A Mind to Murder

6

Early Monday morning, the anniversary of his wife’s death, Dalgliesh called in at a small Catholic church behind the Strand to light a candle. His wife had been a Catholic. He had not shared her religion and she had died before he could begin to understand what it meant to her or what importance this fundamental difference between them might have for their marriage. He had lit the first candle on the day she had died out of the need to formalize an intolerable grief and, perhaps, with a childish hope of somehow comforting her spirit. This was the fourteenth candle. He thought of this most private action in his detached and secretive life not as superstition or piety, but as a habit which he could not now break even if he wished. He dreamed of his wife only seldom, but then with absolute clarity; waking he could no longer accurately recall her face. He pushed his coin through the slot and held his candle’s wick to the dying flame of a moist stump. It caught immediately and the flame grew bright and clear. It had always been important to him that the wick should catch at once. He gazed through the flame for a moment feeling nothing, not even anger. Then he turned away.

The church was nearly empty, but it held for him an atmosphere of intense and silent activity which he sensed but could not share. As he walked to the door, he recognized a woman, red-coated and with a dark green scarf over her head, who was pausing to dip her fingers in the water stoup. It was Fredrica Saxon, senior psychologist of the Steen Clinic. They reached the outer door together and he forced it open for her against the sudden swirl of an autumn wind. She smiled at him, friendly and unembarrassed.

“Hullo. I haven’t seen you here before.”

“I only come once a year,” Dalgliesh replied. He gave no explanation and she asked no questions.

Instead she said: “I wanted to see you. There’s something I think you ought to know. Are you off duty? If you aren’t, could you be unorthodox and talk to a suspect in a coffee bar? I’d rather not come to your office and it isn’t easy to ask for an interview at the clinic. I need some coffee anyway. I’m cold.”

“There used to be a place round the corner,” said Dalgliesh. “The coffee is tolerable and it’s pretty quiet.”

The coffee bar had changed in a year. Dalgliesh remembered it as a clean but dull café with a row of deal tables covered with plastic cloths and a long service counter embellished with a tea urn and layers of substantial sandwiches under glass domes. It had risen in the world. The walls had been panelled with imitation old oak against which hung a formidable assortment of rapiers, ancient pistols and cutlasses of uncertain authenticity. The waitresses looked like avant-garde débutantes earning their pin money and the lighting was so discreet as to be positively sinister. Miss Saxon led the way to a table in the far corner.

“Just coffee?” asked Dalgliesh.

“Just coffee, please.”

She waited until the order had been given and then said: “It’s about Dr. Baguley.”

“I thought it might be.”

“You were bound to hear something, I suppose. I’d rather tell you about it now than wait to be asked and I’d rather you heard it from me than from Amy Shorthouse.”

She spoke without rancour or embarrassment. Dalgliesh replied: “I haven’t asked about it because it doesn’t seem relevant but, if you’d like to tell me, it may be helpful.”

“I don’t want you to get a wrong idea about it that’s all. It would be so easy for you to imagine that we had a grudge against Miss Bolam. We didn’t, you know. At one time we even felt grateful to her.”

Dalgliesh had no need to ask who she meant by that “we.” The waitress, uninterested, came with their coffee, pale foam served in small, transparent cups. Miss Saxon slipped her coat from her shoulders and unknotted her head scarf. Both of them wrapped their fingers round the hot cups. She heaped the sugar into her coffee then pushed the plastic bowl across the table to Dalgliesh. There was no tension about her, no awkwardness. She had the directness of a schoolchild drinking coffee with a friend. He found her curiously peaceful to be with perhaps because he did not find her physically attractive. But he liked her. It was difficult to believe that this was only their second meeting and that the matter that had brought them together was murder.

She skimmed the froth from her coffee and said, without looking up: “James Baguley and I fell in love nearly three years ago. There wasn’t any great moral struggle about it. We didn’t invite love but we certainly didn’t fight against it. After all, you don’t voluntarily give up happiness unless you’re a masochist or a saint and we aren’t either. I knew that James had a neurotic wife in the way one does get to know these things, but he didn’t talk much about her. We both accepted that she needed him and that a divorce was out of the question. We convinced ourselves that we weren’t doing her any harm and that she need never know. James used to say that loving me made his marriage happier for both of them. Of course, it is easier to be kind and patient when one is happy, so he may have been right. I don’t know. It’s a rationalization that thousands of lovers must use.

“We couldn’t see each other very often, but I had my flat and we usually managed to have two evenings a week together. Once Helen—that’s his wife—went to stay with her sister and we had a whole night together. We had to be careful at the clinic, of course, but we don’t really see very much of each other there.”

“How did Miss Bolam find out about it?” asked Dalgliesh.

“It was silly, really. We were at the theatre seeing Anouilh and she was sitting alone in the row behind. Who would suppose that Bolam would want to see Anouilh, anyway? I suppose she was sent a free ticket. It was our second anniversary and we held hands all through the play. We may have been a little drunk. Afterwards we left the theatre still hand in hand. Anyone from the clinic, anyone we knew, could have seen us. We were getting careless and someone was bound to see us sooner or later. It was just chance that it happened to be Bolam. Other people would probably have minded their own business.”

“Whereas she told Mrs. Baguley? That seems an unusually officious and cruel thing to have done.”

“It wasn’t, really. Bolam wouldn’t see it that way. She was one of those rare and fortunate people who never for one moment doubt that they know the difference between right and wrong. She wasn’t imaginative so she couldn’t enter into other people’s feelings. If she were a wife whose husband was unfaithful, I’m sure that she would want to be told about it. Nothing would be worse than not knowing. She had the kind of strength that relishes a struggle. I expect she thought it was her duty to tell. Anyway, Helen came to the Steen to see her husband unexpectedly one Wednesday afternoon and Miss Bolam invited her into the AO’s office and told her. I often wonder what exactly she said. I imagine that she said we were ‘carrying on.’ She could make practically anything sound vulgar.”

“She was taking a risk, wasn’t she?” said Dalgliesh. “She had very little evidence, certainly no proof.”

Miss Saxon laughed. “You’re talking like a policeman. She had proof enough. Enid Bolam could recognize love when she saw it. Besides, we were enjoying ourselves together without a licence and that was infidelity enough.”

The words were bitter but she did not sound resentful or sarcastic. She was sipping her coffee with evident satisfaction. Dalgliesh thought that she might have been talking about one of the clinic patients, discussing with detached and mild professional interest the vagaries of human nature. Yet he did not believe that she loved easily or that her emotions were superficial. He asked what Mrs. Baguley’s reaction had been.

“That’s the extraordinary thing, or at least it seemed so at the time. She took it wonderfully well. Looking back I wonder whether we weren’t all three mad, living in some kind of imaginary world that two minutes’ rational thought would have shown us couldn’t exist. Helen lives her life in a series of attitudes and the one she decided to adopt was the pose of the brave, understanding wife. She insisted on a divorce. It was going to be one of those friendly divorces. That kind is only possible, I imagine, when people have ceased to care for each other, perhaps never have cared or been capable of caring. But that was the kind we were going to have. There was a great deal of discussion. Everyone’s happiness was to be safeguarded. Helen was going to open a dress shop—it’s a thing she’s talked about for years. We all three got interested in it and looked for suitable premises. It was pathetic really. We actually fooled ourselves that it was all going to come right. That’s why I said that James and I felt grateful to Enid Bolam. People at the clinic got to know that there was to be a divorce and that Helen would name me—it was all part of the policy of frankness and honesty—but very little was said to us. Bolam never mentioned the divorce to anyone. She wasn’t a gossip and she wasn’t malicious either. Somehow her part in it got about in the way these things do. I think Helen may have told someone, but Miss Bolam and I never talked about it ever.

“Then the inevitable happened. Helen began to crack. James had left her with the Surrey house and was living with me in the flat. He had to see her fairly often. He didn’t say very much at first, but I knew what was happening. She was ill, of course, and we both knew it. She had played out the role of the patient, uncomplaining wife and, according to the novels and the films, her husband should, by now, have been returning to her. And James wasn’t. He kept most of it from me, but I had some idea what it was doing to him, the scenes, the tears, the entreaties, the threats of suicide. One minute she was going through with the divorce, the next she would never give him his freedom. She couldn’t, of course. I see that now. It wasn’t hers to give. It’s degrading to talk about a husband as if he’s a dog chained up in the back yard. All the time that this was happening, I was realizing more and more that I couldn’t go on. Something that had been a slow process over the years came to a head. There’s no point in talking about it or trying to explain. It isn’t relevant to your inquiry, is it? Nine months ago I started to receive instruction with the hope of being received into the Catholic church. When that happened, Helen withdrew her petition and James went back to her. I think he no longer cared what happened to him or where he went. But you can see, can’t you, that he had no reason to hate Bolam. I was the enemy.”

Dalgliesh thought that there could have been very little struggle. Her rosy, healthy face with the broad and slightly tip-tilted nose, the wide, cheerful mouth, was ill-suited to tragedy. He recalled how Dr. Baguley had looked, seen in the light of Miss Bolam’s desk lamp. It was stupid and presumptuous to try to assess suffering by the lines on a face or the look in the eyes. Miss Saxon’s mind was probably as tough and resilient as her body. It did not mean that she felt less because she could withstand more. But he felt profoundly sorry for Baguley, rejected by his mistress at the moment of the greatest trial in favour of a private happiness which he could neither share nor understand. Probably no one could fully know the magnitude of that betrayal. Dalgliesh did not pretend to understand Miss Saxon. It wasn’t hard to imagine what some people at the clinic would make of it. The facile explanations came easily to mind. But he could not believe that Fredrica Saxon had taken refuge in religion from her own sexuality or had ever refused to face reality.

He thought of some of the things she had said about Enid Bolam. “Who would suppose that Bolam would want to see Anouilh? I suppose she was sent a free ticket … Even Bolam could recognize love when she saw it … She could make practically anything sound vulgar.” People did not automatically become kind because they had become religious. Yet there had been no real malice in her words. She spoke what she thought and would be equally detached about her own motives. She was probably the best judge of character in the clinic.

Suddenly, and in defiance of orthodoxy, Dalgliesh asked: “Who do you think killed her, Miss Saxon?”

“Judging by character and the nature of the crime and taking no account of mysterious telephone calls from the basement, creaking lifts and apparent alibis?”

“Judging by character and the nature of the crime.”

She said without hesitation and with no apparent reluctance: “I’d have said it was Peter Nagle.”

Dalgliesh felt a stab of disappointment. It was irrational to have thought that she might actually know.

“Why Nagle?” he asked.

“Partly because I think this was a masculine crime. The stabbing is significant. I can’t see a woman killing in just that way. Faced with an unconscious victim I think a woman would strangle. Then there’s the chisel. To use it with such expertise suggests an identification of the weapon with the killer. Why use it otherwise? He could have struck her again and again with the fetish.”

“Messy, noisy and less sure,” said Dalgliesh.

“But the chisel was only sure in the hands of a man who had confidence in his ability to use it, someone who is literally ‘good with his hands.’ I can’t see Dr. Steiner killing in that way, for instance. He couldn’t even knock in a nail without breaking the hammer.”

Dalgliesh was inclined to agree that Dr. Steiner was innocent. His clumsiness with tools had been mentioned by more than one member of the clinic staff. Admittedly he had lied in denying that he knew where the chisel was kept, but Dalgliesh judged that he had acted from fear rather than guilt. And his shamefaced confession of falling asleep while awaiting Mr. Burge had the ring of truth.

Dalgliesh said: “The identification of the chisel with Nagle is so certain that I think we were meant to suspect him. And you do?”

“Oh, no! I know he couldn’t have done it. I only answered the question as you posed it. I was judging by character and the nature of the crime.”

They had finished their coffee now and Dalgliesh thought that she would want to go. But she seemed in no hurry. After a moment’s pause, she said: “I have one confession to make; on another person’s behalf actually. It’s Cully. Nothing important but something you ought to know and I promised I’d tell you about it. Poor old Cully is scared out of his wits and they aren’t plentiful at the best of times.”

“I knew he was lying about something,” said Dalgliesh. “He saw someone passing down the hall, I suppose.”

“Oh, no! Nothing as useful as that. It’s about the missing rubber apron from the art-therapy department. I gather you thought that the murderer might have worn it. Well, Cully borrowed it from the department last Monday to wear while he emulsion-painted his kitchen. You know what a mess paint makes. He didn’t ask Miss Bolam if he could take it because he knew what the answer would be and he couldn’t ask Mrs. Baumgarten because she’s away sick. He meant to bring it back on Friday but, when Sister was checking the inventory with your sergeant and they asked him if he’d seen it, he lost his head and said ‘no.’ He’s not very bright and he was terrified that you’d suspect him of the murder if he owned up.”

Dalgliesh asked her when Cully had told her of this. “I knew he had the apron because it just happened that I saw him take it. I guessed that he’d be in a state about it so I went round to see him yesterday morning. His stomach gets upset when he worries and I thought someone had better keep an eye on him.”

“Where is the apron now?” asked Dalgliesh. Miss Saxon laughed.

“Disposed about London in half a dozen litter baskets if they haven’t been emptied. Poor old Cully daren’t put it in his own dustbin in case it was searched by the police and couldn’t burn it because he lives in a council flat with electric heating and no stove. So he waited until his wife was in bed then sat up until eleven cutting it into pieces with the kitchen scissors. He put the pieces into a number of paper bags, shoved the bags into a holdall and took a 36 bus up the Harrow Road until he was well away from his home ground. Then he slipped one of the bags into each litter bin he came across and dropped the metal buttons down the gutter grating. It was a formidable undertaking and the poor fellow could hardly creep home what with fear, tiredness—he’d lost the last bus—and the bellyache. He wasn’t in too good a shape when I called next morning but I did manage to convince him that it wasn’t a matter of life and death—particularly death. I told him I’d let you know about it.”

“Thank you,” said Dalgliesh gravely. “You haven’t any other confessions to pass on, I suppose? Or have you a conscientious objection to handing over an unfortunate psychopath to justice?”

She laughed, pulling on her coat and tying the scarf over her dark, springing hair.

“Oh, no! If I knew who did it, I’d tell you. I don’t like murder and I’m quite law-abiding, really. But I didn’t know we were talking about justice. That’s your word. Like Portia, I feel that in the course of justice none of us would see salvation. Please, I would much rather pay for my own coffee.”

She doesn’t want to feel I bought information from her, thought Dalgliesh, not even a shilling’s worth. He resisted the temptation to say that the coffee could come from expenses, wondering a little at this impulse to sarcasm which she aroused in him. He liked her but there was something about her certainty, her self-sufficiency, which he found irritating. Perhaps what he felt was envy.

As they left the café, he asked her whether she was on her way to the Steen.

“Not today. I don’t have a session on Monday mornings. But I shall be there tomorrow.”

She thanked him formally for the coffee and they parted. He turned eastwards towards the Steen and she disappeared in the direction of the Strand. As he watched her slim, dark figure swinging out of sight, he pictured Cully creeping through the night with his pathetic bundle, half petrified with fright. He was not surprised that the old porter had confided so fully in Fredrica Saxon; in Cully’s place, he would probably have done the same. She had, thought Dalgliesh, given him a great deal of interesting information. But what she hadn’t been able to give him was an alibi for Dr. Baguley or for herself.

Mrs. Bostock, shorthand notebook at the ready, sat beside Dr. Etherege’s chair, her elegant legs crossed at the knees and her flamingo head lifted to receive, with becoming gravity, the medical director’s instructions.

“Superintendent Dalgliesh has telephoned to say that he will be here shortly. He wants to see certain members of the staff again and has asked for an interview with me before lunch.”

“I don’t see how you can fit him in before lunch, Doctor,” said Mrs. Bostock repressively. “There’s the Professional Staff Committee at two-thirty and you haven’t had time to look at the agenda. Dr. Talmage from the States is booked for twelve-thirty and I was hoping for an hour’s dictation from eleven a.m.”

“That will have to wait. The superintendent will be taking up a great deal of your own time, I’m afraid. He has some questions about the working of the clinic.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, Doctor. Do you mean he’s interested in the general administrative arrangements?” Mrs. Bostock’s tone was a nice blend of surprise and disapproval.

“Apparently so,” replied Dr. Etherege. “He mentioned the appointments diary, the diagnostic index, the arrangements for registering incoming and outgoing post and the medical-record system. You had better deal with him personally. If I want to dictate, I’ll send for Miss Priddy.”

“I’ll do what I can to help, naturally,” said Mrs. Bostock. “It’s unfortunate that he should have picked one of our busiest mornings. It would be simpler to arrange a programme for him if I knew what he had in mind.”

“We should all like to know that, I imagine,” replied the medical director. “I should just answer his questions as fully as you can. And please get Cully to ring me as soon as he wants to come up.”

“Yes, Doctor,” said Mrs. Bostock, recognizing defeat. And took her leave.

Downstairs, in the ECT room, Dr. Baguley twitched himself into his white coat, helped by Nurse Bolam.

“Mrs. King will be here for her LSD treatment on Wednesday as usual. I think it will be best if we give it in one of the PSW rooms on the third floor. Miss Kettle isn’t in on Wednesday evenings, is she? Have a word with her. Alternatively we could use Miss Kallinski’s room or one of the small interviewing rooms at the back.”

Nurse Bolam said: “It won’t be so convenient for you, Doctor. It means coming up two flights when I phone.”

“That isn’t going to kill me. I may look in my dotage but I still have the use of my legs.”

“There’s the question of a bed, Doctor. I suppose we could put up one of the recovery stretchers from the ECT clinic.”

“Get Nagle to see to it. I don’t want you alone in that basement.”

“I’m not in the least frightened, really, Dr. Baguley.”

Dr. Baguley lost his temper.

“For God’s sake, use your brain, Nurse. Of course you’re frightened! There’s a murderer loose somewhere in this clinic and no one—except one person—is going to be happy about staying alone for any length of time in the basement. If you really aren’t frightened, then have the good sense to conceal the fact, especially from the police. Where’s Sister? In the general office?”

He picked up the receiver and dialled jerkily. “Sister? Baguley here. I’ve just told Nurse Bolam that I don’t feel happy about using the basement room for LSD this week.”

Sister Ambrose’s voice came back clearly: “Just as you like, Doctor, of course. But if the basement is more convenient and we could get a relief nurse from one of the general hospitals in the group for the ECT clinic, I should be quite happy to stay downstairs with Nurse Bolam. We could special Mrs. King together.”

Dr. Baguley said shortly: “I want you in the ECT clinic as usual, Sister, and the LSD patient will go upstairs. I hope that’s finally understood.”

In the medical director’s room two hours later, Dalgliesh placed three black metal boxes on Dr. Etherege’s desk. The boxes, which had small round holes punched in each of the shorter sides, were packed with buff-coloured cards. It was the clinic diagnostic index. Dalgliesh said: “Mrs. Bostock has explained this to me. If I’ve understood her correctly, each of these cards represents a patient. The information on the case record is coded and the patient’s code punched on the card. The cards are punched with even rows of small holes and the space between each hole is numbered. By punching any number with the hand machine I cut out the card between the two adjacent holes to form an oblong slit. If this metal rod is then inserted through, say, hole number 20 on the outside of the box, and pushed right through the cards and the box is rotated, any card which has been punched through that number will stand out. It is, in fact, one of the simplest of the many punch-card systems on the market.”

“Yes. We use it principally as a diagnostic index and for research.” If the medical director was surprised at Dalgliesh’s interest, he made no sign.

The superintendent went on: “Mrs. Bostock tells me that you don’t code from the case record until the patient has completed treatment and that the system was started in 1952. That means that patients at present attending won’t yet have a card—unless, of course, they were treated here earlier—and that patients who completed treatments before 1952 aren’t included.”

“Yes. We should like to include the earlier cases, but it’s a question of staff time. The coding and punching are time-consuming and it’s the kind of job that gets put on one side. At present we’re coding the February 1962 discharges, so we’re quite a bit behind.”

“But once the patient’s card is punched, you can select any diagnosis or category of patient at will?”

“Yes, indeed.” The medical director gave his slow, sweet smile. “I won’t say that we can pick out immediately all the indigenous depressives with blue-eyed grandmothers who were born in wedlock because we haven’t coded information about grandparents. But anything coded can be extracted without trouble.”

Dalgliesh laid a slim manilla file on the desk. “Mrs. Bostock has lent me the coding instructions. I see that you code sex, age, marital status, address by local authority area, diagnosis, consultant who treated the patient, dates of first and subsequent attendances and a considerable amount of detail about symptoms, treatment and progress. You also code social class. I find that interesting.”

“It’s unusual, certainly,” replied Dr. Etherege. “Chiefly, I suppose, because it can be a purely subjective assessment. But we wanted it because it’s sometimes useful in research. As you see we use the Registrar-General’s classes. They’re accurate enough for our purposes.”

Dalgliesh ran the thin metal rod through his fingers.

“So I could select, for example, the cards of patients in class one who were treated eight to ten years ago, were married with a family and were suffering from, say, sexual aberration, kleptomania or any other socially unacceptable personality disorder.”

“You could,” admitted the medical director quietly. “But I can’t see why you should want to.”

“Blackmail, Doctor. It occurs to me that we have here a neatly contrived apparatus for the pre-selection of a victim. You push through the rod and out pops your card. The card bears a number on the top right-hand corner. And down in the basement record room the medical record is filed and waiting.”

The medical director said: “This is nothing but guesswork. There isn’t a shred of evidence.”

“There’s no proof, certainly, but it’s a reasonable possibility. Consider the facts. On Wednesday afternoon Miss Bolam saw the group secretary after the House Committee meeting and told him all was well at the clinic. At twelve-fifteen on Friday morning she telephoned to ask for an urgent visit because ‘something is going on here that he ought to know about.’ It was something serious and continuing and something that started before her time here, that is, more than three years ago.”

“Whatever it was, we’ve no evidence that it was the reason for her death.”

“No.”

“In fact, if the murderer wanted to prevent Miss Bolam seeing Lauder, he left it rather late. There was nothing to stop the group secretary turning up here any time after one o’clock.”

Dalgliesh said: “She was told over the telephone that he couldn’t arrive until after the JCC meeting that evening. That leads us to ask who could have overheard the telephone call. Cully was officially on the board, but he was unwell most of the day and, from time to time, other members of the staff took over, sometimes only for a few minutes. Nagle, Mrs. Bostock, Miss Priddy and even Mrs. Shorthouse all say that they helped on the board. Nagle thinks he took over for a short time at midday before he went out for his lunchtime beer but says that he can’t be sure. Nor can Cully. No one admits to having put through this particular call.”

“They might not know if they had,” replied Dr. Etherege. “We’re insistent that the operator doesn’t listen in to calls. That, after all, is important in our work. Miss Bolam may have merely asked for group offices. She must put through calls fairly often to the finance and supplies departments as well as the group secretary. The operator couldn’t know there was anything special about this call. She might even have asked for an outside line and put through the call herself. That is possible, of course, with the PABX system.”

“But it could still be overheard by the person on the board.”

“If he plugged in, I suppose it could.”

Dalgliesh said: “Miss Bolam told Cully late in the afternoon that she was expecting Mr. Lauder and she may have mentioned the visit to other people. We don’t know. No one will admit to having been told except Cully. In the circumstances, that isn’t perhaps surprising. We’re not going to get much further with it at present. What I must do now is to find out what Miss Bolam wanted to tell Mr. Lauder. One of the first possibilities to be considered in a place like this must be blackmail. God knows that’s continuing and it’s serious enough.”

The medical director did not speak for a moment. Dalgliesh wondered whether he was contemplating a further remonstrance, selecting appropriate words to express concern or disbelief. Then he said quietly: “Of course it’s serious. There’s no point in wasting time discussing just how serious. Obviously, having thought up this theory, you have to carry through your investigation. Any other course of action would be most unfair to the members of my staff. What do you want me to do?”

“To help me select a victim. Later, perhaps, to make some telephone calls.”

“You appreciate, Superintendent, that the case records are confidential?”

“I’m not asking to see a single case record. But if I did, I don’t think either you or the patient need worry. Shall we get started? We can take out our class one patients. Perhaps you would call out the codes for me.”

A considerable number of the Steen patients were in class one. Upper-class neuroses catered for only, thought Dalgliesh. He surveyed the field for a moment and then said: “If I were the blackmailer, would I choose a man or a woman? It would depend on my own sex, probably. A woman might pick on a woman. But, if it’s a question of a regular income, a man is probably a better bet. Let’s take out the males next. I imagine our victim will live out of London. It would be risky to select an ex-patient who could too easily succumb to the temptation to pop into the clinic and let you know what was going on. I think I’d select my victim from a small town or village.”

The medical director said: “We only coded the country if it were an out-London address. London patients are coded by borough. Our best plan will be to take out all the London addresses and see what’s left.”

This was done. The number of cards still in the survey was now only a few dozen. Most of the Steen patients, as might be expected, came from the county of London. Dalgliesh said: “Married or single? It’s difficult to decide whether one or the other would be most vulnerable. Let’s leave it open and start on the diagnosis. This is where I need your help particularly, Doctor. I realize this is highly confidential information. I suggest that you call out the codes for the diagnoses or symptoms which might interest a blackmailer. I don’t want details.”

Again the medical director paused. Dalgliesh waited patiently, metal rod in hand, while the doctor sat in silence, the code book open before him. He seemed not to be seeing it. After a minute he roused himself and focused his eyes on the page. He said quietly: “Try codes 23, 68, 69 and 71.” There were now only eleven cards remaining. Each of them bore a case-record number on the top right-hand margin.

Dalgliesh made a note of the numbers and said: “This is as far as we can go with the diagnostic index. We must now do what I think our blackmailer did, have a look at the case records and learn more of our prospective victims. Shall we go down to the basement?”

The medical director got up without a word. As they went down the stairs, they passed Miss Kettle on her way up. She nodded to the medical director and gave Dalgliesh a brief, puzzled glance as if wondering whether he were someone she had met and ought to recognize. In the hall Dr. Baguley was talking with Sister Ambrose. They broke off and turned to watch with grave, unsmiling faces as Dr. Etherege and Dalgliesh made their way to the basement stairs. At the other end of the hall the grey outline of Cully’s head could be seen through the glass of the reception kiosk. The head did not turn and Dalgliesh guessed that Cully, absorbed in his contemplation of the front door, had not heard them.

The record room was locked, but no longer sealed. In the porters’ restroom Nagle was putting on his coat, evidently on his way out to an early lunch. He made no sign as the medical director took the record-room key from its hook, but the flash of interest in his mild, mud-brown eyes was not lost on Dalgliesh. They had been well observed. By early afternoon everyone in the clinic would know that he had examined the diagnostic index with the medical director and then visited the record room. To one person that information would be of crucial interest. What Dalgliesh hoped was that the murderer would become frightened and desperate; what he feared was that he would become more dangerous.

Dr. Etherege switched on the light in the record room and the fluorescent tubes flickered, yellowed and blazed into whiteness. The room stood revealed. Dalgliesh smelt again its characteristic smell, compounded of mustiness, old paper and the tang of hot metal. He watched without betraying any emotion while the medical director locked the door on the inside and slipped the key in his pocket.

There was no sign now that the room had been the scene of murder. The torn records had been repaired and replaced on the shelves, the chair and table placed upright in their usual position.

The records were tied together with string in bundles of ten. Some of the files had been stored for so long that they seemed to adhere to each other. The string bit into the bulging manilla covers; across their tops was a thin patina of dust. Dalgliesh said: “It should be possible to tell which of these bundles have been untied since the records were weeded out and brought down for storage. Some of them look as if they haven’t been touched for years. I realize that a bundle may have been untied to extract a record for a perfectly innocent purpose but we may as well make a start with files from those bundles which have obviously been untied within the last year or so. The first two numbers are in the eight thousand range. These seem to be on the top shelf. Have we a ladder?”

The medical director disappeared behind the first row of shelves and reappeared with a small stepladder which he manoeuvred with difficulty into the narrow aisle. Looking up at Dalgliesh as the detective mounted, he said: “Tell me, Superintendent. Does this touching confidence mean that you have eliminated me from your list of suspects? If it does I should be interested to know by what process of deduction you came to that conclusion. I can’t flatter myself that you believe me incapable of murder. No detective would accept that, surely, of any man.”

“And no psychiatrist possibly,” said Dalgliesh. “I don’t ask myself whether a man is capable of murder, but whether he is capable of this particular murder. I don’t think you’re a petty blackmailer. I can’t see how you could have known about Lauder’s proposed visit. I doubt whether you’ve either the strength or skill to kill in that way. Lastly, I think you’re probably the one person here whom Miss Bolam wouldn’t have kept waiting. Even if I’m wrong, you can hardly refuse to co-operate, can you?”

He was deliberately curt. The bright-blue eyes were still gazing into his, inviting a confidence which he did not want to give but found it difficult to resist. The medical director went on: “I have only met three murderers. Two of them are buried in quicklime. One of the two hardly knew what he was doing and the other couldn’t have stopped himself. Are you satisfied, Superintendent, with that solution?”

Dalgliesh replied: “No man in his senses would be. But I don’t see how that affects what I’m trying to do now: catch this murderer before he—or she—kills again.”

The medical director said no more. Together they found the eleven case records they sought and took them up to Dr. Etherege’s room. If Dalgliesh had expected the medical director to make difficulties over the next stage of the investigation, he was agreeably surprised. The hint that this killer might not stop at one victim had struck home. When Dalgliesh explained what he wanted, the medical director did not protest.

Dalgliesh said: “I’m not asking for the names of these patients. I’m not interested in what was wrong with them. All I want you to do is to telephone each of them and ask tactfully whether they rang the clinic recently, probably on Friday morning. You could explain that someone made a call which it’s important to trace. If one of these patients did ring, I want the name and address. Not the diagnosis. Just the name and address.”

“I must ask the patient’s consent before I give that information.”

“If you must,” said Dalgliesh. “I leave that to you. All I ask is to get that information.”

The medical director’s stipulation was a formality and both of them knew it. The eleven case records were on the desk and nothing but force could keep the addresses from Dalgliesh if he wanted them. He sat at some distance from Dr. Etherege in one of the large, leather-covered chairs and prepared to watch, with professional interest, his unusual collaborator at work. The medical director picked up his receiver and asked for an outside line. The patients’ telephone numbers had been noted on the case records and the first two tries at once reduced the eleven possibles to nine. In each case the patient had changed his address since his attendance. Dr. Etherege apologized for disturbing the new subscribers to the numbers concerned and dialled for the third time. The third number answered and the medical director asked if he might speak to Mr. Caldecote. There was a prolonged crackling from the other end and Dr. Etherege made the appropriate response.

“No, he hadn’t heard. How very sad. Really? No, it was nothing important. Just an old acquaintance who would be driving through Wiltshire and hoped to meet Mr. Caldecote again. No, he wouldn’t speak to Mrs. Caldecote. He didn’t want to distress her.”

“Dead?” asked Dalgliesh, as the receiver was replaced.

“Yes. Three years ago, apparently. Cancer, poor fellow. I must note that on his record.”

He did so while Dalgliesh waited. The next number was difficult to get and there was much talk with the exchange. When at last the number was rung, there was no reply.

“We seem to be having no success, Superintendent. It was a clever theory of yours, but, it appears, more ingenious than true.”

“There are still seven more patients to try,” said Dalgliesh quietly. The medical director murmured something about a Dr. Talmage whom he was expecting, but referred to the next file and dialled again. This time the patient was at home and, apparently, not in the least surprised to hear from the medical director of the Steen. He poured out a lengthy account of his present psychological condition to which Dr. Etherege listened with patient sympathy and made appropriate replies. Dalgliesh was interested and a little amused at the skill with which the call was conducted. But the patient had not recently telephoned the clinic. The medical director put down the receiver and spent some time noting what the patient had told him on the case record.

“One of our successes, apparently. He wasn’t at all surprised that I telephoned. It’s rather touching the way patients take it for granted that their doctors are immensely concerned for their welfare and are thinking of them personally at all times of the day and night. But he didn’t phone. He wasn’t lying, I assure you. This is very time-consuming, Superintendent, but I suppose we must go on.”

“Yes, please. I’m sorry, but we must go on.”

But the next call brought success. At first it sounded like another failure. From the conversation Dalgliesh gathered that the patient had recently been taken to hospital and that it was his wife who had answered. Then he saw the medical director’s face change, and heard him say: “You did? We knew that someone had telephoned and were trying to trace the call. I expect you’ve heard about the very dreadful tragedy that we’ve had here recently. Yes, it is in connection with that.” He waited while the voice spoke at some length from the other end. Then he put down the receiver and wrote briefly on his desk jotting pad. Dalgliesh did not speak. The medical director looked up at him with an expression half puzzled, half surprised.

“That was the wife of a Colonel Fenton of Sprigg’s Green in Kent. She telephoned Miss Bolam about a very serious matter at about midday last Friday. She didn’t want to talk to you on the phone about it and I thought it better not to press her. But she’d like to see you as soon as possible. I’ve written down the address.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Dalgliesh and took the proffered paper. He showed neither surprise nor relief, but his heart was singing.

The medical director shook his head as if the whole thing were beyond his understanding. He said: “She sounds rather a formidable old lady and very formal. She said that she would be very glad if you would take afternoon tea with her.”

Just after four o’clock Dalgliesh drove slowly into Sprigg’s Green. It revealed itself as an undistinguished village lying between the Maidstone and Canterbury roads. He could not remember having passed through it before. There were few people about. The village, thought Dalgliesh, was too far from London to tempt the commuter and had no period charm to attract retired couples or artists and writers in search of country peace with a country cost of living. Most of the cottages were obviously lived in by farm workers, their front gardens clumped with cabbages and brussels sprouts, straggly and stem-scarred from recent pickings, their windows shut close against the treachery of an English autumn. Dalgliesh passed the church, its short flint-and-stone tower and clear glass windows only half-visible behind the surrounding chestnut trees. The churchyard was untidy but not offensively so. The grass had been mown between the graves and some attempt made to weed the gravel paths. Separated from the churchyard by a tall laurel hedge stood the vicarage, a sombre Victorian house built to accommodate a Victorian-size family and its appendages. Next came the green itself, a small square of grass bounded by a row of weather-boarded cottages and faced by a more than usually hideous modern pub and petrol station. Outside the King’s Head was a concrete bus shelter where a group of women waited dispiritedly. They gave Dalgliesh a brief and uninterested glance as he passed. In spring, no doubt, the surrounding cherry orchards would lend their charm even to Sprigg’s Green. Now, however, there was a chill dampness in the air, the fields looked perpetually sodden, a slow, mournful procession of cows being driven to the evening milking churned the road verges to mud. Dalgliesh slowed to a walking pace to pass them, keeping his watch for Sprigg’s Acre. He did not want to ask the way.

He was not long in finding it. The house lay a little back from the road and was sheltered from it by a six-foot beech hedge which shone golden in the fading light. There appeared to be no drive and Dalgliesh edged his Cooper Bristol carefully onto the grass verge before letting himself in through the white gates of the garden. The house lay before him, rambling, low built and thatched, with an air of comfort and simplicity. As he turned from latching the gate behind him, a woman turned the corner of the house and came down the path to meet him. She was very small. Somehow this surprised Dalgliesh. He had formed a mental picture of a stout, well-corseted colonel’s wife condescending to see him, but at her own time and place. The reality was less intimidating and more interesting. There was something gallant and a little pathetic in the way she came down the path towards him. She was wearing a thick skirt and a tweed jacket and was hatless, her thick white hair lifting with the evening breeze. She wore gardening gloves, incongruously large with vast gauntlets which made the trowel she carried look like a child’s toy. As they met she pulled off the right glove and held out her hand to him, looking up at him with anxious eyes which lightened, almost imperceptibly, with relief. But when she spoke, her voice was unexpectedly firm.

“Good afternoon. You must be Superintendent Dalgliesh. My name is Louise Fenton. Did you come by car? I thought I heard one.”

Dalgliesh explained where he had left it and said that he hoped that it would not be in anyone’s way.

“Oh, no! Not at all. Such an unpleasant way to travel. You could have come by train quite easily to Marden and I would have sent the trap for you. We haven’t a car. We both dislike them very much. I’m sorry you had to sit in one all the way from London.”

“It was the fastest way,” said Dalgliesh, wondering if he should apologize for living in the twentieth century. “And I wanted to see you as soon as possible.”

He was careful to keep the urgency from his voice, but he could see the sudden tensing of her shoulders.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Would you like to see the garden before we go in? The light is fading but we might just have time.”

An interest in the garden was apparently expected and Dalgliesh acquiesced. A light east wind, rising as the day died, whipped uncomfortably around his neck and ankles. But he never hurried an interview. This one promised to be difficult for Mrs. Fenton and she was entitled to take her time. He wondered at his own impatience even as he concealed it. For the last two days he had been irked by a foreboding of tragedy and failure which was the more disturbing because it was irrational. The case was young yet. His intelligence told him that he was making progress. Even at this moment he was within grasp of motive, and motive, he knew, was crucial to this case. He hadn’t failed yet in his career at the Yard and this case, with its limited number of suspects and careful contriving, was an unlikely candidate for a first failure. Yet he remained worried, vexed by this unreasonable fear that time was running out. Perhaps it was the autumn. Perhaps he was tired. He turned up his coat collar and prepared himself to look interested and appreciative.

They passed together through a wrought-iron gate at the side of the house and entered the main garden. Mrs. Fenton was saying: “I love the garden dearly but I’m not much good at it. Things don’t grow for me. My husband has the green fingers. He’s in Maidstone Hospital at present having an operation for hernia. It’s all been very successful, I’m happy to say. Do you garden, Superintendent?”

Dalgliesh explained that he lived in a flat high above the Thames in the city and had recently sold his Essex cottage.

“I really know very little about gardening,” he said.

“Then you will enjoy looking at ours,” replied Mrs. Fenton, with gentle if illogical persistence.

There was, indeed, plenty to see even in the fading light of an autumn day. The colonel had given his imagination full play, compensating perhaps for the enforced regimentation of much of his life by indulgence in a picturesque and undisciplined profusion. There was a small lawn surrounding a fish pond and edged with crazy paving. There was a succession of trellis archways leading from one carefully tended plot to another. There was a rose garden with a sundial where a few last roses still gleamed white on their leafless sterns. There were hedges of beech, yew and hawthorn as gold and green backcloths to the banked chrysanthemums. At the bottom of the garden ran a small stream, crossed every ten yards by wooden bridges which were a monument to the colonel’s industry, if not to his taste. The appetite had grown by what it fed on. The colonel, having once successfully bridged his brook, had been unable to resist further efforts. Together they stood for a moment on one of the bridges. Dalgliesh could see the colonel’s initials cut into the wood of the handrail. Beneath their feet the little stream, already half-choked with the first fallen leaves, made its own sad music.

Suddenly, Mrs. Fenton said: “So somebody killed her. I know I ought to feel pity for her whatever she did. But I can’t. Not yet. I should have realized that Matthew wouldn’t be the only victim. These people never stop at one victim, do they? I suppose someone couldn’t stand it any more and took that way out. It’s a very terrible thing, but I can understand it. I read about it in the papers, you know, before the medical director telephoned. Do you know, Superintendent, for a moment I was glad? That’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s true. I was glad she was dead. I thought that now Matthew needn’t worry any more.”

Dalgliesh said gently: “We don’t think that Miss Bolam was blackmailing your husband. It’s possible that she was, but not likely. We think she was killed because she had found out what was happening and meant to stop it. That’s why it’s so important that I talk to you.”

Mrs. Fenton’s knuckles whitened. The hands grasping the bridge began to shake. She said: “I’m afraid I’ve been very stupid. I mustn’t waste any more of your time. It’s getting cold, isn’t it? Shall we go indoors?”

They turned towards the house, neither of them speaking. Dalgliesh shortened his stride to the slow pace of the thin, upright figure at his side. He glanced at her anxiously. She was very pale and he thought he saw her lips moving soundlessly. But she walked firmly. She was going to be all right. He told himself that he mustn’t hurry things. In half an hour, perhaps less, he would have the motive securely in his hands like a bomb that would blow the whole case wide open. But he must be patient. Once again he was touched by an indefinable unrest as if, even at this moment of imminent triumph, his heart held the sure knowledge of failure. The dusk closed in around them. Somewhere a bonfire smouldered, filling his nostrils with acrid smoke. The lawn was a wet sponge under his feet.

The house welcomed them, blessedly warm and smelling faintly of home-baked bread. Mrs. Fenton left him to put her head into a room at the far end of the hall. He guessed that tea was being ordered. Then she led him into the drawing-room to the comfort of a wood fire which threw immense shadows over the chintz-covered chairs and sofa and the faded carpet. She switched on a huge standard lamp at the side of the fireplace and tugged the curtains across the windows, shutting out desolation and decay. Tea arrived, the tray set on a low table by a stolid and aproned maid, almost as old as her mistress, who carefully avoided looking at Dalgliesh. It was a good tea. Dalgliesh saw with an emotion which was too like compassion to be comfortable that trouble had been taken on his behalf. There were fresh-baked scones, two kinds of sandwiches, homemade cakes and an iced sponge. There was too much of everything, a schoolboy’s tea. It was as if the two women, faced with their unknown and most unwelcome visitor, had sought relief from uncertainty in the provision of this embarrassingly liberal feast. Mrs. Fenton herself seemed surprised at the variety which faced her. She manoeuvred cups on the tray like an anxious, inexperienced hostess. It was only when Dalgliesh was provided with his tea and sandwich that she spoke again about the murder.

“My husband attended the Steen Clinic for about four months, nearly ten years ago, soon after he left the army. He was living in London at the time and I was in Nairobi staying with my daughter-in-law who was expecting her first baby. I never knew about my husband’s treatment until he told me a week ago.”

She paused and Dalgliesh said: “I ought to say now that we aren’t, of course, interested in what was wrong with Colonel Fenton. That is a confidential medical matter and it isn’t the concern of the police. I didn’t ask Dr. Etherege for any information and he wouldn’t have given it to me if I had. The fact that your husband was being blackmailed may have to come out—I don’t think that can be avoided—but his reason for going to the clinic and the details of his treatment are no one’s business but his and yours.”

Mrs. Fenton replaced her cup on the tray with infinite care. She looked into the fire and said: “I don’t think it is my business, really. I wasn’t upset because he didn’t tell me. It’s so easy to say now that I would have understood and would have tried to help but I wonder. I think he was wise not to speak about it. People make such a fuss about absolute honesty in marriage but it isn’t very sensible to confess hurtful things unless you really mean to hurt. I wish Matthew had told me about the blackmail, though. Then he really needed help. Together I’m sure we could have thought of something.”

Dalgliesh asked how it had started.

“Just two years ago, Matthew says. He had a telephone call. The voice reminded him about his treatment at the Steen and actually quoted some of the very intimate details Matthew had told the psychiatrist. Then the voice suggested that he would like to help other patients who were trying to overcome similar difficulties. There was a lot of talk about the dreadful social consequences of not getting cured. It was all very subtle and clever, but there wasn’t the least doubt what the voice was after. Matthew asked what he was expected to do and was told to send fifteen pounds in notes to arrive by the first post on the first day of every month. If the first was a Saturday or Sunday, the letter was to arrive on Monday. He was to address the envelope in green ink to the administrative secretary and enclose with the money a note to say that it was a donation from a grateful patient. The voice said that he could be sure that the cash would go where it could do most good.”

“It was a clever enough plan,” said Dalgliesh. “Blackmail would be difficult to prove and the amount was nicely calculated. I imagine that your husband would have been forced to take a different line if the demand had been too exorbitant.”

“Oh, he would! Matthew would never let us be ruined. But you see, it was such a small amount, really. I don’t mean that we could afford to lose fifteen pounds a month but it was a sum which Matthew could just find by personal economies without making me suspicious. And the demand never rose. That was the extraordinary thing about it. Matthew said that he always understood a blackmailer was never satisfied but kept increasing the demand until the victim couldn’t pay another penny. It wasn’t like that at all. Matthew sent the money to arrive on the first day of the next month and he had another call. The voice thanked him for his kind donation and made it quite clear that no more than fifteen pounds was expected. And no more ever was. The voice said something about sharing the sacrifice equally. Matthew said he could almost persuade himself that the thing was genuine. About six months ago he decided to miss a month and see what happened. It wasn’t very pleasant. There was another call and the menace was unmistakable. The voice talked about the need to save patients from social ostracism and said how distressed the people of Sprigg’s Green would be to hear about his lack of generosity. My husband decided to go on. If the village really got to know, it would mean leaving this house. My family have lived here for two hundred years and we both love it. Matthew would be heartbroken to leave the garden. And then there’s the village. Of course, you haven’t seen it at its best, but we love it. My husband is a church-warden. Our small son, who was killed in a road accident, is buried here. It isn’t easy to pull up your roots at seventy.”

No, it wouldn’t be easy. Dalgliesh didn’t question her assumption that discovery would mean that they must leave. A younger, tougher, more sophisticated couple would no doubt ride the publicity, ignore the innuendoes and accept the embarrassed sympathy of their friends in the sure knowledge that nothing lasts for ever and that few things in village life are as dead as last year’s scandal. Pity was less easy to accept. It was probably the fear of pity that would drive most victims to retreat.

He asked what had brought the matter to a head. Mrs. Fenton replied: “Two things, really. The first is that we needed more money. My husband’s younger brother died unexpectedly a month ago and left his widow rather badly off. She is an invalid and not likely to live more than a year or two but she is very happily settled in a nursing home near Norwich and would like to stay there. It was a question of helping with the fees. She needed about another five pounds a week and I couldn’t understand why Matthew seemed so worried about it. It would mean careful planning, but I thought we ought to be able to manage it. But he knew, of course, that we couldn’t if he had to go on sending the fifteen pounds to the Steen. Then there was his operation. It wasn’t a very serious one, I know, but any operation is a risk at seventy and he was afraid that he might die and the whole story come out without his being able to explain. So he told me. I was very glad he did. He went into hospital perfectly happy as a result and the operation went very well. Really very well indeed. Could I give you some more tea, Superintendent?”

Dalgliesh passed her his cup and asked what action she had decided to take. They were now coming to the crux of the story, but he was careful neither to hurry her nor to appear over-anxious. His comments and questions might have been those of any afternoon guest, dutifully taking a polite share in his hostess’s conversation. She was an old lady who had been through a severe strain and was faced with one even greater. He guessed a little of what this revelation to a stranger must be costing her. Any formal expression of sympathy would have been a presumption, but at least he could help with patience and understanding.

“What did I decide to do? Well, that was the problem, of course. I was determined that the blackmailing should be stopped, but I wanted to spare us both if I could. I’m not a very intelligent woman—it’s no use shaking your head, if I were this murder wouldn’t have happened—but I thought it out very carefully. It seemed to me that the best thing was to visit the Steen Clinic and see someone in authority. I could explain what was happening, perhaps even without mentioning my name, and ask them to make their own investigation and put a stop to the blackmail. After all, they would know about my husband, so I wouldn’t be confiding his secret to anyone new and they would be just as anxious to avoid publicity as I was. It wouldn’t do the clinic any good if this came out, would it? They could probably find out who was responsible without a great deal of difficulty. Psychiatrists are supposed to understand people’s characters, after all, and it must be someone who was at the clinic when my husband attended. And, then, being a woman would narrow the field.”

“Do you mean the blackmailer was a woman?” asked Dalgliesh, surprised.

“Oh, yes! At least, the voice on the telephone was a woman’s voice, my husband says.”

“Is he quite sure of that?”

“He didn’t express any doubt to me. It wasn’t only the voice, you see. It was some of the things she said. Things like it not being only members of my husband’s sex who had these illnesses and had he ever thought what unhappiness they could cause to women, and so on. There were definite references to her being a woman. My husband remembers the telephone conversations very clearly and he will be able to tell you what the remarks were. I expect you will want to see him as soon as possible, won’t you?”

Touched by the obvious anxiety in her voice, he replied: “If his doctor thinks Colonel Fenton is well enough to have a brief talk with me, I should like to see him on my way back to London tonight. There are one or two points—this matter of the blackmailer’s sex is one—that only he can help with. I shan’t bother him more than necessary.”

“I’m sure he will be able to see you. He has a little room of his own—an amenity bed they call them—and he’s doing very well. I told him that you were coming today so he won’t be surprised to see you. I don’t think I’ll come too, if you don’t mind. I think he would rather see you alone. I shall write a note for you to take.”

Dalgliesh thanked her and said: “It’s interesting that your husband should say it was a woman. He could be right, of course, but it could be a clever deception on the blackmailer’s part and difficult to disprove. Some men are able to mimic a woman’s voice very convincingly and the casual references to establish sex would be even more effective than a disguised voice. If the colonel had decided to prosecute and the matter had come to court, it would have been very difficult to convict a man of this particular crime unless the evidence was very strong. And as far as I can see, the evidence would be almost non-existent. I think we’ll keep a very open mind on the question of the blackmailer’s sex. But I’m sorry. I interrupted.”

“It was rather an important point to establish, wasn’t it? I hope that my husband will be able to help with it. Well, as I was saying, I decided that the best move was to visit the clinic. I went up to London last Friday morning on an early train. I had to see my chiropodist and there were one or two things Matthew needed in hospital. I decided to shop first. I should have gone direct to the clinic, of course. That was another mistake. It was cowardice, really. I wasn’t looking forward to it and I tried to behave as if it were nothing so very special, just a casual visit I could fit in between the shopping and the chiropodist. In the end I didn’t go at all. I telephoned instead. You see, I told you I wasn’t very intelligent.”

Dalgliesh asked what had led to the change of plan. “It was Oxford Street. I know that sounds silly, but it happened that way. I hadn’t been up to London alone for a very long time and I had forgotten how dreadful it is now. I used to love it when I was a girl. It seemed a gracious city then. Now the skyline has changed and the streets seem full of freaks and foreigners. One shouldn’t resent them, I know—the foreigners, I mean. It’s just that I felt so alien. And then there were the cars. I tried to cross Oxford Street and was stranded among them on one of the islands. Of course, they weren’t killing anyone or knocking anyone down. They couldn’t. They couldn’t even move. But they smelt so horrible that I had to hold my handkerchief to my nose and I felt so faint and ill. When I reached the pavement, I went into one of the stores to find the women’s restroom. It was on the fifth floor and it took me a long time to get to the right lift. The crowds were dreadful and we were all squashed in together. When I got to the restroom, all the chairs were taken. I was standing against the wall wondering whether I could summon enough energy to queue for my lunch when I saw the row of telephone boxes. Suddenly I realized that I could telephone the clinic and save myself the journey and the ordeal of telling my story face to face. It was stupid of me, I see that now, but at the time it seemed a very good idea. It would be easier to conceal my identity on the telephone and I felt that I should be able to explain more fully. I also gained a great deal of comfort from the thought that if the conversation became too difficult, I could always ring off. You see, I was being very cowardly and my only excuse is that I was very tired, far more tired than I imagined possible. I expect you will say that I ought to have gone straight to the police, to Scotland Yard. But Scotland Yard is a place I associate with detective stories and murders. It hardly seems possible that it actually exists and you can call there and tell your story. Besides, I was still very anxious to avoid publicity. I didn’t think the police would welcome someone who wanted help, but wasn’t prepared to co-operate by telling the whole story or being willing to prosecute. All I wanted, you see, was to stop the blackmailer. It wasn’t very public-spirited of me, was it?”

“It was very understandable,” replied Dalgliesh. “I thought it very possible that Miss Bolam got the warning by telephone. Can you remember what you said to her?”

“Not very clearly. I’m afraid. When I had found the four pennies for the call and looked up the number in the directory, I spent a few minutes deciding what I would say. A man’s voice answered and I asked to speak to the administrative secretary. Then there was a woman’s voice which said, ‘Administrative officer speaking.’ I hadn’t expected to hear a woman and I suddenly got it into my mind that I was speaking to the blackmailer. After all, why not? So I said that someone from the clinic, and probably she, had been blackmailing my husband and that I was telephoning to say that she wouldn’t get another penny from now on and that if we received any more telephone calls, we should go straight to the police. It all came out in a rush. I was shaking rather badly and had to lean against the wall of the telephone box for support. I must have sounded a little hysterical. When she could get a word in, she asked me whether I was a patient and who was treating me and said something about asking one of the doctors to have a word with me. I suppose she thought I was out of my mind. I replied that I had never attended the clinic and that if ever I needed treatment, which God forbid, I should know better than to go to a place where a patient’s indiscretions and unhappiness were made an opportunity for blackmail. I think I ended up by saying that there was a woman involved, that she must have been at the clinic for nearly ten years and that if the administrative officer wasn’t the person concerned, I hoped that she would make it her duty to discover who was. She tried to get me to leave my name or to come to see her but I rang off.”

“Did you give her any details about how the blackmail was organized?”

“I told her that my husband had sent fifteen pounds a month in an envelope addressed in green ink. That’s when she became suddenly very anxious that I should visit the clinic or at least leave my name. It was rude of me to ring off without ending the conversation but I suddenly became frightened. I don’t know why. And I had said all that I meant to say. One of the chairs in the restroom was vacant by then, so I sat down for half an hour until I felt better. Then I went straight to Charing Cross and had some coffee and sandwiches in the buffet there and waited for my train home. I read about the murder in the paper on Saturday and I’m afraid I took it for granted that one of the other victims—for there must have been others, surely—had taken that way out. I didn’t connect the crime with my telephone call, at least, not at first. Then I began to wonder whether it might not be my duty to let the police know what had been going on at that dreadful place. Yesterday I talked to my husband about it and we decided to do nothing in a hurry. We thought it might be best to wait and see whether we received any further calls from the blackmailer. I wasn’t very happy about our silence. There haven’t been many details of the murder in the papers, so I don’t know what exactly happened. But I did realize that the blackmail might be in some way connected with the crime and that the police would wish to know about it. While I was still worrying about what to do, Dr. Etherege telephoned. You know the rest. I’m still wondering how you managed to trace me.”

“We found you in the same way as the blackmailer picked out Colonel Fenton, from the clinic diagnostic index and the medical record. You mustn’t think that they don’t look after their confidential papers at the Steen. They do. Dr. Etherege is very distressed indeed about the blackmail. But no system is completely proof against clever and deliberate wickedness.”

“You will find him, won’t you?” she asked. “You will find him?”

“Thanks to you, I think we shall,” Dalgliesh replied.

As he held out his hand to say good-bye, she suddenly asked: “What was she like, Superintendent? I mean the woman who was murdered. Tell me about Miss Bolam.”

Dalgliesh said: “She was forty-one years old. Not married. I never saw her alive but she had light-brown hair and blue-grey eyes. She was rather stout, wide browed, thin mouthed. She was an only child and both her parents were dead. She lived rather a lonely life but her church meant a great deal to her and she was a Guide captain. She liked children and flowers. She was conscientious and efficient but not very good at understanding people. She was kind when they were in trouble but they thought her rigid, humourless and censorious. I think they were probably right. She had a great sense of duty.”

“I am responsible for her death. I have to accept that.”

Dalgliesh said gently: “That’s nonsense, you know. Only one person is responsible and, thanks to you, we shall get him.”

She shook her head. “If I had come to you in the first place or even had the courage to turn up at the clinic instead of telephoning, she would be alive today.”

Dalgliesh thought that Louise Fenton deserved better than to be pacified with easy lies. And they would have brought no comfort. Instead he replied: “I suppose that could be true. There are so many ‘ifs.’ She would be alive today if her group secretary had cancelled a meeting and hurried to the clinic, if she herself had gone at once to see him, if an old porter hadn’t had stomach ache. You did what you thought right and no one can do more.”

“So did she, poor woman,” replied Mrs. Fenton. “And look where it led her.”

She patted Dalgliesh briefly on the shoulder, as if it were he who needed the comfort and reassurance.

“I didn’t mean to bore you. Please forgive me. You’ve been very patient and kind. Might I ask one more question? You said that, thanks to me, you would get this murderer. Do you know now who it is?”

“Yes,” said Dalgliesh. “I think I now know who it is.”