The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (32 page)

London that Friday morning and I caught the 3.05 back to Oxford, arriving here about a

quarter, twenty past four; and the plain truth is that
Roope was on the same train
.'

In the stunned silence which greeted this new evidence, Morse spoke quietly and

slowly. 'You travelled back with him, you mean?'

'Er, no, not exactly. I, er, I was walking along the platform and I saw Roope getting into a first-class carriage. I didn't join him because I was travelling second.' The Vice-Dean was glad not to have to elaborate on the truth. Even if he'd had a first-class ticket he

would rather have sat in a second-class carriage than share a journey with Roope.

He'd always hated Roope. What an ironic twist of fortune that he, the Vice-Dean,

should be instrumental in clearing him of murder!

'I wish,' said Morse, 'that you could have told me that earlier, sir—not, of course' (he

held up a hand to forestall any misunderstanding) 'that you could have known. But

what you say is no surprise, sir. You see,
I knew that Roope caught the 3.05 from

Paddington
.'

Several of the Syndics looked at each other; and there was a general air of

bewilderment in the room. It was Bartlett himself who tried to put their unspoken

questions into words. 'But only a few minutes ago you said—'

'No, sir,' interrupted Morse. 'I know what you're going to say, and you'd be wrong. I

said that no one could have murdered Quinn without being in this building at1 two key

periods; and that fact is quite unchallengeable. I repeat,
no single person
could have carried out the devilish and ingenious plan which was put into operation.' He looked

slowly round the room and the full implication of his words slowly sunk into the minds

of the Syndics. To Mrs. Seth his voice seemed very quiet and far away now; yet at the

same time heightened and tense as if the final disclosure were imminent at last. She

saw Morse nod across and over her head, and she turned slightly to see Sergeant

Lewis walk quietly to the door and leave the Board Room. What—? But Morse was

talking again, in the same quiet, steely voice.

'As I say, we must accept the undoubted fact that one person, on his or her own, could

not have carried through the murder of Quinn. And so, ladies and gentlemen, the

inference is inevitable:
we are looking for two people
. Two people who must share the same motives; two people for whom the death of Quinn is a vital necessity; two people

who have a strangely close relationship; two people who can work and plot together;

two people who are well known to you—
very
well known . . . And before Sergeant

Lewis comes back, let me just emphasize one further point, because I don't think some

of you listened very carefully to what I said. I said that Roope had been arrested and

charged with murder. But I did not say
whose
murder. In fact I am absolutely

convinced of one thing—
Christopher Roope did not murder Nicholas Quinn
.'

In Quinn's former office Monica Height and Donald Martin had not spoken to each

other, although it was now more than half an hour since the two constables had

fetched them. Monica felt herself moving through a barren, arid landscape, her

thoughts, her emotions, even her fears, now squeezed dry—passionless and empty.

During the first few minutes she had noticed one of the constables eyeing her figure;

but, for once, she experienced complete indifference. What a fool she'd been to think

that Morse wouldn't guess! Little or nothing seemed to escape that beautifully lucid

mind . . . Yes, he had guessed the truth, though quite how he had seen through her

story she couldn't begin to understand. Funny, really. It hadn't been a big lie, at all. Not like the stupid, stupid lies that she and Donald had told at the beginning. Donald!

What a non-man he now seemed, sitting there next to her: sullen, silent, contemptible;

as hopeless as she, for there was little chance for him, either. The truth would have to

come out—all of it. The courts, the newspapers . . . For a moment she managed to feel

a fraction of sympathy for him, for it was her fault really, not his. From the day of his appointment she had known, known instinctively, that she could do with him exactly

as she wished . . .

The door opened and Lewis came in. 'Will you please come with me, Miss Height?'

She got to her feet slowly and walked up the wooden stairs. The door of the Board

Room was closed and she hesitated a few seconds as Lewis opened it and stood

aside for her. The burden on her conscience had become intolerable. Yes, it would be

relief at last.

Mrs. Seth turned her head as the door behind her opened. The Inspector had just

been talking about Studio 2 in Walton Street; but her mind was growing numb and she

had hardly been able to follow him. She heard a man's voice say quietly, 'After you,

Miss Height.' Monica Height! Dear God, no! It couldn't be. Monica Height and Martin!

She'd heard rumours, of course. Everyone must have heard rumours but . . . Monica

was sitting in Roope's seat now. Roope's! Had Morse meant Roope and Monica?
Two

people, he'd said . . . But Morse was speaking again.

'Miss Height. I interviewed you early on in the case, and you claimed yo1u had spent

the afternoon of Friday, 21st November, with Mr. Martin. Is that correct?'

'Yes.' Her voice was almost inaudible.

'And you said that you had spent the afternoon at your own house?'

'Yes.'

'And subsequently you agreed that this was not the truth?'

'Yes.'

'You said that in fact you had spent the afternoon with Mr. Martin at Studio 2 in Walton

Street?'

'Yes.'

'When I originally questioned you about this, I asked whether, apart from Mr. Martin,

you had seen anyone you knew in the cinema. Do you remember?'

'Yes, I remember.'

'And your answer was that you had not?'

'Yes; I told you the truth.'

'I then asked you whether you had seen anyone you knew going into the cinema, did I

not?'

'Yes.'

'And you said "no".'

'Yes.'

'And you still stick by what you said?'

'Yes.'

'You saw a film called
The Nymphomaniac?
'

'Yes.'

'And you stayed with Mr. Martin until the film was finished?'

'We left just a few minutes before it was due to finish.'

'Am I right, Miss Height, in saying that I could have asked you a different question? A

question which might have had a vital bearing on the murder of Nicholas Quinn?'

'Yes.'

'And that question would not have been "Who did you see going
into
the cinema?" but

"Who did you see coming
out?
" '

'Yes.'

'And you did see somebody?'

'Yes.'

'Could you recognize the person you saw coming out of Studio 2 that day?'

'Yes.'

'And is that person someone known to you?'

'Yes.'

'Is that someone here, in this room, now?'

'Yes.'

'Will you please indicate to us who that person is?'

Monica Height lifted her arm and pointed. It seemed almost like a magnetic needle

pointing to the pole, gradually settling on to its true bearing. At first Mrs. Seth thought that the arm was pointing directly at Morse himself. But that couldn't be. And then she

followed that accusing finger once more, and she couldn't believe what she saw.

Again she traced the line. Again she found the same direction. Oh no. It
couldn't
be, surely? For Monica's finger was pointing directly at one man—
the Secretary of the

Syndicate
.

LEWIS (
MIRABILE DICTU
) had not been kept completely in the dark. It was Lewis who had taken his turn of guard-duty in watching Roope's house. It was Lewis who had

seen Roope leave that house and walk slowly to the car park at the railway station. It

was Lewis who had traced the paperboy and who had discovered the address of the

person to whom Roope had written his brief and urgent note. It was Lewis who had

summoned Morse to the station buffet, and who had shared with him the magnificent

view of two men seated in the front of a dark-brown Vanden Flas at the furthest reach

of the railway car park. It was Lewis who had arrested Roope as he had ventured forth,

for the last time, the previous morning.

But if Lewis had not been kept in the dark, neither had he exactly been thrown up on to

the shores of light; and later the same afternoon he was glad of the oppotunity to get a

few things clear.

'What really put you on to Bartlett, sir?'

Morse sat back expansively in the black-leather chair and told him. 'We learned fairly

early on in the case, Lewis, that there was some animosity between Bartlett and

Roope; and I kept asking myself why. And very gradually the light dawned: I'd been

asking myself the wrong question—a non-question, in fact. There was
no
antagonism between the two at all, although there had to
appear
to be. The two of them were hand in glove over the Al-jamara business, and whatever happened they were anxious for

the outside world never to have the slightest suspicion of any collusion between them.

It wasn't too difficult, either. Just a bit of feigned needle here and there; sometimes a bit of a row in front of the other Syndics; and above all they had their superb

opportunity when the appointment of a successor to Bland cropped up. They had the

whole thing planned. It didn't matter much to either of them
who
was appointed; what mattered was that they should disagree, and disagree publicly and vehemently, about

the new appointment. So when Bartlett went one way, Roope went the other. It was as

simple as that. If Bartlett had been pro-Quinn, Roope would have been anti-Quinn.' A

slight frown furrowed Morse's forehead, but was gone almost immediately. 'And it

worked beautifully. The rest of the Syndics were openly embarrassed about the

hostility between their young colleague, Roope, and their respected Secretary,

Bartlett. But that was just as it was meant to be. No one was going to believe that

either of them had the slightest thing in common. No one. At first their carefully-

nurtured antagonism was merely meant to serve as a cover for the crooked

arrangements they made with the emirate; but later on, when Quinn discovered the

truth about them, the arrangement was ideal for the removal of Quinn. You see what I

mean?'

'Yes, I do,' said Lewis slowly. "But why on earth did Bartlett, of all people, agree to—'

'I know what you mean. I'm sure that in the normal course of events he would never

have been tempted in the slightest to line his own pockets at the expense of the

Syndicate. But he had an only child, Richard; a young man who had started off life

with quite brilliant promise; who carried the high hopes of a proud mum and a proud

dad. And suddenly the whole world collapses round the Bartlett's ears. Richard's been

working too hard, expectations are too high, and everything goes wrong. He has a

nervous breakdown, and goes into hospital. And when he comes out it is clear to the

Bartletts1 that they've got a terrible problem on their hands. He's sent to specialist after specialist, consultant after consultant—and always the same answer: with a prolonged

period of treatment he
might
get well again. You discovered yourself, Lewis, that within the past five years Richard Bartlett has spent some time in the most advanced

and expensive psychiatric clinics in Europe: Geneva, Vienna, London, and God