The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (26 page)

have been in his right mind.'

'What would you say is the simplest and quickest way?'

Parker shrugged his shoulders. 'I think I'd have a quick swig of cyanide, myself.'

Morse walked thoughtfully to the car: he felt a sadder, if not a much wiser man.

Anyway, one more call to make. He just hoped Margaret Freeman hadn't gone off to a

Saturday night hop.

Although earlier in the evening Lewis had been quite unable to fathom the Inspector's

purposes, he had quite looked forward to the duties assigned to him.

Joyce Greenaway was pleasantly cooperative, and she tried her best to. answer the

Sergeant's strange questions. As she had told Inspector Morse, she couldn't be certain

that the name
was
Bartlett, and she could see no point whatsoever in trying (although she did try) to remember whether he'd been addressed as Bartlett or Dr. Bartlett. She

was quite sure, too, that she could never hope to recognize the voice again: her

hearing wasn't all that good at the best of times and—well, you couldn't recognize a

voice again just like that, could you. What were they talking about? Well, as a matter of fact, she did just have the feeling that they were arranging to meet somewhere. But

further than that—when, where, why—no. No ideas at all.

Lewis got it all down in his notebook; and when he'd finished he made the appropriate

noises to the little bundle of life that lay beside the bed.

'Have you got any family, Sergeant?'

'Two daughters.'

'We had a name all ready if it had been a girl.'

'There's a lot of nice boys' names.'

'Yeah, I suppose so. But somehow—What's your Christian name, Sergeant?'

Lewis told her. He'd never liked it much.

'What about the Inspector? What's his Christian name?'

Lewis frowned for a few seconds. Funny, really. He'd never thought of Morse as

having one. 'I don't know. I've never heard anyone call him by his Christian name.'

From the John Radcliffe Lewis drove down to the railway station. There were four taxi

firms, and Lewis received conflicting pieces of advice about the best way to tackle his

assignment. It really should have been a comparatively easy job to find out who (if

anyone) had taken Roope from the station to the Syndicate building at about 4.20 p.m.

on the 21st November. But it wasn't. And when Lewis had finally completed his

rounds, he doubted whether the answer he'd come up with was the one that Morse

had expected or hoped for.

1 It was after half past eight before Lewis reached Littlemore Hospital.

Dr. Addison, who was on night duty, had not himself had a great deal to do with

Richard Bartlett's case, although he knew of it, of course. He fetched the file, but

refused to let Lewis look through it himself. 'There are some very
personal
entries, you know, Officer, and I think that I can give you the information you want without—'

'I don't really want any details about Mr. Bartlett's mental troubles. Just a list of the institutions that he's stayed in over the past five years, the clinics he's been to, the

specialists he's seen—and the dates, of course.'

Addison looked annoyed. 'You want all that? Well, I suppose, if it's really necessary . .

.' The file contained a wadge of papers two inches thick, and Lewis patiently made his

notes. It took them almost an hour.

'Well, many thanks, sir. I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time.'

Addison said nothing.

As Lewis finally got up to leave he asked one last question, although it wasn't on

Morse's list.

'What's the trouble with Mr. Bartlett, sir?'

'Schizophrenia.'

'Oh.' Lewis thanked him once again, and left.

Morse was not in his office when Lewis arrived back. They'd arranged to meet again at

about ten if each could manage it. Had Morse finished his own inquiries yet? Like as

not he had, and gone out for a pint. Lewis looked at his watch: it was just after ten past ten, and he might as well wait. Morse must have been looking up something for bis

crossword, for the
Chambers
lay on the cluttered desk. Lewis opened it. 'Ski-'? No.

'Sci-'? No. He'd never been much of a hand at spelling. 'Sch-'? Ah! There it was: '
ski-zo-freni-a
, or
skid-zo
, n., dementia praecox or kindred form of insanity, marked by introversion and loss of connexion between thoughts, feeling and actions.'

Lewis had moved on to 'dementia' when Morse came in, and it was quite clear that for

once in a lifetime he had not been drinking. He listened with great care to what Lewis

had to tell him, but seemed neither surprised nor excited in any way.

It was at a quarter to eleven that he dropped his bombshell. 'Well, Lewis, my old friend.

I've got a surprise for you. We're going to make an arrest on Monday morning.'

'That's when the inquest is.'

'And that's when we're going to arrest him.'

'Can you do that sort of thing at an inquest, sir? Is it legal?'

'Legal? I know nothing about the law. But perhaps you're right. Well make it just
after
the inquest, just as he's—'

'What if he's not there?'

'I think he'll be there all right,' said Morse quietly.

'You're not going to tell me who he is?'

'What? And spoil my little surprise? Now, what do you say we have a pint or two? To

celebrate, sort of thing.'

'The pubs'll be shut, sir.'

'Really?' Morse feigned surprise, walked over to a wall cupboard, and fetched out half

a dozen pint bottles of be1er, two glasses, and an opener.

'You've got to plan for all contingencies in our sort of job, Lewis.'

Margaret Freeman had been tossing and turning since she went to bed at eleven, and

she finally got up at 1.30 a.m. She tiptoed past her parents' room, made her way

silently to the kitchen, and put the kettle on. It was no longer a matter of being

frightened, as it had been earlier in the week, when she had blessed the fact that she

didn't live on her own like some of the girls did; it was more a matter of being puzzled

now: puzzled about what Morse had asked her. The other girls thought that the

Inspector was a bit dishy; but she didn't. Too old—and too vain. Combing his hair

when he'd come in, and trying to cover up that balding patch at the back! Men! But

she'd liked Mr. Quinn—liked him rather more than she should have done . . . She

poured herself a cup of tea and sat down at the kitchen table. Why had Morse asked

her that question? It made it seem as if she held the secret to something important; it

was
important, he'd said. But why did he want to know? She had lain awake thinking and thinking, and asking herself just why he should have asked her
that
. Why was it so important for him to know if Mr. Quinn had put her own initials on the little notes he left? Of course he had! She was the one who most needed to know, wasn't she? After

all, she
was
his confidential secretary. Had been, rather . . . She poured herself a second cup of tea, took it back to her room, and turned on the bedside reading lamp.

Menacing shadows seemed to loom against the far wall as she settled herself into

bed. She tried to sit very still, and suddenly felt very frightened again.

ON MONDAY MORNING Lewis was waiting outside as the door of Superintendent

Strange's office opened, and he caught the tail-end of the conversation.

'. . . cock-eyed, but—'

'Have I ever let you down, sir?'

'Frequently.'

Morse winked at Lewis and closed the door behind him. It was 10.30 a.m. and the

inquest was due to start at eleven. Dickson was waiting outside with the car, and

together the three policemen drove down into Oxford.

The inquest was to be held in the courtroom behind the main Oxford City Police HQ in

St. Aldates, and a small knot of people was standing outside, waiting for the preceding

hearing to finish. Lewis looked at them. He had written (as Morse had carefully briefed

him) to all those concerned in any way with Quinn's murder: some would have to take

the stand anyway; others ('but your presence will be appreciated') would not. The

Dean of the Syndicate stood there, his hands in his expensive dark overcoat,

academically impatient; the Secretary, looking duly grave; Monica Height looking

palely attractive; Martin prowling around the paved yard like a nervous hyaena;

Roope, smoking a cigarette and staring thoughtfully at the ground; Mr. Quinn senior,

lonely, apart, staring into the pit of despair; and Mrs. Evans and Mrs. Jardine, leagues

apart in the social hierachy, yet managing to chat away quite merrily about the tragic

events which had brought them together.

It was ten minutes past eleven before they all filed into the court, where the coroner's

sergeant, acting as chief usher, qui1etly but firmly organized the seating to his liking, before disappearing through a door at the back of the court, and almost immediately

reappearing with the coroner himself. All rose to their feet as the sergeant intoned the

judicial ritual. The proceedings had begun.

First the identification of the deceased was established by Mr. Quinn senior; then Mrs.

Jardine took the box; then Martin; then Bartlett; then Sergeant Lewis; then Constable

Dickson. Nothing was added to, nothing subtracted from, the statements the coroner

had before him. Next the thin humpbacked surgeon gave evidence of the autopsy,

reading from a prepared script at such a breakneck speed and with such a wealth of

physiological detail that he might just as well have been reciting the Russian creed to

a class of the educationally subnormal. When he had reached the last fullstop, he

handed the document perfunctorily to the coroner, stepped carefully down, and walked

briskly out of the courtroom and out of the case. Lewis wondered idly what his fee

would be . . .

'Chief Inspector Morse, please.'

Morse walked to the witness-box and took the oath in a mumbled gabble.

'You are in charge of the investigation into the death of Mr. Nicholas Quinn.'

Morse nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

Before the coroner could proceed, however, there was a slight commotion at the

entrance door; and a series of whispered exchanges, which resulted in a bearded

young man being admitted and taking his place next to Constable Dickson on one of

the low benches. Lewis was glad to see him: he had begun to wonder if his letter to

Mr. Richard Bartlett had gone astray.

The coroner resumed: 'Are you prepared to indicate to the court the present state of

your investigations into this matter?'

'Not yet, sir. And with your honour's permission, I wish to make formal application for

the inquest to be adjourned for a fortnight.'

'Am I to understand, Chief Inspector, that your inquiries are likely to be completed

within that time?'

'Yes, sir. Quite shortly, I hope.'

'I see. Am I right in saying that you have as yet made no arrest in this case?'

'An arrest is imminent.'

'Indeed?'

Morse took a warrant from his inside pocket and held it up before the court. 'It may be

somewhat unusual to introduce such a note of melodrama into your court, your

honour; but immediately after the adjournment of this inquest—should, of course, your

honour allow the adjournment—it will be my duty to make an arrest.' Morse turned his

head slightly and ran his eyes along the front bench: Dickson, Richard Bartlett, Mrs.

Evans, Mrs. Jardine, Martin, Dr. Bartlett, Monica Height, Roope, and Lewis. Yes, they

were all there, with the murderer seated right amongst them! Things were going