The Nursing Home Murder

by Ngaio Marsh

  “It might very easily have happened. Phillips did his best to put the kybosh on a post-mortem.”

  “You thought so?”

  “Well—didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Oh, yes.”

  “Of course,” said Fox slowly, “an innocent man in his position would have been anxious for a P.M.”

  “Not if he thought someone else had done the trick.”

  “Oh,” Fox ruminated. “That’s the big idea, is it, sir?”

  “It’s only one idea—possibly a silly one. What did you think of the matron’s contribution to the evidence? Sister Marigold?”

  “Couldn’t make her out at all and that’s a fact. She seemed to welcome the inquest. She obviously resented any hint of criticism against Sir John Phillips.”

  “She made one or two very acid remarks about the other nurse—Nurse Banks.”

  “Yes. Now, that struck me as rum, too, sir. No suggestion of anything as regards the Harden girl, but when Nurse Banks was mentioned—”

  “She bridled like a Persian,” said Alleyn. “I know—‘rum’s’ the word, Fox.”

  “The medical witnesses are always a bit trying in a case like this,” reflected Inspector Fox. “On the defensive, as you might say. They all pull together.”

  “Now that’s exactly what I thought they did not do. I’ve just read over the shorthand report of the inquest and the thing that struck me all of a heap was that the hospital gang seemed to be playing a sort of tig-in-the-dark game. Or rather tug-ofwar in the dark. They wanted to pull together, but didn’t know which way to pull. Here’s the report. Let us go over it, shall we? Where’s your pipe?”

  They lit up. Alleyn shoved a carbon copy of the verbatim report on the inquest across to his subordinate.

  “First you get straight-out evidence on the operation. Phillips said Sir Derek O’Callaghan, suffering from a ruptured abscess of the appendix, was admitted to the Brook Street hospital. He examined the patient, advised an immediate operation, which, at Lady O’Callaghan’s request, he undertook to perform himself. Peritonitis was found. The anæsthetist was Dr. Roberts, engaged for the job because the usual man was unavailable. Phillips says Roberts used all possible care and he can find no fault in that department. Thoms, the assistant, agrees. So do Sister Marigold and the two nurses. Before he began, Phillips injected hyoscine, his usual procedure for all operations. For this injection he used tablets he brought with him, saying that he preferred them to the solution in the theatre, as hyoscine is an extremely tricky drug. ‘All care taken, no responsibility accepted,’ one feels moved to remark. He prepared the syringe himself. At the end of the operation a concoction prettily named ‘Concentrated Gas-Gangrene Antitoxin,’ used in cases of peritonitis, was injected. The serum, together with a large syringe, was laid out by Nurse Banks before the operation. It was a commercial preparation kept in an ampoule from which she simply filled the syringe. Nurse Harden fetched the syringe and gave it to Thoms, who injected the stuff. Meanwhile Roberts, the anæsthetist, had got all hot and hectic about the patient’s heart and had asked for an injection of camphor, which was prepared and given by the elder nurse. They then tacked up the tear in the tummy and away went the patient. He died an hour later, presumably, one longs to say, of heart-failure, but my medical friends tell me that’s as good as saying ‘he died of dying.’ So we can only murmur humbly ‘he died as the result of an operation which, apart from this little incident, was a howling success.’”

  “Well,” said Fox, “so far they all agree.”

  “Yes, but did you notice that where it came to the bit about Jane Harden fetching the syringe with the anti-gas, as they call it for short, they all went rather warily. She herself looked pretty sick when the coroner asked her about it. Here it is:

  “‘The coroner: I understand you brought the syringe containing the anti-gas, to Dr. Thoms?

  “‘Nurse Harden (after a pause): Yes.

  “‘The Coroner: There was no unusual delay, or anything of that sort?

  “‘Nurse Harden: I—I did hesitate a moment. The syringe was already full and I paused to make sure it was the right one.

  “‘The Coroner: Did you not expect to find it prepared?

  “‘Nurse Harden: I was not sure. I—I wasn’t well, and for a moment I hesitated and then Nurse Banks said it was the large syringe and I brought it to Dr. Thoms.

  “‘Sir John Phillips, recalled, said that the delay was of no significance. Nurse Harden was unwell and had subsequently fainted.

  “‘The Coroner: I understand you were personally acquainted with the deceased?

  “‘Nurse Harden: Yes.’”

  Alleyn laid down the report.

  “That’s the incident,” he said. “It’s all perfectly natural, but I smelt high tension among the expert witnesses, whenever it was mentioned.”

  He waited for a moment and then said slowly:

  “That incident would never have come out if it hadn’t been for Thoms.”

  “I noticed that, sir. Mr. Thoms let it out during his evidence and then looked as if he wished he hadn’t.”

  “Yes,” said Alleyn dryly.

  Fox eyed him cautiously and then went on:

  “That girl must have been in a pretty good fatigue—in the light of what we know, I mean. There was this man to whom she’d been writing—the man she’d gone off with, as far as we can tell. She’d reckoned on some sort of permanent understanding, anyway, according to her letter, and when there was nothing doing she’d said she’d like to kill him and—there he was.”

  “Very dramatic,” said Alleyn. “The same line of chat, with a difference, may be applied to Sir John Phillips.”

  “That’s so,” admitted Fox. “They may have been in collusion.”

  “I’m entirely against any sort of speculation until we get the analyst’s report, Fox. I have not interviewed any of these people. As you know, I thought it best to start no hares before the inquest. I wanted the inquest to be as colourless as possible. The post-mortem may be a wash-out, in which case we’ll want to fade away with the minimum amount of publicity.”

  “That’s right,” said Fox heavily.

  “We’re only noting any points of interest in the evidence that may come in handy for future reference. Exhibit A—Nurse Harden and the anti-gas. Exhibit B—curious behaviour of Nurse Banks while giving evidence. The woman closely resembled a chestnut on the hob. She might have spontaneously combusted at any moment. However, she didn’t, more’s the pity perhaps, but I think she managed to fill the minds of the jury with strange surmises. It struck me that she hadn’t exactly hero-worshipped the late Home Secretary. There was more than a suspicion of a snort in her references to him.”

  “Bolshie-minded, perhaps,” ruminated Fox.

  “Dare say. She looks like that.”

  “He may have carried on with her too.”

  “Oh, Fox! She does not look like that.”

  “People take very strange fancies sometimes, sir.”

  “How trite that is. No speculations, Foxkin.”

  “All right, sir, all right. What about Exhibit C?”

  “Exhibit C. In re above. Heavy restraint of the matron, Sister Marigold, when Banks was mentioned. Marigold seemed to me to seethe with suppressed information. ‘Wild horses wouldn’t get me to tell, but, my oath, if wild horses could—?’”

  “And Sir John himself?”

  “Agitato ma non troppo, and unnaturally ppp. This abbreviation business is insidious. Sir John was so anxious to let everybody know he had prepared the hyoscine injection, wasn’t he?”

  “Very straightforward of him, I thought,” remarked Fox doubtfully.

  “Oh,” said Alleyn vaguely, “so did I. As honest as the day.”

  Fox regarded him suspiciously.

  “Lady O’Callaghan gave her evidence well,” he said.

  “Admirably. But, oh, lummie, how we did hover on the brink of those letters. I’d warned the coroner, who had, of course,
read them and thought they were sufficient grounds for a post-mortem. However, he agreed it was better they should not come out. He was very coy about the whole thing, anyway, and would have repressed pints of hyoscine—”

  “Hyoscine!” shouted Fox. “Aha—you are thinking of hyoscine!”

  “Don’t shriek at me like that; I nearly bit my pipe-stem in half. I’m not thinking particularly of hyoscine. I was about to remark that I was in deadly fear Lady O’Callaghan would drag in the letters. I’d warned her, advised her, implored her not to, but she’s not a Ratsbane for nothing, and you never know.”

  “And Thoms?”

  “Thoms took the line that the whole show was unnecessary, but he gave his evidence well, appeared to have nothing to conceal apart from his regret over divulging the fainting episode, and seemed to resent the slightest criticism of Phillips.”

  “Yes,” Fox agreed, “I noticed that. Roberts took much the same line. That’s what I mean about the experts sticking together.”

  “Oh, quite. They wanted to pull together, but I’m pretty certain they were not all agreed. I did rather feel that they were uneasy about Nurse Harden’s delay over the anti-gas syringe, and that there was something about Nurse Banks that both Sister Marigold and Jane Harden shied away from.”

  “There were three injections altogether,” said Fox thought-fully. He held up as many short fingers. “The hyoscine, prepared and injected by Phillips; the camphor, prepared and injected by Nurse Banks; and the anti-gas, prepared by Nurse Banks and injected by Mr. Thoms.”

  “Sounds like a petrol station. Well, there it is. If his tummy turns up a natural, we can forget all about it. If dirty weather sets in, it’ll be with a vengeance. Do you like cocktail metaphors?”

  “I’ve been talking to Inspector Boys about the political side,” said Fox. “He’s got all the Kakaroff crowd taped out and he doesn’t think there’s much in it.”

  “Nor do I. Since the Krasinky lot were roped in they’ve piped down considerably.1 Still, you never know with these people. They may mean business. If that Bill goes through next week, it’ll larn ’em. I hope there’s no nonsense at the funeral to-morrow. We’re making elaborate enough arrangements for burying the poor chap—shutting the stable door with a gold padlock. They might possibly choose the moment to celebrate at the funeral, but, no, I don’t think they were in on the murder. I’m inclined to think they would have staged something more spectacular—a suitable echo to the Yugoslavia affair. Hyoscine doesn’t sound their cup of tea at all.”

  “Why hyoscine?” asked Fox with massive innocence.

  “You old devil,” said Alleyn, “I refuse to discuss the case with you. Go and catch pickpockets.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “And if anything comes of this P.M. business, you can jolly well deal with Lady O’Callaghan yourself. That makes you blanch. What’s the time?”

  “Three o’clock, sir. The results of the post-mortem ought to come in fairly soon.”

  “I suppose so. Our famous pathologist is going to ring me up himself as soon as he has informed the coroner.”

  Alleyn got up and walked about the room hunching up one shoulder and whistling under his breath. The desk telephone rang. Fox answered it.

  “It’s a Miss O’Callaghan asking for you,” he said stolidly.

  “Miss—? Who the devil—? Oh, all right. Now what’s in the wind, do you suppose?”

  “Send her up,” said Fox to the telephone. “I’d better push off, sir,” he added.

  “I suppose you had. This is all very rum—very rum indeed.”

  Fox departed. Alleyn knocked out his pipe, opened the window, and sat behind the desk. A woman’s voice sounded in the passage outside. The door was opened by a police-constable, who said:

  “Miss O’Callaghan, sir,” and withdrew.

  Ruth O’Callaghan walked into the room. She appeared to be dressed in a series of unrelated lengths of material. Her eyeglasses were canted over the top angle of her enormous nose. Her handbag and umbrella, wedded by an unhappy confusion of cords and leather thongs, dangled from a gaunt wrist. Her face, exclusive of the nose, was pale. She seemed to be grievously agitated.

  Alleyn rose and waited politely.

  “Oh!” said Ruth, catching sight of him. “Oh!” She came towards him at a kind of gallop and held out the hand that was encumbered with the umbrella and handbag. Alleyn shook it.

  “How do you do?” he murmured.

  “So good of you to see me,” Ruth began. “I know how busy you must be. The statistics of crime are so appalling. Too kind.”

  “I am making no arrests this afternoon,” said Alleyn gravely.

  She gazed at him dubiously and then broke into a sort of whooping laugh.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” said Ruth. “That’s very funny—no, of course, I didn’t suppose—” She stopped laughing abruptly and looked disconcertingly lugubrious.

  “No,” she repeated. “But it is kind, all the same, when I expect you think I’m a jolly old nuisance of an interfering woman.”

  “Do sit down,” said Alleyn gently, and pulled forward a chair. Ruth shut up rather like a two-foot rule. He pushed the chair under her and returned to his own. She leant forward, resting her elbows on his desk, and gazed earnestly at him.

  “Mr. Alleyn,” Ruth began, “what is this dreadful, dreadful suspicion about my brother’s death?”

  “At the moment, Miss O’Callaghan, it can scarcely be called a suspicion.”

  “I don’t understand. I’ve been talking to my sister-in-law. She said some dreadful things to me—terrible—appalling. She says my brother was”—Ruth drew in her breath noisily and on the crest of the intake uttered the word “murdered.”

  “Lady O’Callaghan attaches a certain amount of importance to threatening letters which were sent to Sir Derek. You have heard of these letters, I expect.”

  “You mean from those horrible anarchist people? Of course, I know they behaved very badly, but Derry—my brother, you know—always said they wouldn’t do anything, and I’m quite certain he was right. Nobody else could have any reason for wishing him harm.” (“She hasn’t heard about the other letters, then,” thought Alleyn.) “Everybody adored him, simply adored him, dear old boy. Mr. Alleyn, I’ve come to beg you not to go on with the case. The inquest was bad enough, but the other—the—you know what I mean. I can’t endure the thought of it. Please—please, Mr. Alleyn—” She fumbled desperately in the bag and produced a colossal handkerchief.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Alleyn. “I know it’s a beastly idea, but just think a little. Does it matter so much what they do to our bodies when we’ve finished with them? I can’t think so. It seems to me that the impulse to shrink from such things is based on a fallacy. Perhaps it is impertinent of me to speak so frankly.” Ruth gurgled and shook her head dolefully. “Well then, suppose there was no post-mortem, what about your feelings then? There would always be an unscotched suspicion whenever you thought of your brother.”

  “He was ill. It was his illness. If only he had followed my advice! Mr. Alleyn, I have a friend, a brilliant young chemist, a rising man. I consulted him about my brother and he—generously and nobly—gave me a wonderful remedy, ‘Fulvitavolts,’ that would have cured my brother. I begged him to take it. It would have cured him; I know it would. My friend assured me of it and he knows. He said—” She broke off abruptly and darted a curiously frightened glance at Alleyn. “My brother always laughed at me,” she added quickly.

  “And he refused to try this ‘Fulvitavolts’?”

  “Yes—at least—yes, he did. I left the tablets there but, of course—he just laughed. My sister-in-law is not very—” Here Ruth floundered unhappily. “I’m sure he didn’t take them.”

  “I see. People are generally very conservative about medicine.”

  “Yes, aren’t they?” agreed Ruth eagerly and then stopped again and blew her nose.

  “The lack of interest shown in chemical research must be very d
iscouraging to a young man like your friend,” Alleyn went on. “I know a brilliant fellow—only twenty-five—who has already—” He stopped and bent towards her. “I suppose we can’t possibly be speaking of the same person?”

  Ruth beamed at him through her tears.

  “Oh no,” she assured him.

  “Now, how do you know, Miss O’Callaghan?” said Alleyn gaily. “I’m a very great believer in coincidence. My man is James Graham.”

  “No, no.” She hesitated again, oddly, and then in another burst of confidence: “I’m talking about Harold Sage. Perhaps you’ve heard of him too? He’s getting quite famous. He’s—he’s practically thirty.”

  “The name seems to strike a chord,” lied Alleyn thoughtfully. The desk telephone rang.

  “Will you excuse me?” he asked her, and took off the receiver.

  “Hullo? Yes, speaking. Yes. Yes. I see. Thank you very much. I’m engaged at the moment, but if I may I’ll come round and see you to-morrow? Right.” He hung up the receiver. Ruth had just got to her feet.

  “I mustn’t keep you, Mr. Alleyn. Only before I go—please, please let me beg you to go no further with these investigations. I’ve—I’ve got a reason—I mean I’m so sure Derry died naturally. It is all so dreadful. If I could be sure you were satisfied—” She made an ineffectual movement with her hands, a clumsy gesture of entreaty. “Tell me you’ll go no further!” begged Ruth.

  “I am extremely sorry,” said Alleyn formally, “but that would be impossible. The post-mortem has already been held. That message gave me the result.”

  She stood gaping at him, her mouth half open, her big hands clutching at her bag.

  “But what—what is it? What do they say?”

  “Your brother died of an overdose of a dangerous drug,” said Alleyn.

  She stared at him in utter dismay and then, without another word, turned and blundered out of the room.

  Alleyn wrote the name “Harold Sage” in a minute notebook that he carried. Having done so, he stared at it with an air of incredulity, sighed, shut up his book and went to find Fox.

  1 See A Man Lay Dead.

  CHAPTER EIGHT