Ngaio Marsh - The Nursing Home Murder

Fox told him the whole story, dwelling a little on the letters.

“I see,” said Alleyn. “And she’s hell-bent on an inquest?”

“That she is. If we won’t do anything, she’s going to the Prime Minister. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he, sir?”

“I know the old creature, yes. As a matter of fact, he summoned me to the presence on another matter about a fortnight ago and we had an Oppenheimian conversation about anarchists. He was very perturbed and asked me if I didn’t consider O’Callaghan would be in personal danger if he pushed the Bill. Well, one never knows, and I said so. Some bright young Communist might bowl a bomb. As a matter of cold fact, I greatly doubt it. They do a certain amount of mischief, they’re an almighty nuisance, but as murderers I’ve no real faith in the British anarchist. Anarchist! The word is vieux jeu .”

“I suppose that’s French?”

“Quite right, Fox. I always said you had a flair for languages.”

“I’m teaching myself with the gramophone. All the same, sir, these anarchists are no joke.”

“Of course they’re not. The P.M., as I believe the member for Little Squidgemere calls him, thought O’Callaghan ought to have police protection. I quite agreed. I couldn’t very well do anything else. O’Callaghan pooh-poohed the idea. As you know, we were looking after him in our unassuming way. On the afternoon of the Cabinet Meeting, when they decided to introduce the Bill, I went along to Downing Street myself. I’d got wind of that insufferable nuisance Nicholas Kakaroff, and found him standing about in the street, dressed up as something rather ridiculous — a photographer, I think. He made off, with all his infra-red rays and whatnot, as soon as he saw me. I took a taxi and followed O’Callaghan home. We were alongside each other at one moment. He turned up the lights in his car and I returned the compliment.”

“His servants are all right, aren’t they?” asked Fox. “Oh, yes; we went as far as that. But, of course, we couldn’t do much without O’Callaghan’s permission or knowledge.”

“No. I think her ladyship suspects the surgeon or the girl.”

“ ‘The Surgeon or the Girl’ — it sounds like a talkie. Sir John Phillips is a very able man and handy, so I understand, with the knife. She thinks he dug it into an unlawful spot, because O’Callaghan had been interfering with his girl — is that it?”

“She thinks Sir Derek was poisoned, otherwise that seems to be the general idea, but of course his letter isn’t very explicit.”

“Have you got the letters?”

“Yes. Here they are.” Alleyn read them carefully.

“You know, Fox, hundreds of people write letters like these without planning murder.”

“Isn’t that what I tried to tell her!”

“My poor Foxkin! See if you can find the Press report of his death.”

Fox produced a paper.

“I brought it with me,” he said.

“You think of everything. Here we are. He died an hour after the operation was over. The anæsthetist was worried… peritonitis… ruptured abscess… ‘unwilling to turn aside from the gigantic task’… he’d neglected his tummy, evidently. It sounds straightforward enough, and yet— ”

Alleyn took the tip of his straight nose between his thumb and finger and pulled it thoughtfully.

“Oh, lard!” he said sadly. “I’ll have to go and see the lady.”

Fox looked relieved.

“If there’s anything in it,” he reflected, “it’ll be a hell of a big case. What you call”—he paused selfconsciously—“a cause célèbre .”

“It will indeed,” said Alleyn, who never made too much fun of anybody. “I wonder if she would see me this evening?”

“I’m certain she would, sir.”

“I’ll ask.”

Alleyn rang up the house in Catherine Street. “Is that Lady O’Callaghan’s house? Is it her butler speaking? Chief Inspector Alleyn, Scotland Yard, here. Will you ask her ladyship if I may call on her to-night at any time that” would suit her? Inspector Alleyn, yes. Thank you.”

He stared absent-mindedly at Fox while he waited for the reply.

“At nine o’clock. Thank you so much.” He hung up the receiver. “I’m for it,” he said.

After Fox had gone Alleyn sat and gazed at the opposite wall for twenty minutes. Then he rang up the divisional surgeon and talked to him about the human appendix, peritonitis and anæsthetics. Then he went to his flat near Coventry Street, bathed, changed into a dinner-jacket, dined, and read the first scene in Hamlet , to which he was partial. By that time it was twenty to nine. He decided to walk to Catherine Street. His servant, Vassily, [See A Man Lay Dead ] helped him into his overcoat.

“Vassily,” said Alleyn, “do you ever see anything of your disreputable pals — The Pan-Soviet Brotherhood, or whatever they were — nowadays?”

“No, sir. Not now am I such a foolish old rascal. I am one bite too shy.”

“So I should hope, you old donkey. You don’t happen to remember hearing any gossip about Nicholas Kakaroff?”

Vassily crossed himself lavishly from right to left.

“ Hospodi bozhe moy ! He is one of the most worst of them,” he said energetically. “A bad fellow. Before the Soviet he was young and anything but conserff-a-tiff. After the Soviet he was older and always up to no-good. The Soviet pleased him no better than the Romanoffs. So sometimes he was killing officials, and at last he has heated up Russia for himself too much, so has come to England.”

“Where he seems to have been given the usual hearty welcome. Yes, I knew all that, Vassily. Thank you. Don’t wait up. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.” Vassily laid his hand on Alleyn’s sleeve. “Please, sir,” he said, “have no business with Nicolai Alexovitch — he is a very bad rascal.”

“Well, you ought to know,” Alleyn remarked lightly, and went out smiling to himself.

At Catherine Street he was received by Nash, who stared like a boiled owl at the inspector. Nash, who carried in his head a sort of social ladder, had quietly decided that police officers of all ranks were to be graded with piano-tuners. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn did not conform, in appearance or in manner, to this classification. Nash performed a reluctant mental somersault.

“Lady O’Callaghan?” asked Alleyn.

“Her ladyship is expecting you, sir.” Alleyn gave him his hat and overcoat. Nash said: “Thank you, sir,” and waddled off towards the study. Alleyn followed him. Nash opened the door.

“Mr. Alleyn, m’lady,” he said. Obviously the degrading titles were better omitted. Alleyn walked in.

Cicely O’Callaghan sat before the fire in her husband’s arm-chair. As Alleyn came in she rose to her feet and looked serenely at him.

“How do you do?” she said.

“How do you do? I am extremely sorry to bother you, Lady O’Callaghan.”

He thought: “Golly, she is like Ratsbane!”

“But I wished to see you. It is good of you to come so promptly.”

“Not a bit.” This was an exceedingly polite introduction to a murder story.

“Do sit down. I suppose the man who came here this afternoon has told you my reason for communicating with the police?”

“I believe Inspector Fox gave me a full account of your conversation.”

“Yes. I am convinced that my husband was murdered — probably poisoned.”

“I am sorry that in addition to your grief you should suffer the pain occasioned by such a suspicion,” said Alleyn and wondered how long they were to make speeches at each other.

“Thank you. Do you agree with me that the circumstances warrant an inquest?”

“I think I should like to hear a little more about them. I have read the letters.”