Ngaio Marsh - The Nursing Home Murder

“Oh, yes. Mr. Thoms said— ” She stopped short.

“What did Mr. Thoms say?”

“Heard him say before the op. that a quarter-grain would be a fatal dose.”

“How did the subject arise?”

“Don’t remember.”

“I understand you prepared and gave the camphor injection and prepared the anti-gas injection.”

“Yes. I didn’t put hyoscine in either if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No doubt there will be some means of proving that,” said Alleyn smoothly. “I shall have the matter investigated, of course.”

“You’d better,” snorted Banks.

“Sir John prepared and gave the hyoscine.”

“Well, what if he did? Sir John Phillips wouldn’t poison his worst enemy in the theatre. Too much the little surgeon.”

“I’m glad you think so,” said Alleyn mildly.

Banks was silent.

“I hear you look upon the affair as a dispensation of Providence,” he added.

“I am an agnostic. I said ‘if’.”

“ ‘If’?”

“If I wasn’t, I would.”

“Oh,” said Alleyn. “It’s cryptic, but I get you. Can you tell me which members of the party were alone in the theatre before the operation?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Do try. Do you remember if you were?”

“No. Phillips was. Thoms was.”

“When?”

“Just before they washed up. We were in the anteroom. Phillips came in first and that little fool followed him.”

“Meaning Mr. Thoms?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“Are you going to hear Nicholas Kakaroff speak to-night?”

This was a shot in the dark. Kakaroff was to address a large meeting of Soviet sympathisers. The Yard would think it worth while to put in an amiable appearance. Nurse Banks threw up her chin and glared at him.

“I shall be proud to be there,” she said loudly.

“That’s the spirit!” cried Alleyn.

Inspired perhaps by fiery recollections of former meetings, Nurse Banks suddenly came out strong with a speech.

“You may stand there with a smile on your lips,” she stormed, “but you won’t smile for long. I know your type — the gentleman policeman — the latest development of the capitalist system. You’ve got where you are by influence while better men do bigger work for a slave’s pittance. You’ll go, and all others like you, when the Dawn breaks. You think I killed Derek O’Callaghan. I didn’t, but I’ll tell you this much — I should be proud — proud, do you hear, if I had.”

She reeled all this out with remarkable fluency, as though it was a preposterous recitation. Alleyn had a swift picture of her covering her friends’ suburban tea-parties with exquisite confusion. Small wonder the other nurses fought shy of her.

“Do you know, nurse,” he said, “until the Dawn does break I rather think I’d pipe down a bit if I were you. Unless you really fancy the martyr’s crown, you’re talking like a remarkably silly woman. You had as good a chance as anyone else of pumping hyoscine into the deceased. You’re now shrieking your motive into my capitalist face. I’m not threatening you. No, you’d better not say anything more at the moment, but when the mantle of Mr. Kakaroff is laid aside you may think it advisable to make a statement. Until then, Nurse Banks, if you’ll forgive me the suggestion, I should really pipe down. Will you tell Nurse Harden I’m ready?”

He opened the door for her. She stood for a moment staring above his head. Then she walked to the door, paused, and looked directly at him.

“I’ll tell you this much,” she said. “Neither Phillips nor Harden did it. Phillips is a conscientious surgeon and Harden is a conscientious nurse. They are hidebound by their professional code, both of them.”

With which emphatic assertion she left him. Alleyn screwed his face sideways and opened his notebook.

Here, in an incredibly fine and upright hand he wrote: “Thoms — conversation about hyoscine,” and after a moment’s hesitation: “P. and H. — hidebound by their professional code, says the B.”

He wrote busily, shut his little book, glanced up, and gave a start of surprise. Jane Harden had come in so quietly that he had not heard her, There she stood, her fingers twisted together, staring at the inspector. He had thought at the inquest that she was very good-looking. Now, with the white veil behind it, the extreme pallor of her face was less emphatic. She was beautiful, with that peculiar beauty that covers delicate bone. The contour of the forehead and cheek-bones, the little hollows of the temples, and the fine-drawn arches of the eyes had the quality of a Holbein drawing. The eyes themselves were a very dark grey, the nose absolutely straight and the mouth, rather too small, with dropping corners, was at once sensuous and obstinate.

“I beg your pardon,” said Alleyn; “I did not hear you come in. Please sit down.”

He pulled forward the nearest of the preposterous chairs, turning it towards the window. The afternoon had darkened and a chilly sort of gloom masked the ceiling and corners of the room. Jane Harden sat down and clasped the knobs of the chair-arms with long fingers that even the exigencies of nursing had not reddened.

“I expect you know why I’m here?” said Alleyn.

“What was the — is the post-mortem finished?” She spoke quite evenly, but with a kind of breathlessness.

“Yes. He was murdered. Hyoscine.”

She seemed to stiffen and became uncannily still.

“So the hunt is up,” added Alleyn calmly.

“Hyoscine,” she whispered. “Hyoscine. How much?”

“At least a quarter of a grain. Sir John injected a hundredth, he tells me. Therefore someone else gave the patient a little more than a fifth of a grain — six twenty-fifths, to be exact. It may have been more, of course. I don’t know if the post-mortem can be relied upon to account for every particle.”

“I don’t know either,” said Jane.

“There are one or two questions I must ask you.”

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid this is all very distressing for you. You knew Sir Derek personally, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“I’m terribly sorry to have to bother you. Let’s get it over as soon as possible. As regards the anti-gas injection. At the close of the operation Sir John or Mr. Thoms asked for it. Sister Marigold told you to get it. You went to a side table, where you found the syringe. Was it ready — prepared for use?”

“Yes.”

“At the inquest it appeared that you delayed a little while. Why was this?”

“There were two syringes. I felt faint and could not think, for a moment, which was the right one. Then Banks said: ‘The large syringe,’ and I brought it.”

“You did not hesitate because you thought there might be something wrong with the large syringe?”

This suggestion seemed to startle her very much. She moved her hands nervously and gave a soft exclamation.

“Oh! No. No—. Why should I think that?”

“Nurse Banks prepared this syringe, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” said Jane.

Alleyn was silent for a minute. He got up and walked across to the window. From where she sat his profile looked black, like a silhouette with blurred edges. He stared out at the darkening roofs. Something about a movement of his shoulders suggested a kind of distaste. He shoved his hands down into his trouser pockets and swung round, facing the room. He looked shadowy, but larger than life against the yellowish window-pane.

“How well did you know Sir Derek?” he asked suddenly. His voice sounded oddly flat in the thickly furnished room.

“Quite well,” she said after another pause.

“Intimately?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well — did you meet often — as friends, shall I say?”