Ngaio Marsh - The Nursing Home Murder

“Er — yes, I think so. Yes.”

“Which way did the patient lie?”

“Head here. Eastward position, eh? Ha ha!”

“I see. There would be a trolley alongside the table, perhaps?”

“It would be wheeled away as soon as the patient was taken off it.”

“That’s the side table, over by the windows, where the syringes were set out?”

“That’s it.”

“Can you show me just where you all stood at the time each of the injections was given? Wait a bit — I’ll make a sort of plan. My memory’s hopeless. Damn, where’s my pencil?”

Alleyn opened his notebook and produced a small rule from his pocket. He measured the floor space, made a tiny plan and marked the positions of the two tables, and, as Thoms instructed him, those of the surgeons and nurses.

“Sir John would be here, about half-way along the table, isn’t it? I stood opposite there. Marigold hovered round here, and the other two moved about a bit.”

“Yes. Well, where, as near as you can give it, would they all be for the operation?”

“The surgeons and anæsthetist where I have shown you. Marigold on Sir John’s right and the other two somewhere in the background.”

“And for the camphor injection?”

“As before, except for the Bolshie, who gave it. She would be here, by the patient’s arm, you see.”

“Did you watch Nurse Banks give this injection?”

“Don’t think so. I wouldn’t notice. Probably wouldn’t see her hands — they’d be hidden by the little screen across the patient’s chest.”

“Oh. I’ll take a look at that afterwards if I may. Now the anti-gas injection.”

“That was after Sir John had sewed him up. I dressed the wound and asked for the serum. I damned that girl to heaps for keeping me waiting — felt rather a brute when she hit the floor two minutes later — what? I stood here, on the inside of the table; Sir John was opposite; Marigold had moved round to my side. Roberts and Banks, if that’s her name, were fussing round over the patient, and Roberts kept bleating about the pulse and so on. They were both at the patient’s head.”

“Wait a bit. I’ll fix those positions. Perhaps I’ll get you to help me to reconstruct the operation later on. You have no doubts; I suppose, about it being the correct syringe — the one you used, I mean?”

“None. It seemed to be perfectly in order.”

“Was there any marked change in the patient’s condition after this injection?”

“Roberts is the man to ask about that. My own idea is that he was worried about the patient for some time before I gave the injection. He asked for camphor, remember. Naturally, you’ll think, I want to stress that point. Well, inspector, so I do. I suppose the serum injection is the dangerous corner as far as I’m concerned. Still, I did not prepare the syringe and I could hardly palm it and produce another from behind my left ear. Could I? What? Ha ha ha!”

“Let’s have a look at it,” said Alleyn imperturbably, “and we’ll see.”

Thoms went to one of the shelves and returned with a syringe at the sight of which the inspector gave a little shout of horror.

“Good God, Mr. Thoms, are you a horse-coper? You don’t mean to tell me you jabbed that horror into the poor man? It’s the size of a fire extinguisher!”

Thoms stared at him and then roared with laughter. “He didn’t feel it. Oh, yes, we plugged it into him. Well, now, I could hardly produce a thing like that by sleight of hand, could I?”

“Heavens, no! Put it away, do; it makes me feel quite sick. A disgusting, an indecent, a revolting implement.”

Thoms made a playful pass at the inspector, who seized the syringe and bore it away. He examined it, uttering little noises of disgust.

“This is the type used for the other two injections,” explained Thoms, who had been peering into the array of instruments. He showed Alleyn a hypodermic syringe of the sort familiar to the layman.

“Sufficiently alarming, but not so preposterous. This would be the kind of thing Dr. Roberts handled?”

“Yes — or rather, no. Roberts didn’t give the camphor injection. The nurse gave it.”

“Oh, yes. Is that usual?”

“It’s quite in order. Generally speaking, that injection is given by the anæsthetist, but there’s nothing in his asking the nurse to give it.”

“This needle’s a delicate-looking thing. I suppose you never carry a syringe about ready for use?”

“Lord, no! In the theatre, of course, they are laid out all complete.”

“Would you mind filling this one for me?”

He gave Thoms a small syringe. The surgeon poured some water into a measuring-glass, inserted the needle and pulled back the piston.

“There you are. If a tablet’s used, the usual procedure is to squirt the syringe half full into the glass, dissolve the tablet, and then draw it up again.”

“The whole business only takes a few seconds?”

“Well — the tablet has to dissolve. In the case of the serum and the camphor the stuff was there ready.”

“Yes, I’ve got that. May I see the bottle the serum is kept in?”

“It’s not kept in a bottle, but in ampoules which hold the exact amount and are then thrown away. There aren’t any kicking about in the theatre. I’ll beat some up for you to see if you like.”

“Very good of you, Mr. Thoms. I’m being a crashing bore, I’m afraid.”

Thoms protested his freedom from boredom and fussed away. Alleyn prowled meditatively round the theatre until the fat man returned.

“Here we are,” said Thoms cheerfully. “Here are ampoules of oil and camphor. Here’s the antigas serum and here’s the hyoscine solution. All labelled, as you see. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll set out the table as it would have been for the op. How will that do you?”

“Splendid!”

“Let’s see now — ampoules here, serum there. Here’s the bottle of hyoscine solution; thought you’d want to see that too. Old-fashioned idea — it should be in ampoules, but matron’s a bit of a dug-out.”

“The bottle’s nearly full, I see.”

“Yes. I believe one injection had been given.”

Alleyn noted mentally that this tallied with Nurse Harden’s and the scally’s impression that the bottle had been full before the operation and had since been used once.

“Can anyone have access to this bottle?” asked Alleyn suddenly.

“What? Oh, yes — any of the theatre staff.”

“May I have a small amount — I may have to get it tested?”

He produced a tiny bottle from his pocket and Thoms, looking rather intrigued, filled it with the solution.

“There you are. Now — where were we? Oh! Along here, small syringe for the camphor, another small syringe for the hyoscine — they hold twenty-five minims each. That would be the one Sir John would use for his tablet. Now the whopper for the serum. It holds ten c.c.’s.”

“Ten cc’s?”

“That’s about a hundred and sixty minims,” explained Thoms.

“What’s that in gallons?”

Thoms looked at the inspector as if he had uttered something in Chinese and then burst out laughing.

“Not quite as solid at that,” he said. “One hundred and sixty minims is equal to two and two-thirds drachms. That any better?”

“Not much,” grumbled Alleyn. “The dawn may break later on. I’m talking like Nurse Banks. What’s the strength of this hyoscine?”

“Quarter per cent”

“But — what does that mean? They’ll have to get someone cleverer than me for this game.”

“Cheer up. It’s one grain in one point one ounces of water.”

“That sounds as though it means something. I must look up those horrid little things at the end of an arithmetic-book. Wait a moment, now. Don’t say a word, Mr. Thoms, if you please,” begged Alleyn. “I’m doing sums.”