The Nursing Home Murder (5 page)

Friday, the twelfth. Afternoon.

“Lady O’Callaghan, I’m terribly sorry to bother, but may I speak to you for a moment?”

Ronald Jameson paused and looked apologetically at the widow of his late employer. She was very handsome in black. Her hair-he could never make up his mind whether it was a warm white or a white blonde — looked as though it had been ironed into place. Her hands, thin and elegant, hung relaxed against the matt surface of her dress. Her pale blue eyes under their heavy lids regarded him with a kind of polite detachment.

“Yes,” she said vaguely. “Come into my room, Mr. Jameson.”

He followed her into that place of frozen elegance. She sat down leisurely, her back to the light.

“Yes,” she repeated. “Sit down, Mr. Jameson.”

Ronald said: “Thank you so much,” nervously, and sat on the most uncomfortable chair.

“I’ve just come back from the House,” he, began. “The Prime Minister saw me in his room. He is terribly distressed about — about yesterday. He wished me to tell you that — that he is entirely at your service should there be anything— ”

“So kind of him,” she said.

“Of course, he is also very much troubled about the Bill — Sir Derek’s Anarchy Bill, you know. The business arising from it has to go forward, you see, and this tragedy has complicated matters.” He paused again.

“I see — yes.”

“It’s a question of Sir Derek’s private notes. They can do nothing without them. I said that the matter would have to wait until after the — until after tomorrow; but the Prime Minister thinks the whole business is so urgent that he ought to see them immediately. I believe they are in the desk in the study, but of course, before I could do anything about it, I felt I must have your permission.”

She took so long to answer that he felt quite alarmed. At last, looking at her hands which lay delicately clasped on her lap, she said: “This Bill. Will it deal with the persons who killed him?”

He was so completely dumbfounded by this amazing inquiry that he could think of nothing to say. He was a young man with a good deal of
savoir-faire
, but evidently her extraordinary assumption took him unawares.

“I’m afraid I don’t — do you mean — surely, Lady O’Callaghan, you can’t believe— ” He could get no further with it.

“Oh, yes,” she said tranquilly, “I’m quite sure they killed him.”

“But — who?”

“These people. Anarchists, aren’t they? They threatened to kill my husband. I believe they have done so. I understood his Bill was designed to suppress such persons. Please do anything you can to help it to go forward.”

“Thank you,” said Ronald idiotically.

“Yes. Is that all, Mr. Jameson?”

“But, Lady O’Callaghan — please — have you thought — honestly, you have simply amazed me. It’s a terrible idea. Surely the doctors’ report is clear! Sir Derek had acute peritonitis.”

“Sir John Phillips said the operation was successful. He was poisoned.”

“By peritonitis and a ruptured abscess. Really, I can’t think anything else. How could he be deliberately poisoned?”

“One of the letters threatened poison. The one he had last Monday, it was.”

“But many leading politicians get letters of that sort. Nothing ever happens. Forgive me, Lady O’Callaghan, but I’m sure you are utterly wrong. How
could
they have poisoned him? It’s — it’s impossible. I do beg you not to distress yourself.” He glanced uncomfortably at her placid face. “I’m sure you are quite mistaken,” ended Ronald wildly.

“Let us go into his room,” she murmured and, without another word, led the way into O’Callaghan’s study.

They unlocked the desk and she sat and watched, while Ronald went through the papers in the top pigeon-holes.

“The drawers on the left,” he explained to her, “were used for private correspondence — I did not have anything to do with them.”

“They will have to be opened. I will do that.”

“Of course. Here is one of the threatening letters— several — I think all of them. I wanted to show them to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn at the Yard. Sir Derek wouldn’t allow me to do so.”

“Let me see them.”

He gave her the bundle of letters and returned to the pigeon-holes.

“Here are his notes,” he said presently. She did not answer, and he glanced up and was astonished to surprise in her face an expression of some sort of an emotion. She looked venomous.

“Here is the letter I spoke of,” she said. “You will see that they threaten to poison him.”

“Yes. I see.”

“You still do not believe me, Mr. Jameson?”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I shall insist upon an inquiry.”

“An inquiry? Oh Lord!” said Ronald involuntarily. “I mean — I wouldn’t, really, Lady O’Callaghan. It’s— we’ve no grounds for it.”

“Are you taking these notes to the Prime Minister to-day?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell him, if you please, what I propose to do? You may discuss it with him. In the meantime I shall go through the private letters. Have you the keys of those drawers?”

Ronald took a bunch of keys from the desk, and with an air of reluctance put them in her hand.

“When is your appointment?”

“For three o’clock.”

“It is now only half-past two. Please come and see me before you leave.”

As he left her she was fitting a key to the bottom drawer.

To anybody who had the curiosity to watch him— Nash, the butler, for instance — Ronald Jameson would have appeared to be very much upset. He went up to his bedroom, wandered aimlessly about, smoked three cigarettes, and finally sat on the bed, staring in a sort of trance at a wood-engraving that hung above his dressing-table. At last he looked at his watch, went downstairs, got his hat and umbrella, and returned to the study.

He found Lady O’Callaghan seated at the desk with a neatly arranged pile of letters in front of her. She did not turn her head when he came in. She simply stared very fixedly at a paper she held in her hand. It struck him that she had sat like that for some time— while he himself had done much the same thing upstairs in his room. Her face was always pale — she did not use rouge — but he thought now that it was deadly white. There was a thin ridge, like a taut thread, linking her nostrils with the corners of her mouth.

“Come here,” she said quietly.

He went and stood by the desk.

“You told me that night, a week ago, I think, that my husband had received a letter that seemed to upset him. Was this the letter?”

He glanced at it and then looked away.

“I did not see the letter,” he stammered. “Only the envelope.”

“Is that the envelope?”

“I–I think so. I can’t be sure.”

“Read it.”

With an expression of extreme distaste he read the letter. It was Jane Harden’s.

“If an opportunity presented itself,” Jane had written, “I would not hesitate to kill you.”

Ronald put it down on the desk.

“Now read this.”

The second letter was from Sir John Phillips. Phillips had written it at fever-heat on the night he got home from his interview with O’Callaghan, and had posted it before he had time to cool down.

“I gather you’re going to cut your losses and evade what, to any decent man, would be a responsibility. You talked of sending Jane a cheque. She will, of course, either tear it up or return it. I cannot force your hand, for that would do still more harm to a lady who is already deeply wronged, I warn you, however, to keep clear of me. I’ve a certain devil in me that I thought was scotched, but you have brought it to life again, and I think I could very easily kill you. This may sound like hyperbole; as a matter of fact, it is a meiosis.

John Phillips.”

“Have you seen that before?” asked Lady O’Callaghan.

“Never,” said Ronald.

“You notice the signature? It was written by the man who operated on my husband.”

“Yes.”

“Who is this woman — Jane Harden?”

“Honestly, I have no idea, Lady O’Callaghan.”

“No? A nurse, evidently. Look at the address, Mr. Jameson.”

“Good God,” said Ronald. “It’s — it’s the nursing-home.”

“Yes. We sent him to a strange place for his operation.”

“But—”

“Will you please take these letters with you?”

“But, Lady O’Callaghan, I can’t possibly show them to the P.M. — the Prime Minister — really!”

“Then I shall have to do so myself. Of course, there must be an inquest.”

“Forgive me, but in the shock of reading these letters and — realising their inferences, have you considered the effect any publicity would have on yourself?”

“What do you mean? What shock? Do you suppose I did not know he had mistresses?”

“I’ve no idea, I’m sure,” said poor Ronald unhappily-

“Of course I knew,” she said composedly. “That seems to me to have nothing to do with the point we are discussing. I knew he had been murdered. I thought at first that these other people— ” She made a slight gesture towards the neat little pile on the desk. “Now I find he had bitter enemies nearer to him than that.” Her hand closed over the letters on her knee. “He has been murdered. Probably by this nurse or by Sir John Phillips; possibly by both of them in collaboration. I shall demand an inquest.”

“An inquest! You know, I doubt very much if you would be given permission.”

“To whom does one apply?”

“One can’t just order an inquest,” Ronald said evasively.

“Who can do so, Mr. Jameson?”

“The — well, the coroner for the district, I imagine.”

“Or the police?”

Ronald winced.

“I suppose so — yes.”

“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Jameson.”

Ronald, in a panic, took himself off to the House.

Lady O’Callaghan put a jade paper-weight on the little heap of letters and opened the telephone directory. The number she wanted was printed in large letters on a front page. She dialed it, and was answered immediately.

“Is that New Scotland Yard?” she asked, pitching her voice in a sort of serene falsetto. “It is Lady O’Callaghan speaking. My husband was Sir Derek O’Callaghan, the late Home Secretary. I want to speak to someone in authority, in reference to the death of my husband. No, not on the telephone. Perhaps someone would call? Immediately, if possible. Thank you.”

She hung up the receiver and leant back in her chair. Then she rang for Nash, who came in looking like a Stilton in mourning.

“Nash,” she said, “an officer from Scotland Yard is calling in ten minutes. It is in reference to the funeral. I wish to speak to him myself. If Miss O’Callaghan calls, will you tell her I am unable to see her? Show the officer in here when he comes.”

“Very good, m’lady,” breathed Nash and withdrew.

Cicely O’Callaghan then went to the room where her husband lay, awaiting his last journey down Whitehall. She was an Anglo-Catholic, so candles burned, small golden plumes, at the head and foot of the coffin. The room, a large one, was massed heavily with flowers. It smelt like a tropical island, but was very cold. A nun from the church that the O’Callaghans attended knelt at a little distance from the coffin. She did not look up when Lady O’Callaghan came in.

The wife knelt beside her for a moment, crossed herself with a thin vague movement of her hand, and then rose and contemplated her husband.

Derek O’Callaghan looked impressive. The heavy eyebrows, black hair, jutting nose and thin wide mouth were striking accents in the absolute pallor of his face. His hands, stiffly crossed, obediently fixed a crucifix to the hard curve of his breast. His wife, only a little less pale than he, stared at him. It would have been impossible to guess her thoughts. She simply looked in the direction of the dead face. In the distance a door opened and shut. She turned away from the bier, and walked out of the room.

In the hall Nash waited gloomily, while a tall, thickly built man handed him hat and umbrella.

“Inspector Fox, my lady.”

“Will you come in here?”

She took the inspector into the study. Nash had lit the fire, and she held her thin hands towards it.

“Please sit down,” she murmured. They sat facing each other. Inspector Fox regarded her with respectful attention.

“I asked you to come and see me,” she began very quietly, “because I believe my husband to have been murdered.”

Fox did not speak for a moment. He sat stockily, very still, looking gravely before him.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Lady O’Callaghan,” he said at last. “It sounds rather serious.”

Apparently she had met her match in understatement.

“Of course, I should not have called you in unless I had material evidence to put before you. I believe the police are aware of the activities of those persons against whom my husband’s Anarchy Bill was directed?”

“We know a good deal about them.”

“Yes. My husband had received many threatening letters which were believed to come from these people. I wished him to let the police see the letters, but he refused.”

“We were informed of the matter from another source,” said Fox.

“The Prime Minister, perhaps?”

Fox regarded her placidly, but did not reply.

“I have the letters here,” she continued, after a moment, “and would like you to read them.” She took them from the desk and gave them to him.

Fox took a spectacle case from an inner pocket and put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He looked extremely respectable. He read the letters through stolidly, laying them down neatly one on top of the other. When the last was finished, he clasped his enormous hands together and said:

“Yes. That’s the sort of thing these people write.”

“Now, will you read these?”

She gave him the letters from Sir John Phillips and Jane Harden. He read them carefully, in exactly the same way.

“Sir John Phillips is the surgeon who operated upon my husband. I understand the other letter is from a nurse in the hospital.”

“Is that so, Lady O’Callaghan?” said Fox politely.

“My husband had peritonitis but I believe he died of poisoning. I believe he was poisoned.”