Ngaio Marsh - The Nursing Home Murder

“Have you no idea what you did during the two or three minutes?”

“None.”

“Oh. In that case I’ll leave you. Boys!”

Inspector Boys returned to the theatre and Alleyn went out. In about a minute Thoms joined him.

Sir John appeared in the anteroom and washed up, assisted by Jane Harden and the matron, who afterwards helped the surgeons to dress up.

“I feel rather an ass,” said Thoms brightly. Nobody answered him.

“It is now, said Phillips in the same grave, detached manner, “that Mr. Thoms tells me about the play at the Palladium.”

“All agreed?” Alleyn asked the others. The women murmured an assent.

“Now what happens?”

“Pardon me, but I remember Mr. Thoms went into the theatre and then called me in to him,” murmured Sister Marigold.

“Thank you, matron. Away you go, then.” Alleyn waited until the doors had swung to and then turned to where Phillips, now wearing his gown and mask, stood silently beside Jane Harden.

“So you were left alone together at this juncture?” he said, without stressing it.

“Yes,” said Phillips.

“Do you mind telling me what was said?”

“Oh, please,” whispered Jane. “Please, please!” It was the first time she had spoken.

“Can’t you let her off this?” said Phillips. There was a sort of urgency in his voice now.

“I’m sorry — I would if I could.”

“I’ll tell him, Jane. We said it was a strange situation. I again asked her to marry me. She said no — that she felt she belonged to O’Callaghan. Something to that effect. She tried to explain her point of view.”

“You’ve left something out — you’re not thinking of yourself.” She stood in front of him, for all the world as though she was prepared to keep Alleyn off. “He said then that he didn’t want to operate and that he’d give anything to be out of it. His very words. He told me he’d tried to persuade — her— his wife — to get another surgeon. He hated the idea of operating. Does that look as though he meant any harm? Does it? Does it? He never thinks of himself — he only wants to help me, and I’m not worth it. I’ve told him so a hundred times— ”

“Jane, my dear, don’t.”

There was a tap on the outer door and Roberts looked in.

“I think it’s time I came and washed up,” he said.

“Come in, Dr. Roberts.”

Roberts glanced at the others.

“Forgive me, Sir John,” he began with the deference that he always used when he spoke to Phillips, “but as I remember it, Mr. Thoms came in with me at this juncture.”

“You’re quite right, Roberts,” agreed Phillips courteously.

“Mr. Thoms, please,” called Alleyn again.

Thoms shot back into the room.

“Late again, am I?” he remarked. “Truth of the matter is I can’t for the life of me remember all the ins and outs of it. I suppose I wash up now? What?”

“If you please,” said Alleyn sedately.

At last they were ready and Roberts returned to Inspecter Fox and the anæsthetic-room. The others, accompanied by Alleyn, went to the theatre.

The cluster of lights above the table had been turned up and Alleyn again felt that sense of expectancy in the theatre. Phillips went immediately to the window end of the table and waited with his gloved hands held out in front of him. Thoms stood at the foot of the table. Sister Marigold and Jane were farther away.

There was a slight vibratory, rattling noise. The door into the anæsthetic-room opened and a trolley appeared, propelled by Banks. Dr. Roberts and Nurse Graham walked behind it. His hands were stretched out over the head of the trolley. On it was a sort of elongated bundle made of pillows and blankets. He and Banks lifted this on the table and Banks put a screen, about two feet high, across the place that represented the patient’s chest. The others drew nearer. Banks pushed the trolley away.

Now that they had all closed round the table the illusion was complete. The conical glare poured itself down between the white figures, bathing their masked faces and the fronts of their gowns in a violence of light, and leaving their backs in sharp shadow, so that between shadow and light there was a kind of shimmering border that ran round their outlines. Boys and Fox had come in from their posts and stood impassive in the doorways. Alleyn walked round the theatre to a position about two yards behind the head of the table.

Roberts wheeled forward the anæsthetising apparatus. Suddenly, entirely without warning, one of the white figures gave a sharp exclamation, something between a cry and a protest.

“It’s too horrible — really — I can’t—!”

It was the matron, the impeccable Sister Marigold. She had raised her hands in front of her face as if shutting off some shocking spectacle. Now she backed away from the table and collided with the anæsthetising apparatus. She stumbled, kicked it so that it moved, and half fell, clutching at it as she did so.

There was a moment’s silence and then a portly little figure in white suddenly screamed out an oath.

“What the bloody hell are you doing? Do you want to kill— ”

“What’s the matter?” said Alleyn sharply. His voice had an incisive edge that made all the white heads turn. “What is it, Mr. Thoms?”

Thoms was down on his knees, an absurd figure, frantically reaching out to the apparatus. Roberts, who had stooped down to the lower framework of the cruet-like stand and had rapidly inspected it, thrust the little fat man aside. He tested the nuts that held the frame together. His hands shook a little and his face, the only one unmasked, was very pale.

“It’s perfectly secure, Thoms,” he said. “None of the nuts are loose. Matron, please stand away.”

“I didn’t mean — I’m sorry,” began Sister Marigold.

“Do you realise—” said Thoms in a voice that was scarcely recognisable—“ do you realise that if one of those cylinders had fallen out and burst, we’d none of us be alive. Do you know that?”

“Nonsense, Thoms,” said Roberts in an unsteady, voice. “It’s most unlikely that anything of the sort could occur. It would take more than that to burst a cylinder, I assure you.”

“I’m sure I’m very sorry, Mr. Thoms,” said matron sulkily. “Accidents will happen.”

“Accidents mustn’t happen,” barked Thoms. He squatted down and tested the nuts.

“Please leave it alone, Mr. Thoms,” said Roberts crisply. “I assure you it’s perfectly safe.”

Thoms did not answer. He got to his feet and turned back to the table.

“And now, what happens?” asked Alleyn. His deep voice sounded like a tonic note. Phillips spoke quietly.

“I made the incision and carried on with the operation. I found peritonitis and a ruptured abscess of the appendix. I proceeded in the usual way. At this stage, I think, Dr. Roberts began to be uneasy about the pulse and the general condition. Am I right, Roberts?”

“Quite right, sir. I asked for an injection of camphor.”

Without waiting to be told, Nurse Banks went to the side table, took up the ampoule of camphor, went through the pantomime of filling a syringe and returned to the patient.

“I injected it,” she said concisely. Through Alleyn’s head ran the old jingle: “A made an apple pie, B bit it, C cut it — I injected it,” he added mentally.

“And then?” he asked.

“After completing the operation I asked for the anti-gas serum.”

“I got it,” said Jane bravely.

She walked to the table.

“I stood, hesitating. I felt faint. I–I couldn’t focus things properly.”

“Did anybody notice this?”

“I looked round and saw something was wrong,” said Phillips. “She simply stood there swaying a little.”