Shroud for a Nightingale

IX

At twenty minutes to one, Mr. Courtney-Briggs appeared. He knocked briskly at the door, came in without waiting for an invitation, and said curtly:

“I can give you a quarter of an hour now, Dalgliesh, if it’s convenient”

His tone assumed that it would be. Dalgliesh assented and indicated the chair. The surgeon looked across at Sergeant Masterson sitting impassively with his notebook at the ready, hesitated, then turned the chair so that its back was to the sergeant Then he seated himself and slipped his hand into his waistcoat pocket The cigarette case he drew out was of finely tooled gold and so slim that it looked hardly functional.

He offered a cigarette to Dalgliesh but not to Masterson and seemed neither surprised nor particularly interested at the Superintendent’s refusal. He lit his own. The hands cupped around the lighter were large, square-fingered; not the sensitive hands of a fictional surgeon, but strong carpenter’s hands, beautifully cared for.

Dalgliesh, overtly busy with his papers, observed the man. He was big but not yet fat The formal suit fitted him almost too well, containing a sleek well-fed body and enhancing the effect of latent power only imperfectly controlled. He could still be called handsome. His long hair brushed straight back from a high forehead was strong and dark, except for one single white strand. Dalgliesh wondered whether it were bleached. His eyes were too small for the large, rather florid face, but were well shaped and set wide apart. They gave nothing away.

Dalgliesh knew that it bad been Mr. Courtney-Briggs who had been mainly responsible for the Chief Constable calling in the Yard. From Inspector Bailey’s somewhat bitter account during their brief colloquy when Dalgliesh had taken over the case, it was easy to understand why. The surgeon had made himself a nuisance from the beginning and his motives, if they were capable of rational explanation, raised interesting speculations. At first he had asserted vigorously that Nurse Pearce had obviously been murdered, that it was unthinkable that anyone connected with the hospital could have been concerned with the crime, and that the local police had a duty to proceed on this assumption and to find and arrest the killer with a minimum of delay. When their investigations yielded no immediate results, he became restive. He was a man used to exercising power and he was certainly not without it There were eminent people in London who owed their lives to him and some of them had considerable nuisance value. Telephone calls, some tactful and half-apologetic, others frankly critical, were made both to the Chief Constable and to the Yard. As the Inspector in charge of the investigation became more convinced that Nurse Pearce’s death was the result of a practical joke which had tragically misfired, so Mr. Courtney-Briggs and his co-agitators proclaimed more loudly that she had been murdered, and pressed more strongly for the case to be handed over to the Yard.

And then Nurse Fallon had been found dead. It could be expected that the local C.I.D. would be galvanized into fresh activity, that the diffuse light which had played over the first crime would sharpen and focus on this second death. And it was at this moment that Mr. Courtney-Briggs had chosen to telephone the Chief Constable to announce that no further activity was necessary, that it was obvious to him that Nurse Fallon had committed suicide, that this could only have been in remorse at the tragic result of the practical joke which had killed her colleague, and that it was now in the hospital’s interest to close the case with the minimum of fuss before nurse recruitment and indeed the whole future of the hospital was jeopardized. The police are not unused to these sudden quirks of temperament, which is not to say that they welcome them. Dalgliesh thought that it must have been with considerable satisfaction that the Chief Constable decided that, in all the circumstances, it would be prudent to call in the Yard to investigate both the deaths.

During the week following Nurse Pearce’s death, Courtney-Briggs had even rung up Dalgliesh, who had been his patient three years earlier. It had been a case of uncomplicated appendicitis, and although Dalgliesh’s vanity was gratified by the smallness and neatness of the resultant scar, he felt that the surgeon’s expertise had been adequately rewarded at the time. He had certainly no wish to be used for Courtney-Briggs’s private ends. The telephone call had been embarrassing and he had resented it He was interested to see that the surgeon had apparently decided that this was an incident it would be advisable for both of them to forget.

Without lifting his eyes from his papers, Dalgliesh said:

“I understand that you take the view that Miss Fallon killed herself?”

“Of course. It’s the obvious explanation. You’re not suggesting that someone else put stuff into her whisky? Why should they?”

“There’s the problem, isn’t there, of the missing container? That is, if it were poison. We shan’t know until we get the autopsy report”

“What problem? There’s no problem. The beaker was opaque, heat insulated. She could have put the stuff into it earlier that evening. No one would have noticed. Or she could have carried a powder in a slip of paper and flushed it down the lavatory. The container’s no problem. Incidentally, it wasn’t a corrosive this time. That much was evident when I saw the body.”

“Were you the first doctor on the scene?”

“No. I wasn’t in the hospital when they found her. Dr. Snelling saw her. He’s the general physician who looks after the nurses here. He realized at once that there was nothing to be done. I went across to have a look at the body as soon as I heard the news. I arrived at the hospital just before nine. By then the police had arrived, of course. The local people, I mean. I cant think why they weren’t left to get on with it I rang the Chief Constable to make my views known. Incidentally, Miles Honeyman tells me that she died about midnight I saw him just as he was leaving. We were at medical school together.”

“So I understand.”

“You were wise to call him in. I gather that he’s generally considered to be the best.”

He spoke complacently, success condescending to recognize success. His criteria were hardly subtle, thought Dalgliesh. Money, prestige, public recognition, power. Yes, Courtney-Briggs would always demand the best for himself, confident of his ability to pay for it.

Dalgliesh said: “She was pregnant. Did you know?”

“So Honeyman told me. No, I didn’t know. These things happen, even today when birth control is reliable and easily obtained. But I should have expected a girl of her intelligence to be on the Pill.”

Dalgliesh remembered the scene that morning in the library when Mr. Courtney-Briggs had known the girl’s age to a day. He asked his next question without apology.

“Did you know her well?”

The implication was plain and the surgeon did not reply for a moment Dalgliesh had not expected him to bluster or threaten and he did neither. There was an increased respect in the sharp look which be gave his interrogator.

“For a time, yes.” He paused. “You could say I knew her intimately.”

“Was she your mistress?”

Courtney-Briggs looked at him, impassive, considering. Then he said:

That’s putting it rather formally. We slept together fairly regularly during her first six months here. Are you objecting?“

“It’s hardly for me to object if she didn’t. Presumably she was willing?”

“You could say that.”

“When did it end?”

“I thought I told you. It lasted until the end of her first year. That’s a year and a half ago.”

“Did you quarrel?”

“No. She decided she’d, shall we say, exhausted the possibilities. Some women like variety. I do myself. I wouldn’t have taken her on if I’d thought she was the type to make trouble. And don’t get me wrong. I don’t make it a practice to sleep with student nurses. I’m reasonably fastidious.”

“Wasn’t it difficult to keep the affair secret? There’s very little privacy in a hospital.”

“You have romantic ideas, Superintendent We didn’t kiss and cuddle in tile sluice room. When I said I slept with her I meant just that I don’t use euphemisms for sex. She came to my Wimpole Street flat when she had a night off and we slept there. I haven’t a resident man there and my house is near Selborne. The porter at Wimpole Street must have known, but he can keep his mouth shut There wouldn’t be many tenants left in the building if he couldn’t. There wasn’t any risk, provided that she didn’t talk, and she wasn’t a talker. Not that I would have minded particularly. There are certain areas of private behavior in which I do as I like. You too no doubt”

“So it wasn’t your child?”

“No. I’m not careless. Besides the affair was over. But if it hadn’t been I should hardly have killed her. That kind of solution causes more embarrassment than it prevents.”

Dalgliesh asked: “What would you have done?”

“That would have depended on the circumstances. I should have had to be sure it was my child. But this particular problem is hardly uncommon and not insoluble if the woman is reasonable.”

“I’ve been told that Miss Fallon planned to get an abortion. Did she approach you?”

“No.”

“She might have done?”

“Certainly she might have done. But she didn’t.”

“Would you have helped her if she had?”

The surgeon looked at him.

“That question is hardly within your terms of reference, I should have thought.”

Dalgliesh said: “That’s for me to judge. The girl was pregnant; she apparently intended to get an abortion; she told a friend that she knew someone who would help her. I’m naturally interested to know who she had in mind.”

“You know the law. I’m a surgeon not a gynecologist. I prefer to stick to my own specialty and to practice it legally.”

“But there are other kinds of help. Referring her to an appropriate consultant, helping with the fees.”

A girl with £, 16,000 to bequeath was hardly likely to want help with the fees for an abortion. But Miss Goodale’s legacy was not being made public and Dalgliesh was interested to learn whether Courtney-Briggs knew about Fallon’s capital. But the surgeon gave no sign.

“Well, she didn’t come to me. She may have bad me in mind but she didn’t come. And if she had, I wouldn’t have helped. I make it my business to assume my own responsibilities; but I don’t take on other people’s. If she chose to look elsewhere for her satisfaction she could look elsewhere for her help. I didn’t impregnate her. Someone did. Let him look after her.”

“That would have been your response?”

“Certainly it would. And rightly.”

His voice held a note of grim satisfaction. Looking at him, Dalgliesh saw that his face was flushed. The man was controlling his emotion with difficulty. And Dalgliesh had little doubt of the nature of that emotion. It was hate. He went on with his interrogation.

“Were you in the hospital last night?”

“Yes. I was called to operate on an emergency. One of my patients relapsed. It wasn’t altogether unexpected, but very serious. I finished operating at eleven forty-five p.m. The time will be noted in the theatre register. Then I rang Sister Brumfett at Nightingale House to ask her to be good enough to return to her ward for an hour or so. My patient was a private patient After that I rang my home to say that I would be returning that night instead of sleeping here in the medical officers’ quarters as I do occasionally after a late operation. I left the main building shortly after twelve. I intended driving out by the Winchester Road gate. I have my own key. However, it was a wild night as you probably noticed, and I discovered that there was an elm down over the path. I was lucky not to drive into it I got out of the car and knotted my white silk scarf, round one of the branches to warn anyone else who might be driving that way. It wasn’t likely that anyone would, but the tree was an obvious danger and there was no chance of getting it moved before daylight I reversed the car and left by the main entrance, reporting the fallen tree to the gate porter on my way out”

“Did you notice the time then?”

“I didn’t He may have done. But at a guess, it was probably about twelve fifteen, maybe later. I wasted a bit of time at the tree.”

“You would have had to drive past Nightingale House to reach the back gate. You didn’t go in?”

“I had no reason to go in and I didn’t go in, either to poison Nurse Fallon or for any other reason.”

“And you saw no one in the grounds?”

“After midnight and in the middle of a storm? No, I saw no one.”

Dalgliesh switched his questioning.

“You saw Nurse Pearce die, of course. I suppose there was never a real chance of saving her?”

“Never, I should say. I took pretty vigorous measures, but it isn’t easy when you don’t know what you’re treating.”

“But you knew it was poison?”

“Pretty soon. Yes. But I didn’t know what Not that it would have made any difference. You’ve seen the post-mortem report You knew what that stuff did to her.”

Dalgliesh asked: “You were in Nightingale House from eight o’clock onwards on the morning that she died?”

“You know perfectly well that I was if, as I assume, you’ve taken the trouble to read my original statement. I arrived in Nightingale House shortly after eight My contract here is for six notional halfdays a week; I’m in the hospital all day on Monday, Thursday and Friday; but if’s not uncommon for me to be called in to operate on an emergency, particularly if it’s a private patient, and I occasionally do a Saturday morning session in the theatre if the lists are long. I’d been called out shortly after eleven o’clock on Sunday night for an emergency appendicectomy-one of my private patients-and it was convenient to spend the night in the medical officers’ quarters.”

“Which are where?”

“In that deplorably designed new building near the outpatients’ department They serve breakfast at the ungodly hour of seven thirty.”

“You were here rather early surely. The demonstration wasn’t due to begin until nine.”

“I wasn’t here merely for the demonstration, Superintendent You’re really rather ignorant of hospitals, aren’t you? The Senior Consultant Surgeon doesn’t normally attend nurse training sessions unless he’s actually lecturing the students. I only attended on January 12th because the G.N.C. Inspector was to be there and I’m Vice-Chairman of the Nurse Education Committee. It was a courtesy to Miss Beale to be here to meet her. I came in early because I wanted to work on some clinical notes which I had left in Sister Rolfe’s office after a previous lecture. I also wanted to have a chat with Matron before the inspection began to be sure that I was there in time to receive Miss Beale. I went up to Matron’s flat at eight thirty-five and found her finishing breakfast And, if you’re thinking that I could have put the corrosive in the milk bottle any time between eight and eight thirty-five, you’re perfectly right As it happens, I didn’t”

He looked at his watch.

“And now if there’s nothing else you need to ask I must get my lunch. I’ve another out-patients’ session this afternoon and time’s pressing. If it’s really necessary, I can probably give you a few more minutes before I leave but I hope it won’t be. I’ve already signed one statement about Pearce’s death and I’ve nothing to add or to alter. I didn’t see Fallon yesterday. I didn’t even know she was discharged from the sick-bay. She wasn’t carrying my child, and even if she had been, I shouldn’t have been foolish enough to kill her. Incidentally, what I told you about our previous relationship was naturally in confidence.”

He looked across meaningly at Sergeant Masterson.

“Not that I care whether it’s made public. But, after all, the girl is dead. We may as well try to protect her reputation.”

Dalgliesh found it difficult to believe that Mr. Courtney-Briggs was interested in anyone’s reputation but his own. But, gravely, he gave the necessary assurance. He saw the surgeon leave without regret. An egotistical bastard whom it was agreeable, if childish, to provoke. But a murderer? He had the hubris, the nerve and the egotism of a killer. More to the point, he had had the opportunity. And the motive? Hadn’t it been a little disingenuous of him to have confessed so readily to his relationship with Josephine Fallon? Admittedly he couldn’t have hoped to keep his secret for long; a hospital was hardly the most discreet of institutions. Had he been making a virtue of necessity, ensuring that Dalgliesh heard the version of the affair before the inevitable gossip reached his ears? Or had it been merely the candor of conceit, the sexual vanity of a man who wouldn’t trouble to conceal any exploit which proclaimed his attraction and virility?

Putting his papers together, Dalgliesh became aware that he was hungry. He had made an early start to the day and it bad been a long morning. It was time to turn his mind from Stephen Courtney-Briggs and for him and Masterson to think about luncheon.