AS MORSE STOOD with Lewis in Pinewood Close at 2 p.m. on the following afternoon, awaiting the arrival of Mrs. Jardine, he tried with little success to draw a veil over the harrowing events of the morning. Mr. and Mrs. Quinn had trained down from Huddersfield, and somewhere amid the wreckage of their lives, somewhere amid the tears and the heartbreak, they had managed to find reserves of quiet dignity and courage. Morse had accompanied Mr. Quinn senior to the mortuary for the formal identification of his son, and then spent over an hour with them both in his office, unable to tell them much, unable to offer anything except the usual futile words of sympathy. And as Morse had watched the tragic couple climb into the police car for Oxford, he felt great admiration — and even greater relief. The whole interview had upset him, and apart from a few brief minutes with a reporter from the
Two men were repairing the street lamp in front of № 1, and Morse strolled over to them. 'How long before they come and smash it up again?'
'You never know, sir. But, to be truthful, we don't get too much vandalism round 'ere, do we, Jack?'
But Morse had no chance of hearing Jack's views on the local yahoos, for Mrs. Jardine drew up in her car and the three of them disappeared into the house, where for half an hour they sat together in the front room. Mrs. Jardine told them as much as she knew about her former tenant: about his coming to see her in mid-August; about her chat with Bartlett (Quinn's choice as referee); about his tidy habits and his punctuality in paying his rent; about his usual weekend routine; and about any and every thing Morse could think of asking her that might add to his picture of Mr. Quinn alive. But he learned nothing. Quinn had been a model tenant, it seemed. Quiet, orderly, and no gramophone. Girlfriends? Not that she knew of. She couldn't stop that sort of thing, of course, but it was much better if her tenants — well, you know,
It was another chilly afternoon, and Morse got up to light the fire, turning the automatic switch on the side as far as he could. But nothing happened.
'You'll have to use a match, Inspector. Those things never seem to work. How the manufacturers get away with it—'
Morse struck a match and the fire exploded into an orange glow.
'Do you make any extra charge for gas and electricity?'
'No. It's included in the rent,' replied Mrs. Jardine. But as if to dispel any possible suspicion of excessive generosity, she nastily added that the tenants had to share the telephone bill, of course.
Morse was puzzled. 'I don't quite follow you.'
'Well, there's a shared line between them, you see. There's a phone upstairs in the Greenaways' bedroom and one here in this room.'
'I see,' said Morse quietly.
After the landlady had left them, Morse and Lewis went into the room where Quinn had been found. Although the curtains were now drawn back, it seemed no less sombre than when they were in it last; and certainly colder. Morse bent down and tried turning the switch on the gas fire. He tried again; and again. But nothing.
'Probably no batteries in it, sir.' Lewis unfastened the side panel, and produced two stumpy Ever Ready batteries, now covered with a slimy, mildewed discharge.
The same Thursday morning Joyce Greenaway had been moved — from the Intensive Care Unit at the John Radcliffe Hospital; and when one of her old schoolfriends came to see her at 2.30 pm. she was in a pleasant ward, two storeys below, in the company of three other recently-delivered mothers. Conversation was babies, babies, babies, and Joyce felt buoyant. She should be out in a few days, and she felt a strangely-satisfying surge of maternal emotions developing deep within herself. How she loved her darling little boy! He was going to be fine — there was no doubt of that now. But the problem of what to call him remained unresolved. Frank had decided that he didn't really like 'Nicholas' all that much, and Joyce wanted