Ngaio Marsh - The Nursing Home Murder

“You can be pretty cold-blooded yourself, Alleyn,” said Nigel indignantly.

“Oh, yes,” said Alleyn, “but I’m an official.”

“Anyway,” argued Angela, “I was betting on Dr. Roberts’s innocence.”

“So you were.”

“And, anyway,” said Nigel, “I think he did it”

“How?”

“Er — well — somehow. With an injection.”

“He gave no injections.”

“Who could have done it?” asked Angela. “I mean who had the opportunity?”

“Phillips, who prepared and gave an injection. The special, who was alone with the patient. Ruth, ditto. Banks, who prepared and gave an injection. Thoms gave an injection, but did not prepare it. He was alone in the theatre for a few minutes if Phillips and the matron are telling the truth. He used the big syringe, and as he quite frankly pointed out, he could hardly have palmed another. Jane Harden had time to empty it and refill with hyoscine.”

“Which of them do you say were alone in the theatre before the operation?”

“All the nurses, Thoms and Phillips had the chance to be there, I suppose.”

“Not Roberts?” asked Nigel.

“I think not. He went straight to the anæsthetic-room, where he was joined by the special with the patient.”

“Bad luck, darling,” said Angela. “It really looks as though he’s the only man who couldn’t have murdered Sir Derek.”

“Then he’s a certainty,” declared Nigel. “Isn’t it true that when there’s a cast-iron alibi the police always prick up their ears?”

“Personally, I let mine flop with a thankful purr,” said Alleyn. “But you may be right. This is scarcely an alibi. Roberts was there; he merely had no hypodermic to give and no syringe to use.”

“And no motive,” added Angela.

“Look for the motive,” said Nigel.

“I will,” said Alleyn. “There’s precious little else to look for. Has it occurred to you, if the lethal injection was given during the operation, how extraordinarily favourable the mise en scène was for the murderer? As soon as a patient is wheeled away they set to work, and as far as I can see, they literally scour out the theatre. Nothing is left — everything is washed, sterilised, polished. The syringes — the dishes — the instruments— the floor — the tables. Even the ampoules that held the injections are cast into outer darkness. If you wanted to think of a perfect place to get rid of your tracks, you couldn’t choose a likelier spot.” He got up and looked at his watch.

“He wants us to go,” remarked Angela calmly.

“It’s only eleven o’clock,” murmured Alleyn. “I wondered if you’d both care to do a job of work for me?”

“What sort of job?” they asked.

“Attend a Bolshevik meeting at midnight.”

“To-night?”

“To-night.”

“I’d adore to,” said Angela quickly. “Where is it? What’s the time? What do we do?”

“It’ll be a bit of copy for you, Bathgate,” said Alleyn. “Mr. Nicholas Kakaroff, agent of a certain advanced section of Soviet propagandists, is holding a meeting at Lenin Hall, Saltarrow Street, Blackfriars. Lenin Hall is a converted warehouse. Mr. Kakaroff is a converted minor official, originally from Krakov. I feel sure Kakaroff is a made-up name. ‘Kakaroff of Krakov’—it’s too good to be really true, don’t you feel? There’s an air of unreality about his whole gang. As far as we know, they are not officially recognised by Russia or any other self-respecting country. Your genuine Soviet citizen is an honest-to-God sort of chap in his own way, once you get past his prejudices. But these fellows are grotesques — illegitimate offsprings of the I.W.W. You’ll see. Nurse Banks attends the meeting. So do we. Myself disguised and feeling silly. Banks might penetrate my disguise, which would not be in the great tradition, so you sit next to her and get her confidence. You have been given your tickets by one Mr. Marcus Barker, who will not be there. He’s an English sympathiser at present in custody for selling prohibited literature. He has a bookshop in Long Acre. Don’t talk about him; you’d get into a mess if you did. I want you to pump the lady. You are enthusiastic converts. Let her hear that from your conversation together and leave it to her to make friends. If you can do it artistically, rejoice over O’Callaghan’s death. Now wait a moment — I want to ring Fox up. Here, read this pamphlet and see if you can get down some of the line of chat.”

He looked in his desk, produced a pamphlet bound in a vermillion folder, entitled “The Soviet Movement in Britain, by Marcus Barker.” Angela and Nigel sat side by side and began to read it.

Alleyn rang up Fox, who was at the Yard.

“Hullo, Brer Fox. Any news?”

“Hullo, sir. Well, I don’t know that I’ve got any thing much for you. Inspector Boys checked up on that heredity business. It seems to be quite O.K. Sir Derek’s father was what you might call a bit wanting, very queer old gentleman he seems to have been. There’s a great-uncle who fancied he was related to the Royal Family and did himself in a very peculiar manner with a hedger’s knife, and a great-aunt who started some religious affair and had to be shut up over it. She was always undressing herself, it seems.”

“Really? What about Ruth?”

“Well, as soon as you rang off, I called at Miss O’Callaghan’s house to inspect the hot-water cistern and I had a cup of tea with the cook and the housemaid. They were both rather talkative ladies and full of l’affaire O’Callaghan ,” said Fox with one of his excursions into French. “They like Miss O’Callaghan all right, but they think she’s a bit eccentric. It seems she was very much attached to her brother and it seems she’s very thick with this chemist affair — Mr. Harold Sage. It seems he visits her a great deal. The housemaid gave it as her opinion that they were courting. Miss O’Callaghan takes a lot of his medicines.”

“Say it with soda-mints? Anything more?”

“One useful bit of information, sir. Mr. Sage is a Communist.”

“The devil he is! Bless me, Fox, that’s a plum. Sure?”

“Oh, yes — quite certain, I should say. He’s always leaving his literature about. Cook showed me a pamphlet. One of the Marcus Barker lot, it was.”,

Alleyn glanced through the study door at Nigel and Angela sitting very close together, their heads bent over the vermilion leaflet.

“Did you gather if Miss O’Callaghan sympathised with these views?” he asked.

At the other end of the telephone Fox blew his nose thoughtfully.

“Well, no; it seems not. Nina, that’s the housemaid, said she thought the lady was trying to influence him the other way. She gave it as her opinion that Sir Derek would have had a fit if he’d known what was going on.”

“Highly probable. You’ve done a good bit of work there, Fox. What a success you are with the ladies!”

“I’m more at home below-stairs,” said Fox simply, “and the cook was a very nice sort of woman. Is that all, sir?”

“Unless you’ve any more gossip. See you later.”

“That’s right, sir. Au revoir .”

“Bung-oh, you old devil.”

Alleyn returned to the study and repeated the gist of Fox’s information. “See if you can hear anything of this Sage who is Miss O’Callaghan’s soul-mate,” he said. “He may be there to-night. Bathgate, I’m just going to change. Won’t be five minutes. Ask Vassily to call a taxi and give yourself a drink.”

He vanished into his tiny dressing-room, where they heard him whistling very sweetly in a high key.

“Darling,” said Nigel, “this is like old times. You and I on the warpath.”

“I won’t have you getting into trouble,” said Angela. “You did last time, you know.”