Mr. Quinn. I can't do all the cleaning this afternoon because Mr. Evans is off sick and I've got to get him a prescription from the doctor. So I'll call back and finish just after six if that's convenient for you. A. Evans (Mrs.)
Morse handed the note over to Lewis. 'Interesting.'
'How long do you think he's been dead, sir?'
Morse looked down at Quinn once more and shrugged his shoulders. 'I dunno. Two or three days, I should think.'
'It's a wonder someone didn't find him earlier.'
'Ye-es. You say he just has these downstair rooms?'
'So Mrs. Jardine says. There's a young couple living upstairs usually, but she's in the John Radcliffe having a baby, and he works nights at Cowley and he's been staying with his parents in Oxford somewhere.'
'Mm.' Morse made as if to leave, but suddenly stopped. The bottom of the door had been amateurishly planed to enable it to ride over the carpet and a noticeable draught was coming beneath it, occasionally setting the low, blue gas jets flickering fitfully into brighter yellow flames.
'Funny, isn't it, Lewis? If I lived in this room I wouldn't choose the armchair immediately in line with the draught.'
'Looks as if he did, air.'
'I wonder, Lewis. I wonder if he did.'
The front-door bell rang and Morse sent Lewis to answer it. 'Tell 'em they can start as soon as they like.' He walked out of the room and through into the kitchen at the back of the house. Again, everywhere was tidy. On a red Formica-topped table stood a stack of recently purchased provisions: half a dozen eggs in their plastic containers ? lb butter; ? lb English Cheddar; two generous slices of prime steak under a cellophane wrapper; and a brown- paper bag full of mushrooms. Beside the groceries was a curling pay-out slip from the Quality supermarket, and a flicker of excitement showed in Morse's grey eyes as he looked it through.
'Lewis!'
Nothing else here looked particularly interesting: a sink unit, a gas cooker, a fridge, two kitchen stools, and by the side of the back door, filling the space under the stairs, a small larder. Lewis, who had been chatting to the police surgeon, appeared at the door. 'Sir?'
'What's going on in there?'
'Doc says he's been poisoned.'
'Amazing thing — medical science, Lewis! But we've got other things to worry about for the minute. I want you to make a complete inventory of the food in the fridge and in this larder here.'
'Oh.' Lewis was almost thinking that a man of his own rank and experience should be above such fourth- grade clerical chores; but he had worked with Morse before, and knew that whatever other faults he had the Chief Inspector seldom wasted his own or other people's time on trivial or unnecessary tasks. He heard himself say he would get on with it — immediately.
'I'm going back to the station, Lewis. You stay here until I get back.'
Outside, Morse found Dickson and Mrs. Jardine standing beside the police car. 'I want you to drive me back to HQ, Dickson.' He turned to Mrs. Jardine. 'You've been very kind and helpful. Thank you very much. You've got a car?'
The landlady nodded and walked away. In truth, she felt disappointed that her small part in the investigation seemed now to be over, and that she had warranted no more than a cursory question from the rather abrupt man who appeared to be in charge. But as she drove away from the crescent her thoughts, soon veered to other, more practical considerations. Would anyone be over-anxious to move into the rooms so lately rented by that nice young Mr. Quinn? People didn't like that sort of thing. But as she reached the outskirts of Oxford she comforted herself with the salutary thought that the dead are soon forgotten. Yes, she would soon be able to let the rooms again. Just give it a month or so.
Morse read the statement aloud to the youngish man seated rather nervously at the small table in Interview Room № 1.
I have known Nicholas Quinn for three months. He came to work at the Foreign Examinations Syndicate as an assistant secretary on 1st September this year.
On Monday, 24th November, he did not appear at the office and did not ring in to say that anything was wrong. It is not unusual for the graduates to take a day or two off when they can, but the Secretary, Dr. Bartlett, always insists that he should be kept fully informed of any such arrangement. None of my colleagues saw Mr. Quinn on Monday, and no one knew where he was. This morning, Tuesday, 25th November, Dr. Bartlett came to my office and said that Mr. Quinn had still not arrived. He said that he had tried to phone him, but that there was no reply. He then asked me to drive round to Mr. Quinn's house and I did so, arriving at about 9.30 am. The front door was locked and no one answered the doorbell. I could see that Mr. Quinn's car was still in the garage, so I proceeded to the back of the house. The light was on in the ground-floor room and the curtains were drawn; but there was a gap in the curtains and I looked inside. I could see someone lying quite still on the floor in front of the fireplace, and I knew that something was seriously wrong. I therefore rang the police immediately from the public call box in the main street, and was told to wait at the house until the police came. When Sergeant Lewis arrived with a constable, they discovered who owned the house. The landlady turned up with the key about ten minutes later. The police then proceeded into the house for a short while, and when Sergeant. Lewis came out he told me that I must prepare myself for a shock. He said that Mr. Quinn was dead.
'You happy to sign this?' Morse pushed the statement across the table.
'I didn't use the word 'proceeded'.'
'Ah, you must forgive us, sir. We never 'go' anywhere in the force, you know. We always 'proceed'.'
Donald Martin accepted the explanation with a weak smile and signed the statement with nervy flourish.
