Ngaio Marsh - The Nursing Home Murder

Nigel suppressed a slight start and checked an indignant glance.

“It’s a wonderful experience, Pippin,” he replied.

He felt Angela quiver.

“I wish I knew who everyone was,” she said. “We’re so out of touch. These are the people who are really getting things done and we don’t know their names. If only Mr. Barker had been here.”

“Ye gods, it makes me wild!” apostrophised Nigel. “And they call this a free country. Free!”

Angela, who was next to Banks, dared not look at her. Banks’s needles clicked resolutely.

“Do you think,” ventured Angela after a pause, “do you think we could ever make any headway down in the dear old village?”

“The dear old village, so quaint and old-world,” gibed Nigel. “So typically English, don’t you know. No, I don’t. The only headway you could make there would be with a charge of dynamite. God, I’d like to see it done!”

“They’ll all be in heavy mourning now, of course.”

“Yes — for Sir Derek Bloody O’Callaghan.”

They both laughed uproariously and then Angela said: “Ssh — be careful,” and glanced apprehensively at Banks. She was smiling.

“I wonder if he’s here yet?” whispered Angela.

“Who?”

“Kakaroff.”

“There’s someone going on to the platform now.”

“Claude! Can it be he?”

This exclamation sounded so incredible that she instantly regretted it and was infinitely relieved to hear Miss Banks remark in a firm baritone:

“Comrade Kakaroff isn’t here yet. That’s Comrade Robinson.”

“Thanks ever so,” said Angela brightly. “We’re strangers ourselves and don’t know anybody, but we’re terribly keen.”

Banks smiled.

“You see,” continued Angela, “we come from the backwoods of Dorset, where everything died about the time Anne did.”

“The counties,” said Banks, “are moribund, but in the North there are signs of rebirth.”

“That’s right!” ejaculated Nigel fervently. “I believe it will come from the North.”

“I hope you were not very shocked at what my gentleman-friend said just now about O’Callaghan?” Angela ventured.

“Shocked!” said Banks. “Scarcely!” She laughed shortly.

“Because, you see we come from the same place as his family and we’re about fed to the back teeth with the mere name. It’s absolutely feudal — you can’t imagine.”

“And every election time,” said Nigel, “they all trot along like good little kids and vote for dear Sir Derek once again.”

“They won’t do that any more.”

The other seats in their row filled up with a party of people engaged in an earnest and rather blood-thirsty conversation. They paid no attention to anyone but themselves. Nigel continued the approach of Banks.

“What did you think about the inquest?” he asked blandly.

She turned her head slowly and looked at him.

“I don’t know,” she said. “What did you?”

“I thought it was rather peculiar myself. Looks as if the police know something. Whoever had the guts to fix O’Callaghan I reckon was a national hero. I don’t care who knows it, either,” said Nigel defiantly.

“You’re right,” cried Banks, “you’re right. You can’t heal a dog-bite without a cautery.” She produced this professional analogy so slickly that Nigel guessed it was a standardised argument. “All the same,” added Banks with a slight change of voice, “I don’t believe anyone could, if they would, claim the honour of striking this blow for freedom. It was an accident— a glorious accident.”

Her hands trembled and the knitting-needles chattered together. Her eyes were wide open and the pupils dilated.

“Why, she’s demented,” thought Angela in alarm.

“Hyoscine,” murmured Nigel. “Wasn’t that the drug Crippen used?”

“I believe it was,” said Angela. “Isn’t that the same as Twilight Sleep?”

She paused hopefully. Banks made no answer. A young man came and sat in front of them. He looked intelligent and would have been rather a handsome fellow if his blond curls had been shorter and his teeth less aggressively false.

“I don’t know,” said Nigel; “I’m no chemist. Oh! Talking of chemists, we must see if we can find that chap Harold Sage here. I’d like to meet him.”

“Well, it’s so difficult. They never said what he was like. Perhaps — er— ” Angela turned towards Miss Banks. “Perhaps you could help us. There’s a gentleman here who knows a friend of ours.” She wondered if this was risky. “His name’s Harold Sage. He’s a chemist, and we thought if we could see him— ”

The young man with the blond curls turned round and flashed a golden smile at her.

“Pardon,” he fluted throatily. “That won’t be very difficult. May neem’s Hawrold Seege.”

Tuesday to Wednesday. The small hours.

To say that Nigel and Angela were flabbergasted by this announcement is to give not the slightest indication of their derangement. Their mouths fell open and their eyes protruded. Their stomachs, as the saying is, turned over. Mr. Sage continued the while to smile falsely upon them. It seemed as if they took at least three minutes to recover. Actually about five seconds elapsed before Angela, in a small voice that she did not recognise, said:

“Oh — fancy! What fun!”

“Oh,” echoed Nigel, “fancy! What luck! Yes.”

“Yes,” said Angela.

“I thought I heard someone taking my name in vain,” continued Mr. Sage playfully. It would be tedious to attempt a phonetic reproduction of Mr. Sage’s utterances. Enough to say that they were genteel to a fantastic degree. “Aye thot Aye heeard somewon teeking may neem in veen,” may give some idea of his rendering of the above sentence. Let it go at that.

“I was just going to make you known to each other,” said Nurse Banks. So great was their dilemma they had actually forgotten Nurse Banks.

Mr. Sage cast a peculiar reluctant glance upon her and then turned to his quarry. “And who,” he asked gaily, “is the mutual friend?”

Frantic alternatives chased each other through Angela’s and Nigel’s brain. Suppose they risked naming Marcus Barker again — he of the vermilion pamphlet. He had a shop. He was in prison. That was all they knew of Comrade Barker. Suppose—

Nigel drew a deep breath and leant forward.

“It is— ” he began.

“Comrades!” shouted a terrific voice. “We will commence by singing the Internationale.”

They turned, startled, to the platform. A gigantic bearded man, wearing a Russian blouse, confronted the audience. Comrade Kakaroff had arrived.

The comrades, led by the platform, instantly burst into a deafening rumpus. Nigel and Angela, pink with relief, made grimaces indicative of thwarted communication at Mr. Sage, who made a suitable face in return and then stood to attention and, with a piercing head-note, cut into the Internationale.

When they talked the affair over afterwards with Inspector Alleyn they could not remember one utterance of Comrade Kakaroff during the first half of his speech. He was a large Slav with a beautiful voice and upright hair. That was all they took in. When the beautiful voice and upright hair. That was all they took in. When the beautiful voice rose to an emotional bellow they managed to exchange a panicky whisper.

“Shall we slip away?”

“We can’t . Not now.”

“Afterwards?”

“Yes — perhaps too fishy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ssh! I’m going to—”

“Ssh!”

They glared at each other. To his horror, Nigel saw that Angela was about to get the giggles. He frowned at her majestically and then folded his arms and stared, with an air of interest, at Comrade Kakaroff. This unfortunately struck Angela, who was no doubt hysterical, as being intolerably funny. Her blood ran cold, her heart sank, she was panic-stricken, but she felt she must laugh.