by Colin Dexter
‘Well that's the final nail in the coffin and—' He suddenly broke off. ‘You don't look too happy, Lewis. What's the trouble?'
'I still don't understand what's happening.'
‘Lewis! You don't want to ruin my little party-piece in the morning, do you?'
Lewis shrugged a reluctant consent, but he felt like an examinee who has just emerged from the examination room, conscious that he should have done very much better. 'I suppose you think I'm not very bright, sir.'
‘Nothing of the son! It was a very clever crime, Lewis. I was just a bit lucky here and there, that's all.'
'I suppose I missed the obvious clues - as usual.'
‘But they weren't obvious, my dear old friend. Well, perhaps ...' He put his feet down and lit a cigarette. 'Let me tell you what put me on to the track, shall I? Let's see now. First of all, I think, the single most important fact in the whole case was Quinn's deafness. You see Quinn was not only hard of hearing; he was very very deaf. But we learned that he was quite exceptionally proficient in the art of lip-reading; and I’m quite sure that because he could lip-read so brilliantly Quinn discovered the staggering fact that one of his colleagues was crooked. You see the real sin against the Holy Ghost for anyone in charge of public examinations is to divulge the contents of question papers beforehand; and Quinn discovered that one of his colleagues was doing precisely that. But, Lewis, I failed to take into account a much more obvious and a much more important implication of Quinn's being deaf. It sounds almost childishly simple when you think of it - in fact an idiot would have spotted it before I did. It's this. Quinn was a marvel at reading from the lips of others - agreed? He might just as well have had ears, really. But he could only, let's say, hear what others were saying when he could see them. Lip-reading's absolutely useless when you can't see the person who's talking; when someone stands behind you, say, or when someone in the corridor outside shouts that there's a bomb in the building. Do you see what I mean, Lewis? If someone knocked on Quinn's office door, he couldn't hear anything. But as soon as someone opened the door and said something - he was fine. All right? Remember this, then: Quinn couldn't hear what he didn't see.'
'Am I supposed to see why all that's important, sir?'
'Oh yes. And you will do, Lewis, if only you think back to the Friday when Quinn was murdered.'
‘He was definitely murdered on the Friday, then?'
‘I think if you pushed me I could tell you to within sixty seconds!' He looked very smug about the whole thing, and Lewis felt torn between the wish to satisfy his own curiosity and a reluctance to gratify the chiefs inflated ego even further. Yet he thought he caught a glimpse of the truth at last... Yes, of course. Noakes had said ... He nodded several times, and his curiosity won.
'What about all this business at the cinema, though? Was that all a red herring?'
'Certainly not. It was meant to be a red herring, but as things turned out - not too luckily from the murderer's point of view - it presented a series of vital clues. Just think a minute. Everything we began to learn about Quinn's death seemed to take it further and further forward in time: he rang up a school in Bradford at about 12.20; he went to Studio 2 at about half past one, after leaving a note in his office for his secretary; he came back to the office about a quarter to five, and drove home; he left a note for his cleaning woman and got some shopping in; he's heard on the phone about ten past five; certainly no one except Mrs Evans comes to see him before six-thirty or so, because Mrs Greenaway is keeping an eagle eye on the drive. So? So Quinn must have been murdered later that evening, or even on the following morning. The medical report didn't help us much either way, and we had little option but to follow our noses - which we did. But when you come to add all the evidence up, no one actually saw Quinn after midday on Friday. Take the phone call to Bradford. If you're a schoolmaster - and all of the staff at the Syndicate had taught at one point - you know that 12.20 is just about the worst time in the whole day to try to get a member of staff. School lessons may finish earlier in a few schools but the vast majority don't. In other words that call was made with not the least expectation that its purpose would be successful. That is, unless the purpose was to mislead me -in which case I'm afraid it was highly successful. Now, take the note Quinn left. We know that Bartlett is a bit of a tartar about most aspects of office routine; and one of his rules is that his assistant secretaries must leave a note when they go out. Now, Quinn had been with the Syndicate for three months, and being a keen young fellow and anxious to please his boss, he must have left dozens of little notes during that time; and anyone, if he or she was so minded, could have taken one, especially if that someone needed one of the notes to further an alibi. And someone did. Then there's the phone call Mrs Greenaway heard. But note once again that she didn't actually see him making it. She's nervous and anxious: she thinks the baby's due, and the very last thing she wants to indulge in is a bit of eavesdropping. All she wants is the line to be free! When she hears voices she doesn't want to listen to them - she wants them to finish. And if the other person - the one she thinks Quinn is ringing - is doing most of the talking at that point... You see what I was getting at with Roope, Lewis? If Roope were talking - putting in just the occasional "yes" and "no" and so on -Mrs Greenaway, who says she doesn't hear too well anyway, would automatically assume it was Quinn. Both Quinn and Roope came from Bradford, and both spoke with a pretty broad northern accent, and all Mrs Greenaway remembers clearly is that one of the voices was a bit cultured and donnish. Now, that doesn't take us much further, I agree. At the most it tells us that the telephone conversation wasn't between Quinn and Roope. But I knew that, Lewis, because I knew that Quinn must have been dead for several hours when someone spoke from Quinn's front room.'
'It was a bit of luck for him that Mrs Greenaway didn't—'
Morse was nodding. ‘Yes. But the luck wasn't all on his side. Remember that Mrs Evans—'
‘You've explained how that could have happened, sir. It's just this Studio 2 business I can't follow.'
‘I’m not surprised. We had everybody telling us lies about it. But let me give you one or two clues. Martin and Monica Height had decided to go to the pictures on Friday afternoon, and yet they stupidly tried to change their alibi - change a good alibi for a lousy alibi. Just ask yourself why, Lewis. The only sensible answer that I could think of was that they had seen something - or one of them had seen something - which they weren't prepared to talk about. Now, I think that Monica, at least on this point, was prepared to tell me the truth -the literal truth. I asked her whether she had seen someone else going 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 walke
d 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.
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 unattractive and certainly a very vivacious girl, with a puckish sense of humour and a piquant wit.' The Dean smiled slowly. What a sentence! Over the years he had compiled his own little book of synonyms:
‘not unattractive' = 'hideous to behold' ‘vivacious' = 'usually drunk'
‘puckish' = 'batty'
‘piquant' = 'plain rude'
Ah well. Perhaps she wasn't such a bad prospect after all! But he wouldn't be interviewing her himself. Blast the Syndicate!
It would have been interesting to test his little theory once more. So often people tried to create the impression of being completely different from their true selves, and it wasn't all that difficult. A smiling face, and a heart as hard as a flintstone! The opposite, too: a face set as hard as a flint and ... A vague memory stirred in the Dean's mind. Chief Inspector Morse had mentioned something similar, hadn't he? But the Dean couldn't quite get hold of it. Never mind. It couldn't be very important
Bartlett had received the call from Mrs Martin at eight o'clock. Did he know where Donald was? Had he got a meeting? She knew he had to work late some nights, but he had never been away as long as this. Bartlett tried to make the right noises; said not to worry; said he would ring her back; said there must be some easy explanation.
‘Oh Christ!' he said, after putting the receiver down.
‘What's the matter, Tom?' Mrs Bartlett had come through into the hall and was looking at him anxiously. He put his hand gently on hers, and smiled wearily. How many times have I told you? You mustn't listen in to my telephone calls. You've got enough—'
'I never do. You know that, Tom. But—'
'It's all right. It's not your problem; it's mine. That's what they pay me for, isn't it? I can't expect a fat salary for nothing, can I?'
Mrs Bartlett put her arm lovingly on his shoulder. 'I don't know what they pay you, and I don't want to know. If they paid you a million it wouldn't be too much! But—' She was worried, and the little Secretary knew it.
'I know. The world suddenly seems to have gone crazy, doesn't it? That was Martin's wife. He's not home yet.'
'Oh no!'
‘Now, now. Don't start jumping to silly conclusions.' ‘You don't think—?'
‘You go and sit down and pour yourself a gin. And pour one for me. I shan't be a minute.' He found Monica's number and dialled. And like someone else the day before, he found himself mechanically counting the dialling tones. Ten, twenty, twenty-five. Sally must be out, too. He let it ring a few more times, and then slowly replaced the receiver. The Syndicate seemed to be on the verge of total collapse.
He thought back on the years during which he had worked so hard to build it all up. And somehow, at some point, the foundation had begun to shift and cracks to appear in the edifice above. He could almost put the exact time to it: the time when Roope had been elected on to the Board of the Syndics. Yes. That was when things had started crumbling. Roope, For a few minutes the little Secretary stood indecisively by the phone, and knew that he could willingly murder the man. Instead he rang Morse's number at the Thames Valley HQ, but Morse was out, too. Not that it mattered much. He'd mention it to him in the morning.
Thirty
Mrs Seth arrived at a quarter to ten and made her way upstairs to the Board Room. She was the first of the Syndics to arrive, and as she sat down her thoughts drifted back ... back to the last time she had sat there, when she had recalled her father... when Roope had spoken... when Quinn had been appointed... The room was gradually filling up, and she acknowledged a few muted 'good mornings'; but the atmosphere was one of gloom, and the other Syndics sat down silently and let their own thoughts drift back, as she had done. Sometimes o
ne or two of the graduate staff attended Syndics' meetings, but only by invitation; and none was there this morning except Bartlett, whose tired, drawn face did little more than reflect the communal mood. A man was sitting next to Bartlett, but she didn't know him. Must be from the police. Pleasant-looking man: about her own age - mid-, late-forties; going a bit thin on top; nice eyes, though they seemed to look at you and through you at the same time. There was another man, too - probably another policeman; but he was standing diffidently outside the magic circle, with a notebook in his hands.
At two minutes past ten, when all except one of the chairs were occupied, Bartlett stood up and in a sad and disillusioned little speech informed the assembly of the police suspicions -his own, too - that the integrity of their own foreign examinations had been irreparably impaired by the criminal behaviour of one or two people, people in whom the Syndicate had placed complete trust; that it was the view of Chief Inspector Morse ('on my right') that the deaths of Quinn and Ogleby were directly connected with this matter; that, after the clearing-up of the comparatively small Autumn examination, the activities of the Syndicate would necessarily be in abeyance until a complete investigation had been made; that the implications of a possible shut-down were far-reaching, and that the full cooperation of each and every member of the Syndicate would be absolutely essential. But such matters would have to wait; the purpose of their meeting this morning was quite different, as they would see.
The Dean thanked the Secretary and proceeded to add his own lugubrious thoughts on the future of the Syndicate; and as he tediously ummed and ahed his way along, it became clear that the Syndics were getting rather restless. Words were whispered along the tables: 'One or two, didn't Bartlett say?' Who do you think?' 'Why have we got the police here? They are the police, aren't they?'
The Dean finished at last, and the whispering finished, too. It was a strange reversal of the natural order, and Mrs Seth thought it had everything to do with the man seated on Bartlett's right, who thus far had sat impassively in his chair, occasionally running the index finger of his left hand along the side of his nose. She saw Bartlett turn towards Morse and look at him quizzically; and in turn she saw Morse nod slightly, before slowly rising to his feet.
