although everybody else can hear it perfectly clearly, Quinn can't; and it gives Bartlett just the little leeway he needs. As soon as Quinn has poured the sherries, and only when the time is exactly ripe, does he say something like: 'The fire alarm! I'd forgotten about that. Toss that back quickly; we can talk afterwards.' Quinn must have drained at least half the small glass at a gulp, and almost immediately he must have known that something was desperately wrong. His respiration becomes jerky and he suffers from violently convulsive seizures. In a minute, or at the outside a couple of minutes, he's dead.'
'Why didn't he shout for help, though. Surely—?'
'Ah! I see you still don't appreciate the infinite subtlety of Bartlett's plan. What's happening outside? A fire drill! As you yourself found out, Noakes had been instructed to let the alarm ring for two minutes. Two minutes! That's a long, long time, Lewis, and during it everybody is chattering and clattering down the stairs and along the corridors. Perhaps Bartlett made quite sure that Quinn didn't shout for help; but even if he had managed to shout, I doubt if anyone would have heard him. And remember! No one is going into Bartlett's office. The red light has been turned on outside, and none of the staff is going to disobey the golden rule. And even if everything had gone wrong, Lewis, even if someone had come in — though I expect Bartlett had locked the door anyway — Quinn's prints are on the bottle and on the glasses, and police inquiries are going to centre on the fundamental question of who had poisoned Bartlett's sherry — presumably with the intention of poisoning Bartlett, not Quinn. Anyway, Quinn is dead and the building is now completely deserted. Bartlett puts on a pair of gloves, pours his own sherry and whatever is left of Quinn's down the sink in his private little cloakroom — remember it, Lewis? — and locks away the sherry bottle and Quinn's glass in a briefcase. So far so good. Quinn was a fairly slight man and Bartlett may have carried him over his shoulder, or put him into one of the large plastic containers they use there for rubbish, and then dragged him along the polished floor. Probably he carried him, since no scratches or abrasions were found on Quinn's body. But whatever he did, it was only a few yards to the rear entrance, and Quinn's parking place was immediately outside the door. Bartlett, who has already taken Quinn's car key and house key from his pocket — or from his anorak — dumps the body and the briefcase in the boot, locks it, and the deed is done.'
'We should have examined the boot, I suppose, sir.'
'But I did. There were no traces of Quinn at all. That's why I think Bartlett may have used a container of some sort.'
Then he goes out to join the rest of the staff—'
Morse nodded 'Standing meekly outside in the cold, yes. He takes over the list, which by this time has been handed round the thirty or so permanent staff, ticks in himself and Quinn as present, and finally decides that all are accounted for.'
'And it was Bartlett who rang the school in Bradford?'
'Certainly. Doubtless he'd been looking out for anything that could be used to help mislead the inevitable investigation, and he must have seen that particular letter in Quinn's tray in the registry earlier that week. If you remember, it was postmarked Monday, 17th November.'
'Then he went home and had a hearty lunch.'
'I doubt it,' said Morse. 'Bartlett's a very clever man, but basically he's not as ruthless as someone like Roope. Anyway, he's still got a lot on his mind. Certainly the trickier half of the plan is over, but he hasn't finished yet. He must have left home at about ten past one, telling his wife — perfectly correctly — that he had to call in at the office before going off to his meeting in Banbury. But before he did that—'
'He called in at Studio 2.'
'Yes. Bartlett bought a ticket, had it torn through, asked the usherette where the 'Gents' was, waited there a few minutes, and then nipped out when the girl in the ticket office was busy with one or two more clients. But after that things began to go awry. Not that Bartlett saw Monica Height — I'm pretty sure of that. But she saw him, coming out of Studio 2. Monica and Donald Martin, remember want to spend the afternoon together. They can't go to her place, because her daughter's home from school; they can't go to his, because his wife's there all the time; they can go somewhere in the car, but that's hardly a romantic proposition on a rainy November afternoon. So they decide to go to the pictures. But they mustn't be seen going in together; so Martin gets there fairly early, soon after the doors open, and buys a ticket for the rear lounge and sits there waiting. Monica's due to come a few minutes later, and he's straining his eyes and watching everybody who comes in. Now get this clear in your mind, Lewis. If Quinn had gone into Studio 2 that afternoon, Martin would certainly have seen him. He'd have seen Bartlett, too. And if he'd seen either of them, he wouldn't have stayed. He'd have left immediately, waited discreetly outside for Monica, and told her the bad news. But he did no such thing! Now, put yourself in Monica's shoes. When we questioned her — and Martin — one thing became quite clear: they'd seen the film; and they certainly wouldn't have done that if any other member of the Syndicate had come in. There was only one explanation: Monica had seen something that, in the light of what she learned later, troubled her sorely. Yet whatever it was, it had not prevented her from joining Martin inside the cinema, all right? We can only draw one conclusion: she saw someone coming out. And that someone was Bartlett! He goes back to the Syndicate and he's got a ticket. But where is he to leave it? He could leave it in Quinn's room, because he's got to go in there anyway to leave the note for Margaret Freeman, and to open the cabinets. Bit careless of Bartlett that, when you come to think of it. .' Morse shook his head as if a fly had alighted on his balding patch. But whatever was troubling him, he let it go. 'Just remember that all this had to be planned meticulously in advance, and from this point onwards things had to be arranged to meet Roope's convenience, not Bartlett's. Roope has dutifully fixed himself up with a water-tight alibi until late afternoon, but now he needs some plausible reason for visiting the Syndicate. He couldn't know — nor could Bartlett — that not one of the graduate staff would be there; so it's arranged that he will leave some papers in Bartlett's office. You see, if anyone else is around, he hasn't got much excuse poking around in Quinn's office. He'll have to go there later, of course, to get the anorak; but by then he'll have been able to see the lie of the land and he can play things by ear. So they've decided between them that the cinema ticket and Quinn's keys are to be left somewhere carefully concealed on Bartlett's desk or in one of his drawers. Well? What happened then? Roope knocks on Bartlett's door, gets no answer, goes in quickly, leaves his papers, and picks up the ticket and the keys. Easy. Originally the plan must have been for him to hang around somewhere, probably by the trees at the back, until the rest of the graduate staff went home. Then he would only have to nip in the back entrance, pick up the anorak from Quinn's office, and drive off in Quinn's car. But in fact it was easier than he could have hoped. Noakes, it's true, was an unforeseen problem, but as things turned out this helped him enormously. Noakes was able to confirm that none of the graduate staff was in his office that afternoon. And when he told Roope that he was off upstairs for a cup of tea, the coast was clear — half an hour or so earlier than he'd expected it to be.'
'And from then onwards it must have gone very much as you said before.'
'Except for one thing. I suggested to Roope when we first brought him in that he'd pocketed the note from Quinn's desk; but I don't think he could have done. Otherwise I can think of no earthly reason why he had to phone Bartlett when he discovered the shattering information that Mrs. Evans was going to return. It was the worst moment of the lot, I should think, and Roope almost panicked. The rain was sluicing down outside, and he couldn't just dump the body and run for it Mrs. Greenaway — he must have seen her — was sitting in full view in the room
