Free The Nursing Home Murder by Ngaio Marsh Page A

murdered.”
    “I’m absolutely certain there’s nothing in it, sir.”
    “I hope you are right. Good night.”
    “Thank you
so
much, sir,” said Ronald, all eager and charming. “Good night.”
    Alleyn swung his stick up, turned on his heel, and walked away. Ronald gazed after the long, elegant figure for some seconds. His fingers fidgeted with his tie. Then he looked up at the windows of the house, slightly shrugged his shoulders, and ran up the steps and through the door.
    Alleyn heard the door slam. As he turned out of Catherine Street towards Buckingham Gate he began to whistle Ophelia’s song:
     
    “He is dead and gone, lady,
    He is dead and gone;
    At his head a grass-green turf,
    At his heels a stone.”

CHAPTER VII
Post-mortem
    Monday, the fifteenth. Afternoon.
    Everybody talks to me about ‘P.M.s,’ ” complained Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn to Inspector Fox on Monday afternoon, “and I never know whether they mean post-mortem or Prime Minister. Really, it’s very difficult when you happen to be involved with both.”
    “It must be,” said Fox dryly. “How’s the case going?”
    “It’s too young to be called a case. So far it’s only a naughty thought. As you know, Lady O’Callaghan urged the inquest and threatened to appeal to the P.M. However, the coroner ordered the inquest, which opened on Saturday a.m. and was adjourned for a P.M. which has been going on during the week-end p.m. and a.m. You see how tricky it all is?”
    “I can see you’re worried, chief.”
    “When you call me ‘chief,’ Fox, I feel like a cross between an Indian brave and one of those men with jaws and cigars in gangster films.”
    “Okay, chief,” said Fox imperturbably. “It’s a big job, this,” he added somberly.
    “It is,” said Alleyn. “I don’t mind admitting I was nervous over the inquest. I should have looked remarkably silly if it had gone the other way and no P.M. had been ordered.”
    “It might very easily have happened. Phillips did his best to put the kybosh on a post-mortem.”
    “You thought so?”
    “Well — didn’t you?”
    “Yes, I suppose so. Oh, yes.”
    “Of course,” said Fox slowly, “an innocent man in his position would have been anxious for a P.M.”
    “Not if he thought someone else had done the trick.”
    “Oh,” Fox ruminated. “That’s the big idea, is it, sir?”
    “It’s only one idea — possibly a silly one. What did you think of the matron’s contribution to the evidence? Sister Marigold?”
    “Couldn’t make her out at all and that’s a fact. She seemed to welcome the inquest. She obviously resented any hint of criticism against Sir John Phillips.”
    “She made one or two very acid remarks about the other nurse — Nurse Banks.”
    “Yes. Now, that struck me as rum, too, sir, No suggestion of anything as regards the Harden girl, but when Nurse Banks was mentioned— ”
    “She bridled like a Persian,” said Alleyn. “I know— ‘rum’s’ the word, Fox.”
    “The medical witnesses are always a bit trying in a case like this,” reflected Inspector Fox. “On the defensive, as you might say. They all pull together.”
    “Now that’s exactly what I thought they did
not
do. I’ve just read over the shorthand report of the inquest and the thing that struck me all of a heap was that the hospital gang seemed to be playing a sort of tig-in-the-dark game. Or rather tug-of-war in the dark. They wanted to pull together, but didn’t know which way to pull. Here’s the report. Let us go over it, shall we? Where’s your pipe?”
    They lit up. Alleyn shoved a carbon copy of the verbatim report on the inquest across to his subordinate.
    “First you get straight-out evidence on the operation. Phillips said Sir Derek O’Callaghan, suffering from a ruptured abscess of the appendix, was admitted to the Brook Street hospital. He examined the patient, advised an immediate operation, which, at Lady O’Callaghan’s request, he undertook to