Free The Nursing Home Murder by Ngaio Marsh

Nash will make an appearance when I go.”
    She rang the bell.
    “He should have come in with the tray by this time,” she said vaguely.
    When Nash appeared it was with the tray, which he set down delicately.
    “Mr. Alleyn, will you—?”
    “No, thank you so much. I must be off. Good-bye, Lady O’Callaghan. I’ll ring you up if I may.”
    “Yes. Thank you. Good-bye.”
    Nash opened the door and followed Alleyn into the hall. Jameson made as if to see the inspector out.
    “Oh — Mr. Jameson,” said Lady O’Callaghan. He hesitated and then returned to the study, closing the door.
    As he took his hat and coat from the butler Alleyn paused and looked directly at him.
    “Perhaps you realise why I am here?” he said.
    “Not altogether, sir,” murmured Nash composedly.
    “It is in connection with Sir Derek’s death.”
    Nash bowed very slightly.
    “If I ask you a question,” Alleyn continued, “you must understand there is no obligation to answer if you don’t want to. I particularly do not wish the matter mentioned in or out of the servants’ hall. You understand?”
    “Certainly, sir,” said Nash quietly.
    “I believe I can depend on you. How long have you been with Sir Derek?”
    “Twenty years, sir. I was footman to his father.”
    “Yes. Did you hear Sir John Phillips say anything to your master the last time he came here?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “What was it?”
    “ ‘If the opportunity presented itself, I should have no hesitation in putting you out of the way.’ Those were the exact words, sir.”
    “I see. Have you told anyone about this?”
    “Mr. Jameson, sir. I considered it my duty. No one in the hall has any idea of the incident, sir.”
    “What did Mr. Jameson think about it?”
    “He appeared to attach no importance to it, sir.”
    “No? Thank you, Nash.”
    “Thank you very much, sir. Shall I get you a taxi, sir?”
    “No, I’ll walk. Good night.”
    “Good evening, sir.”
    Nash opened the door and Alleyn went out into the street. He paused a moment to light a cigarette. He had taken a few steps along the pavement when he heard something that made him pause and turn.
    Ronald Jameson had come out of the house and hurried after him, bareheaded.
    “Please forgive me, sir,” he said hurriedly, “but I felt I must have another word with you. It was rather difficult with Lady O’Callaghan present. About these ideas of hers. I’m certain there’s nothing in it. Sir Derek was a man of the world and — and, of course, he had his relaxations. She seems very cold and all that, but I believe she was frightfully jealous and she wants to punish this girl. I’m sure that’s all it is.”
    “Oh. Why should she want to punish Sir John Phillips as well as Miss Harden?”
    “Oh, Lord knows. You can’t tell with women, sir, can you?”
    “I haven’t tried,” said Alleyn.
    “I expect you think it frightful cheek, my butting in like this, but, you see, I — well, Sir Derek was rather a marvellous person to me, and I simply loathe the idea of everything being dragged out and made public. It’s a ghastly thought.”
    Something of Ronald’s semi-diplomatic air of winning tactfulness still appeared in his rather dishevelled manner. He gazed with anxious deference into Alleyn’s sardonic face. The inspector cocked an eyebrow.
    “And yet,” he said, “I imagine, if Sir Derek was actually killed, you would rather the murderer didn’t get off scot-free?”
    “Yes, but, you know, I’m sure he wasn’t. Those two letters didn’t mean anything — I thought so at— ”
    Ronald stopped short.
    “Were you about to say ‘at the time’?” inquired Alleyn.
    “I meant at the time Lady O’Callaghan found them.”
    “Where were the letters kept, Mr. Jameson?”
    “In his private drawer,” said Ronald with a very red face.
    “And the keys?”
    “Er — oh, usually in the desk.”
    “I see. Well, we must pursue the subject no more until we discover whether Sir Derek was