by Colin Dexter
She was awoken by the clatter of cups at four o’clock, and a quarter of an hour later the trolley came round with books and newspapers. She bought the Oxford Mail.
Morse was a few minutes early for his appointment, but the Dean of the Syndicate was ready for him in his oak-panelled rooms on the Old Staircase in the inner quad, and the two men were chatting vaguely of this and that when at five past four a scout knocked and came in with a tray.
‘I thought we’d have a drop of Darjeeling. All right with you?’ The voice, like the man, was syrupy and civilized.
‘Lovely,’ said Morse, wondering what Darjeeling was.
The white-coated scout poured the dark brown liquid into bone china cups, embossed with the crest of Lonsdale College. ‘Milk, sir?’
Morse watched it all with an amused detachment. The Dean, it seemed, always had a slice of lemon, and one half-teaspoonful of sugar, which the scout himself measured out, almost to the grain, and stirred in with high seriousness. The old boy probably got his scout to tie his shoelaces up for him! Cloud-cuckoo-land! Morse took a sip of the tea, sat back, and saw the Dean smiling at him shrewdly.
‘You don’t really approve, I see. Not that I blame you. He’s been with me almost thirty years now, and he’s almost – But, I’m sorry, I’m forgetting. You’ve come to see me about Mr Quinn. What can I tell you?’
The Dean was clearly a sensitive and cultured soul: he was due to retire in one year’s time, at sixty-five, and was clearly saddened that the tragedy of Quinn’s murder should have clouded a long and distinguished connection with the Syndicate. To Morse, it seemed a curiously self-centred commiseration.
‘Would you say the Syndicate is a happy sort of place, sir?’
‘Oh yes. I think everybody would tell you that.’
‘No hostility? No, er, personal animosities?’
The Dean looked a little uneasy, and it was clear that he might have one or two reservations – minor ones, of course. ‘There are always a few er difficulties. You find them in every, er—’
‘What difficulties?’
‘Well – basically, I think, there’ll always be just a little, er, friction, shall we say, between the older generation – my generation – and some of the younger Syndics. You always get it. It was just the same when I was their age.’
‘The younger ones have their own ideas?’
‘I’m glad they have.’
‘Are you thinking of any particular incident?’
Again the Dean hesitated. ‘You know the sort of thing as well as I do, surely? One or two people get a bit hot under the collar now and again.’
‘Has this got anything to do with Mr Quinn?’
‘Quite honestly, Chief Inspector, I think not. You see, one of the incidents I’m thinking of happened before Quinn was appointed – in fact it happened when we were appointing him.’ He gave a brief account of the interviewing committee’s disagreement over the choice of candidates, and Morse listened with deep interest.
‘You mean Bartlett didn’t want to appoint Quinn?’
The Dean shook his head. ‘You misunderstand me. The Secretary was quite happy about him. But, as I say, personally he would have given the job to one of the others.’
‘What about you, sir? What did you feel?’
‘I, er, I thought the Secretary was right.’
‘So Mr Roope was the fly in the ointment?’
‘No, no. You still misunderstand me. Quinn was appointed by the committee – not by Roope.’
‘Look, sir. Please be quite frank with me. Would I be right in saying that there’s not much love lost between Bartlett and Roope?’
‘Aren’t you enjoying your tea, Chief Inspector? You’ve hardly touched a drop yet.’
‘You’re not going to answer my question, sir?’
‘I really do think it would be fairer if you asked them, don’t you?’
Morse nodded, and drained the lukewarm liquid. ‘What about the permanent staff? Any, er, friction there?’
‘Amongst the graduates, you mean? N-o, I don’t think so.’
‘You sound a bit dubious.’
The Dean sat back and slowly finished his own tea, and Morse realized he would have to push his luck a bit.
‘Miss Height, for instance.’
‘A lovely girl.’
‘You mean we can’t blame the others too much if . . .’
‘If there’s any of, er, of that sort of thing going on, I can only say that I know nothing about it.’
‘Rumours, though?’
‘We’ve all got more sense than to listen to rumours.’
‘Have we?’ But it was clear that the Dean was not to be drawn, and Morse switched the line of his questioning once more. ‘What about Bartlett? Is he well liked?’
The Dean looked at Morse keenly, and carefully poured out more tea. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I just wondered if any of the other graduates had any cause to – to, you know—’ Morse didn’t know what he wondered; but the Dean, it seemed, did.
‘I suppose you’re thinking of Ogleby?’
Morse nodded sagely, and tried to ooze omniscience. ‘Yes, it was Mr Ogleby I was wondering about.’
‘That’s ancient history, though, isn’t it? It’s a long time ago, now. Huh! I remember at the time thinking that Ogleby was potentially the better man. In fact, I voted for him. But with hindsight I’m sure that Bartlett was the wiser choice, and we were all very glad that Ogleby was willing to accept the post of Deputy Secretary. Very able man. I’m quite sure that if he’d wanted to, he . . .’ The Dean talked freely now, and Morse felt his own attention drifting further and further away. So. Bartlett and Ogleby had applied for the Secretaryship together, and Ogleby had been turned down; and perhaps the slight had rankled on and on over the years – might still be rankling on. But what on earth could that have to do with the murder of Quinn? If Bartlett had been murdered – or even Ogleby – yes! But . . .
The Dean stood at the window and watched Morse walk briskly around the quad. He knew that for the last ten minutes his words had fallen on deaf ears, and for the life of him he was completely unable to fathom the look of quiet contentment which had so suddenly appeared on the Chief Inspector’s face.
Lewis finished his own cup of tea and was leaving the police canteen as Dickson walked in.
‘I see you’re appealing for help, Sarge. Old Morse stuck, is he?’
He handed Lewis the Oxford Mail and pointed to a paragraph at the bottom of the front page:
MURDER INQUIRY
Police investigating the murder of Mr N. Quinn, 1 Pinewood Close, Kidlington, whose body was found on Tuesday morning by a colleague from the Foreign Examinations Syndicate, are appealing to anyone who may have seen the murdered man on either the evening of Friday, 21st November, or on Saturday, 22nd November, to come forward. Chief Inspector Morse, who is heading the inquiry, said today that any such information could be vital in establishing the time of Mr Quinn’s death. An inquest will be held next Monday.
Lewis looked at the photograph beside the article, and handed the paper back to Dickson. In his inside pocket was the original which Morse had asked the Quinns to bring with them from Huddersfield. Sometimes, he had to agree, Morse did take on the dirty work; compared to which his present little assignment was a doddle.
He soon found the young manager and learned that the flimsy short roll of paper he had brought with him was a richly-seamed mine of information: the date at the top; the ‘customer-reading’ number on the right; the items purchased each classified according to the various departments, and designated by one of the Roman numerals I-IV; the number of the till at the bottom. ‘Customer flow’ (Lewis learned) was fairly constant on Fridays, with high takings for most of the day, and (though the manager refused to be precise) the items listed had doubtless been purchased in the late afternoon or early evening. If he had to guess? Well, between 5 and 6.30 p.m. Unfortunately, however, the plump waddling little woman who was summoned
in her capacity as i/c Till 3 could remember nothing, and failed to register even the vaguest recollection of ever having seen the face on the photograph she was shown. It was the goods she always watched, you see; seldom the faces.
Ah well!
Lewis thanked the manager and left the Kidlington premises of the Quality supermarket. Morse wouldn’t be too pleased, perhaps, but all the clues seemed to be fitting into a firm, clear pattern.
‘But why why why didn’t you tell me? You must have realized—’
‘Come off it, Joyce! You know why. It would have upset you, and we’ve—’
‘It wouldn’t have been half such a shock as reading about it in the paper!’
He shook his head sadly. ‘I just thought I was doing right, luv. That’s all. Sometimes you just can’t win, can you?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ She understood all right, but she knew that he didn’t. How could he?
‘As I say, there’s no need to worry about anything. When you’re better again, we can talk about things. But not now. It’ll soon all blow over – you see; and we’re all fixed up 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.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
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 Syndicate? 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.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t put it like that. You mustn’t believe everything you hear.’
Morse let it ride. ‘Mr Ogleby wasn’t 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 seen 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 a.m. 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?’
‘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?’