by Colin Dexter
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 pjn. 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.
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. 'Sck-'? 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 beer, 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.
twenty-four
On Monday morning Lewis was waiting outside as the door of Superintendent S orange's office opened, and he caught the tail-end of the conversation.
'... cock-eyed, but—'
‘Have I ever let you down, sir?'
‘Frequendy.'
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 Jar dine, 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, quietly 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 Jar dine took the box; then Martip;
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 sta
te 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 according to plan.
The coroner formally adjourned the inquest for two weeks and the court stood as the august personage reluctantly departed. Now there was a hush over the assembly; no one seemed to breathe or to blink as Morse slowly stepped down from the witness-box, and stood momentarily before Richard Bartlett, and then walked on; past Mrs Evans; past Mrs Jardine; past Martin; past Bartlett; past Monica Height; and then stood in front of Roope. And stayed there.
‘Christopher Algernon Roope, I have here a warrant for your arrest in connection with the murder of Nicholas Quinn.' The words echoed vaguely around the hushed court, and still nobody seemed to breath. 'It is my duty to tell you—'
Roope stared at Morse in disbelief. 'What the hell are you talking about?' His eyes darted first to the left and then to the right, as if calculating his chances of making a quick dash for it. But to his right stood the bulky figure of Constable Dickson; and immediately to his left Lewis laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder.
'I hope you'll be sensible and come quietly, sir.' Roope spoke in a harsh whisper. ‘I hope you realize what a dreadful mistake you're making. I just don't know—' ‘Leave it for later,' snapped Morse.
All eyes were on Roope as he walked out, Dickson on his right and Lewis on his left; but still no one said a word. It was if they had all been struck dumb, or just witnessed a miracle, or stared into the face of the Gorgon.
Bartlett was the first to move. He looked utterly dumbfounded and walked like an automaton towards his son. Monica's eyes crossed the gap that Bartlett had left, and found Donald Martin's looking directly into her own. It was the merest imperceptibility, perhaps; but it was there. The slightest shaking of her head; the profound, dead stillness of her eyes: 'Shut up, you fool!' they seemed to say. 'Shut up, you stupid fool!'
twenty-five
‘You had mixed luck in this wicked business, Roope. You had a bit of good luck, I know; and you made the most of it. But you also had some bad luck: things happened that no one, not even you, could have foreseen. And although you tried to cope as best you could - in fact, you almost succeeded in turning it to your own advantage - you had to be just that little bit too clever. I realized that I was up against an exceptionally cunning and resourceful murderer, but in the end it was your very cleverness that gave you away.'
The three of them, Morse, Lewis, Roope, sat together in Interview Room No I. Lewis (who had been firmly cautioned by Morse to keep his mouth shut, whatever the provocation) was seated by the door, whilst Morse and Roope sat opposite each other at the small table. Morse, the hunter, seemed supremely confident as he sat back on the wooden chair, his voice calm, almost pleasant. 'Shall I go on?'
'If you must. I've already told you what a fool you're making of yourself, but you seem determined to listen to no one.'
Morse nodded. 'All right. We'll start in the middle, I think. We'll start at the point where you walked into the Syndicate building at about 4.25 p.m. a week last Friday. The first person you saw was the caretaker, Noakes, mending a broken light-tube in the corridor. But it was soon clear to you that there was no one else in the downstairs offices at all. No one! You concocted some appropriate tale about having to leave some papers with Dr Bartlett, and since he was out you had the best reason in the world for trying to find one of the others and for looking into their offices. You looked into Quinn's, of course, and everything was just as you'd known it would be - as you'd planned it would be. Everything was cleverly arranged to give the clear impression to anyone going into his room that Quinn was there - in the office; or, at least, would be there again very soon. It was raining heavily all day Friday - a piece of good luck! - and there, on the back of Quinn's chair, was his green anorak. Who would leave the office on a day like that without taking his coat? And the cabinets were left open. Now cabinets contain question papers, and the Secretary would have been down like a hawk on any of bis colleagues who showed the slightest carelessness over security. But what are we asked to believe in Quinn's case? Quinn? Recently appointed; briefed, doubtless ad nauseam, about the need for the strictest security at every second of every day. And what does he do, Roope? He goes out and leaves his cabinets open! Yet, at the very same time, we find evidence of Quinn's punctilious adherence to the Secretary's instructions. Since he took up his job a few months previously, he has been told, very pointedly told, that it doesn't matter in the slightest if he takes time off during the day. But - if he does go out, he's to leave a note informing anyone who might want him exactly where he is or what he's doing. In other words, what Bartlett says is all the law and the commandments. Now, I find the combination of these two sets of circumstances extremely suggestive, Roope. Some of us are idle and careless, and some of us are fussy and conscientious. But very few of us manage to be both at the same time. Wouldn't you agree?'
Roope was staring through the window on to the concrete yard. He was watchful and tensed, but he said nothing.
The caretaker told you that he was going off for tea, and before long you were alone - or so you thought - on the ground floor of the Syndicate building. It was still only about half past four, and although I suspect you'd originally planned to wait until the whole office was empty, this was too good a chance to miss. Noakes, quite unwittingly, had given you some very interesting information, though you could very easily have found it out for yourself. The only car left in the rear car park was Quinn's. Well, what happened then was this, or something very like it. You went into Quinn's room once more. You took his anorak, and you put it on. You kept your gloves on, of course, and you folded up the plastic mac you'd been wearing. Then you saw that note once more, and you decided that you might as well pocket it. Certainly Quinn wouldn't have left it on the desk if he'd returned, and from this point on you had to think and act exactly as Quinn would have done. You walked out of the back door and found - as you knew you would - that Quinn's car keys were in his anorak pocket. No one was around, of course: the weather was still foul - though ideal for you. You got into the car and you drove away from the building. Noakes in fact saw you leave as he sat upstairs having a cup of tea. But he thought - why shouldn't he? - that it was Quinn. After all, he could only see the top of the car. So? That was that. The luck was on your side at this stage, and you made the most of it. The first part of the great deception was over, and you'd come through it with flying colours!'
Roope shuffled uneasily on his hard wooden chair, and his eyes looked dangerous; but again he said nothing.
'You drove the car to Kidlington and you parked it safely in Quinn's own garage in Pinewood Close, and here again you had a curious combination of good and bad luck. First the good luck. The rain was still pouring down and no one was likely to look too carefully at the man who got out of Quinn's car to unlock his own garage doors. It was dark, too, and the corner of Pinewood Close was even darker than usual because someone - someone, Roope, had seen to it that the street lamp outside the house had been recently and conveniently smashed. I make no specific charges on that point, but you must allow me to harb
our my little suspicions. So, even if anyone did see you, hunched up in Quinn's green anorak, head down in the rain, I doubt whether any suspicions would have been aroused. You were very much the same build as Quinn, and like him you had a beard. But in another way the luck was very much against you. It so happened, and you couldn't help noticing the fact, that a woman was standing- at the upstairs front window. She'd been waiting a long time, frightened that her baby was going to be born prematurely; she had rung her husband at Cowley several times, and she was impatiently expecting him at any minute. Now, as I say, this was not in itself a fatal occurrence. She'd seen you, of course, but it never occurred to her for a second that the person she saw was anyone but Quinn; and you yourself must have totted up the odds and worked on exactly that assumption. Nevertheless, she'd seen you go into the house, where you immediately discovered that Mrs Evans - you must have had a complete dossier on all the domestic arrangements -as I say, Mrs Evans, by a sheer fluke, had not finished the cleaning. What's more, she'd left a note to say she would be coming back! That was bad luck, all right, and yet you suddenly saw the chance of turning the tables completely. You read the note from Mrs Evans, and you screwed it up and threw it into the wastepaper basket. You lit the gas fire, putting the match you used carefully back into your matchbox. You shouldn't have done that, Roope! But we all make mistakes, don't we? And then - the masterstroke! You had a note in your pocket - a note written by Quinn himself, a note which not only looked genuine; it was genuine. Any handwriting expert was going to confirm, almost at a glance, that the writing was Quinn's. Of course he'd confirm it. The writing was Quinn's. You were hellishly lucky, though, weren't you? The note was addressed to Margaret Freeman, Quinn's confidential secretary. But not by name. By initials. MF. You found a black thin-point biro in Quinn's anorak, and very carefully you changed the initials. Not too difficult, was it? A bit of a squiggle for "rs" after the M, and an additional bar at the bottom of the F, converting it into an E. The message was good enough -vague enough, anyway - to cover the deception. How you must have smiled as you placed the note carefully on the top of the cupboard. Yes, indeed! And then you went out again. You didn't want to take any risks, though; so you went via the back door, out into the back garden, through the gap in the fence and over the path across the field to the Quality supermarket. You had to get out of the house anyway, so why not carry through with the bluff? You bought some provisions, and even as you walked round the shelves your brain was working nonstop. Buy something that made it look as though Quinn was having someone in for a meal that evening! Why not? Another clever touch. Two steaks and all the rest of it. But you shouldn't have bought the butter, Roope! You got the wrong brand, and he had plenty in the fridge, anyway. As I say, it was clever. But you were getting a bit too clever.' ‘like you are, Inspector.' Roope bestirred himself at last. He took out a cigarette and lit it, putting the match carefully into the ashtray. 'I can't honestly think that you expect me to believe such convoluted nonsense.' He spoke carefully and rationally, and appeared much more at ease with himself. 'If you've nothing better to talk about than such boy-scout fancy-dress twaddle, I suggest you release me immediately. But if you want to persist with it, I shall have to call in my lawyer. I refused to do this when you told me of my rights earlier - I knew my rights, anyway, Inspector - but I thought I’d rather have my own innocence at my side than any pettifogging lawyer. But you're driving me a bit too far, you know. You've not the slightest shred of evidence for any of these fantastic allegations you've made against me. Not the slightest! And if you can't do any better than this I suggest that it may be in your own interests, not just mine, to pack in this ridiculous charade immediately.'