of headphones and microphones and God knows what else; and we could all learn the deaf-and-dumb alphabet, if it came to that!'
It was becoming increasingly obvious that there was a festering, strangely personal antipathy between the two men, and few of the older Syndics could understand it. Bartlett was usually a man of wonderfully equable temperament. And he hadn't finished yet: 'You all saw the report from the hospital. You all saw the audiographs. The fact of the matter is that Quinn is very deaf.
'He seemed to be able to hear us all perfectly well, didn't he?' Roope spoke the words quietly, and if Quinn himself had been there he would almost certainly have missed them. But the committee didn't, and it became perfectly clear that Roope had a point. A strong point.
The Dean turned again to the Secretary. 'Mm. You know it's amazing that he
A desultory discussion broke out, gradually drifting further and further away from the immediate decision that still remained to be taken. Mrs. Seth, the Chairman of the Science Committee, thought about her father. . He had gone deaf very quickly when he was in his late forties and when she was only a schoolgirl; and he had been dismissed from his job. Redundancy money, and a meagre disability pension from his firm — oh yes, they'd tried to be sympathetic and fair. But he'd had such a clear brain, and he'd never worked again. Confidence irreparably shattered. He could still have done a whole host of jobs infinitely more efficiently than half the layabouts sitting idling on their backsides on office stools. It made her so very sad and so very cross to think of him. .
Suddenly she was aware that they were voting. Five hands went up almost immediately for Fielding, and she thought, as the Secretary did, that he was probably the best of the bunch. She would vote for him too. But for some curious reason her hand remained on the blotting paper in front of her.
'And those for Quinn, please?'
Three hands, including Roope's, were raised; and then a fourth. The Dean began counting from the left: 'One, two, three. . four. .' Another hand, and the Dean started again: 'One, two, three, four, five. It looks—' And then, slowly and dramatically, Mrs. Seth raised her own hand.
'Six.'
'Well, you've made your decision, ladies and gentlemen. Quinn has been appointed. Close vote: six-five. But there it is.' He turned rather awkwardly to his left. 'Are you happy, Mr. Secretary?'
'Let's just say we all have our own views, Dean, and the view of the Appointments Committee is not mine. But, as you say, the committee has made its decision and it's my job to accept that decision.'
Roope sat back once more staring vaguely at the ceiling, the yellow pencil once more between his teeth. He may have been inwardly gloating over his minor triumph, but his face remained impassive — detached almost.
Ten minutes later the Dean and the Secretary walked side by side down the flight of stairs that led to the ground floor and to Bartlett's office. 'You really think we've made a bad mistake, Tom?'
Bartlett stopped and looked up at the tall, grey-haired theologian. 'Oh, yes, Felix. Make no mistake about that. We have!'
Roope pushed his way past them on the stairs and volunteered a vague 'Cheerio'.
'Er — goodnight,' said the Dean; but Bartlett remained darkly silent, and watched Roope go before slowly walking down the few remaining stairs and entering his office.
Above his door was a twin-coloured light, similar to the sort found in hospitals, which was operated from two switches on the desk inside. The first switch turned on a red light, signifying that Bartlett was in session with someone, and did not wish to be (and would not be) disturbed; a second switch turned on a green light, indicating that one was free to knock and enter. When neither switch was depressed, no light showed, and the conclusion thence to be drawn was that the room was empty. Since his appointment to the Secretaryship, Bartlett had firmly maintained that if anyone wished to discuss a matter of importance with him, he himself should have the courtesy to ensure an uninterrupted, confidential chat; and his staff fully appreciated and almost invariably observed the arrangement. On the very few occasions that the rule had been infringed; Bartlett had displayed quite uncharacteristic anger.
Once inside the Secretary snapped down the red switch before opening a small cabinet and pouring himself a glass of gin and dry vermouth. Then he sat down behind his desk, opened a drawer and took out a packet of cigarettes. He never smoked at meetings, but he lit one now, inhaled deeply, and sipped his drink. He would send a telegram to Quinn in the morning: it was too late to send one now. He opened his appointments folder once more and reread the information on Quinn. Huh! They'd picked the wrong fellow — of course they had! All because of Roope, the bloody idiot!
He put the papers away neatly, cleared his desk and sat back in his chair — a curious half-smile forming on his lips.
WHY?
CHAPTER ONE
WHILST THE OTHER four took their seats in the upstairs lounge of the Cherwell Motel, he walked over to the bar and ordered the drinks: two gins and tonics, two medium sherries, one dry sherry — the latter for himself. He was very fond of dry sherry.
'Put them all down to the Foreign Examinations Syndicate, will you? And we shall be having lunch. If you can tell the waiter we're here? Sitting over there.' His north-country accent was still noticeable, though less so than it had been.
'Have you booked a table, sir?'
He enjoyed the 'sir'. 'Yes. The name's Quinn.' He grabbed a handful of peanuts, took the drinks over on a tray, and sat down with the other members of the History Committee.
It was his third Revision meeting since joining the Syndicate, and there were several others fixed for later in the term. He sat back in the low leather chair, drained half his sherry at a gulp, and looked out at the busy lunch time traffic along the A40. This was the life! A jolly good meal to come, wine, coffee — and then back for the afternoon session. Finish with a bit of luck about five or even earlier. The morning session had been a concentrated, unremitting slog; but they'd done well. Question papers covering the periods from the Continental Crusades to the English Civil War had now assumed the final and definitive form in which they would appear before the following summer's Advanced-level History candidates. Just the five papers left, from the Hanoverians to the Treaty of
