The Silent World Of Nicholas Quinn

Signed T. G. Bartlett (Secretary)

'He's a careful soul, isn't he, Lewis?'

'Seems pretty efficient, sir.'

'Not the sort to leave anything to chance.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'I was just wondering why he didn't tell me about this fire drill, that's all.' He smiled to himself, and Lewis knew that that wasn't all.

'Perhaps he didn't tell you because you didn't ask him.'

'Perhaps so. Anyway, go along and ask him if there was a roll-call. You never know — we may be able to postpone Quinn's execution from 11.15 to 12.15.'

The red light showed outside Bartlett's office, and as Lewis stood undecided before the door, Donald Martin walked past.

'That light means he's got somebody with him, doesn't it?'

Martin nodded. 'He'd be very annoyed if any of the staff interrupted him, but — I mean. .' He seemed extremely nervous about something, and Lewis took the opportunity (as Morse had instructed him) of disseminating the news that Quinn's colleagues would all soon be asked to account for their whereabouts the previous Friday.

'But what—? He can't really think—'

'He thinks a lot of things, sir.'

Lewis knocked on Bartlett's door and went in. Monica Height turned round with some annoyance on her face, but the Secretary himself, smiling benignly, made no reference whatsoever to the infraction of the golden rule. In answer to his query, Lewis was informed that he'd better see the chief clerk upstairs, who had been in charge of the whole operation and who almost certainly would have kept the register of all those who had been present for the fire drill.

After Lewis had left the room, Monica turned around and looked hard at Bartlett. 'What's all that about, pray?'

'You know you mustn't blame the police for trying to find out when Mr. Quinn was last seen alive. I must admit I'd not mentioned the fire drill—'

'But he was alive last Friday afternoon—there's not much doubt about that, is there? His car was here until about twenty to five. So Noakes says.'

'Yes, I know all about that.'

'Don't you think we ought to tell the police straightaway?'

'I've got a strong suspicion, my dear, that Chief Inspector Morse is going to find out far more than some of us may wish.'

But whatever might have been the cryptic implication of this remark, Monica appeared not to notice it. 'Don't you agree it may be very important, though?'

'Certainly. Especially if they think that Mr. Quinn was murdered last Friday.'

'Do you think he was murdered on Friday?'

'Me?' Bartlett looked at her with a gentle smile. 'I don't think it matters very much what I think.'

'You haven't answered my question.'

Bartlett hesitated and stood up. 'Well, for what it's worth the answer's "no".'

'When—?'

But Bartlett held up his finger to his lips and shook his head. 'You're asking as many questions as they are.'

Monica rose to her feet and walked to the door. 'I still think you ought to let them know that Noakes—'

'Look,' he said in a kindly way. 'If it'll make you happier, I'll let them know straight away. All right?'

As Monica Height left the room, Martin came up to her and said something urgently into her ear. Together they disappeared into Monica's office.

The chief clerk remembered the fire drill well, of course. Everything had gone according to plan, and the Secretary had scrutinized the final list himself before allowing his staff to resume their duties. Of the twenty-six permanent staff, only three had not ticked themselves off. But all had been accounted for: Mr. Ogleby was down at the Oxford University Press; one of the typists had flu; and one of the junior clerks was on holiday. Against Quinn's name was a bold tick in black biro. And that was that. Lewis walked downstairs and rejoined Morse.

'Have you noticed how everyone in this office uses black biro, Lewis?'

'Bartlett's got 'em all organized, sir — even down to the pens they use.'

Morse seemed to dismiss the matter as of no importance, and picked up the phone once more. 'You'd have thought this bloody school would have more than one line, wouldn't you?' But this time he heard the ringing tone, and the call was answered almost immediately. Morse heard a cheerful north-country voice telling him that she was the school secretary and asking if she could help. Morse explained who he was and what information he required.

"Friday, you say? Yes, I remember. From Oxford, that's right. . Oh, must have been about twenty past twelve. I remember I looked on the timetable and Mr. Richardson was teaching until a quarter to one. . No, no. He said not to bother. Just asked me to give him t'message, laik. He said he would be inviting Mr. Richardson to do some marking this summer. . No, I'm sorry. I can't remember t'name for the minute, but Mr. Richardson would know, of course. . Yes. Yes, I'm sure that was it. Quinn — that's right. I hope there's nothing. . Oh dear. . Oh dear. . Shall I tell Mr. Richardson?. . All right. . All right, sir. Goodbye.'

Morse cradled the phone and looked across at Lewis. 'What do you think?'