The Silent World Of Nicholas Quinn

a pile of telephone directories.

'You go through the cabinets, Lewis. I'll try the drawers here.'

'Are we looking for anything in particular, sir?'

'Not that I know of.'

Lewis decided to plod along in his own methodical manner: at least it promised to be a bit more interesting that listing tins of rice pudding.

Almost immediately he began to realize what an enormous amount of love and labour went into the final formulation of question papers for public examinations. The top drawer of the first cabinet was stuffed with bulky buff-coloured folders, each containing copies of drafts, first proofs, first revises, second revises — even third revises — of papers to be set for the Ordinary-level English syllabuses. 'I reckon I could get a few quick O-levels this way, sir.'

Morse mumbled something about not being worth the paper they were printed on, and carried on with his own desultory investigation of the top right-hand drawer of Quinn's desk, wherein it soon became abundantly clear that he was unlikely to make any cosmic discoveries: paper-clips, bulldog-clips, elastic bands, four fine-pointed black biros, a ruler, a pair of scissors, two birthday cards ('Love, Monica' written in one of them — well, well!), a packet of yellow pencils, a pencil sharpener, several letters from the University Chest about the transfer of pension rights to the University Superannuation Scheme, and a letter from the Centre for the Deaf informing Quinn that the lip-reading classes had been transferred from Oxpens to Headington Tech. After poking haphazardly around, Morse turned to the books behind him and found himself in the middle of the M's. He selected Marvell's Collected Poems, and as if someone else had recently been studying the same page, the book fell open of its own accord at the poem written 'To His Coy Mistress', and Morse read again the lines which had formed part of his own mental baggage for rather more years than he wished to remember:

'The grave's a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace. .'

Yes, Quinn was lying in the police mortuary, and Quinn had hoped his hopes and dreamed his dreams as every other mortal soul. . He slotted the book back into its shelf, and turned with a slightly chastened spirit to the second drawer.

The two men worked for three-quarters of an hour, and Lewis felt himself becoming progressively more dispirited. 'Do you think we're wasting our time, sir?'

'Are you thirsty, or something?'

'I just don't know what I'm looking for, that's all.'

Morse said nothing. He didn't either.

By seven o'clock Lewis had looked through the contents of two of the three cabinets, and now inserted the key into the third, whence he took a further armful of thick folders and once again sat down to his task. The first file contained many carbons of letters, stretching back over two years, all marked GB/MF, and the replies from various members of the Syndicate's English Committee, all beginning 'Dear George'.

'This must be the fellow Quinn took over from, sir.'

Morse nodded cursorily and resumed his study of a black Letts desk diary which was the only object of even minimal interest he had so far unearthed. But Quinn had obviously shown no inclination to emulate an Evelyn or a Pepys, and little more than the dates and times of various meetings had been entered. 'Birthday' (under 23rd October), and 'I owe Donald ?1' seemed to form the only concession to an otherwise autobiographical blank. And since he could think of nothing more purposeful to pursue, Morse idly counted the meetings: ten of them, almost all for the revisions of various question papers, within twelve weeks or so. Not bad going. And one or two other meetings: one with the English Committee on 30th September and one, a two-day meeting, with AED — whatever that was — on the 4th and 5th November.

'What's AED stand for, Lewis?'

'Dunno, sir.'

'Have a guess.'

'Association of Eccentric Dentists.'

Morse grinned and shut the diary. 'You nearly finished?'

'Two more drawers.'

'Think it's worth it?'

'Might as well go through with it now, sir.'

'OK.' Morse leaned back in the chair, his hands behind his head, and looked across the room once more. Not a particularly memorable start to a case, perhaps; but it was early days yet. He decided to put a call through to HQ. The grey telephone seemed the one used for outside calls, and Morse pulled it towards him. But as soon as he had picked up the receiver he put it down again. Underneath the orange code book he saw a letter which had escaped his notice hitherto. It was written on the official notepaper of the Frederic Delius School, Bradford, and was dated Monday, 17th November:

Dear Nick,

Don't forget me when you sort out your examining teams for next year. I trust you've had the form back by now. Gryce wasn't all that cooperative about the testimonial at first, but you'll have noticed that I'm 'a man of sound scholarship, with considerable experience of O- and A-level work.' What more can you ask for? Martha sends her love, and we all hope you'll be up here on your old stamping ground this Christmas. We've decided we can't please both lots of parents, and so we are going to please neither — and stay at home. By the way, old sour-guts has applied for the headship of the new Comprehensive!

O tempora! O mores!

As ever,

Brian.