The Nursing Home Murder (16 page)

“Robinson hasn’t heard anything. Sage is not a prominent member.”

“He was lying about the second dose Miss O’Callaghan gave O’Callaghan. He admitted he had provided it, that it was from a doctor’s prescription, and that he had not noted it in his book. All my eye. We can sift that out easily enough by finding out her doctor, but of course Sage may simply be scared and as innocent as a babe. Well, there we are. Back again face to face with the clean breast of Sir John Phillips.”

“Not so clean, if you ask me.”

“I wonder. I’m doing a reconstruction to-morrow afternoon. Phillips is arranging it for me. Would you say he was a great loss to the stage?”

“How d’you mean, chief?”

“If he’s our man, he’s one of the best actors I’ve ever met. You come along to-morrow to the hospital, Fox, and see what you shall see. Five o’clock. And now I’m going to lunch. I want to see Lady O’Callaghan before the show, and Roberts too, if possible. I may as well get his version of the Lenin Hall lot.
Au revoir
, Fox.”

“Do you mind repeating that, sir?”

“
Au revoir.
”

“
Au revoir
, monsieur,” said Fox carefully.

“I’m coming to hear those records of yours one of these nights, if I may.”

Fox became plum-coloured with suppressed pleasure.

“I’d take it very kindly,” he said stiffly and went out.

Alleyn rang up the house in Catherine Street and learnt that Lady O’Callaghan would be pleased to receive him at ten to three the following afternoon. He spent half an hour on his file of the case. The analyst’s report on Phillips’s tablets and the hyoscine solution had come in. Both contained the usual dosage. He sent off the “Fulvitavolts” and the scrap of paper that had enclosed Ruth O’Callaghan’s second remedy. It was possible, but extremely unlikely, that there might be a trace of the drug spilt on the wrapper. At one o’clock he went home and lunched. At two o’clock he rang up the Yard and found there was a message from Sir John Phillips to the effect that the reconstruction could be held the following afternoon at the time suggested. He asked them to tell Fox and then rang Phillips up and thanked him.

Alleyn spent the rest, of the day adding to the file on the case and in writing a sort of résumé for his own instruction. He sat over it until ten o’clock and then deliberately put it aside, read the second act of
Hamlet
, and wondered, not for the first time, what sort of a hash the Prince of Denmark would have made of a job at the Yard. Then, being very weary, he went to bed.

The next morning he reviewed his notes, particularly that part of them which referred to hyoscine.

“Possible sources of hyoscine,” he had written:

“1.
The bottle of stock solution
.

“Probably Banks, Marigold, Harden, Thoms, Phillips, all had opportunity to get at this. All in theatre before operation. Each could have filled anti-gas syringe with hyoscine. If this was done, someone had since filled up bottle with 10 c.c.’s of the correct solution. No one could have done this during the operation. Could it have been done later? No good looking for prints.

“2.
The tablets
.

“Phillips could have given an overdose when he prepared the syringe. May have to trace his purchases of h.

“3.
The patent medicines
.

“(a) ”
Fulvitavolts
.“ Negligible quantity unless Sage had doctored packet supplied to Ruth. Check up.

“(b)
The second p.m
. (more p.m.’s!) supplied to Ruth. May have been lethal dose concocted by Sage, hoping to do in O’Callaghan, marry Ruth and the money, and strike a blow for Lenin, Love, and Liberty.”

After contemplating these remarks with some disgust Alleyn went to the hospital, made further arrangements for the reconstruction at five and after a good deal of trouble succeeded in getting no further with the matter of the stock solution. He then visited the firm that supplied Sir John Phillips with drugs and learnt nothing that was of the remotest help. He then lunched and went to call on Lady O’Callaghan. Nash received him with that particular nuance of condescension that hitherto he had reserved for politicians. He was shown into the drawing-room, an apartment of great elegance and no character. Above the mantelpiece hung a portrait in pastel of Cicely O’Callaghan. The artist had dealt competently with the shining texture of the dress and hair, and had made a conscientious map of the face. Alleyn felt he would get about as much change from the original as he would from the picture. She came in, gave him a colourless greeting, and asked him to sit down.

“I’m so sorry to worry you again,” Alleyn began. “It’s a small matter, one of those loose ends that probably mean nothing, but have to be tidied up.”

“Yes. I shall be pleased to give you any help. I hope everything is quite satisfactory?” she said. She might have been talking about a new hot-water system.

“I hope it will be,” rejoined Alleyn. “At the moment we are investigating any possible sources of hyoscine. Lady O’Callaghan, can you tell me if Sir Derek had taken any drugs of any sort at all before the operation?” As she did not answer immediately, he added quickly: “You see, if he had taken any medicine containing hyoscine, it would be necessary to try and arrive at the amount in order to allow for it.”

“Yes,” she said, “I see.”

“Had he, do you know, taken any medicine? Perhaps when the pain was very bad?”

“My husband disliked drugs of all kinds.”

“Then Miss Ruth O’Callaghan’s suggestion about a remedy she was interested in would not appeal to him?”

“No. He thought it rather a foolish suggestion.”

“I’m sorry to hammer away at it like this, but do you think there’s a remote possibility that he did take a dose? I believe Miss O’Callaghan did actually leave some medicine here — something called ‘Fulvitavolts,’ I think she said it was?”

“Yes. She left a packet here.”

“Was it lying about where he might see it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember. The servants, perhaps— ” Her voice trailed away. “If it’s at all important— ” she said vaguely.

“It is rather.”

“I am afraid I don’t quite understand why. Obviously my husband was killed at the hospital.”

“That,” said Alleyn, “is one of the theories. The ‘Fulvitavolts’ are of some importance because they contain a small amount of hyoscine. You will understand that we must account for any hyoscine — even the smallest amount — that was given?”

“Yes,” said Lady O’Callaghan. She looked serenely over his head for a few seconds and then added: “I’m afraid I cannot help you. I hope my sister-in-law, who is already upset by what has happened, will not be unnecessarily distressed by suggestions that she was responsible in any way.”

“I hope not,” echoed Alleyn blandly. “Probably, as you say, he did not touch the ‘Fulvitavolts.’ When did Miss O’Callaghan bring them?”

“I believe one night before the operation.”

“Was it the night Sir John Phillips called?”

“That was on the Friday.”

“Yes — was it then, do you remember?”

“I think perhaps it was.”

“Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

“About Sir John Phillips?”

“No, about Miss O’Callaghan.”

She took a cigarette from a box by her chair. Alleyn jumped up and lit it for her. It rather surprised him to find that she smoked. It gave her an uncanny resemblance to something human.

“Can you remember at all?” he said.

“My sister-in-law often came in after dinner. At times my husband found these visits a little trying. He liked to be quiet in the evenings. I believe on that night he suggested that she should be told he was out. However, she came in. We were in the study.”

“You both saw her, then?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“She urged him to try his medicine. He put her off. I told her he expected Sir John Phillips and that we ought to leave them alone. I remember she and I met Sir John in the hall. I thought his manner very odd, as I believe I told you.”

“So you went out, leaving the medicine in the study?”

“I suppose so — yes.”

“Did you come across it again?”

“I don’t think so.”

“May I speak to your butler — Nash, isn’t it?”

“If you think it is any help.” She rang the bell.

Nash came in and waited.

“Mr. Alleyn wants to speak to you, Nash,” said Lady O’Callaghan. Nash turned a respectful eye towards him.

“I want you to think back to the Friday evening before Sir Derek’s operation,” Alleyn began. “Do, you remember that evening?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There were visitors?”

“Yes, sir. Miss O’Callaghan and Sir John Phillips.”

“Exactly. Do you remember noticing a chemist’s parcel anywhere in the study?”

“Yes, sir. Miss O’Callaghan brought it with her, I believe.”

“That’s the one. What happened to it?”

“I had it removed to a cupboard in Sir Derek’s bathroom the following morning, sir.”

“I see. Had it been opened?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Can you find it now, Nash, do you think?”

“I will ascertain, sir.”

“Do you mind, Lady O’Callaghan?” asked Alleyn apologetically.

“Of course not.”

Nash inclined his head solemnly and left the room. While he was away there was a rather uncomfortable silence. Alleyn, looking very remote and polite, made no effort to break it. Nash returned after a few minutes with the now familiar carton, on a silver salver. Alleyn took it and thanked him. Nash departed.

“Here it is,” said the inspector cheerfully. “Oh, yes, Nash was quite right; it has been opened and — let me see — one powder has been taken. That doesn’t amount to much.” He put the carton in his pocket and turned to Lady O’Callaghan. “It seems ridiculous, I know, to worry about so small a matter, but it’s part of our job to pick up every thread, however unimportant. This, I suppose, was the last effort Miss O’Callaghan made to interest Sir Derek in any remedy?”

Again she waited for a few seconds.

“Yes,” she murmured at last, “I believe so.”

“She did not mention another remedy to you after he had been taken to the hospital?”

“Really, Inspector Alleyn, I cannot possibly remember. My sister-in-law talks a great deal about patent medicines. She tries to persuade everyone she knows to take them. I believe my uncle, Mr. James Rattisbon, has already explained this to you. He tells me that he made it quite clear that we did not wish this matter to be pursued.”

“I am afraid I cannot help pursuing it.”

“But Mr. Rattisbon definitely instructed you.”

“Please forgive me,” said Alleyn very quietly, “if I seem to be unduly officious.” He paused. She looked’at him with a kind of cold huffiness. After a moment he went on. “I wonder if you have ever seen or read a play called
Justice
, by Galsworthy? It is no doubt very dated, but there is an idea in it that I think explains far better than I can the position of people who become involved, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, with the Law. Galsworthy made one of his characters — a lawyer, I think — say that once you have set in motion the chariot wheels of Justice, you can do nothing at all to arrest or deflect their progress. Lady O’Callaghan, that is the exact truth. You, very properly, decided to place this tragic case in the hands of the police. In doing so you switched on a piece of complicated and automatic machinery which, once started, you cannot switch off. As the police officer in charge of this case I am simply a wheel in the machine. I must complete my revolutions. Please do not think I am impertinent if I say that neither you nor any other lay person, however much involved, has the power to stop the machine of justice or indeed to influence it in any way whatever.” He stopped abruptly. “I am afraid you
will
think me impertinent — I have no business to talk like this. If you will excuse me— ”

He bowed and turned away.

“Yes,” said Lady O’Callaghan, “I quite understand. Good afternoon.”

“There’s one other thing,” said Alleyn. “I had nearly forgotten it. It’s something that you can do, if you will, to help us as regards the hospital side of the problem.”

She listened, apparently without any particular surprise or agitation, to his request, and agreed at once to do as he suggested.

“Thank you very much indeed, Lady O’Callaghan. You understand that we should like Miss O’Callaghan to be with you?”

“Yes,” she said after a long pause.

“Shall I see her, or — perhaps you would rather ask her yourself?”

“Perhaps that would be better. I would much prefer her to be spared this unnecessary ordeal.”

“I assure you,” said Alleyn dryly, “that it may save her a more unpleasant one.”

“I’m afraid I do not understand you. However, I shall ask her.”

In the hall he walked straight into Miss Ruth O’Callaghan. When she saw him she uttered a noise that was something between a whoop of alarm and a cry of supplication, and bolted incontinently into the drawing-room. Nash, who had evidently just admitted her, looked scandalised.

“Is Mr. Jameson in, Nash?” asked Alleyn.

“Mr. Jameson has left us, sir.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir. His duties, as you might say, have drawn to a close.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn, unconsciously echoing Lady O’Callaghan. “I quite understand. Good afternoon.”

Thursday, the eighteenth. Afternoon.

Alleyn found he still had over an hour to wait before the reconstruction. He had tea and then rang up Dr. Roberts, found he was at home, and made his way once more to the little house in Wigmore Street. He wanted, if possible, to surprise Roberts with an unexpected reference to the Lenin Hall meeting. The diminutive manservant admitted him and showed him into the pleasant sitting-room, where he found Roberts awaiting him.

“I hope I’m not a great nuisance,” said Alleyn. “You did ask me to come back some time, you know.”

“Certainly,” said Roberts, shaking hands. “I am delighted to see you. Have you read my book?” He swept a sheaf of papers off a chair and pulled it forward. Alleyn sat down.

“I’ve dipped into it — no time really to tackle it yet, but I’m enormously interested. At Lord knows what hour this morning I read the chapter in which you refer to the Sterilization Bill. You put the case for sterilization better than any other sponsor I have heard.”

“You think so?” said Roberts acidly. “Then you will be surprised to hear that although I have urged that matter with all the force and determination I could command, I have made not one inch of headway — not an inch! I am forced to the conclusion that most of the people who attempt to administer the government of this country are themselves certifiable.” He gave a short falsetto laugh and glared indignantly at Alleyn, who contented himself with making an incredulous and sympathetic noise.

“I have done everything — everything,” continued Roberts. “I joined a group of people professing enlightened views on the matter. They assured me they would stick at nothing to force this Bill through Parliament. They, professed the greatest enthusiasm.
Have
they done anything?” He paused oratorically and then in a voice of indescribable disgust he said: “They merely asked me to wait in patience till the Dawn of the Proletariat Day in Britain.”

Chief Inspector Alleyn felt himself to be in the foolish position of one who sets a match to the dead stick of a rocket. Dr. Roberts had most effectively stolen his fireworks. He had a private laugh at himself. Roberts continued angrily:

“They call themselves Communists. They have no interest in the welfare of the community — none. Last night I attended one of their meetings and I was disgusted. All they did was to rejoice for no constructive or intelligent reason over the death of the late Home Secretary.”

He stopped abruptly, glanced at Alleyn, and then with that curious return to nervousness which the inspector had noticed before he said: “But, of course, I had forgotten. That is very much your business. Thoms rang me up just now to ask me if I could attend at the hospital this afternoon.”

“
Thoms
rang you up?”

“Yes. Sir John had asked him to, I believe. I don’t know why,” said Dr. Roberts, suddenly looking surprised and rather bewildered, “but I sometimes find Thoms’s manner rather aggravating.”

“Do you?” murmured Alleyn, smiling. “He is rather facetious.”

“Facetious! Exactly. And this afternoon I found his facetiousness in bad taste.”

“What did he say?”

“He said something to the effect that if I wished to make my get-away he would be pleased to lend me a pair of ginger-coloured whiskers and a false nose. I thought it in bad taste.”

“Certainly,” said Alleyn, hurriedly blowing his own nose.

“Of course,” continued Dr. Roberts, “Mr. Thoms knows himself to be in an impregnable position, since he could not have given any injection without being observed, and had no hand in preparing the injection which he did give. I felt inclined to point out to him that I myself am somewhat similarly situated, but do not feel, on that account, free to indulge in buffoonery.”

“I suppose Mr. Thoms was in the anteroom all the time until you went into the theatre?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Roberts stiffly. “I myself merely went to the anteroom with Sir John, said what was necessary, and joined my patient in the anæsthetic-room.”

“Ah, well — we shall get a better idea of all your movements from the reconstruction.”

“I suppose so,” agreed Roberts, looking perturbed. “It will be a distressing experience for all of us. Except, no doubt, Mr. Thoms.”

He waited a moment and then said nervously: “Perhaps this is a question that I should not ask, Inspector Alleyn, but I cannot help wondering if the police have a definite theory as regards this crime?”

Alleyn was used to this question.

“We’ve got several theories, Dr. Roberts, and all of them more or less fit. That’s the devil of it.”

“Have you explored the possibility of suicide?” asked Roberts wistfully.

“I have considered it.”

“Remember his heredity.”

“I have remembered it. After he had the attack in the House his physical condition would have rendered suicide impossible, and he could hardly have taken hyoscine while making his speech.”

“Again remember his heredity. He might have carried hyoscine tablets with him for some time and under the emotional stimulus of the occasion suffered a sudden ungovernable impulse. In the study of suicidal psychology one comes across many such cases. Did his hand go to his mouth while he was speaking? I see you look incredulous, Inspector Alleyn. Perhaps you even think it suspicious that I should urge the point. I — I —
have
a reason for hoping you find that O’Callaghan killed himself, but it does not spring from a sense of guilt.”

A strangely exalted look came into the little doctor’s eyes as he spoke. Alleyn regarded him intently.

“Dr. Roberts,” he said as last, “why not tell me what is in vour mind?”

“No,” said Roberts emphatically, “no — not unless — unless the worst happens.”

“Well,” said Alleyn, “as you know, I can’t force you to give me your theory, but it’s a dangerous business, withholding information in a capital charge.”

“It may not be a capital charge,” cried Roberts in a hurry.

“Even suppose your suicide theory is possible, it seems to me that a man of Sir Derek’s stamp would not have done it in such a way as to cast suspicion upon other people.”

“No,” agreed Roberts. “No. That is undoubtedly a strong argument — and yet inherited suicidal mania sometimes manifests itself very abruptly and strangely. I have known instances…”

He went to his bookcase and took down several volumes, from which he read in a rapid, dry and didactic manner, rather as though Alleyn was a collection of students. This went on for some time. The servant brought in tea, and with an air of patient benevolence, poured it out himself. He placed Roberts’s cup on a table under his nose, waited until the doctor closed the book with which he was at the moment engaged, took it firmly from him and directed his attention to the tea. He then moved the table between the two men and left the room.

“Thank you,” said Roberts vaguely some time after he had gone.

Roberts, still delivering himself of his learning, completely forgot to drink his tea or to offer some to Alleyn, but occasionally stretched out a hand towards the toast. The time passed rapidly. Alleyn looked at his watch.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, “it’s half-past four. We’ll have to collect ourselves, I’m afraid.”

“Teh!” said Roberts crossly.

“I’ll call a taxi.”

“No, no. I’ll drive you there, inspector. Wait a moment.” He darted out into the hall and gave flurried orders to the little servant, who silently insinuated him into his coat and gave him his hat. Roberts shot back into the sitting-room and fetched his stethoscope.

“What about your anæsthetising apparatus?” ventured Alleyn.

“Eh?” asked Roberts, squinting round at him.

“Your anæsthetising apparatus.”

“D’you want that?”

“Please — if it’s not a great bore. Didn’t Sir John tell you?”

“I’ll get it,” said Roberts. He darted off across the little hall.

“Can I assist you, sir?” asked the servant.

“No, no. Bring out the car.”

He reappeared presently, wheeling the cruet-like apparatus with its enormous cylinders.

“You can’t carry that down the steps by yourself,” said Alleyn. “Let me help.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said Roberts. He bent down and examined the nuts that fastened the frame at the bottom. “Wouldn’t do for these nuts to come loose,” he said. “You take the top, will you? Gently. Ease it down the steps.”

With a good deal of bother they got the thing into Roberts’s car and drove off to Brook Street, the little doctor talking most of the time.

As they drew near the hospital, however, he grew quieter, seemed to get nervous, and kept catching Alleyn’s eye and hurriedly looking away again. After this had happened some three or four times Roberts laughed uncomfortably.

“I–I’m not looking forward to this experiment,” he said. “One gets moderately case-hardened in our profession, I suppose, but there’s something about this affair” — he blinked hard twice —“something profoundly disquieting. Perhaps it is the element of uncertainty.”

“But you have got a theory, Dr. Roberts?”

“I? No. No. I did hope it might be suicide. No — I’ve no specific theory.”

“Oh, well. If you won’t tell me, you won’t,” rejoined Alleyn.

Roberts looked at him in alarm, but said no more.

At Brook Street they found Fox placidly contemplating the marble woman in the waiting-room. He was accompanied by Inspector Boys, a large red-faced officer with a fruity voice and hands like hams. Boys kept a benevolent but shrewd eye on the activities of communistic societies, on near-treasonable propagandists, and on Soviet-minded booksellers. He was in the habit of alluding to such persons who came into these categories as though they were tiresome but harmless children.

“Hullo,” said Alleyn. “Where are the star turns?”

“The nurses are getting the operating theatre ready,” Fox told him. “Sir John Phillips asked me to let him know when we are ready. The other ladies are upstairs.”

“Right. Mr. Thoms here?”

“Is that the funny gentleman, sir?” asked Boys.

“It is.”

“He’s here.”

“Then in that case we’re complete. Dr. Roberts has gone up to the theatre. Let us follow him. Fox, let Sir John know, will you?”

Fox went away and Alleyn and Boys took the lift up to the theatre landing, where they found the rest of the
dramatis personæ
awaited them. Mr. Thoms broke off in the middle of some anecdote with which he was apparently regaling the company.

“Hullo, ’ullo, ’ullo!” he shouted. “Here’s the Big Noise itself. Now we shan’t be long.”

“Good evening, Mr. Thoms,” said Alleyn. “Good evening, matron. I hope I haven’t kept you all waiting.”

“Not at all,” said Sister Marigold.

Fox appeared with Sir John Phillips. Alleyn spoke a word to him and then turned and surveyed the group. They eyed him uneasily and perhaps inimically. It was a little as though they drew together, moved by a common impulse of self-preservation. He thought they looked rather like sheep, bunched together, their heads turned watchfully towards their protective enemy, the sheep-dog.

“I’d better give a warning bark or two,” thought Alleyn and addressed them collectively.

“I’m quite sure,” he began, “that you all realise why we have asked you to meet us here. It is, of course, in order to enlist your help. We are faced with a difficult problem in this case and feel that a reconstruction of the operation may go far towards clearing any suspicion of guilt from innocent individuals. As you know, Sir Derek O’Callaghan died from hyoscine poisoning. He was a man with many political enemies, and from the outset the affair has been a complicated and bewildering problem. The fact that he, in the course of the operation, was given a legitimate injection of hyoscine has added to the complications. I am sure you are all as anxious as we are to clear up this aspect of the case. I ask you to look upon the reconstruction as an opportunity to free yourselves of any imputation of guilt. As a medium in detection the reconstruction has much to commend it. The chief argument against it is that sometimes innocent persons are moved, through nervousness or other motives, to defeat the whole object of the thing by changing the original circumstances. Under the shadow of tragedy it is not unusual for innocent individuals to imagine that the police suspect them. I am sure that you are not likely to do anything so foolish as this. I am sure you realise that this is an opportunity, not a trap. Let me beg you to repeat as closely as you can your actions during the operation on the deceased. If you do this, there is not the faintest cause for alarm.” He looked at his watch.

“Now then,” he said. “You are to imagine that time has gone back seven days. It is twenty-five minutes to four on the afternoon of Thursday, February 4th. Sir Derek O’Callaghan is upstairs in his room, awaiting his operation. Matron, when you get word will you and the nurses who are to help you begin your preparations in the anteroom and the theatre? Any dialogue you remember you will please repeat. Inspector Fox will be in the anteroom and Inspector Boys in the theatre. Please treat them as pieces of sterile machinery.” He allowed himself a faint smile and turned to Phillips and Nurse Graham, the special.

“We’ll go upstairs.”

They went up to the next landing. Outside the door of the first room Alleyn turned to the others. Phillips was very white, but quite composed. Little Nurse Graham looked unhappy, but sensibly determined.

“Now, nurse, we’ll go in. If you’ll just wait a moment, sir. Actually you are just coming upstairs.”

“I see,” said Phillips.

Alleyn swung open the door and followed Nurse Graham into the bedroom.

Cicely and Ruth O’Callaghan were at the window. He got the impression that Ruth had been sitting there, perhaps crouched in that arm-chair, and had sprung up when the door opened. Cicely O’Callaghan stood erect, very
grande dame
and statuesque, a gloved hand resting lightly on the window-sill.

“Good evening, Inspector Alleyn,” she said. Ruth gave a loud sob and gasped “Good evening.”

Alleyn felt that his only hope of avoiding a scene was to hurry things along at a business-like canter.