Ngaio Marsh - The Nursing Home Murder

“Perhaps you realise why I am here?” he said.

“Not altogether, sir,” murmured Nash composedly.

“It is in connection with Sir Derek’s death.”

Nash bowed very slightly.

“If I ask you a question,” Alleyn continued, “you must understand there is no obligation to answer if you don’t want to. I particularly do not wish the matter mentioned in or out of the servants’ hall. You understand?”

“Certainly, sir,” said Nash quietly.

“I believe I can depend on you. How long have you been with Sir Derek?”

“Twenty years, sir. I was footman to his father.”

“Yes. Did you hear Sir John Phillips say anything to your master the last time he came here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was it?”

“ ‘If the opportunity presented itself, I should have no hesitation in putting you out of the way.’ Those were the exact words, sir.”

“I see. Have you told anyone about this?”

“Mr. Jameson, sir. I considered it my duty. No one in the hall has any idea of the incident, sir.”

“What did Mr. Jameson think about it?”

“He appeared to attach no importance to it, sir.”

“No? Thank you, Nash.”

“Thank you very much, sir. Shall I get you a taxi, sir?”

“No, I’ll walk. Good night.”

“Good evening, sir.”

Nash opened the door and Alleyn went out into the street. He paused a moment to light a cigarette. He had taken a few steps along the pavement when he heard something that made him pause and turn.

Ronald Jameson had come out of the house and hurried after him, bareheaded.

“Please forgive me, sir,” he said hurriedly, “but I felt I must have another word with you. It was rather difficult with Lady O’Callaghan present. About these ideas of hers. I’m certain there’s nothing in it. Sir Derek was a man of the world and — and, of course, he had his relaxations. She seems very cold and all that, but I believe she was frightfully jealous and she wants to punish this girl. I’m sure that’s all it is.”

“Oh. Why should she want to punish Sir John Phillips as well as Miss Harden?”

“Oh, Lord knows. You can’t tell with women, sir, can you?”

“I haven’t tried,” said Alleyn.

“I expect you think it frightful cheek, my butting in like this, but, you see, I — well, Sir Derek was rather a marvellous person to me, and I simply loathe the idea of everything being dragged out and made public. It’s a ghastly thought.”

Something of Ronald’s semi-diplomatic air of winning tactfulness still appeared in his rather dishevelled manner. He gazed with anxious deference into Alleyn’s sardonic face. The inspector cocked an eyebrow.

“And yet,” he said, “I imagine, if Sir Derek was actually killed, you would rather the murderer didn’t get off scot-free?”

“Yes, but, you know, I’m sure he wasn’t. Those two letters didn’t mean anything — I thought so at— ”

Ronald stopped short.

“Were you about to say ‘at the time’?” inquired Alleyn.

“I meant at the time Lady O’Callaghan found them.”

“Where were the letters kept, Mr. Jameson?”

“In his private drawer,” said Ronald with a very red face.

“And the keys?”

“Er — oh, usually in the desk.”

“I see. Well, we must pursue the subject no more until we discover whether Sir Derek was murdered.”

“I’m absolutely certain there’s nothing in it, sir.”

“I hope you are right. Good night.”

“Thank you so much, sir,” said Ronald, all eager and charming. “Good night.”

Alleyn swung his stick up, turned on his heel, and walked away. Ronald gazed after the long, elegant figure for some seconds. His fingers fidgeted with his tie. Then he looked up at the windows of the house, slightly shrugged his shoulders, and ran up the steps and through the door.

Alleyn heard the door slam. As he turned out of Catherine Street towards Buckingham Gate he began to whistle Ophelia’s song:

“He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone;

At his head a grass-green turf,

At his heels a stone.”

Monday, the fifteenth. Afternoon.

Everybody talks to me about ‘P.M.s,’ ” complained Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn to Inspector Fox on Monday afternoon, “and I never know whether they mean post-mortem or Prime Minister. Really, it’s very difficult when you happen to be involved with both.”

“It must be,” said Fox dryly. “How’s the case going?”

“It’s too young to be called a case. So far it’s only a naughty thought. As you know, Lady O’Callaghan urged the inquest and threatened to appeal to the P.M. However, the coroner ordered the inquest, which opened on Saturday a.m. and was adjourned for a P.M. which has been going on during the week-end p.m. and a.m. You see how tricky it all is?”

“I can see you’re worried, chief.”

“When you call me ‘chief,’ Fox, I feel like a cross between an Indian brave and one of those men with jaws and cigars in gangster films.”

“Okay, chief,” said Fox imperturbably. “It’s a big job, this,” he added somberly.

“It is,” said Alleyn. “I don’t mind admitting I was nervous over the inquest. I should have looked remarkably silly if it had gone the other way and no P.M. had been ordered.”

“It might very easily have happened. Phillips did his best to put the kybosh on a post-mortem.”

“You thought so?”

“Well — didn’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Oh, yes.”

“Of course,” said Fox slowly, “an innocent man in his position would have been anxious for a P.M.”

“Not if he thought someone else had done the trick.”

“Oh,” Fox ruminated. “That’s the big idea, is it, sir?”

“It’s only one idea — possibly a silly one. What did you think of the matron’s contribution to the evidence? Sister Marigold?”

“Couldn’t make her out at all and that’s a fact. She seemed to welcome the inquest. She obviously resented any hint of criticism against Sir John Phillips.”

“She made one or two very acid remarks about the other nurse — Nurse Banks.”

“Yes. Now, that struck me as rum, too, sir, No suggestion of anything as regards the Harden girl, but when Nurse Banks was mentioned— ”

“She bridled like a Persian,” said Alleyn. “I know— ‘rum’s’ the word, Fox.”

“The medical witnesses are always a bit trying in a case like this,” reflected Inspector Fox. “On the defensive, as you might say. They all pull together.”

“Now that’s exactly what I thought they did not do. I’ve just read over the shorthand report of the inquest and the thing that struck me all of a heap was that the hospital gang seemed to be playing a sort of tig-in-the-dark game. Or rather tug-of-war in the dark. They wanted to pull together, but didn’t know which way to pull. Here’s the report. Let us go over it, shall we? Where’s your pipe?”

They lit up. Alleyn shoved a carbon copy of the verbatim report on the inquest across to his subordinate.

“First you get straight-out evidence on the operation. Phillips said Sir Derek O’Callaghan, suffering from a ruptured abscess of the appendix, was admitted to the Brook Street hospital. He examined the patient, advised an immediate operation, which, at Lady O’Callaghan’s request, he undertook to perform himself. Peritonitis was found. The anæsthetist was Dr. Roberts, engaged for the job because the usual man was unavailable. Phillips says Roberts used all possible care and he can find no fault in that department. Thoms, the assistant, agrees. So do Sister Marigold and the two nurses. Before he began, Phillips injected hyoscine, his usual procedure for all operations. For this injection he used tablets he brought with him, saying that he preferred them to the solution in the theatre, as hyoscine is an extremely tricky drug. ‘All care taken, no responsibility accepted,’ one feels moved to remark. He prepared the syringe himself. At the end of the operation a concoction prettily named ‘ Concentrated Gas-Gangrene Antitoxin ,’ used in cases of peritonitis, was injected. The serum, together with a large syringe, was laid out by Nurse Banks before the operation. It was a commercial preparation kept in an ampoule from which she simply filled the syringe. Nurse Harden fetched the syringe and gave it to Thoms, who injected the stuff. Meanwhile Roberts, the anæsthetist, had got all hot and hectic about the patient’s heart and had asked for an injection of camphor, which was prepared and given by the elder nurse. They then tacked up the tear in the tummy and away went the patient. He died an hour later, presumably, one longs to say, of heart-failure, but my medical friends tell me that’s as good as saying ‘he died of dying.’ So we can only murmur humbly ‘he died as the result of an operation which, apart from this little incident, was a howling success.’ ”