Ngaio Marsh - The Nursing Home Murder

“Shut up,” breathed Nigel out of the corner of his mouth. He was foolish enough to kick her. Her chair quivered. She looked round wildly to the four corners of the room. In the fourth corner, between a diagonal vista of rapt faces, she saw someone who watched her. It was the man to whom Alleyn had spoken when they first arrived. Her throat quivered no longer. It went dry. Suddenly nothing seemed funny. Perhaps no one had noticed her. Banks, uttering an occasional “Hear! hear!” in a tone of magisterial approval, gazed only at Nicholas Kakaroff. Mr. Sage’s back was towards them. Angela was herself again and greatly ashamed. She began to think coherently and presently she formed a plan, Alleyn had talked at some length about Ruth O’Callaghan. He had a vivid trick of description and Angela felt she knew exactly what Miss O’Callaghan was like.

Suppose—? She stared like an attentive angel at Comrade Kakaroff and as she stared she made up her mind. As if in echo of her thoughts, she suddenly became aware of his utterances.

“The death of the late Home Secretary — Derek O’Callaghan,” boomed Comrade Kakaroff. Jerked out of their unhappy meditation, they began to listen with a will.

“—not for us the sickly sentiment of an effete and decadent civilisation. Not for us the disgusting tears of the wage-slave hypocrite. It was in a good hour that man died. Had he lived he would have worked us great evil. He was struck down with the words of tyranny on his lips. I say it was in a good hour he died. We know it. Let us boldly declare it. He was the enemy of the people, a festering sore that drained the vitality of the proletariat. Listen to me, all of you. If he was deliberately exterminated and I knew the man who had done it, I would greet that man with the outstretched hand of brotherhood. I would hail that man as — Comrade.”

He sat down amidst loud noises of encouragement. Mr. Sage had sprung excitedly to his feet.

“Comrade!” he shouted excitedly. It was as if he had touched a spring. The age-old yeast of mob-hysteria was at work. Half of them were on their feet yelling. Miss Banks cast down her knitting and made curious staccato gestures with her hands. “Up, the anarchists!” someone screamed behind them. The uproar lasted for some minutes while Kakaroff gazed intently at his work. Then Comrade Robinson walked to the edge of the platform and held up his hands. It was not until the Russian, half contemptuously, had joined him that the din died away.

“Friends,” said Kakaroff, “have patience. It will not be for long. In the meantime — be patient. It is with difficulty we manage to hold these meetings. Let us not arouse too much suspicion in the brilliant brains of those uniformed automatons who guard the interests of the capitalist — our wonderful police.”

The comrades made merry. Angela distinctly heard the rare laugh of Inspector Alleyn. The meeting broke up after a brief word from Comrade Robinson about standing subscriptions. Mr. Sage, a winning smile upon his face, turned eagerly towards them.

“Magnificent, wasn’t it?” he cried.

“Marvellous!”

“Wonderful!”

“And now,” continued Mr. Sage, looking admiringly upon Angela, “please tell me-who is our mutual friend?”

“Well, she’s not exactly a close friend,” said Angela, “although we both like her ever so much.” She glanced round her and leant forward. Mr. Sage gallantly inclined his curls towards her.

“Miss Ruth O’Callaghan,” said Angela, just loud enough for Nigel to hear. He instantly supposed she had gone crazy.

Mr. Sage must have tilted his chair too far backwards, for he suddenly clutched at the air in a very singular manner. His feet shot upwards and the next instant he was decanted over their feet.

“Murder!” ejaculated Nigel, and hurriedly bent over him. Mr. Sage fought him off with great violence, and after a galvanic struggle, regained his feet.

“I say,” said Angela, remembering her new voice, “I do hope you haven’t hurt yourself. I’m ever so sorry.”

Mr. Sage gazed at Nigel in silence for some moments. At last he drew in his breath and said: “No, thanks. Aye’m quate O.K.”

“But you’ve gone pale. It was an awful bump you came. Sit down for a moment.”

“Thanks,” he said, and sank into a chair. “Dear me, that was a very silly thing to do.”

“Very painful, I should say,” remarked Nigel solemnly.

Suddenly Angela began to laugh.

“Oh,” she said, “I’m awfully sorry. It’s just horrid of me, but I can’t help it.”

“Really, An — Pippin!” scolded Nigel.

“The instinct to laugh at bodily injury,” said Mr. Sage, who had recovered his colour, “is a very old one. Possibly it goes back to the snarl of the animal about to engage an adversary. You can’t help yourself.”

“It’s nice of you to take it like that,” said Angela through her tears. “It was rather a funny introduction.”

“Yes.”

“I’d better explain,” continued Angela. Nigel, who had regarded the upsetting of Mr. Sage as a dispensation of Providence, listened in horror. “We come from Clearminster-Storton in Dorset, near the holy ancestral home of the O’Callaghan. We’ve no time for the others and let it be known frankly. But she’s different, isn’t she, Claude?”

“Quite different.”

“Yes. We’ve seen her in London and tried to make her look at things in the enlightened way, and although she’s hidebound by the tradition of her class, she doesn’t refuse to listen. She told us about you, Mr. Sage. She thinks you’re awfully clever, doesn’t she, Claude?”

“That’s right,” said poor Nigel.

“So that is the way of it?” said Mr. Sage. “I, too, have attempted to make Miss O’Callaghan think, to open her eyes. She is a customer of mine and is interested in my work. I accept patronage from nobody, mind. She has not offered patronage, but comradeship. I don’t really know her well, and— ” He paused and then, looking straight at Nigel, he added: “To be frank with you, I have not seen much of her since O’Callaghan introduced his infamous Bill. I felt the situation would be too severe a strain on our friendship. We have never discussed her brother. She knows my views and would understand. Er — quite.”

“Oh, quite,” murmured Angela.

“Just so,” said Nigel.

“As a matter of fact,” continued Mr. Sage, “I must own I don’t go as far as Comrade Kakaroff in the matter of O’Callaghan’s death. Undoubtedly it is well he is gone. I realise that theoretically there is such a thing as justifiable extermination, but murder — as this may have been — no.”

“This was justifiable extermination,” said Nigel fiercely.

“Then it should have been done openly for the Cause.”

“No one fancies the rope.”

“Claude, you are awful. I agree with Mr. Sage.”

“Thank you Miss — er. Pardon, I’m afraid I don’t know— ”

“Pippin!” exclaimed Nigel suddenly. “We’re keeping our pal waiting. He’s hanging round outside the door there. Murder! It’s half-past one and we swore we’d meet those other chaps before then.”

“Ow, gracious, how awful!” said Angela. They grasped Mr. Sage’s hand, said hurriedly they hoped they’d meet again, and scuttled away.

The comrades had broken up into groups. Many of them had gone. Nigel and Angela saw Alleyn at the door with his gloomy friend. A short, well-dressed man followed them out, passed them, walked quickly to the outer door, and ran noisily down the iron stairs. Alleyn stood and stared after him. He and the truculent man exchanged a glance.

“Come on,” said Alleyn.

As they all walked out Nigel and Angela kept up a rather feverish conversation in their assumed voices. Alleyn was completely silent and so was his friend. Angela felt rather frightened. Did this man suspect them?