by Ngaio Marsh
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. envelope.”
“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?”
“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.”
“In view of these letters? These two, or the others?”
“I do not know. I am inclined to regard the personal ones as being more important. They definitely threaten his life.”
“Yes. Very vindictive, they seem to be.”
“I wish to have an inquest.”
“I see,” said Fox. “Now that’s quite a serious matter, Lady O’Callaghan.”
A faint redness appeared in her cheeks. Another woman would possibly have screamed in his face.
“Of course it is serious,” she said.
“I mean, if you understand me, that before an order is made for an inquest, the coroner who makes it has to be certain of one or two points. What about the death certificate, for instance?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, was one signed?”
“Yes.”
“By Sir John Phillips?”
“I don’t know. Possibly. Mr. Thoms, the assistant surgeon, may have signed it.”
“Yes. Well, now, Mr. Thoms is a well-known surgeon. Sir Derek was a distinguished patient. He would take every care before he signed. I think that would be considered sufficiently conclusive by the coroner.”
“But these threats! I am convinced he was murdered. I shall demand an inquest.”
Fox stared gravely into the fire.
“Perhaps,” he said, rather ponderously, “perhaps you would like me to ring up the coroner, and put the case before him.”
“Certainly, if you will.”
“It would be better if you could tell him, definitely, who signed the certificate.”
“Mr. Jameson, my husband’s secretary, may know. He had an appointment with the Prime Minister at three.”
Inspector Fox consulted a large, bland watch.
“It’s fifteen minutes to four.”
“I shall ring up the House,” she said, and did.
She got Ronald at last and asked her question.
“It was Mr. Thoms?” she said into the telephone. Ronald’s voice quacked audibly in the room. “Yes. Thank you. Have you discussed the matter? I see. No, I think not, Mr. Jameson; I am communicating directly with the police.”
She hung up the receiver and informed Fox that Thoms had signed the certificate.
Inspector Fox then rang up the coroner. He held a long and muffled conversation. The coroner talked a great deal and appeared to be agitated. Lady O’Callaghan listened. Her fingers drummed bonily on the arm of her chair. For her, it was a terrific gesture. At last Fox rang off.
“It’s as I thought,” he said. “He says he cannot interfere.”
“Then I shall go direct to the Prime Minister.”
He got rather ponderously to his feet.
“I don’t think I’d do that, Lady O’Callaghan—at least not yet. If you’ll allow me to I’d like to talk it over with my superior, Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.”
“Alleyn? I think I’ve heard of him. Isn’t he—” She paused. Cicely O’Callaghan had nearly dropped a brick. She had been about to say “Isn’t he a gentleman?” She must have been really very much perturbed to come within hail of such a gaffe. Inspector Fox answered her very simply.
“Yes,” he said, “he’s rather well known. He’s a very highly educated man. Quite a different type from me, you might say.”
Again a faint pink tinged her cheeks.
“I am grateful to you for the trouble you are taking,” she told him.
“It’s all in the day’s work,” said Fox. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady O’Callaghan, I’ll get along. I’ll speak to the chief at once. If you’re agreeable, I’ll show him the correspondence.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you very much. I’ll wish you good afternoon.”
“Will you have something to drink before you go?”
“No, thank you. Very kind of you, I’m sure.” He tramped to the door, turned and made a little bow.
“I hope you’ll allow me to offer my sympathy,” he said. “It’s a great loss to the nation.”
“Thank you.”
“Good afternoon, Lady O’Callaghan.”
“Good afternoon, inspector.”
So Inspector Fox went to the Yard to see Alleyn.
CHAPTER SIX
Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn
Friday, the twelfth. Afternoon and evening.
“HULLO, BRER FOX,” said Alleyn, looking up from his desk. “Where’ve you been in your new bowler?”
“Paying a call on the Snow Queen,” replied Fox with unexpected imaginativeness. “And when I say ‘Snow Queen’ I don’t mean cocaine, either.”
“No? Then what do you mean? Sit down and have a smoke. You look perturbed.”
“Well, I am,” said Fox heavily. He produced a pipe and blew down it, staring solemnly at his superior. “I’ve been to see the wife of the late Home Secretary,” he said.
“What! You are coming on.”
“Look here, chief. She says it’s murder.”
“She says what’s murder?”
“Him. Sir Derek O’Callaghan.”
Alleyn put his pipe down and swung round slowly in his chair.
“Oh!” he said. He raised one eyebrow to an excruciating height and twisted his mouth sideways. This trick invested his handsome face with a kind of impish fastidiousness.
“What sort of woman is she?” he asked.
“A very cold fishy sort of lady,” answered Fox. “A Snow Queen, in fact. Not the hysterical sort, if that’s what you mean.”
“She was a Rattisbon. All the Rattisbons are a bit frosty. I was at school with her brother—who was, of course, called ‘Ratsbane.’ I speak like Mr. Gossip, don’t I? A very churlish fellow, he was. Well, let’s have the whole story.”
Fox told him the whole story, dwelling a little on the letters.
“I see,” said Alleyn. “And she’s hell-bent on an inquest?”
“That she is. If we won’t do anything, she’s going to the Prime Minister. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he, sir?”
“I know the old creature, yes. As a matter of fact, he summoned me to the presence on another matter about a fortnight ago and we had an Oppenheimian conversation about anarchists. He was very perturbed and asked me if I didn’t consider O’Callaghan would be in personal danger if he pushed the Bill. Well, one never knows, and I said so. Some bright young Communist might bowl a bomb. As a matter of cold fact, I greatly doubt it. They do a certain amount of mischief, they’re an almighty nuisance, but as murderers I’ve no real faith in the British anarchist. Anarchist! The word is vieux jeu.”
“I suppose that’s French?”
“
Quite right, Fox. I always said you had a flair for languages.”
“I’m teaching myself with the gramophone. All the same, sir, these anarchists are no joke.”
“Of course they’re not. The P.M., as I believe the member for Little Squidgemere calls him, thought O’Callaghan ought to have police protection. I quite agreed. I couldn’t very well do anything else. O’Callaghan pooh-poohed the idea. As you know, we were looking after him in our unassuming way. On the afternoon of the Cabinet Meeting, when they decided to introduce the Bill, I went along to Downing Street myself. I’d got wind of that insufferable nuisance Nicholas Kakaroff, and found him standing about in the street, dressed up as something rather ridiculous—a photographer, I think. He made off, with all his infra-red rays and whatnot, as soon as he saw me. I took a taxi and followed O’Callaghan home. We were alongside each other at one moment. He turned up the lights in his car and I returned the compliment.”
“His servants are all right, aren’t they?” asked Fox.
“Oh, yes; we went as far as that. But, of course, we couldn’t do much without O’Callaghan’s permission or knowledge.”
“No. I think her ladyship suspects the surgeon or the girl.”
“‘The Surgeon or the Girl’—it sounds like a talkie. Sir John Phillips is a very able man and handy, so I understand, with the knife. She thinks he dug it into an unlawful spot, because O’Callaghan had been interfering with his girl—is that it?”
“She thinks Sir Derek was poisoned, otherwise that seems to be the general idea, but of course his letter isn’t very explicit.”
“Have you got the letters?”
“Yes. Here they are.”
Alleyn read them carefully.
“You know, Fox, hundreds of people write letters like these without planning murder.”
“Isn’t that what I tried to tell her!”
“My poor Foxkin! See if you can find the Press report of his death.”
Fox produced a paper.
“I brought it with me,” he said.
“You think of everything. Here we are. He died an hour after the operation was over. The anæsthetist was worried… peritonitis…ruptured abscess…‘unwilling to turn aside from the gigantic task’…he’d neglected his tummy, evidently. It sounds straightforward enough, and yet—”
