The Nursing Home Murder

CHAPTER VI Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn

Friday, the twelfth. Afternoon and evening.

Hullo, Brer Fox,” said Alleyn, looking up from his desk. “Where’ve you been in your new bowler?”

“Paying a call on the Snow Queen,” replied Fox with unexpected imaginativeness. “And when I say ‘Snow Queen’ I don’t mean cocaine, either.”

“No? Then what do you mean? Sit down and have a smoke. You look perturbed.”

“Well, I am,” said Fox heavily. He produced a pipe and blew down it, staring solemnly at his superior. “I’ve been to see the wife of the late Home Secretary,” he said.

“What! You are coming on.”

“Look here, chief. She says it’s murder.”

“She says what’s murder?”

“Him. Sir Derek O’Callaghan.”

Alleyn put his pipe down and swung round slowly in his chair.

“Oh!” he said. He raised one eyebrow to an excruciating height and twisted his mouth sideways. This trick invested his handsome face with a kind of impish fastidiousness.

“What sort of woman is she?” he asked.

“A very cold fishy sort of lady,” answered Fox. “A Snow Queen, in fact. Not the hysterical sort, if that’s what you mean.”

“She was a Rattisbon. All the Rattisbons are a bit frosty. I was at school with her brother — who was, of course, called ‘Ratsbane.’ I speak like Mr. Gossip, don’t I? A very churlish fellow, he was. Well, let’s have the whole story.”

Fox told him the whole story, dwelling a little on the letters.

“I see,” said Alleyn. “And she’s hell-bent on an inquest?”

“That she is. If we won’t do anything, she’s going to the Prime Minister. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he, sir?”

“I know the old creature, yes. As a matter of fact, he summoned me to the presence on another matter about a fortnight ago and we had an Oppenheimian conversation about anarchists. He was very perturbed and asked me if I didn’t consider O’Callaghan would be in personal danger if he pushed the Bill. Well, one never knows, and I said so. Some bright young Communist might bowl a bomb. As a matter of cold fact, I greatly doubt it. They do a certain amount of mischief, they’re an almighty nuisance, but as murderers I’ve no real faith in the British anarchist. Anarchist! The word is vieux jeu.”

“I suppose that’s French?”

“Quite right, Fox. I always said you had a flair for languages.”

“I’m teaching myself with the gramophone. All the same, sir, these anarchists are no joke.”

“Of course they’re not. The P.M., as I believe the member for Little Squidgemere calls him, thought O’Callaghan ought to have police protection. I quite agreed. I couldn’t very well do anything else. O’Callaghan pooh-poohed the idea. As you know, we were looking after him in our unassuming way. On the afternoon of the Cabinet Meeting, when they decided to introduce the Bill, I went along to Downing Street myself. I’d got wind of that insufferable nuisance Nicholas Kakaroff, and found him standing about in the street, dressed up as something rather ridiculous — a photographer, I think. He made off, with all his infra-red rays and whatnot, as soon as he saw me. I took a taxi and followed O’Callaghan home. We were alongside each other at one moment. He turned up the lights in his car and I returned the compliment.”

“His servants are all right, aren’t they?” asked Fox. “Oh, yes; we went as far as that. But, of course, we couldn’t do much without O’Callaghan’s permission or knowledge.”

“No. I think her ladyship suspects the surgeon or the girl.”

“ ‘The Surgeon or the Girl’ — it sounds like a talkie. Sir John Phillips is a very able man and handy, so I understand, with the knife. She thinks he dug it into an unlawful spot, because O’Callaghan had been interfering with his girl — is that it?”

“She thinks Sir Derek was poisoned, otherwise that seems to be the general idea, but of course his letter isn’t very explicit.”

“Have you got the letters?”

“Yes. Here they are.” Alleyn read them carefully.

“You know, Fox, hundreds of people write letters like these without planning murder.”

“Isn’t that what I tried to tell her!”

“My poor Foxkin! See if you can find the Press report of his death.”

Fox produced a paper.

“I brought it with me,” he said.

“You think of everything. Here we are. He died an hour after the operation was over. The anæsthetist was worried… peritonitis… ruptured abscess… ‘unwilling to turn aside from the gigantic task’… he’d neglected his tummy, evidently. It sounds straightforward enough, and yet— ”

Alleyn took the tip of his straight nose between his thumb and finger and pulled it thoughtfully.

“Oh, lard!” he said sadly. “I’ll have to go and see the lady.”

Fox looked relieved.

“If there’s anything in it,” he reflected, “it’ll be a hell of a big case. What you call”—he paused selfconsciously—“a cause célèbre.”

“It will indeed,” said Alleyn, who never made too much fun of anybody. “I wonder if she would see me this evening?”

“I’m certain she would, sir.”

“I’ll ask.”

Alleyn rang up the house in Catherine Street. “Is that Lady O’Callaghan’s house? Is it her butler speaking? Chief Inspector Alleyn, Scotland Yard, here. Will you ask her ladyship if I may call on her to-night at any time that” would suit her? Inspector Alleyn, yes. Thank you.”

He stared absent-mindedly at Fox while he waited for the reply.

“At nine o’clock. Thank you so much.” He hung up the receiver. “I’m for it,” he said.

After Fox had gone Alleyn sat and gazed at the opposite wall for twenty minutes. Then he rang up the divisional surgeon and talked to him about the human appendix, peritonitis and anæsthetics. Then he went to his flat near Coventry Street, bathed, changed into a dinner-jacket, dined, and read the first scene in Hamlet, to which he was partial. By that time it was twenty to nine. He decided to walk to Catherine Street. His servant, Vassily, [See A Man Lay Dead] helped him into his overcoat.

“Vassily,” said Alleyn, “do you ever see anything of your disreputable pals — The Pan-Soviet Brotherhood, or whatever they were — nowadays?”

“No, sir. Not now am I such a foolish old rascal. I am one bite too shy.”

“So I should hope, you old donkey. You don’t happen to remember hearing any gossip about Nicholas Kakaroff?”

Vassily crossed himself lavishly from right to left.

“Hospodi bozhe moy! He is one of the most worst of them,” he said energetically. “A bad fellow. Before the Soviet he was young and anything but conserff-a-tiff. After the Soviet he was older and always up to no-good. The Soviet pleased him no better than the Romanoffs. So sometimes he was killing officials, and at last he has heated up Russia for himself too much, so has come to England.”

“Where he seems to have been given the usual hearty welcome. Yes, I knew all that, Vassily. Thank you. Don’t wait up. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.” Vassily laid his hand on Alleyn’s sleeve. “Please, sir,” he said, “have no business with Nicolai Alexovitch — he is a very bad rascal.”

“Well, you ought to know,” Alleyn remarked lightly, and went out smiling to himself.

At Catherine Street he was received by Nash, who stared like a boiled owl at the inspector. Nash, who carried in his head a sort of social ladder, had quietly decided that police officers of all ranks were to be graded with piano-tuners. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn did not conform, in appearance or in manner, to this classification. Nash performed a reluctant mental somersault.

“Lady O’Callaghan?” asked Alleyn.

“Her ladyship is expecting you, sir.” Alleyn gave him his hat and overcoat. Nash said: “Thank you, sir,” and waddled off towards the study. Alleyn followed him. Nash opened the door.

“Mr. Alleyn, m’lady,” he said. Obviously the degrading titles were better omitted. Alleyn walked in.

Cicely O’Callaghan sat before the fire in her husband’s arm-chair. As Alleyn came in she rose to her feet and looked serenely at him.

“How do you do?” she said.

“How do you do? I am extremely sorry to bother you, Lady O’Callaghan.”

He thought: “Golly, she is like Ratsbane!”

“But I wished to see you. It is good of you to come so promptly.”

“Not a bit.” This was an exceedingly polite introduction to a murder story.

“Do sit down. I suppose the man who came here this afternoon has told you my reason for communicating with the police?”

“I believe Inspector Fox gave me a full account of your conversation.”

“Yes. I am convinced that my husband was murdered — probably poisoned.”

“I am sorry that in addition to your grief you should suffer the pain occasioned by such a suspicion,” said Alleyn and wondered how long they were to make speeches at each other.

“Thank you. Do you agree with me that the circumstances warrant an inquest?”

“I think I should like to hear a little more about them. I have read the letters.”

“Surely they, in themselves, are enough to arouse anybody’s suspicion?”

“Lady O’Callaghan, it is extremely unusual for a person contemplating homicide to write such letters. I do not say it is unknown, but it is very unusual. I expect Fox told you that.”

“I believe he said something of the sort. My point is this: I do not think the murderer contemplated homicide when writing the letter. I do think that a person capable of writing such a letter would also be capable of seizing the opportunity when it presented itself.”

“So it is Phillips and the girl she’s after,” thought Alleyn.

“I see your point, of course,” he said slowly.

“There is another incident which I did not go into with — Inspector Fox. Before my husband’s operation I was in his room with him. He did not realise where he was or what had happened to him. I tried to explain about the appendix. Then Sir John Phillips came into the room. When my husband saw him he exclaimed: ‘Don’t — don’t let— ’ and then he collapsed. He seemed terrified by the presence of Sir John Phillips and I am certain that he tried to say: ‘Don’t let him touch me.’ I must tell you that a week before this Sir John called on my husband. I hoped that it was for a consultation about his pain, which was then very severe. Next morning I asked my husband if Sir John had examined him. He evaded my question, and seemed very much upset. I had met Sir John in the hall and had thought his manner most unusual. His letter was written that same night, evidently as a result of the interview.”

“You definitely connect Sir John’s letter with the other, signed Jane Harden?”

“Yes. She is a nurse in the hospital where my husband was a patient. After your man left, this afternoon, I rang up the hospital and under pretext of wishing to thank the nurses concerned in the case, I found out their names. She was actually present in the operating theatre and I dare say assisted Sir John.”

She drawled all this out in her serene, high-pitched voice, exactly as though she was reading aloud.

“Forgive me,” said Alleyn, “but did you know anything about this business? I hope you will understand that I only ask because— ”

“Because you wonder if I am prejudiced?”

“Exactly.”

“I knew my husband was unfaithful to me from time to time. I also believed these incidents to be more or less casual encounters.”

“You were unaware of this Miss Harden’s existence?”

“Quite.”

Alleyn was silent for a little while. Then he rose to his feet.

“I think, with you, that there should be an inquest,” he told her.

She made a slight movement and the heavy folds of her dress stirred. It was as though she had suddenly gone tense all over. When she spoke, however, it was with her customary equanimity.

“You have, I am sure, made a very wise decision.”

“I’m afraid we shall have difficulty with the coroner. Naturally he is rather chary about starting such an alarming hare. It will be impossible to keep the thing even moderately quiet. The papers already have wind of these threatening letters from Sir Derek’s political enemies.”

He watched her closely, but beyond a faint expression of distaste, could find no evidence of any sort of emotion.

“That will be rather disagreeable,” she murmured.

“I am afraid so. Is there anything else that you would like to discuss?”

“I was going to suggest that you speak to Mr. Ronald Jameson, my husband’s secretary. He will, I think, confirm what I have said about Sir Derek’s reaction to these letters.”

“If you wish it, I will see him. Of course, if the postmortem shows that poison has been given, it will then be my duty to make very exhaustive inquiries.”

“Of course,” she agreed.

Evidently she had made up her mind Alleyn should see Jameson, because she sent for him then and there. Ronald came in looking very perturbed and uneasy.

“This is my husband’s secretary — Mr. Jameson, Mr. Alleyn.”

“How do you do, sir?” said Ronald. “You won’t have the foggiest recollection of me, I’m afraid, but we have met before.”

“I’ve a filthy memory,” declared Chief Inspector Alleyn.

“It was at Nigel Bathgate’s.”

“Oh, yes.” Alleyn was polite, but non-committaL

“Really?” murmured Lady O’Callaghan. “Yes. I thought too that perhaps I had seen you — that your face— ” She seemed uncertain how to go on.

“People often find they are familiar with the faces of the police,” said Alleyn gravely.

“It’s not that, sir.” Ronald turned to Lady O’Callaghan. “Mr. Alleyn is in some of Mr. Rattisbon’s photos in the study at Karnelly.”

“Ratsbane’s cricketing groups,” thought Alleyn. “Oh, Lord!”

“Oh,” said Lady O’Callaghan. “Yes.” She stared rather blankly at him.

“Mr. Jameson,” Alleyn began, “I believe Lady O’Callaghan wants me to speak to you about an incident that took place here a week before Sir Derek’s operation.”

Ronald jumped and glanced nervously at the lady.

“I have spoken to Mr. Alleyn about my suspicions. He agrees that there should be an inquest.”

“Really, sir? Look here — I mean, of course, you know best, but, well — it’s — it’s a pretty ghastly thought, isn’t it?”

“You remember the evening my husband had the letter signed Jane Harden?”

“Yes,” said Ronald very reluctantly.

“You remember that you told me the letter seemed to upset him very much?”

“Yes — but— ”

“And when he overheard you speaking of it he was quite unreasonably angry?”

“I don’t think unreasonably, Lady O’Callaghan,” Ronald protested. “Sir Derek was quite right. I should not have mentioned his correspondence. I had never done so before.”

“Why did you do so then?” she asked him.

“Really,” thought Alleyn, “she might be an Attorney-General.”

“Because — well, because it seemed to upset him so much.” Ronald saw the fence too late and crashed into it.

“Yes,” said Lady O’Callaghan.

“Would you describe him as being alarmed?” Alleyn asked.

“Well — more sort of disturbed and distressed. After all, sir, it was an unpleasant letter to get.”

Ronald seemed to be in a perfect agony of embarrassment.

“Certainly,” Alleyn agreed. “You were not present, were you, at any time during the interview between Sir Derek and Sir John Phillips?”

“No. I — no, I wasn’t.”

“What were you going to say? Was anyone else there?”

“Nash, the butler, took in the tray.”

“Has he spoken to you on the subject?” asked Alleyn casually.

“Er — yes. Servants’ gossip. I rather snubbed him, sir.”

“What did he say before you’d snubbed him?”

“He’s an awful old woman — Nash. He seemed to think Sir John had used some sort of threatening expression. Honestly, sir, he’s a fearful ass.”

“I see. I think that’s all, Lady O’Callaghan. Perhaps the apprehensive Nash will make an appearance when I go.”

She rang the bell.

“He should have come in with the tray by this time,” she said vaguely.

When Nash appeared it was with the tray, which he set down delicately.

“Mr. Alleyn, will you—?”

“No, thank you so much. I must be off. Good-bye, Lady O’Callaghan. I’ll ring you up if I may.”

“Yes. Thank you. Good-bye.”

Nash opened the door and followed Alleyn into the hall. Jameson made as if to see the inspector out.

“Oh — Mr. Jameson,” said Lady O’Callaghan. He hesitated and then returned to the study, closing the door.

As he took his hat and coat from the butler Alleyn paused and looked directly at him.

“Perhaps you realise why I am here?” he said.

“Not altogether, sir,” murmured Nash composedly.

“It is in connection with Sir Derek’s death.”

Nash bowed very slightly.

“If I ask you a question,” Alleyn continued, “you must understand there is no obligation to answer if you don’t want to. I particularly do not wish the matter mentioned in or out of the servants’ hall. You understand?”

“Certainly, sir,” said Nash quietly.

“I believe I can depend on you. How long have you been with Sir Derek?”

“Twenty years, sir. I was footman to his father.”

“Yes. Did you hear Sir John Phillips say anything to your master the last time he came here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was it?”

“ ‘If the opportunity presented itself, I should have no hesitation in putting you out of the way.’ Those were the exact words, sir.”

“I see. Have you told anyone about this?”

“Mr. Jameson, sir. I considered it my duty. No one in the hall has any idea of the incident, sir.”

“What did Mr. Jameson think about it?”

“He appeared to attach no importance to it, sir.”

“No? Thank you, Nash.”

“Thank you very much, sir. Shall I get you a taxi, sir?”

“No, I’ll walk. Good night.”

“Good evening, sir.”

Nash opened the door and Alleyn went out into the street. He paused a moment to light a cigarette. He had taken a few steps along the pavement when he heard something that made him pause and turn.

Ronald Jameson had come out of the house and hurried after him, bareheaded.

“Please forgive me, sir,” he said hurriedly, “but I felt I must have another word with you. It was rather difficult with Lady O’Callaghan present. About these ideas of hers. I’m certain there’s nothing in it. Sir Derek was a man of the world and — and, of course, he had his relaxations. She seems very cold and all that, but I believe she was frightfully jealous and she wants to punish this girl. I’m sure that’s all it is.”

“Oh. Why should she want to punish Sir John Phillips as well as Miss Harden?”

“Oh, Lord knows. You can’t tell with women, sir, can you?”

“I haven’t tried,” said Alleyn.

“I expect you think it frightful cheek, my butting in like this, but, you see, I — well, Sir Derek was rather a marvellous person to me, and I simply loathe the idea of everything being dragged out and made public. It’s a ghastly thought.”

Something of Ronald’s semi-diplomatic air of winning tactfulness still appeared in his rather dishevelled manner. He gazed with anxious deference into Alleyn’s sardonic face. The inspector cocked an eyebrow.

“And yet,” he said, “I imagine, if Sir Derek was actually killed, you would rather the murderer didn’t get off scot-free?”

“Yes, but, you know, I’m sure he wasn’t. Those two letters didn’t mean anything — I thought so at— ”

Ronald stopped short.

“Were you about to say ‘at the time’?” inquired Alleyn.

“I meant at the time Lady O’Callaghan found them.”

“Where were the letters kept, Mr. Jameson?”

“In his private drawer,” said Ronald with a very red face.

“And the keys?”

“Er — oh, usually in the desk.”

“I see. Well, we must pursue the subject no more until we discover whether Sir Derek was murdered.”

“I’m absolutely certain there’s nothing in it, sir.”

“I hope you are right. Good night.”

“Thank you so much, sir,” said Ronald, all eager and charming. “Good night.”

Alleyn swung his stick up, turned on his heel, and walked away. Ronald gazed after the long, elegant figure for some seconds. His fingers fidgeted with his tie. Then he looked up at the windows of the house, slightly shrugged his shoulders, and ran up the steps and through the door.

Alleyn heard the door slam. As he turned out of Catherine Street towards Buckingham Gate he began to whistle Ophelia’s song: