by P. D. James
The group secretary thought for a moment before replying: “I took it seriously. That’s why I came round tonight.”
“And you have no idea at all what it might be?”
“None, I’m afraid. It must have been something that she learned about since Wednesday. I saw Miss Bolam then at the House Committee meeting in the late afternoon and she told me afterwards that things were pretty quiet here at present. That is the last time I saw her, incidentally. She was looking rather well, I thought. Better than for some time.”
Dalgliesh asked the group secretary what, if anything, he knew of Miss Bolam’s private life.
“Very little. I believe she has no near relations and lives alone in a flat in Kensington. Nurse Bolam will be able to tell you more about her. They’re cousins and Nurse Bolam is probably the nearest living relative. I’ve got an idea that she had private means. All the official information about her career will be on her dossier. Knowing Miss Bolam, I expect her file will be as meticulously kept as any other staff dossier. It’ll be here, no doubt.”
Without moving from his chair he leaned sideways, jerked open the top drawer of the filing cabinet and inserted a chubby hand between the manilla folders.
“Here we are. Bolam, Enid Constance. I see she came to us in October 1949 as a shorthand typist. She spent eighteen months in Group Headquarters, was transferred to one of our chest clinics on 19th April 1951 on Grade B and applied for the vacant post of administrative officer here on 14th May 1957. The post was then Grade D and she was lucky to get it. We hadn’t a very strong field, I remember. All administrative and clerical jobs were regraded in 1958 following the Noel Hall report and, after some argument with the Regional Board, we managed to get this one graded as general administrative. It’s all down here. Date of birth, 12th December 1922. Address, 37a Ballantyne Mansions, SW8. Then come details about her tax code, national insurance number and incremental date. She’s only had one week off sick since she came here and that was in 1959 when she had flu. There isn’t much more here. Her original application form and letters of appointment will be on her main dossier at Group Headquarters.”
He handed the file to Dalgliesh, who looked through it and then said: “This states that her previous employers were the Botley Research Establishment. Isn’t that Sir Mark Etherege’s show? They dabble in aeronautical research. He’s Dr. Etherege’s brother, isn’t he?”
“I think Miss Bolam did mention to me when she was appointed to this post that she knew Dr. Etherege’s brother slightly. Mind you now, it can’t have been more than that. She was only a shorthand typist at Botley. It’s a bit of a coincidence, I suppose, but then she had to come from somewhere. I seem to remember it was Sir Mark who gave her a reference when she applied to us. That will be on her Group dossier, of course.”
“Would you mind telling me, Mr. Lauder, what arrangements you propose making here now that she’s dead?”
The group secretary replaced the file in the cabinet. “I don’t see why not. I shall have to consult my committee, of course, as the circumstances are unusual, but I shall recommend that the senior medical stenographer here, Mrs. Bostock, takes over in an acting capacity. If she can do the job—and I think she can—she’ll be a strong candidate for the vacancy, but the post will be advertised in the usual way.”
Dalgliesh did not comment but he was interested. Such a quick decision on Miss Bolam’s successor could only mean that Lauder had earlier given some thought to it. The approaches of the medical staff may have been unofficial, but they had probably been more effective than the group secretary cared to admit.
Dalgliesh returned to the telephone call which had brought Mr. Lauder to the clinic. He said: “The words Miss Bolam used strike me as significant. She said that there may be something very serious going on here which you ought to know about and that it started before her time. That suggests, firstly, that she wasn’t yet certain but only suspicious, and, secondly, that she wasn’t worried about a particular incident but about something of long standing. A systematic policy of thieving, for example, as opposed to one isolated theft.”
“Well now, Superintendent, it’s odd you should mention theft. We have had a theft recently, but it was an isolated incident, the first we’ve had here for years, and I can’t see how it could be connected with murder. It was just over a week ago, last Tuesday if I remember rightly. Cully and Nagle were the last to leave the clinic as usual and Cully asked Nagle to have a drink with him at the Queen’s Head. You know it, I expect. It’s the pub on the far corner of Beefsteak Street. There are one or two odd things about this story and one of the strangest is that Cully should invite Nagle for a drink. They’ve never struck me as buddies. Anyway, Nagle accepted and they were in the Queen’s Head together from about seven. At about half past, a pal of Cully’s came in and said he was surprised to see Cully there as he had just passed the clinic and there was a faint light in one of the windows—as if someone was moving around with a torch, he said. Nagle and Cully went off to investigate and found one of the back basement windows broken, or rather, cut out. Quite a clever job it was. Cully didn’t feel inclined to investigate further without reinforcements and I’m not sure that I blame him. He’s sixty-five, remember, and not strong. After some whispering together, Nagle said that he’d go in and Cully had better telephone the police from the kiosk on the corner. Your people came pretty smartly but they didn’t get the intruder. He gave Nagle the slip inside the building and, when Cully got back from telephoning, he was just in time to see the man slip out of the mews.”
“I’ll check how far our people have got with the investigation,” said Dalgliesh. “But I agree that a connection between the crimes seems unlikely on the face of it. Was much taken?”
“Fifteen pounds from a drawer in the psychiatric social worker’s office. The door was locked but he wrenched it open. The money was in an envelope addressed in green ink to the administrative secretary of the clinic and had been received a week earlier. There was no letter with it, only a note to say that the money was from a grateful patient. The other contents of the drawer were torn and scattered but nothing else was stolen. Some attempt had been made to force open the cabinets of records in the general office and Miss Bolam’s desk drawers had been forced but nothing taken.”
Dalgliesh asked whether the fifteen pounds should have been placed in the wall safe.
“Well now, Superintendent, you’re right, of course. It should have been. But there was a little difficulty about using the money. Miss Bolam phoned me about its arrival and said that she thought it should be paid immediately into the clinic’s free money account to be used in due course on the authority of the House Committee. That was a very proper course of action, and so I told her. Shortly afterwards the medical director phoned me to ask if he could have authority to spend the money on some new flower vases for the patients’ waiting room. The vases were certainly needed and it seemed a correct use for non-Exchequer funds, so I rang the chairman of the House Committee and got his approval. Apparently Dr. Etherege wanted Miss Kettle to choose the vases and asked Miss Bolam to hand over the cash. I had already notified Miss Bolam of the decision so she did so, expecting that the vases would be bought at once. Something happened to change Miss Kettle’s plans and, instead of returning the cash to the AO for safe custody, she locked it in her drawer.”
“Do you know how many of the staff knew that it was there?”
“That’s what the police asked. I suppose most people knew that the vases hadn’t been bought or Miss Kettle would have shown them around. They probably guessed that, having been handed the cash, she wouldn’t be likely to return it even temporarily. I don’t know. The arrival of that fifteen pounds was mysterious. It caused nothing but trouble and its disappearance was equally mysterious. Anyway, Superintendent, no one here stole it. Cully only saw the thief for a second but he was certain that he didn’t know the man. He did say, though, that he thought the chap looked like a gentleman. Don’t ask me how he kne
w or what his criteria are. But that’s what he said.”
Dalgliesh thought that the whole incident was odd and would bear further investigation but he could see no apparent connection between the two crimes. It was not even certain that Miss Bolam’s call to the group secretary for advice was related to her death, but here the presumption was much stronger. It was very important to discover, if possible, what she had suspected. He asked Mr. Lauder once more whether he could help.
“I told you, Superintendent, I haven’t an idea what she meant. If I suspected that anything was wrong, I shouldn’t wait for Miss Bolam to phone me. We’re not quite so remote from the units at group offices as some people think and I usually get to know anything I ought to know. If the murder is connected with that phone message, something pretty serious must be happening here. After all, you don’t kill just to prevent the group secretary knowing that you’ve fiddled your travelling claim or overspent your annual leave. Not that anyone has, as far as I know.”
“Exactly,” said Dalgliesh. He watched the group secretary’s face very closely and said, without emphasis: “It suggests something that might ruin a man professionally. A sexual relationship with a patient perhaps—something as serious as that.” Mr. Lauder’s face did not change.
“I imagine every doctor knows the seriousness of that, particularly pyschiatrists. They must have to be pretty careful with some of the neurotic women they treat. Frankly, I don’t believe it. All the doctors here are eminent men, some of them with worldwide reputations. You don’t get that sort of reputation if you’re a fool, and men of that eminence don’t commit murder.”
“And what about the rest of the staff? They may not be eminent, but presumably you consider them honest?”
Unruffled, the group secretary replied: “Sister Ambrose has been here for nearly twenty years and Nurse Bolam for five. I would trust them both absolutely. All the clerical staff came with good references and so did the two porters, Cully and Nagle.” He added wryly: “Admittedly I didn’t check that they hadn’t committed murder but none of them strike me as homicidal maniacs. Cully drinks a bit and is a pathetic fool with only another four months’ service to complete. I doubt whether he could kill a mouse without making a hash of it. Nagle is a cut above the usual hospital porter. I understand he’s an art student and works here for pocket money. He’s only been with us a couple of years so he wasn’t here before Miss Bolam’s time. Even if he’s been seducing all the female staff, which seems unlikely, the worst that could happen to him would be the sack and that wouldn’t worry him as things are today. Admittedly she was killed with his chisel but anyone could have got their hands on that.”
“I’m afraid this was an inside job, you know,” said Dalgliesh gently. “The murderer knew where Tippett’s fetish and Nagle’s chisel were kept, knew which key opened the old record room, knew where that key was hung on the board in the porters’ duty room, probably wore one of the rubber aprons from the art therapy room as a protection, certainly had medical knowledge. Above all, of course, the murderer couldn’t have left the clinic after the crime. The basement door was bolted and so was the ground-floor back door. Cully was watching the front door.”
“Cully had a bellyache. He could have missed someone.”
“Do you really believe that’s possible?” asked Dalgliesh. And the group secretary did not reply.
At first sight Marion Bolam could be thought beautiful. She had the fair, classical good looks which, enhanced by her nurse’s uniform, gave an immediate impression of serene loveliness. Her blonde hair, parted above a broad forehead and twisted into a high roll at the back of her head, was bound by the simple white cap. It was only at second glance that the illusion faded and beauty gave way to prettiness. The features, individually analysed, were unremarkable, the nose a little too long, the lips a little too thin. In ordinary clothes, hurrying home perhaps at the end of the day, she would be undistinguished. It was the combination of the starched formal linen with that fair skin and yellow hair which dazzled the eye. Only in the broad forehead and the sharpness of the nose could Dalgliesh detect any likeness to her dead cousin. But there was nothing ordinary about the large grey eyes which met his fully for a brief second before she lowered her glance and gazed fixedly at the clasped hands in her lap.
“I understand that you are Miss Bolam’s next of kin. This must be a terrible shock for you.”
“Yes. Oh, yes, it is! Enid was my cousin.”
“You have the same name. Your fathers were brothers?”
“Yes, they were. Our mothers were sisters, too. Two brothers married two sisters so that we were doubly related.”
“Had she no other relations living?”
“Only Mummy and me.”
“I shall have to see Miss Bolam’s solicitor, I expect,” said Dalgliesh, “but it would be helpful if you would tell me as much as you know about her affairs. I’m afraid I have to ask these personal questions. Usually they have no bearing on the crime, but one must know as much as possible about everyone concerned. Had your cousin any income apart from her salary?”
“Oh, yes. Enid was quite well off. Uncle Sydney left her mother about £25,000 and it all came to Enid. I don’t know how much was left but I think she had about £1,000 a year coming in apart from her salary here. She kept on Auntie’s flat in Ballantyne Mansions and she … she was always very good to us.”
“In what way, Miss Bolam? Did she make you an allowance?”
“Oh, no! Enid wouldn’t want to do that. She gave us presents. Thirty pounds at Christmas and fifty in July for our summer holiday. Mummy has disseminated sclerosis and we couldn’t go away to an ordinary hotel.”
“And what happens to Miss Bolam’s money now?”
The grey eyes lifted to meet his with no trace of embarrassment. She answered simply: “It will come to Mummy and me. There wasn’t anyone else to leave it to, was there? Enid always said it would come to us if she died first. But, of course, it wasn’t likely that she would die first; not while Mummy was alive anyway.”
It was indeed unlikely, in the ordinary course of events, that Mrs. Bolam would ever have benefited from that £25,000 or what was left of it, thought Dalgliesh. Here was the obvious motive, so understandable, so universal, so dear to any prosecuting counsel. Every juryman understood the lure of money. Could Nurse Bolam really be unaware of the significance of the information which she was handing him with such unembarrassed candour? Could innocence be so naïve or guilt so confident?
He said suddenly: “Was your cousin popular, Miss Bolam?”
“She hadn’t many friends. I don’t think she would have called herself popular. She wouldn’t want that. She had her church activities and the Guides. She was a very quiet person, really.”
“But you know of no enemies?”
“Oh, no! None at all. Enid was very much respected.” The formal, old-fashioned epithet was almost inaudible.
Dalgliesh said: “Then it looks as if this is a motiveless, unpremeditated crime. Normally that would suggest one of the patients. But it hardly seems possible and you are all insistent that it isn’t likely.”
“Oh, no! It couldn’t be a patient! I’m quite sure none of our patients would do a thing like that. They aren’t violent.”
“Not even Mr. Tippett?”
“But it couldn’t have been Mr. Tippett. He’s in hospital.”
“So I’m told. How many people here knew that Mr. Tippett wouldn’t be coming to the clinic this Friday?”
“I don’t know. Nagle knew because he took the message and he told Enid and Sister. Sister told me. You see, I usually try to keep an eye on Tippett when I’m specialling the LSD patients on Fridays. I can’t leave my patient for more than a second, of course, but I do pop out occasionally to see if Tippett is all right. Tonight it wasn’t necessary. Poor Tippett, he does love his art therapy! Mrs. Baumgarten has been away ill for six months now, but we couldn’t stop Tippett from coming. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. It’s wicked to sugges
t that Tippett could have anything to do with it. Wicked!”
She spoke with sudden vehemence. Dalgliesh said mildly: “But no one is suggesting anything of the sort. If Tippett is in hospital—and I haven’t the least doubt we shall find that he is—then he couldn’t have been here.”
“But someone put his fetish on the body, didn’t they? If Tippett had been here, you would have suspected him straight away and he would have been so upset and confused. It was a wicked thing to do. Really wicked!”
Her voice broke and she was very near to tears. Dalgliesh watched the thin fingers twisting in her lap. He said gently: “I don’t think we need worry about Mr. Tippett. Now I want you to think carefully and tell me everything that you know happened in the clinic from the time you came on duty this evening. Never mind about other people, I just want to know what you did.”
Nurse Bolam remembered very clearly what she had done and, after a second’s hesitation, she gave a careful and logical account. It was her job on Friday evenings to “special” any patient undergoing treatment with lysergic acid. She explained that this was a method of releasing deep-seated inhibitions so that the patient was able to recall and recount the incidents which were being repressed in his subconscious and were responsible for his illness. As she spoke about the treatment, Nurse Bolam lost her nervousness and seemed to forget that she was talking to a layman. But Dalgliesh did not interrupt.
“It’s a remarkable drug and Dr. Baguley uses it quite a lot. Its name is lysergic acid diethylamide and I think it was discovered by a German in 1942. We administer it orally and the usual dose is 0.25 mg. It’s produced in ampoules of 1 mg and mixed with from 15 to 30 ccs of distilled water. The patients are told not to have any breakfast. The first effects are noticed after about half an hour and the more disturbing subjective experiences occur from one to one and a half hours after administration. That’s when Dr. Baguley comes down to be with the patient. The effects can last for as long as four hours and the patient is flushed and restless and quite withdrawn from reality. They’re never left alone, of course, and we use the basement room because it’s secluded and quiet and other patients aren’t distressed by the noise. We usually give LSD treatments on Friday afternoon and evening and I always ‘special’ the patient.”