by Ngaio Marsh
He wrote busily, shut his little book, glanced up, and gave a start of surprise. Jane Harden had come in so quietly that he had not heard her. There she stood, her fingers twisted together, staring at the inspector. He had thought at the inquest that she was very good-looking. Now, with the white veil behind it, the extreme pallor of her face was less emphatic. She was beautiful, with that peculiar beauty that covers delicate bone. The contour of the forehead and cheek-bones, the little hollows of the temples, and the fine-drawn arches of the eyes had the quality of a Holbein drawing. The eyes themselves were a very dark grey, the nose absolutely straight and the mouth, rather too small, with dropping corners, was at once sensuous and obstinate.
“I beg your pardon,” said Alleyn; “I did not hear you come in. Please sit down.”
He pulled forward the nearest of the preposterous chairs, turning it towards the window. The afternoon had darkened and a chilly sort of gloom masked the ceiling and corners of the room. Jane Harden sat down and clasped the knobs of the chair-arms with long fingers that even the exigencies of nursing had not reddened.
“I expect you know why I’m here?” said Alleyn.
“What was the—is the post-mortem finished?” She spoke quite evenly, but with a kind of breathlessness.
“Yes. He was murdered. Hyoscine.”
She seemed to stiffen and became uncannily still.
“So the hunt is up,” added Alleyn calmly.
“Hyoscine,” she whispered. “Hyoscine. How much?”
“At least a quarter of a grain. Sir John injected a hundredth, he tells me. Therefore someone else gave the patient a little more than a fifth of a grain—six twenty-fifths, to be exact. It may have been more, of course. I don’t know if the postmortem can be relied upon to account for every particle.”
“I don’t know either,” said Jane.
“There are one or two questions I must ask you.”
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid this is all very distressing for you. You knew Sir Derek personally, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“I’m terribly sorry to have to bother you. Let’s get it over as soon as possible. As regards the anti-gas injection. At the close of the operation Sir John or Mr. Thoms asked for it. Sister Marigold told you to get it. You went to a side table, where you found the syringe. Was it ready—prepared for use?”
“Yes.”
“At the inquest it appeared that you delayed a little while. Why was this?”
“There were two syringes. I felt faint and could not think, for a moment, which was the right one. Then Banks said: ‘The large syringe,’ and I brought it.”
“You did not hesitate because you thought there might be something wrong with the large syringe?”
This suggestion seemed to startle her very much. She moved her hands nervously and gave a soft exclamation.
“Oh! No. No— Why should I think that?”
“Nurse Banks prepared this syringe, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” said Jane.
Alleyn was silent for a minute. He got up and walked across to the window. From where she sat his profile looked black, like a silhouette with blurred edges, He stared out at the darkening roofs. Something about a movement of his shoulders suggested a kind of distaste. He shoved his hands down into his trouser pockets and swung round, facing the room. He looked shadowy, but larger than life against the yellowish window-pane.
“How well did you know Sire Derek?” he asked suddenly. His voice sounded oddly flat in the thickly furnished room.
“Quite well,” she said after another pause.
“Intimately?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well—did you meet often—as friends, shall I say?”
She stared at his darkened face. Her own, lit by the sallow light from the window, looked thin and secret.
“Sometimes.”
“Recently?”
“No. I can’t see what my acquaintanceship with him has to do with the matter.”
“Why did you faint?”
“I was—I wasn’t well; I’m run down.”
“It had nothing to do with the identity of the patient? It wasn’t because Sir Derek was so ill?”
“Naturally that distressed me.”
“Have you ever written to him?”
She seemed to shrink back into the chair as though he had actually hurt her.
“You need not answer any of these questions if you think it better not to,” he announced. “Still, I shall, of course, go to other people for the information.”
“I have done nothing to hurt him,” she said loudly.
“No. But have you ever written to him? That was my question, you know.”
She took a long time to answer this. At last she murmured: “Oh, yes.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know—”
“Recently?”
“Fairly recently.”
“Threatening letters?”
She moved her head from side to side as though the increasing dusk held a menace.
“No,” said Jane.
He saw now that she looked at him with terror in her eyes. It was a glance to which he had become accustomed, but, since in his way he was a sensitive man, never quite reconciled.
“I think it would be better,” he pronounced slowly, “if you told me the whole story. There is no need, is there, for me to tell you that you are one of the people whom I must take into consideration? Your presence in the operating theatre brings you into the picture. Naturally I want an explanation.”
“I should have thought my—distress—would have given you that,” she whispered, and in that half-light he saw her pallor change to a painful red. “You see, I loved him,” added Jane.
“I think I understand that part of it,” he said abruptly. “I am extremely sorry that these beastly circumstances oblige me to pry into such very painful matters. Try to think of me as a sort of automaton, unpleasant but quite impersonal. Can you do that, do you think?”
“I suppose I must try.”
“Thank you. First of all—was there anything beyond ordinary friendship between you and O’Callaghan?”
She made a slight movement.
“Not—” She paused and then said: “Not really.”
“Were you going to say ‘Not now’? I think there had been. You say you wrote to him. Perhaps your letters terminated a phase of your friendship?”
She seemed to consider this and then answered uneasily: “The second did.”
He thought: “Two letters. I wonder what happened to the other?”
Aloud, he said: “Now, as I understand it, you had known Sir Derek for some time—an old family friendship. Recently this friendship changed to a more intimate association. When was this?”
“Last June—three months ago.”
“And it went on—for how long?”
Her hands moved to her face. As if ashamed of this pitiful gesture she snatched them away, and raising her voice, said clearly: “Three days.”
“I see,” said Alleyn gently. “Was that the last time you saw him?”
“Yes—until the operation.”
“Had there been any quarrel?”
“No.”
“None?”
“No.” She tilted her head back and began to speak rapidly.
“It was a mutual agreement. People make such a fuss about sex. It’s only a normal physical experience, like hunger or thirst. The sensible thing is to satisfy it in a perfectly reasonable and natural way. That’s what we did. There was no need to meet again. We had our experience.”
“My poor child!” Alleyn ejaculated.
“What do you mean!”
“You reel it all off as if you’d learnt it out of a textbook. ‘First Steps in Sex.’ ‘O Brave New World,’ as Miranda and Mr. Huxley would say! And it didn’t work out according to the receipt?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Then why did you write thos
e letters?”
Her mouth opened. She looked pitifully ludicrous and, for a moment, not at all pretty.
“You’ve seen them—you’ve—”
“I’m afraid so,” said Alleyn.
She gave a curious dry sob and put her hands up to the neck of her uniform as though it choked her.
“You see,” Alleyn continued, “it would be better to tell me the truth, really it would.”
She began to weep very bitterly.
“I can’t help it. I’m sorry. It’s been so awful—I can’t help it.”
Alleyn swung round to the light again.
“It’s all right,” he said to the window-pane. “Don’t mind about me—only an automaton, remember.”
She seemed to pull herself together quickly. He heard a stifled sob or two and a rustle as if she had made a violent movement of some sort.
“Better,” she murmured presently. When he turned back to the room she was sitting there, staring at him, as though there had been no break in their conversation.
“There’s not much more,” he began—very businesslike and pleasant. “Nobody accuses you of anything. I simply want to check up on the operation. You did not see Sir Derek from June until he was brought into the theatre. Very well. Beyond these two letters you did not communicate with him in any way whatever? All right. Now the only place where you step into the picture is where you fetched the syringe containing the anti-gas concoction. You delayed. You were faint. You are positive you brought the right syringe?”
“Oh, yes. It was much bigger than the others.”
“Good enough. I’ll look at it presently if I may. Now I understand that the jar, bottle, or pot containing the serum—”
“It was an ampoule,” said Jane.
“So it was—and the pipkin, cruse, or pottle containing hyoscine were on the table. Could you, feeling all faint and bothered, have possibly sucked up hyoscine by mistake?”
“But, don’t you understand, it was ready!” she said impatiently.
“So I am told, but I’ve got to make sure, you know. You are positive, for instance, that you didn’t squirt out the contents and refill the syringe?”
“Of course—positive.” She spoke with more assurance and less agitation than he had expected.
“You remember getting the syringe? You were not so groggy that you did it more or less blindly?”
That seemed to get home. She looked frightened again.
“I—I was very faint, but I know—oh, I know I made no mistake.”
“Right. Anyone watch you?”
He watched her himself, closely. The light was now very dim, but her face was still lit from the window behind him.
“They—may—have. I didn’t notice.”
“I understand Mr. Thoms complained of the delay. Perhaps he turned to see what you were doing?”
“He’s always watching— I beg your pardon; that’s got nothing to do with it.”
“What were you going to say?”
“Only that Mr. Thoms has rather an offensive trick of staring.”
“Did you happen to notice, before the operation, how much of the hyoscine solution there was in the bottle?”
She thought for some time.
“I think it was full,” she said.
“Has it been used since?”
“Once, I believe.”
“Good.”
He moved away from the window briskly, found the light switch and snapped it down. Jane rose to her feet. Her hands shook and her face was a little marked with tears.
“That’s all,” said Alleyn brightly. “Cheer up, Nurse Harden.”
“I’ll try.”
She hesitated a moment after he had opened the door, looked as if she wanted to say something further, but finally, without another word, left the room.
After she had gone Alleyn stood stockstill and stared at the opposite wall.
At last, catching sight of himself in an ornate mirror, he made a wry face at his own reflection.
“Oh, damn the doings,” said Alleyn.
CHAPTER TEN
Thoms in the Theatre
Tuesday, the sixteenth. Afternoon.
IT WAS MR. THOMS who took Alleyn into the theatre. After Jane left him the inspector had wandered into the hall and run into the plump little surgeon. Alleyn had explained who he was, and Thoms instantly assumed an expression of intense seriousness that made him look rather like a clown pulling a mock-tragic face.
“I say!” he exclaimed. “You’re not here about Sir Derek O’Callaghan’s business, are you?”
“That’s it, Mr. Thoms,” Alleyn rejoined wearily. “The man was murdered.”
Thoms began to babble excitedly. Alleyn held up a long hand.
“Hyoscine. At least a quarter of a grain. Wilful murder,” he said briefly.
“Lor’!” ejaculated Thoms.
“Lor’ it is. I’ve been badgering nurses and now I want to see the theatre of operations. It never struck me till just then what a localised implication that phrase has.”
“See the theatre?” said Thoms. “Yes. Of course. Look here. It’s not in use now. Sir John’s gone out. I’ll show you round if you like.”
“Thank you so much,” said Alleyn.
Thoms talked excitedly as he led the way. “It’s the most amazing thing I ever heard. Damn’ nasty business, too. I hope to God you don’t think I pumped hyoscine into the man. Thought you police chaps must have something up your sleeves when you pushed the inquest. Yes. Well, here we are. This is an anteroom to the theatre, where we wash and dress ourselves up for the business. Along there’s the anæsthetising-room. Here’s the theatre.”
He butted open the swing-doors.
“Wait a bit,” said Alleyn. “Let’s get a sort of picture of the proceedings, may we? Before the operation you and the other medical men forgathered in here.”
“That’s it. Sir John and I came in here together. Dr. Roberts came in for a moment and then went off to the anæsthetising-room, where the patient was brought to him.”
“Anyone else in here during that time?”
“With Phillips and me, you mean? Oh, yes—the matron, Sister Marigold, you know. She does theatre sister. It’s only a small hospital, and she rather fancies herself at the job, does old Marigold. Then, let me see, the other two nurses were dodging about. Thingummy, the Bolshie one, and that pretty girl that did a faint—Harden.”
“What did you all talk about?”
“Talk about?” echoed Thoms. He had a curious trick of gaping at the simplest question as though much taken aback. His eyes popped and his mouth fell open. He then gave a short and, to Alleyn, tiresome guffaw.
“What did we talk about?” he repeated. “Well, let’s see. Oh, I asked Sir John if he had seen the show at the Palladium this week and—” He stopped short and again his eyes bolted.
“Well—what about it?” asked Alleyn patiently.
“He said he hadn’t,” said Thoms. He looked ridiculously uncomfortable, as though he had nearly said something frightfully improper.
“I missed the Palladium this week,” Alleyn remarked. “It’s particularly good, I hear.”
“Oh,” Thoms mumbled, “not bad. Rather rot really.”
He seemed extraordinarily embarrassed.
“And had Sir John seen the show?” asked Alleyn lightly.
“Er—no, no, he hadn’t.”
“Did you discuss any particular part of it?”
“No. Only mentioned the show—nothing particular.”
There was a long pause during which Thoms whistled under his breath.
“During this time,” said Alleyn at last, “was any one member of the theatre party alone?”
“In here?”
“In here.”
“Let me think,” begged Thoms. Alleyn let him think. “No—no. As far as I remember, we were all here. Then one of the nurses showed Roberts to the anæsthetising-room. That left Sir John and the other two nurses and myself. I went wit
h Marigold into the theatre to look round. That left Sir John and the other nurse—the pretty one—in this room. They were here when I got back. Then Roberts and I washed up while Sir John went into the theatre to fix his hyoscine injection. He always does that and gives it himself. Rum idea. We usually leave all that game to the anæsthetist. Of course, in this instance everything had been very hurried. The patient had not been given the usual morphia and atropine injection. Well, let’s see. The females were dodging about, I suppose. I remember the— what’s-her-name—the Banks woman asked me why Sir John didn’t use the stock solution.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“Oh—well, because he wanted to be sure of the dosage, I suppose.”
“And then?”
“I went into the theatre.”
“Where you joined Phillips?”
“Yes. He’d just put the hyoscine tablet into the water, I think.”
“Did you notice the little bottle—how many tablets were left? I simply want to check up, you understand.”
“Of course. Well, it’s a tube; you can’t see the number of tablets unless you peer into it, and then you can only guess, but, of course, there would be nineteen, because it was a new lot.”
“How do you know that, Mr. Thoms?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I saw he had two tubes and said something about it, and he said one of them was empty, so he’d opened another.”
“What happened to the empty one?”
“Eh? Search me. Chucked it away, I suppose. I say—er— look here, what is your name?”
“Alleyn.”
“Oh. Well, look here, Alleyn, you’re not attaching any importance to the second tube, are you? Because you jolly well needn’t. It’s all perfectly simple. Phillips uses a hypodermic case which holds two of these little phials. He’d obviously used the last tablet on a previous case without realising it was the last. Very easy thing to do.”
“I see that. All this business is merely by way of checking up.”
“Yes, but—”
“For my own sake I’ve got to account for every movement of the game, Mr. Thoms. It’s all frightfully muddling and I’ve got to try to learn it like a lesson. Do you remember anything that was said just then?”
