The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (8 page)

fire were a dozen or so bundles of books, neatly tied with stout cord, and a dark

mahogany sideboard, the left-hand door of which gaped open to reveal a small

collection of assorted tumblers and glasses, and an unopened bottle of whisky.

Everywhere seemed remarkably clean and tidy. A small wastepaper basket stood in

the shallow alcove to the left of the fire; and inside the basket was a ball of paper,

which Morse picked out and smoothed gently on the top of the sideboard:

Mr. Quinn. I can't do all the cleaning this afternoon because Mr. Evans is

off sick and I've got to get him a prescription from the doctor. So I'll call

back and finish just after six if that's convenient for you. A. Evans (Mrs.)

Morse handed the note over to Lewis. 'Interesting.'

'How long do you think he's been dead, sir?'

Morse looked down at Quinn once more and shrugged his shoulders. 'I dunno. Two or

three days, I should think.'

'It's a wonder someone didn't find him earlier.'

'Ye-es. You say he just has these downstair rooms?'

'So Mrs. Jardine says. There's a young couple living upstairs usually, but she's in the

John Radcliffe having a baby, and he works nights at Cowley and he's been staying

with his parents in Oxford somewhere.'

'Mm.' Morse made as if to leave, but suddenly stopped. The bottom of the door had

been amateurishly planed to enable it to ride over the carpet and a noticeable draught

was coming beneath it, occasionally setting the low, blue gas jets flickering fitfully into brighter yellow flames.

'Funny, isn't it, Lewis? If I lived in this room I wouldn't choose the armchair immediately in line with the draught.'

'Looks as if he did, air.'

'I wonder, Lewis. I wonder if he did.'

The front-door bell rang and Morse sent Lewis to answer it. 'Tell 'em they can start as

soon as they like.' He walked out of the room and through into the kitchen at the back

of the house. Again, everywhere was tidy. On a red Formica-topped table stood a

stack of recently purchased provisions: half a dozen eggs in their plastic containers ½

lb butter; ½ lb English Cheddar; two generous slices of prime steak under a

cellophane wrapper; and a brown-paper bag full of mushrooms. Beside the groceries

was a curling pay-out slip from the Quality supermarket, and a flicker of excitement

showed in Morse's grey eyes as he looked it through.

'Lewis!'

Nothing else here looked particularly interesting: a sink unit, a gas cooker, a fridge,

two kitchen stools, and by the side of the back door, filling the space under the stairs, a small larder. Lewis, who had been chatting to the police surgeon, appeared at the

door. 'Sir?'

'What's going on in there?'

'Doc says he's been poisoned.'

'Amazing thing—medical science, Lewis! But we've got other things to worry about for

the minute. I want you to make a complete inventory of the food in the fridge and in this larder here.'

'Oh.' Lewis was almost thinking that a man of his own rank and experience should be

above such fourth-grade clerical chores; but he had worked with Morse before, and

knew that whatever other faults he had the Chief Inspector seldom wasted his own or

other people's time on trivial or unnecessary tasks. He heard himself say he would get

on with it—immediately.

'I'm going back to the station, Lewis. You stay here until I get back.'

Outside, Morse found Dickson and Mrs. Jardine standing beside the police car. 'I want

you to drive me back to HQ, Dickson.' He turned to Mrs. Jardine. 'You've been very

kind and helpful. Thank you very much. You've got a car?'

The landlady nodded and walked away. In truth, she felt disappointed that her small

part in the investigation seemed now to be over, and that she had warranted no more

than a cursory question from the rather abrupt man who appeared to be in 1charge.

But as she drove away from the crescent her thoughts, soon veered to other, more

practical considerations. Would anyone be over-anxious to move into the rooms so

lately rented by that nice young Mr. Quinn? People didn't like that sort of thing. But as she reached the outskirts of Oxford she comforted herself with the salutary thought that

the dead are soon forgotten. Yes, she would soon be able to let the rooms again. Just

give it a month or so.

Morse read the statement aloud to the youngish man seated rather nervously at the

small table in Interview Room No 1.

I have known Nicholas Quinn for three months. He came to work at the

Foreign Examinations Syndicate as an assistant secretary on 1st

September this year.

On Monday, 24th November, he did not appear at the office and did not

ring in to say that anything was wrong. It is not unusual for the graduates to

take a day or two off when they can, but the Secretary, Dr. Bartlett, always

insists that he should be kept fully informed of any such arrangement.

None of my colleagues saw Mr. Quinn on Monday, and no one knew

where he was. This morning, Tuesday, 25th November, Dr. Bartlett came

to my office and said that Mr. Quinn had still not arrived. He said that he

had tried to phone him, but that there was no reply. He then asked me to

drive round to Mr. Quinn's house and I did so, arriving at about 9.30 am.

The front door was locked and no one answered the doorbell. I could see

that Mr. Quinn's car was still in the garage, so I proceeded to the back of

the house. The light was on in the ground-floor room and the curtains were

drawn; but there was a gap in the curtains and I looked inside. I could see

someone lying quite still on the floor in front of the fireplace, and I knew

that something was seriously wrong. I therefore rang the police

immediately from the public call box in the main street, and was told to wait

at the house until the police came. When Sergeant Lewis arrived with a

constable, they discovered who owned the house. The landlady turned up

with the key about ten minutes later. The police then proceeded into the

house for a short while, and when Sergeant. Lewis came out he told me

that I must prepare myself for a shock. He said that Mr. Quinn was dead.

'You happy to sign this?' Morse pushed the statement across the table.

'I didn't use the word "proceeded".'

'Ah, you must forgive us, sir. We never "go" anywhere in the force, you know. We always "proceed".'

Donald Martin accepted the explanation with a weak smile and signed the statement

with nervy flourish.

'How well did you know Mr. Quinn, sir?'

'Not very well really. He's only been with us—'

'So you say in your statement. But why did the Secretary send you—not one of the

others?'

'I don't know. I suppose I knew him as well as any of them.'

'What did you expect to find?'

'Well, I thought he was probably ill or something, and couldn't let us know.'

'There's a phone in the house.'

'Yes, but it could have—well, it could have been a heart attack, or something like that.'

Morse nodded. 'I see. Do you happen to know where his parents live?'

'Somewhere in Yo1rkshire, I think. But the office could—'

'Of course. Did he have a girlfriend?'

Martin was aware of the Inspector's hard grey eyes upon him and his mouth was

suddenly very dry. 'Not that I know of.'

'No pretty fillies he fancied at the office?'

'I don't think so.' The hesitation was minimal but, for Morse, sufficient to set a few

fanciful notions aflutter.

'I'm told such things are not unknown, sir. He was a bachelor, I take it?'

'Yes.'

'You a married man, sir?'

'Yes.'

'Mm. Perhaps you've forgotten what it's like to be single.' Morse would have been

happier if Martin had told him not to talk such drivel. But Martin didn't.

'I don't quite see what you're getting at, Inspector.'

'Oh, don't worry about that, sir. I often don't know what I'm getting at myself.' He stood up, and Martin did the same, fastening his overcoat. 'You'd better get back to the office, or they'll be getting worried about you. Tell the Secretary I'll be in touch with him as

soon as I can—and tell him to lock up Mr. Quinn's room.'

'You've no idea—?' said Martin quietly.

'Yes, I'm afraid I have, sir. He was almost certainly murdered.' The sinister word

seemed to hang on the air, and the room was suddenly and eerily still.

DURING THE PREVIOUS decade the Foreign Examinations Syndicate had thrown its net

round half the globe; and for its hundred or so overseas centres the morning of

Tuesday, 25th November, had been fixed for the 'retake' of the Ordinary-level English

Language papers. For the vast majority of the foreign candidates involved, the

morning afforded the chance of a second bite at the cherry; and such was the

importance of a decent grade in English Language, either for future employment or for

admission to higher education, that there were very few of the candidates who were

treating the two question papers (Essay and Comprehension) with anything but

appropriate respect. Only those few who had been ill during the main summer

examination were taking the examination for the first time; the remainder were the

'returned empties' who, either through some congenital incapacity or a prior history of

monumental idleness, had yet to succeed in persuading the examiners that they had

reached a standard of acceptable competence in the skills of English usage.

At 11.55 a.m. this same morning, in strict accord with the explicit instructions issued by the examining body, invigilators in Geneva, in East and West Africa, in Bombay, and

in the Persian Gulf, were reminding their candidates that only five minutes remained

before scripts would be collected; that all candidates should ensure that their full

names and index numbers appeared on each sheet of their work; and that all sheets

must be handed in in the correct order. Some few candidates were now scribbling

furiously and for the most part fruitlessly; but the majority were having a final look

through their answers, shuffling their sheets into order,1 and then leaning back in

more relaxed postures, shooting the occasional grin at fellow examinees who sat at

desks (the regulation five-feet apart) in commandeered classrooms or converted

gymnasiums.

At twelve noon, in an air-conditioned, European-style classroom in the Sheikdom of

Al-jamara, a young Englishman, who was invigilating his first examination, gave the

order to 'stop writing'. There were only five pupils in the room, all Arabs, all of whom

had finished writing several minutes previously. One of the boys (not a pupil of the

school, but the son of one of the sheiks) had in fact finished his work some

considerable time earlier, and had been sitting back in his chair, arms folded, an

arrogant, self-satisfied smirk upon his dark, Semitic features. He was the last of the

five candidates, and handed in his script without saying a word.

Left alone, the young Englishman filled in the inviligation form with great care.

Fortunately, no candidate had failed to turn up for the examination, and the

complexities of the sections dealing with 'absentees' could be ignored. In the

appropriate columns he filled in the names and index numbers of the five candidates,

and prepared to place the attendance sheet, together with the scripts, in the official

buff-coloured envelope. As he did so his eyes fell momentarily upon the work of

Muhammad Dubai, Index Number 5; and he saw immediately that it was very good—