'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 Qgleby 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, Sarg. 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?'