Read Online The silent world of Nicholas Quinn by Colin Dexter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Colin Dexter
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Syndicate, about the personnel
involved at all stages in the running of public examinations. And Morse found himself
surprised and impressed: surprised by the unexpected complexities of the operations
involved; and, above all, impressed by the extraordinary efficiency and grasp of the
Pickwickian little Secretary sitting behind his desk.
'What about Quinn himself?'
Bartlett opened a drawer and took out a folder. 'I looked this out for you, Inspector. It's Quinn's application for the job here. It'll tell you more than I can.'
Morse opened the folder and his eyes hurriedly scanned the contents: curriculum
vitae, testimonials, letters from three referees, and the application form itself, across the top of which Bartlett had written: 'Appointed w.e.f. 1st Sept'. But again Morse's
mind remained infuriatingly blank. The cogs in the machine were beginning to turn all
right, but somehow they refused to engage. He closed the folder, defensively
mumbling something about studying it later, and looked again at Bartlett. He
wondered how that clear and supremely efficient mind would be tackling the problem
of Quinn's murder, and it appeared that Bartlett could almost read his thoughts.
'You know that he was deaf, don't you, Inspector?'
'Deaf? Oh yes.' The police surgeon had mentioned it, but Morse had taken little notice.
'We were all very impressed by the way he coped with his disability.'
'How deaf was he?'
'He would probably have go1ne completely deaf in a few years' time. That was the
prognosis, anyway.'
For the first time since Bartlett had been talking the merest flicker of interest showed
itself in Morse's eyes. 'Little surprising you appointed him, perhaps, sir?'
'I think it's you who would have been surprised, Inspector.
You could hardly tell he was deaf, you see. Apart from dealing with the phone, which
was a problem, he was quite remarkable. He really was.'
'Did you, er, did you appoint him, you know, because he was deaf?'
'Did we feel sorry for him, you mean? Oh no. It seemed to the, er, the, er, committee
that he was the best man in the field.'
'Which committee was that?'
Did Morse catch a hint of guardedness in Bartlett's eyes? He wasn't sure. What he did
know was that the teeth of the smallest cog had now begun to bite. He sat back more
happily in his chair.
'We, er, had all twelve Syndics on that committee—plus myself, of course.'
'Syndics? They're, er—?'
'They're like governors of a school, really.'
'They don't work here?'
'Good gracious, no. They're all university dons. They just meet here twice a term to
see if we're doing our job properly.'
'Have you got their names here?'
Morse looked with interest down the typed list that Bartlett handed to him. Printed
beside the name of each of the Syndics were full details of university, college,
degrees, doctorates and other academic honours, and one name in the list jumped out
at him. 'Most of them Oxford men, I see, sir.'
'Natural enough, isn't it?'
'Just one or two from Cambridge.'
'Ye-es.'
'Wasn't Quinn at Magdalene College, Cambridge?' Morse began to reach for the
folder, but Bartlett immediately confirmed the fact.
'I see that Mr. Roope was at the same college, sir.'
'Was he? I'd never noticed that before.'
'You notice most things, if I may say so.'
'I always associate Roope with Christ Church, I suppose. He's been appointed a
fellow there: "student", rather, if we want to be pedantic, Inspector.' His eyes were utterly guileless now, and Morse wondered if he might earlier have been mistaken.
'What's Roope's subject?'
'He's a chemist.'
'Well, well.' Morse tried to suppress the note of excitement in his voice, but realized
that he wasn't succeeding. 'How old is he? Do you know?'
'Youngish. Thirty or so.'
'About Quinn's age, then?'
'About that.'
'Now, sir. Just one more thing.' He looked at his watch and found that it was already a
quarter to five. 'When did you last see Quinn? Can you remember?'
'Last Friday,
involved at all stages in the running of public examinations. And Morse found himself
surprised and impressed: surprised by the unexpected complexities of the operations
involved; and, above all, impressed by the extraordinary efficiency and grasp of the
Pickwickian little Secretary sitting behind his desk.
'What about Quinn himself?'
Bartlett opened a drawer and took out a folder. 'I looked this out for you, Inspector. It's Quinn's application for the job here. It'll tell you more than I can.'
Morse opened the folder and his eyes hurriedly scanned the contents: curriculum
vitae, testimonials, letters from three referees, and the application form itself, across the top of which Bartlett had written: 'Appointed w.e.f. 1st Sept'. But again Morse's
mind remained infuriatingly blank. The cogs in the machine were beginning to turn all
right, but somehow they refused to engage. He closed the folder, defensively
mumbling something about studying it later, and looked again at Bartlett. He
wondered how that clear and supremely efficient mind would be tackling the problem
of Quinn's murder, and it appeared that Bartlett could almost read his thoughts.
'You know that he was deaf, don't you, Inspector?'
'Deaf? Oh yes.' The police surgeon had mentioned it, but Morse had taken little notice.
'We were all very impressed by the way he coped with his disability.'
'How deaf was he?'
'He would probably have go1ne completely deaf in a few years' time. That was the
prognosis, anyway.'
For the first time since Bartlett had been talking the merest flicker of interest showed
itself in Morse's eyes. 'Little surprising you appointed him, perhaps, sir?'
'I think it's you who would have been surprised, Inspector.
You could hardly tell he was deaf, you see. Apart from dealing with the phone, which
was a problem, he was quite remarkable. He really was.'
'Did you, er, did you appoint him, you know, because he was deaf?'
'Did we feel sorry for him, you mean? Oh no. It seemed to the, er, the, er, committee
that he was the best man in the field.'
'Which committee was that?'
Did Morse catch a hint of guardedness in Bartlett's eyes? He wasn't sure. What he did
know was that the teeth of the smallest cog had now begun to bite. He sat back more
happily in his chair.
'We, er, had all twelve Syndics on that committee—plus myself, of course.'
'Syndics? They're, er—?'
'They're like governors of a school, really.'
'They don't work here?'
'Good gracious, no. They're all university dons. They just meet here twice a term to
see if we're doing our job properly.'
'Have you got their names here?'
Morse looked with interest down the typed list that Bartlett handed to him. Printed
beside the name of each of the Syndics were full details of university, college,
degrees, doctorates and other academic honours, and one name in the list jumped out
at him. 'Most of them Oxford men, I see, sir.'
'Natural enough, isn't it?'
'Just one or two from Cambridge.'
'Ye-es.'
'Wasn't Quinn at Magdalene College, Cambridge?' Morse began to reach for the
folder, but Bartlett immediately confirmed the fact.
'I see that Mr. Roope was at the same college, sir.'
'Was he? I'd never noticed that before.'
'You notice most things, if I may say so.'
'I always associate Roope with Christ Church, I suppose. He's been appointed a
fellow there: "student", rather, if we want to be pedantic, Inspector.' His eyes were utterly guileless now, and Morse wondered if he might earlier have been mistaken.
'What's Roope's subject?'
'He's a chemist.'
'Well, well.' Morse tried to suppress the note of excitement in his voice, but realized
that he wasn't succeeding. 'How old is he? Do you know?'
'Youngish. Thirty or so.'
'About Quinn's age, then?'
'About that.'
'Now, sir. Just one more thing.' He looked at his watch and found that it was already a
quarter to five. 'When did you last see Quinn? Can you remember?'
'Last Friday,
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