled them from a bottle of medium sherry, sat back in an armchair, and wondered what was in store for him now.

  He was sipping his sherry effeminately when Morse reappeared, picked up his own, lifted it to his lips and then put it down. 'Do you realize, Lewis, that if that sherry had been poisoned, you'd be a goner by now?'

  'So would you, sir.'

  'Ah, no. I've not touched mine.'

  Lewis slowly put down his own glass, half-empty now, and began to understand the purpose of the little charade. 'And there'd be my prints on the bottle and on the glass ...'

  'And if I'd carefully wiped them both before we started, I've just got to pour my own sherry down the sink, wash the glass -and Bob's your uncle.'

  'Somebody still had to get into Quinn's place to poison the sherry.'

  ‘Not necessarily. Someone could have given Quinn the bottle as a present.'

  'But you don't give someone a bottle that's been opened! You'd have a hell of a job trying to reseal a sherry bottle. In fact, you couldn't do it.'

  'Perhaps there wasn't any need for that,' said Morse slowly; but he enlightened Lewis no further. For a moment he stood quite still, his eyes staring into the hazy past where a distant memory lingered on the threshold of his consciousness but refused the invitation to come in. It was something to do with a lovely young girl; but she merged into other lovely young girls. There had been so many of them, once ... Think of something else! It would come. He drained his sherry at a gulp and poured himself another. 'Bit like drinking lemonade, isn't it, Lewis?'

  ‘What's the programme, sir?'

  ‘Well - I think we've got to play things a bit delicately. We might be on to something big, you must realize that; but it's no good rushing things. I want to know what all of 'em in the office were doing on Friday, but I want 'em to know what I'm going to ask them.'

  ‘Wouldn't it be better—?'

  ‘No. It wouldn't be fair, anyway.'

  Lewis was getting lost. ‘You think one of the four of them murdered Quinn?' ‘What do you think?'

  ‘I don't know, sir. But if you let them know beforehand—' ‘Yes?'

  ‘Well, they'd have something ready. Make something up—'

  That's what I want them to do.'

  'But surely if one of them murdered Quinn—?'

  'He'd have an alibi all rea
dy, you mean?'

  ‘Yes.'

  Morse said nothing for a few seconds and then suddenly changed tack completely. 'Did you see me last Friday, Lewis?' Lewis opened his mouth and shut it again. 'Come on! We work in the same building, don't we?' Lewis tried hard, but he couldn't get hold of the problem at all. Friday. It seemed a long way away. What had he done on Friday? Had he seen Morse?

  ‘You see what I mean, Lewis? Not easy, is it? We ought to give 'em a chance.'

  ‘But as I say, sir, whoever killed Quinn will have something pretty good cooked up for last Friday.' ‘Exactly.’

  Lewis let it go. Many things puzzled him about the chief, and he felt even more puzzled as Morse pulled the front door to behind him: 'And what makes you so sure that Quinn was murdered on Friday?'

  Margaret Freeman was unmarried - a slim, rather plain girl, with droopy eyelashes, who had worked for the Syndicate for just over three years. She had earlier been confidential secretary to Mr Bland, and had automatically been asked to transfer her allegiance to Mr Quinn. She had slept little the previous night, and not until the late grey dawn had she managed to rein in the horses of her terror. But Morse (who thought he understood such things) was still surprised when she broke down and wept after only a few minutes of gentle interrogation. She had certainly seen Quinn on Friday morning. He had dictated a whole sheaf of letters to her at about 1045, and these had kept her busy until fairly late that same afternoon, when she had taken them into Quinn's office and put them in the in-tray. She hadn't seen him that Friday afternoon; yet she'd had the feeling that he was about somewhere, for she could almost positively recall (after some careful prodding) that Quinn's green anorak had been draped over the back of one of the chairs; and yes! there had been that little note for her, with her initials on it, MF, and then the brief message (‘Dr Bartlett liked them to leave messages, sir'); but she couldn't quite remember ... something like ... no. Just something about 'going out', she thought. About being 'back soon', perhaps? But she couldn't really remember - that was obvious.

  Morse had interviewed her in Quinn's office, and after she had gone he lit a cigarette and considered things anew. It was certainly interesting. Why wasn't the note still there? Quinn must have come back, crumpled up the note ... But the wastepaper basket was empty. Cleaners! But Quinn had been alive at about n or 11.15 that Friday morning. That was something to build on, anyway.

  To Lewis was entrusted the task of finding the caretaker and of discovering what happened to the Syndicate's rubbish. And for once the luck was with him. Two large, black plastic sacks of wastepaper were standing in a small loading bay at the side of the building, awaiting collection, and the job of sifting through the papers was at least a good deal more congenial than delving into rubbish bins. Comparatively quick, too. Most of the waste paper was merely torn across the middle, and not screwed into crumpled balls: outdated forms mostly and a few first drafts of trickier letters. No note from Quinn to his confidential secretary, though, and Lewis felt disappointed, for that was the prime object of the search. But there were several (identical) notes from Bartlett, which Lewis immediately sensed might well be of some interest; and he took them along to Quinn's office, where the receiver that Morse held to his ear was emitting the staccato bleeps of the 'engaged' signal. He further smoothed out one of the notes, and Morse put down the receiver and read it:

  Mon, 17th Nov

  Notice to all Staff

  PRACTICE FIRE DRILL

  The fire alarm will ring at 12 noon, on Friday, 21st Nov, when all staff must immediately stop working, turn off all fires, lights and other electrical appliances, close all windows and doors, and walk through the front door of the building and out into the front parking area. No one is to remain in the building for any reason, and normal work will not be resumed until everyone is accounted for. Since the weather seems likely to be cold and wet, staff are advised to take their coats etc., although it is hoped that the practice will take no longer than ten minutes or so. I ask and expect your full co-operation in this matter. Signed ‘I. G. Bartlett (Secretary)

  ‘He's a careful soul, isn't he, Lewis?' 'Seems pretty efficient, sir.' 'Not the sort to leave anything to chance.' ‘What's that supposed to mean?'

  'I was just wondering why he didn't tell me about this fire

  drill, that's all.' He smiled to himself, and Lewis knew that that wasn't all.

  ‘Perhaps he didn't tell you because you didn't ask him.'

  ‘Perhaps so. Anyway, go along and ask him if there was a roll-call. You never know - we may be able to postpone Quinn's execution from 11.15 to 12.15.'

  The red light showed outside Bartlett's office, and as Lewis stood undecided before the door, Donald Martin walked past.

  That light means he's got somebody with him, doesn't it?'

  Martin nodded. 'He'd be very annoyed if any of the staff interrupted him, but -1 mean...' He seemed extremely nervous about something, and Lewis took the opportunity (as Morse had instructed him) of disseminating the news that Quinn's colleagues would all soon be asked to account for their whereabouts the previous Friday.

  'But what—? He can't really think—'

  ‘He thinks a lot of things, sir.'

  Lewis knocked on Bartlett's door and went in. Monica Height turned round with some annoyance on her face, but the Secretary himself, smiling benignly, made no reference whatsoever to the infraction of the golden rule. In answer to his query, Lewis was informed that he'd better see the chief clerk upstairs, who had been in charge of the whole operation and who almost certainly would have kept the register of all those who had been present for the fire drill.

  After Lewis had left the room, Monica turned around and looked hard at Bartlett. "What's all that about, pray?'

  ‘You know you mustn't blame the police for trying to find out when Mr Quinn was last seen alive. I must admit I'd not mentioned the fire drill—'

  'But he was alive last Friday afternoon - there's not much doubt about that, is there? His car was here until about twenty to five. So Noakes says.'

  ‘Yes, I know all about that.'

  'Don't you think we ought to tell the police straightaway?' 'I've got a strong suspicion, my dear, that Chief Inspector Morse is going to find out far more than some of us may wish.' But whatever might have been the cryptic implication of this remark, Monica appeared not to notice it. ‘Don't you agree it may be very important, though?'

  'Certainly. Especially if they think that Mr Quinn was murdered last Friday.'

  'Do you think he was murdered on Friday?'

  'Me?' Bartlett looked at her with a gentle smile. 'I don't think it matters very much what I think.'

  ‘You haven't answered my question.'

  Bartlett hesitated and stood up. 'Well, for what it's worth the answer's "no".' ‘When—?'

  But Bartlett held up his finger to his lips and shook his head. ‘You're asking as many questions as they are.'

  Monica rose to her feet and walked to the door. 'I still think you ought to let them know that Noakes—'

  ‘Look,' he said in a kindly way. 'If it'll make you happier, I'll let them know straightaway. All right?'

  As Monica Height left the room, Martin came up to her and said something urgently into her ear. Together they disappeared into Monica's office.

  The chief clerk remembered the fire drill well, of course. Everything had gone according to plan, and the Secretary had scrutinized the final list himself before allowing his staff to resume their duties. Of the twenty-six permanent staff, only three had not ticked themselves off. But all had been accounted for: Mr Ogleby was down at the Oxford University Press; one of the typists had flu; and one of the junior clerks was on holiday. Against Quinn’s name was a bold tick in black biro. And that was that. Lewis walked downstairs and rejoined Morse.

  'Have you noticed how everyone in this office uses black biro, Lewis?'

  ‘Bartlett's got 'em all organized, sir - even down to the pens they use.'

  Morse seemed to
dismiss the matter as of no importance, and picked up the phone once more. ‘You'd have thought this bloody school would have more than one line, wouldn't you?' But this time he heard the ringing tone, and the call was answered almost immediately. Morse heard a cheerful north-country voice telling him that she was the school secretary and asking if she could help. Morse explained who he was and what information he required.

  "Friday, you say? Yes, I remember. From Oxford, that's right ... Oh, must have been about twenty past twelve. I remember I looked on the timetable and Mr Richardson was teaching until a quarter to one ... No, no. He said not to bother. Just asked me to give him t'message, laik. He said he would be inviting Mr Richardson to do some marking this summer ... No, I'm sorry. I can't remember t'name for the minute, but Mr Richardson would know, of course ... Yes. Yes, I'm sure that was it. Quinn - that's right. I hope there's nothing ... Oh dear ... Oh dear... Shall I tell Mr Richardson? ... All right ... All right, sir. Goodbye.'

  Morse cradled the phone and looked across at Lewis. 'What do you think?'

  'I think we're making progress, sir. Just after eleven he finishes dictating his letters; he's here for the fire drill at twelve; and he rings up the school at twenty past.' Morse nodded and Lewis felt encouraged to go on. 'What I'd really like to know is whether he left the note for Miss Freeman before or after lunch. So perhaps we'd better try to find out where he had a bite to eat, sir.'

  Morse nodded again, and seemed to be staring at nothing. 'I'm beginning to wonder if we're on the right track, though, Lewis. You know what? I wouldn't be at all surprised if—'

  The internal phone rang and Morse listened with interest. ‘Well, thank you for telling me, Dr Bartlett. Can you ask him to come along straightaway?'

  When the sycophantic Noakes began his brief tale, Morse wondered why on earth he had not immediately sought the caretaker's confidence; for he knew full well that in institutions of all kinds throughout the land it was the name of the caretaker which should appear at the top of all official notepaper. Wherever his services were called upon (including Police HQ) it seemed to be the caretaker, with his strangely obnoxious combination of officiousness and servility, whose goodwill was prized above all; whose cooperation over rooms, teas, keys and other momentous considerations, was absolutely indispensable. On the face of it, however, Noakes seemed one of the pleasanter specimens of the species.