The Silent World Of Nicholas Quinn

in; and she said no.' Morse smiled slowly: 'Do you see what I mean now?'

'No, sir.'

'Keep at it, Lewis! You see, whatever happened in the early afternoon of that Friday, Martin and Monica stayed to see the film. Do you understand that? Whatever upset them — or, as I say, upset one of them — it didn't result in their leaving the cinema. Need I go on?'

Need he go on! Huh! Lewis was more lost than ever, but his curiosity would give him no peace. 'What about Ogleby, then?'

'Ah. Now we're coming to it. Ogleby lied to me, Lewis. He told me one or two lies of the first water. But the great majority of the things Ogleby said mere true. You were there when I questioned him, Lewis, and if you want some of the truth, just look back to your notes. You'll find he said some very interesting things. You'll find, for example, that he said he was in the office that Friday afternoon.'

'And you think he was?'

'I know he was. He just had to be, you see.'

'Oh,' said Lewis, unseeing. 'And he went to Studio 2 as well, I suppose?'

Morse nodded. 'Later on, yes. And remember that he'd made a careful sketch of another ticket — the ticket that was found in Quinn's pocket. Now. There's a nice little poser for you, Lewis: when and why did Ogleby do that? Well?'

'I don't know, sir. I just get more confused the more I think about it.'

Morse got up and walked across the room. 'It's easy when you think about it, Lewis. Ask yourself just one question: Why didn't he just take the ticket? He must have seen it; must have had it in his hands. There's only one answer, isn't there?'

Lewis nodded hopefully and Morse (praise be!) continued.

'Yes. Ogleby wasn't meant to find the ticket. But he did; and he knew that it had been placed wherever it was for a vital purpose, Lewis, and he knew that he had to leave it exactly where he'd found it.'

The phone rang and Morse answered it, saying he'd be there straightaway. 'You'd better come along, Lewis. His lawyer's arrived.' As they walked together down to the cellblock, Morse asked Lewis if he had any idea where the Islets of Langerhans were.

'Sounds vaguely familiar, sir. Baltic Sea, is it?

'No, it's not. It's in the pancreas — if you know where that is.'

'As a matter of fact, I do, sir. It's a large gland discharging into the duodenum.'

Morse raised his eyebrows in admiration. One up to Lewis.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

AS MORSE LOOKED at the Thursday-evening class with their hearing aids, private or NHS, plugged into their ears, he reminded himself that during the previous weeks of the term Quinn had sat there amongst his fellow- students, sharing the mysteries and the silent manifestations. There were eight of them, sitting in a single row in front of their teacher, and at the back of the room Morse felt that he was watching a TV screen with the sound turned off. The teacher was talking, for her lips moved and she made the natural gestures of speech. But no sound. When Morse had managed to rid himself of the suspicion that he had suddenly been struck deaf, he watched the teacher's lips more closely, and tried as hard as he could to read the words. Occasionally one or other of the class would raise a hand and voice a silent question, and then the teacher would write up a word on the blackboard. Frequently, it appeared, the difficult words — the words that the class were puzzled by — began with 'p', or 'b', or 'm'; and to a lesser extent with 't', 'd', or 'n. Lip-reading was clearly a most sophisticated skill.

At the end of the class, Morse thanked the teacher for allowing him to observe, and spoke to her about Quinn. Here, too, he had been the star pupil, it seemed, and all the class had been deeply upset at the news of his death. Yes, he really had been very deaf indeed — but one wouldn't have guessed; unless, that is, one had experience of these things.

A bell sounded throughout the building. It was 9 p.m. and time for everyone to leave the premises.

'Would he have been able to hear that?' asked Morse.

But the teacher had temporarily turned away to mark the register. The bell was still ringing. 'Would Quinn have been able to hear that?' repeated Morse.

But she still didn't hear him and, belatedly, Morse guessed the truth. When finally she looked up again, he repeated his question once more. 'Could Quinn hear the bell?'

'Could Quinn hear them all, did you say? I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch—'

'H-ear th-e b-e-ll,' mouthed Morse, with ridiculous exaggeration.

'Oh, the bell. Is it ringing? I'm afraid that none of us could ever hear that,'

Thursday was guest night at Lonsdale College, but after a couple of post-prandial ports the Dean of the Syndicate decided he'd better get back to his rooms. He was decidedly displeased at having to rearrange his Friday morning programme, since one of the few duties he positively enjoyed was that of interviewing prospective entrants. As he walked along the quad he wondered morosely how long the Syndicate meeting would last, and why exactly Tom Bartlett had been so insistent. It was all getting out of hand, anyway. He was getting too old for the post, and he looked forward to his retirement in a year's time. One thing was certain: he just couldn't cope with events like those of the past fortnight.

He looked through the pile of UCCA forms on his desk and read the fulsome praises heaped upon the heads of their pupils by headmasters and headmistresses, so desperately anxious to lift their schools a few places up the table in the Oxbridge League. If only such heads would realise that all their blabber was, if anything, counter- productive! On the first form he read some headmistress's report on a young girl anxious to take up one of the few places at Lonsdale reserved for women. The girl was (naturally!) the most brilliant scholar of her year and had won a whole cupboardful of prizes; and the Dean read the headmistress's comments in the 'Personality' column: 'Not