Ngaio Marsh - The Nursing Home Murder

“Good night, Dr. Roberts.”

Alleyn walked, slowly down Wigmore Street. He reflected that in some ways his last interview had been one of the oddest in his experience. What a curious little man! There had been no affectation in that scientific outburst. The inspector could recognise genuine enthusiasm when he met it. Roberts was in a blue funk over the O’Callaghan business, yet the mere mention of his pet subject could drive any feeling of personal danger clean out of his head. “He’s very worried about something, though,” thought Alleyn, “and it rather looks as thought it’s Phillips. Phillips! Damn. I want my Boswell. Also, I want my dinner.”

He walked to Frascati’s and dined alone, staring so fixedly at the tablecloth that his waiter grew quite nervous about it. Then he rang up Fox and gave him certain instructions, after which he took a taxi to Chester Terrace to call on his Boswell.

“And I suppose the young ass will be out,” thought Alleyn bitterly.

But Nigel Bathgate was at home. When the front door opened Alleyn heard the brisk patter of a typewriter. He walked sedately upstairs, pushed open the sitting-room door and looked in. There was Nigel, seated bloomily at his machine, with a pile of copy-paper in a basket beside it.

“Hullo, Bathgate,” said Alleyn. “Busy?”

Nigel jumped, turned in his chair, and then grinned.

“You!” he said happily. “I’m glad to see you, inspector. Take a pew.”

He pushed forward a comfortable chair and clapped down a cigarette-box on the broad arm. The telephone rang. Nigel cursed and answered it. “Hullo!” A beatific change came over him. “Good evening, darling.” Alleyn smiled. “Who do you imagine I’ve got here? An old friend of yours. Inspector Alleyn. Yes. Why not hop into a taxi and pay us a visit? You will? Splendid. He’s probably in difficulties and wants our help. Yes. Right.” He hung up the receiver and turned, beaming, to Alleyn.

“It’s Angela,” he said. Miss Angela North was Nigel’s betrothed.

“So I imagined,” remarked the inspector. “I shall be delighted to see the minx again.”

“She’s thrilled at the prospect herself,” Nigel declared. He made up the fire, glanced anxiously at his desk and made an effort to tidy it

“I’ve just been writing you up,” he informed Alleyn.

“What the devil do you mean? What have I got to do with your perverted rag?”

“We’re hard up for a story and you’ve got a certain news value, you know. ‘The case is in the hands of Chief Detective-Inspector Roderick Alleyn, the most famous crime expert of the C.I.D. Inspector Alleyn is confident— ’ Are you confident, by the way?”

“Change it to ‘inscrutable.’ When I’m boxed I fall back on inscrutability.”

“Are you boxed?” asked Nigel. “That, of course, is why you’ve come to me. What can I do for you, inspector?”

“You can take that inordinately conceited look off your face and compose it into its customary mould of startled incredulity. I want to talk and I can think of no one who would really like to listen to me. Possibly you yourself are too busy?”

“I’ve finished, but wait until Angela comes.”

“Is she to be trusted? All right, all right.”

Nigel spent the next ten minutes telling Alleyn how deeply Miss Angela North was to be trusted. He was still in full swing when the young woman herself arrived. She greeted Alleyn as an old friend, lit a cigarette, sat on the hearth, and said:

“Now — what have you both been talking about?”

“Bathgate has talked about you, Miss Angela. I have not talked.”

“But you will. You were going to, and I can guess what about. Pretend I’m not here.”

“Can Bathgate manage that?”

“He’ll have to.”

“I won’t look at her,” said Nigel.

“You’d better not,” said Angela. “Please begin, Inspector Alleyn.”

“Speak!” said Nigel.

“I will. List, list, oh list.”

“I will.”

“Don’t keep interrupting. I am engaged on a murder case in which the victim is not a relation of yours, nor yet, as far as I know, is the murderer your friend. In view of our past experiences, this is very striking and remarkable.” [See Enter a Murderer and A Man Lay Dead .]

“Come off the rocks. I suppose you mean the O’Callaghan business?”

“I do. The man was murdered. At least three persons assisting at his operation had sufficient motive. Two of them had actually threatened him. No, that is not for publication. No, don’t argue. I’ll let you know when it is. I have reached that stage in the proceedings when, like heroines in French dramas, I must have my confidante. You are she. You may occasionally roll up your eyes and exclaim ‘ Hélas, quelle horreur !’ or, if you prefer it, ‘Merciful Heaven, can I believe my ears?’ Otherwise, beyond making sympathetic noises, don’t interrupt.”

“Right ho.”

Alleyn smiled amiably at him.

“You’re a patient cove, Bathgate, and I get much too facetious. It’s an infirmity — a disease. I do it when I’m bothered and this is a bothering case. Here’s the cast of characters, and, look here, the whole conversation is confidential.”

“Oh murder!” said Nigel. This was a favourite ejaculation of his. “It hurts, but again— Right you are.”

“Thank you. As you know, O’Callaghan either took or was given an overdose of hyoscine. At least a quarter of a grain. He never recovered consciousness after his operation. As far as the experts can tell us, the stuff must have been given within the four hours preceding his death, but I’m not fully informed on that point. Now — dramatis personae. You’ll know most of them from the inquest. Wife — the ice-maiden type. Knew her husband occasionally kicked over the traces. Too proud to fight. Urged inquest. Sister — rum to a degree and I think has gone goofy on a chemist who supplied her with patent medicines. Urged patent medicines on brother Derek on bedder-sickness in hospital prior to operation. Now very jumpy and nervous. Private secretary — one of the new young men. Semi-diplomatic aroma. All charm and engaging manners. Friend of Mr. Bathgate, so may be murderer. Name, Ronald Jameson. Any comment?”

“Young Ronald? Gosh, yes. I’d forgotten he’d nailed that job. You’ve described him. He’s all right, really.”

“I can’t bear the little creature,” said Angela vigorously. “Sorry!” she added hurriedly.

“Surgeon — Sir John Phillips. Distinguished gent. Friend of victim till victim took his girl away for a week-end and then dropped her. Severed friendship. Visited victim and scolded him. In hearing of butler expressed burning desire to kill victim. Wrote letter to same effect. Subsequently operated on victim, who then died. That makes you blanch, I see. Injected hyoscine which he prepared himself. Very unusual in surgeons, but he always does it. No real proof he didn’t give overdose. No proof he did. Assistant surgeon — Thoms. Comedian. Solemn warning to Inspector Alleyn not to be facetious. Injected serum with thing like a pump. Was in the theatre alone before operation, but said he wasn’t. This may be forgetfulness. Could have doctored serum-pump, but no known reason why he should. Anaesthetist — Dr. Roberts. Funny little man. Writes books about heredity and will talk on same for hours. Good taste in books, pictures and house decoration. Nervous. Very scared when murder is mentioned. In past killed patient with overdose of morphia, so won’t give any injections now. Matron of hospital — Sister Marigold. Genteel. Horrified. Could have doctored serum, but imagination boggles at thought. First theatre nurse — Banks, a Bolshie. Expressed delight at death of O’Callaghan, whom she considered enemy of proletariat. Attends meetings held by militant Communists who had threatened O’Callaghan. Gave camphor injection. Second theatre nurse — Jane Harden. Girl friend mentioned above. Spent weekend with deceased and cut up rough when he ended affair. Brought anti-gas syringe to Thoms. Delayed over it. Subsequently fainted. You may well look startled. It’s a rich field, isn’t it?”