The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (18 page)

for the time being.'

No, he couldn't begin to understand. He was trying hard not to put it into so many

words, but he'd got it all wrong. The fact was that she hadn't as yet given a single

thought as to whether they should go back to live in Pinewood Close or not. No. There

was something much more urgent on her mind for the minute, and of that she would

tell him nothing. Not yet anyway.

CHRISTOPHER ROOPE HAD willingly agreed to meet Morse, on Friday just after 12 noon,

at the Black Dog in St. Aldates, just opposite the great portal of Christ Church. Roope

had mentioned that he might be a few minutes late—he had a tutorial until twelve—but

Morse waited happily with a pint of beer in front of him. He looked forward to meeting

the young chemist, for if any outsider was involved in the murder of Quinn, he'd

decided that Roope was the likeliest candidate, and already he had gleaned a few

significant facts about him. First, he had learned that Roope had spent some time with

one of the Gulf Petroleum companies, and might therefore have been in some sort of

liaison with the men of power. For a deal there must have been at some stage,

doubtless (though later) involving Bland at the Oxford end, in a perverse, though

infinitely profitable, betrayal of public trust. It was certainly a possibility. Second,

Roope was a chemist: and whoever had murdered Quinn had a great deal of technical

knowledge about the fatal dosages of cyanide. Who better than Roope? Third, it was

Roope who had suddenly materialized in the Syndicate building at a very, very crucial

time—4.30 p.m. or thereabouts (according to Noakes) on the previous Friday; and it

was Roope who had looked into the rooms of each of the graduate staff in turn. What

exactly had he been doing there? And what had he done after Noakes had gone

upstairs for tea . . .? Fourth, there was the strange animosity that existed between

Roope and Bartlett, and it appeared to Morse that the explanation for such animosity

probably lay deeper, far deeper, than any temporary clash of views over the

appointment of Quinn. Yes . . . It was interesting that the clash had been over Quinn.

And that fitted well with the fifth fact, which Morse had patiently unearthed earlier that morning in the University Registry: the fact that Roope had been educated at a public

school in Bradford, the city where Quinn had lived almost all his short life, first as a

pupil and then as a teacher. Had the two men known each other before Quinn was

appointed to the Syn1dicate? And why had Roope been so obviously anxious to get

Quinn appointed? (Morse found himself dismissing the Dean's charitable view of his

colleague's social conscience.) Why, then? Now, Quinn had been thirty-one and

Roope was thirty, and if they had been friends . . . Yet where was the logic in that?

One didn't go around murdering one's friends. Unless, that is—

A trio of laughing, long-haired, bearded undergraduates came into the bar, T-shirted

and bejeaned, and Morse pondered on the changing times. He had worn a scarf and a

tie himself—and sometimes a blazer. But that seemed a long time ago. He drained his

glass and looked at his watch.

'Chief Inspector Morse?' It was one of the bearded trio and Morse realized that he was

a good deal further out of touch than he had imagined.

'Mr. Roope?'

The young man nodded. 'Can I get you a refill?

'I'll get them—'

'No, no. My pleasure. What are you drinking?'

Over their beer a somewhat bemused Morse explained as much of the situation as he

deemed prudent, and stressed the importance of trying to fix the exact time of Quinn's

death. And when he came to ask about the visit to the Syndicate on the previous

Friday. Morse was pleasantly impressed to find how carefully and indeed (if Noakes

could be believed) how accurately Roope retraced his steps from the moment he had

entered the building. All in all, Roope and Noakes appeared to corroborate each

other's evidence neatly at almost every juncture. Yet there were several points on

which Roope's memory seemed somewhat less than clear, and on which Morse

immediately pressed him further.

'You say there was a note on Quinn's desk?'

'Yes. I'm sure the caretaker must have seen it too. We both—'

'But you don't remember exactly what it said?'

Roope was silent for a few seconds. 'Not really. Something; about—oh, I don't know—

being "back soon", I think.'

'And Quinn's anorak was on one of the chairs?'

'That's right. Over the back of the chair behind his desk.'

'You didn't notice if it was wet?'

Roope shook his head.

'And the cabinets were open, you say?'

'One of them was, I'm sure of that. The caretaker pushed it to and locked it.'

'Bit unusual for a cabinet to be left open—with Bartlett around, I mean?' Morse

watched the chemist closely, but discerned no reaction.

'Yes.' And then Roope grinned disarmingly. 'Bit of a sod, you know, old Bartlett. Keeps

'em all on their toes.' He lit himself a cigarette and put the spent match carefully back into the box with his left hand.

'How do
you
get on with him, sir?'

'Me?' Roope laughed aloud. 'We don't see eye to eye, I'm afraid. I suppose you've

heard—?'

'I gathered you weren't exactly bosom pals.'

"On, I wouldn't put it like that. You mustn't believe everything you hear.'

Morse let it ride. 'Mr. Ogleby wasn't1 in his room, you say?'

'Not while I was there.'

Morse nodded, and believed him. 'How long
were
you there, sir?'

'Quarter of an hour, I suppose. Must have been. If Ogleby or any of the others were

there—well, I just didn't see them, that's all. And I'm pretty sure I would have done if

they
had
been there.'

Morse nodded again. I think you're right, sir. I don't think anyone was there.' His mind

drifted off, and for a brief second one of the silhouettes on the cavern wall focused in

full profile—a profile that Morse thought he could recognize without much difficulty . . .

Roope interrupted his thoughts. 'Anything else I can tell you?'

Morse drained his beer and said there was. He asked Roope to account for his

activities during the whole of the previous Friday, and Roope gladly obliged: he had

caught the 8.05 to London; arrived at Paddington at 9.10; caught the Inner Circle tube

to Mansion House; conferred with his publishers about the final proofs of a

forthcoming opus on Industrial Chemistry; left about 10.45; had a chicken salad in the

Strand somewhere; spent an hour or so in the National Portrait Gallery in Trafalgar

Square; and then returned to Paddington, where he'd caught the 3.05 for Oxford.

Morse himself couldn't have specified the reason, but suddenly he became convinced

that somehow, somewhere, Roope was lying. It was all too pat, too slick. A good deal

of it must be true (the bit about the publishers, for instance). Mm. He'd obviously gone

to London all right; but exactly when had he returned? Roope said he'd left his

publishers at about 10.45 am. A taxi to Paddington, perhaps? Easy!
Roope could

have been back in Oxford before lunchtime
. 'Just as a matter of interest, sir' (he asked it very mildly), 'do you think you could prove all that?'

Roope looked at him sharply. 'I don't suppose I could, no.' The eyes were steady and

steely.

'You didn't meet anyone you knew in London?'

I told you. I went to see—'

'Of course. But I meant later.'

'No, I didn't' The words were slow and evenly spaced, and Morse sensed that in spite

of his slim build and his rather mannered trendiness, Roope was probably

considerably tougher, both physically and mentally, than he appeared to be. One thing

was sure: he wasn't very happy when his word was questioned. Was that perhaps

why he and Bartlett . . .?

'Well, never mind that now, sir. Tell me something else, if you will. Did you know

Quinn before he came to Oxford?'

'No.'

'You came from that part of the country though, don't you?'

'You mean I haven't got an Oxford accent?'

'I'd put you down as a Yorkshireman.'

'You've done your homework, I see.'

'That's what they pay me for, sir.'

'I'm from Bradford, and so was Quinn. But let me spell it out. I'd never set eyes on him

before he came before the interviewing committee. Do you believe that?'

'I believe everything you tell me, sir. Why shouldn't I?'

1'You'd be a fool to believe everything some people told you.' There was little

pretence now at masking the hostility in his voice, and Morse was beginning to enjoy

himself.

'I think you ought to know,' said Morse quietly, 'that whatever else I am, I'm not a fool, sir.'

Roope made no reply and Morse resumed his questioning. 'Have you got a car?'

'No. I used to have, but I only live just up the Woodstock Road—'

'That's the bachelor flats, isn't it?

Roope suddenly relaxed and smiled ingenuously. 'Look, Inspector, why don't you ask

me something you
don't
know?'

Morse shrugged his shoulders. 'All right. Tell me this. Was it raining when you came

back from London?'

'Raining like hell, yes. I—' Suddenly the light dawned in his eyes. 'Yes. I got a
taxi
from the station—straight to the Syndicate! There'll be a record of that somewhere,

surely?'

'Do you remember the driver?'

'No. But I think I remember the cab firm.'

Roope was right, of course. It shouldn't be all that difficult. 'We could try to—'

'Why not?' Roope got to his feet and picked up a pile of books. 'No time like the

present, they say.'

As they walked up to Carfax and then left into Queen Street, Morse felt that he had

gone wrong somewhere, and he said nothing until they reached the railway station,

where a line of taxis was parked alongside the pavement. 'You'd better leave it to me,

sir. I've got a bit of experience—'

'I'd rather do it myself, if you don't mind, Inspector.'

So Morse left him to get on with it; and stood there waiting under the 'Buffet' sign,

feeling (he told himself) like the proverbial spare part at a prostitute's wedding.

Five minutes later a crestfallen Roope rejoined him: it wasn't going to be so easy as

he'd thought, though he'd still like to do it himself, if Morse didn't mind, that was. But why should Morse mind? If the young fellow was as anxious as all that to justify

himself . . . 'Like another beer?'

They walked through the ticket area and came to the barrier.

'We only want a beer,' explained Morse.

' 'Fraid you'll need platform tickets, sir.'

'Ah, bugger that,' said Morse. He turned to Roope: 'Let's walk down to the Royal

Oxford'

'Just a minute!' said Roope quietly. His eyes were shining again, and he retraced his

steps and tapped the ticket collector on the shoulder. 'Do you remember me?'

'Don't think so, mate.'

'Were you here on duty last Friday afternoon?'

'No.' Dismissive.

'Do you know who was?'

'You'd have to ask in the office.'

'Where's that?'

The man pointed vaguely. 'Not much good now, though. Lunchtime, isn't it?'

Clearly i1t wasn't Roope's day, and Morse put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder,

and turned to the ticket collector. 'Give us two of your platform tickets.'

Half an hour later, after Roope had left him, Morse sat deep in thought and, to the

teenaged couple who came to sit opposite him at the narrow buffet table, his face