The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn

by Colin Dexter

  A babel of chatter now broke out in the room, and Mrs Seth was weeping silently. Yet even before the general hubbub had subsided there was a further moment of high drama. After several whispered conversations along the top table, the Vice-Dean requested permission to make a brief statement, and Morse sat down and began doodling aimlessly on the blotter in front of him.

  ‘I hope the Chief Inspector will forgive me, but I wish to clear up one point, if I may. Did I understand him to say that whoever killed Quinn had to be in the Syndicate building both in the morning and also at the end of the afternoon?’

  Morse replied at once. ‘You understood correctly, sir. I don’t wish to go into all the details of the case now; but Quinn was murdered at about twelve noon on Friday – no, let me be more honest with you – at precisely twelve noon on Friday 21st, and his dead body was taken from this building, in the boot of his own car, at approximately 4.45 p.m. Does that satisfy you, sir?’

  The Vice-Dean coughed awkwardly and managed to look extraordinarily uncomfortable. ‘Er, no, Chief Inspector. I’m afraid it doesn’t. You see I myself went to 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 at 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 you 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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  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 Plas 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 opportunity 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 Bartletts’ 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 Bartletts 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 knows where else. And this isn’t for free, remember. It must have cost Bartlett thousands of pounds, and I don’t think he’d got that sort of money. His salary’s more than adequate, but – Well, Roope must have known all about this and, however it came about, the two of them struck a pact. Originally it had been Bland and Roope, I should think. But Bland decided to go for even richer pickings, and Roope had to have someone inside the Syndicate if the goose was still to lay the golden eggs. I don’t know exactly how they worked it between them, but—’

  ‘Do you know exactly how Bartlett murdered Quinn, sir?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. But I’ve a pretty good idea, because it was the only way the deception could have been worked. Just think a minute. You get your dose, a pretty hefty dose, of cyanide. Roope sees to that side of things. Now, from an indecently large dose of cyanide death follows almost immediately, so there’s little problem about actually killing Quinn. I should think that Bartlett called him into his office and suggested a drink together. He knew that Quinn was very fond of sherry and told him to pour himself one – and probably one for Bartlett at the same time. He must have wiped the sherry bottle and the glasses beforehand so that—’

  ‘But wouldn’t Quinn have smelled the cyanide?’

  ‘He might have done, in normal circumstances; but Bartlett had timed his actions almost to the second. Everything that morning had been geared with devilish ingenuity to the next few minutes.’

  ‘The fire drill you mean.’

  ‘Yes. Noakes had been instructed to set off the alarm at twelve noon precisely and he’d been told to wait for the word from the boss. So? What happens? As soon as Quinn is pouring the sherries, Bartlett picks up the phone, probably turning his back on Quinn, and says “OK, Noakes”. And a second or two later the alarm goes. But this is the point, Lewis. Quinn can’t hear the alarm. The bell is just inside the entrance hall, and although everybody else can hear it perfectly clearly, Quinn can’t; and it gives Bartlett just the little leeway he needs. As soon as Quinn has poured the sherries, and only when the time is exactly ripe, does he say something like: “The fire alarm! I’d forgotten about that. Toss that back quickly; we can talk afterwards.” Quinn must have drained at least half the small glass at a gulp, and almost immediately he must have known that something was desperately wrong. His respiration becomes jerky and he suffers from violently convulsive seizures. In a minute, or at the outside a couple of minutes, he’s dead.’

  ‘Why didn’t he shout for help, though. Surely—?’

  ‘Ah! I see you still don’t appreciate the infinite subtlety of Bartlett’s plan. What’s happening outside? A fire drill! As you yourself found out, Noakes had been instructed to let the alarm ring for two minutes. Two minutes! That’s a long, long time, Lewis, and during it everybody is chattering and clattering down the stairs and along the corridors. Perhaps Bartlett made quite sure that Quinn didn’t shout for help; but even if he had managed to shout, I doubt if anyone would have heard him. And remember! No one is going into Bartlett’s office. The red light has been turned on outside, and none of the staff is going to disobey the golden rule. And even if everything had gone wrong, Lewis, even if someone had come in – though I expect Bartlett had locked the door anyway – Quinn’s prints are on the bottle and on the glasses, and police inquiries are going to centre on the fundamental question of who had poisoned Bartlett’s sherry – presumably with the intention of poisoning Bartlett, not Quinn. Anyway, Quinn is dead and the building is now completely deserted. Bartlett puts on a pair of gloves, pours his own sherry and whatever is left of Quinn’s down the sink in his private little cloakroom – remember it, Lewis? – and locks away the sherry bottle and Quinn’s glass in a briefcase. So far so good. Quinn was a fairly slight man and Bartlett may have carried him over his shoulder, or put him into one of the large plastic containers they use there for rubbish, and then
dragged him along the polished floor. Probably he carried him, since no scratches or abrasions were found on Quinn’s body. But whatever he did, it was only a few yards to the rear entrance, and Quinn’s parking place was immediately outside the door. Bartlett, who has already taken Quinn’s car key and house key from his pocket – or from his anorak – dumps the body and the briefcase in the boot, locks it, and the deed is done.’

  ‘We should have examined the boot, I suppose, sir.’

  ‘But I did. There were no traces of Quinn at all. That’s why I think Bartlett may have used a container of some sort.’

  ‘Then he goes out to join the rest of the staff—’

  Morse nodded. ‘Standing meekly outside in the cold, yes. He takes over the list, which by this time has been handed round the thirty or so permanent staff, ticks in himself and Quinn as present, and finally decides that all are accounted for.’

  ‘And it was Bartlett who rang the school in Bradford?’

  ‘Certainly. Doubtless he’d been looking out for anything that could be used to help mislead the inevitable investigation, and he must have seen that particular letter in Quinn’s tray in the registry earlier that week. If you remember, it was postmarked Monday, 17th November.’

  ‘Then he went home and had a hearty lunch.’