Read Online The silent world of Nicholas Quinn by Colin Dexter - Free Book Online
Authors: Colin Dexter
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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—
infinitely better than that of the other four. But then the sheik's son had doubtless had the privilege of high-class private tuition. Ah well. There would be plenty of opportunity for him to try to jack up the standards of his own pupils a bit before next summer . . .
He left the room, licking the flap of the envelope as he did so, and walked through to
the school secretary's office.
It was just after noon, too, that Morse returned to Pinewood Close. He made no effort
to move on the curious crowd who thronged the narrow crescent, for he had never
understood why the general public should so frequently be castigated for wishing to
eye-witness those rare moments of misfortune or tragedy that occurred in their vicinity.
(He would have been one of them himself.) He threaded his way past the three police
cars, past the ambulance, its blue light flashing, and entered the house once more.
There were almost as many people inside as outside.
'Sad thing, death,' said Morse.
' Mors, mortis , feminine,' mumbled the ageing police surgeon.
Morse nodded morosely. 'Don't remind me.'
'Never mind, Morse. We're all dying slowly.'
'How long's he been dead?'
'Dunno. Could be four, five days—not less than three, I shouldn't think.'
'Not too much help, are you?'
'I shall have to take a closer look at him.'
'Have a guess.'
'Unofficially?'
'Unofficially.'
'Friday night or Saturday morning.'
'Cyanide?'
'Cyanide.'
'You think it took long?'
'No. Pretty quick stuff if you get the right dose down you.'
'Minutes?'
'Much quicker. I'll have to take the bottle and the glass, of course.'
Morse turned to the two other men in the room who had been brushing the likeliest-
looking surfaces with powder.
'Anything much?'
'Seems like his prints all over the place, sir.'
'Hardly surprising.'
'Somebody else's, though.'
'The cleaner's, most likely.'
'Just the one set of prints on the bottle, sir—and on the glass.'
'Mm.'
'Can we move the body?'
'Sooner the quicker. I suppose we'd better go
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—
infinitely better than that of the other four. But then the sheik's son had doubtless had the privilege of high-class private tuition. Ah well. There would be plenty of opportunity for him to try to jack up the standards of his own pupils a bit before next summer . . .
He left the room, licking the flap of the envelope as he did so, and walked through to
the school secretary's office.
It was just after noon, too, that Morse returned to Pinewood Close. He made no effort
to move on the curious crowd who thronged the narrow crescent, for he had never
understood why the general public should so frequently be castigated for wishing to
eye-witness those rare moments of misfortune or tragedy that occurred in their vicinity.
(He would have been one of them himself.) He threaded his way past the three police
cars, past the ambulance, its blue light flashing, and entered the house once more.
There were almost as many people inside as outside.
'Sad thing, death,' said Morse.
' Mors, mortis , feminine,' mumbled the ageing police surgeon.
Morse nodded morosely. 'Don't remind me.'
'Never mind, Morse. We're all dying slowly.'
'How long's he been dead?'
'Dunno. Could be four, five days—not less than three, I shouldn't think.'
'Not too much help, are you?'
'I shall have to take a closer look at him.'
'Have a guess.'
'Unofficially?'
'Unofficially.'
'Friday night or Saturday morning.'
'Cyanide?'
'Cyanide.'
'You think it took long?'
'No. Pretty quick stuff if you get the right dose down you.'
'Minutes?'
'Much quicker. I'll have to take the bottle and the glass, of course.'
Morse turned to the two other men in the room who had been brushing the likeliest-
looking surfaces with powder.
'Anything much?'
'Seems like his prints all over the place, sir.'
'Hardly surprising.'
'Somebody else's, though.'
'The cleaner's, most likely.'
'Just the one set of prints on the bottle, sir—and on the glass.'
'Mm.'
'Can we move the body?'
'Sooner the quicker. I suppose we'd better go
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