The Nursing Home Murder Page 8

  Hyoscine

  Tuesday, the sixteenth. Afternoon.

  ON THE FOLLOWING afternoon, five days after his death, Derek O’Callaghan was buried with a great deal of pomp and ceremony. Alleyn was right about the funeral—there was no demonstration from the late Home Secretary’s obscure opponents, and the long procession streamed slowly down Whitehall without disturbance. Meanwhile the inquest had been resumed and concluded. After hearing the pathologist’s and the analyst’s report, the jury returned a verdict of murder against “a person or persons unknown.” Alleyn had had a few words in private with the pathologist before the inquest opened.

  “Well,” said the great man, “there wasn’t much doubt about the hyoscine. The usual dose is a hundredth to a two-hundredth of a grain. My calculations, based on traces of hyoscine found in the organs, show that more than a quarter of a grain had been given. The minimum lethal dose would be something very much less.”

  “I see,” said Alleyn slowly.

  “Did you expect hyoscine, Alleyn?”

  “It was on the tapis. I wish to heaven you hadn’t found it.”

  “Yes. Unpleasant business.”

  “Do they ever put hyoscine in patent medicines?”

  “Oh, yes. Had Sir Derek taken patent medicines?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible.”

  “The dosage would be too small to enter into the picture.”

  “If he swallowed an entire packet?”

  The pathologist shrugged his shoulders. “Would he take an entire packet?” Alleyn did not answer. “I can see you’ve got something in mind,” said the pathologist, who knew him.

  “Sir John Phillips injected hyoscine. Suppose O’Callaghan had taken a patent medicine containing the drug?” Alleyn suggested.

  “The average injection, as I have said, is about, say, a hundredth of a grain. The amount in patent medicines would be very much less. The two together, even if he had taken quantities of his rot-gut, could scarcely constitute a lethal dose—unless, of course, O’Callaghan had an idiosyncrasy for hyoscine, and even if there was an idiosyncrasy, it wouldn’t account for the amount we found. If you want my private opinion, for what it is worth, I consider the man was murdered.”

  “Thank you for all the trouble you have taken,” said Alleyn glumly. “I shan’t wait to hear the verdict; it’s a foregone conclusion. Fox can grace the court for me. There’s one other point. Were you able to find the marks of the injections?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Three.”

  “Three. That tallies. Damn!”

  “It’s not conclusive, Alleyn. There might be a fourth injected where we couldn’t see it. Inside the ear, under the hair, or even into the exact spot where one of the others was given.”

  “I see. Oh, well, I must bustle away and solve the murder.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything further I can do.”

  “Thank you, I will. Good-bye.”

  Alleyn went out, changed his mind and struck his head round the door.

  “If I send you a pill or two, will you have them dissected for me?”

  “Analysed?”

  “If you’d rather. Good-bye.”

  Alleyn took a taxi to the Brook Street home. He asked a lugubrious individual in a chastened sort of uniform if Sir John Phillips was in the hospital. Sir John had not yet come in. When would he be in? The lugubrious individual was afraid he “reely couldn’t say.”

  “Please find someone who can say,” said Alleyn. “And when he’s free give Sir John this card.”

  He was invited to wait in one of those extraordinary drawing-rooms that can only be found in expensive private hospitals in the West End of London. Thick carpet, subfusc curtains of pseudo-empire pattern and gilt-legged chairs combined to disseminate the atmosphere of a mausoleum. Chief Inspector Alleyn and a marble woman whose salient features were picked out embarrassingly in gilt stared coldly at each other. A nurse came in starchily, glanced in doubt at Alleyn, and went out again. A clock, flaunted aloft by a defiant bronze-nude, swung its pendulum industriously to and fro for twenty minutes. A man’s voice sounded somewhere and in a moment the door opened and Phillips came in.

  He was, as usual, immaculate, a very model for a fashionable surgeon, with his effective ugliness, his eye-glass, his air of professional cleanliness, pointed by the faint reek of ether. Alleyn wondered if the extreme pallor of his face was habitual.

  “Inspector Alleyn?” he said. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  “Not a bit, sir,” said Alleyn. “I must apologise for bothering you, but I felt you would like to know the report of the postmortem as soon as it came through.”

  Phillips went back to the door and shut it quietly. His face was turned away from his visitor as he spoke.

  “Thank you. I shall be relieved to hear it.”

  “I’m afraid ‘relieved’ is scarcely the word.”

  “No?”

  Phillips faced round slowly.

  “No,” said Alleyn. “They have found strongly marked traces of hyoscine in the organs. He must have had at least a quarter of a grain.”

  “A quarter of a grain!” He moved his eyebrows and his glass fell to the floor. He looked extraordinarily shocked and astonished. “Impossible!” he said sharply. He stooped and picked up his monocle.

  “There has been no mistake,” said Alleyn quietly.

  Phillips glanced at him in silence.

  “I beg your pardon, inspector,” he said at last. “Of course, you have made certain of your facts, but—hyoscine—it’s incredible.”

  “You understand that I shall be forced to make exhaustive inquiries.”

  “I—I suppose so.”

  “In a case of this sort the police feel more than usually helpless. We must delve into highly technical matters. I will be quite frank with you, Sir John. Sir Derek died of the effects of a lethal dose of hyoscine. Unless it can be proved that he took the drug himself, we are faced with a very serious situation. Naturally I shall have to go into the history of his operation. There are many questions which I should like to put to you. I need not remind you that you are under no compulsion to answer them.”

  Phillips took his time in replying to this. Then he said courteously:

  “Of course, I quite understand. I shall be glad to tell you anything that will help—anxious to do so. I owe it to myself. O’Callaghan came here as my patient. I operated on him. Naturally I shall be one of the possible suspects.”

  “I hope we shall dispose of your claims to that position very early in the game. Now, first of all—Sir Derek O’Callaghan, as you told us at the inquest, had been given hyoscine.”

  “Certainly. One-hundredth of a grain was injected prior to the operation.”

  “Exactly. You approved of this injection, of course?”

  “I gave it,” said Phillips evenly.

  “So you did. I’m afraid I know absolutely nothing about the properties of this drug. Is it always used in cases of peritonitis?”

  “It had nothing to do with peritonitis. It is always my practice to give an injection of hyoscine before operating. It reduces the amount of anæsthetic necessary and the patient is more comfortable afterwards.”

  “It is much more generally used nowadays than, say, twenty years ago?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Do you mind telling me just how, and at what stage of the proceedings, it is given? This was not stated specifically at the inquest, I think.”

  “It was given in the anæsthetising-room immediately before the operation and after the patient was under the anæsthetic. A hypodermic syringe was used.”

  “Prepared, I imagine, by the nurse in charge of the theatre?”

  “In this instance, no. I thought this was all perfectly clear, inspector. I prepared the injection myself.”

  “Yes, of course—how stupid I am!” Alleyn exclaimed. “That makes it much simpler for me. What exactly did you do?
Dip the syringe in a blue bottle and suck up a dram?”

  “Not quite.” Phillips smiled for the first time and produced a cigarette-case, “Shall we sit down?” he said. “And will you smoke?”

  “Do you mind if I have one of my own? Good cigarettes are wasted on me.”

  They sat on two incredibly uncomfortable chairs under the right elbow of the marble woman.

  “As regards the actual solution,” said Phillips, “I used a tablet of a hundredth of a grain. This I dissolved in twenty-five minims of distilled water. There was a stock solution of hyoscine in the theatre which I did not use.”

  “Less reliable or something?”

  “It’s no doubt perfectly reliable, but hyoscine is a drug that should be used with extreme care. By preparing it myself I am sure of the correct dosage. In most theatres nowadays it’s put out in ampoules. I shall see,” added Phillips grimly, “that this procedure is followed here in future.”

  “In this instance you went through the customary routine?”

  “I did.”

  “Were you alone when you prepared the syringe?”

  “There may have been a nurse in the theatre—I don’t remember.” He paused and then added: “Thoms came in just as I finished.”

  “Did he go out with you?”

  “I really don’t know. I rather think he returned to the anteroom a few moments later. I left him in the theatre. I went to the anæsthetic-room and gave the injection.”

  “Of course, you have no doubt in your own mind about the dosage?”

  “I know quite well what you are thinking, Inspector Alleyn. It is a perfectly reasonable suspicion. I am absolutely assured that I dissolved one tablet and one tablet only. I filled the syringe with distilled water, squirted it into a measuring-glass, shook one tablet into my hand, saw that it was a single tablet, and dropped it into the glass.”

  Phillips leant back, looked steadily into Alleyn’s eyes, and thrust his hands into his pockets. “I am prepared to swear to that,” he said.

  “It’s perfectly clear, sir,” said Alleyn, “and although I had to consider the possibility of a mistake, I realise that even if you had dropped two tablets into the water it would have only meant a dosage of a fiftieth of a grain. Probably the entire contents of the tube would not be a quarter of a grain—the amount estimated.”

  For the first time Phillips hesitated. “They are packed in tubes of twenty,” he said at last, “so an entire tube would contain a fifth of a grain of hyoscine.” He felt in his coat pocket and produced a hypodermic case which he handed to Alleyn.

  “The actual tube is still in there. I have since used one tablet.”

  Alleyn opened the case and took out a glass tube completely covered by its paper label. He pulled out the tiny cork and looked in.

  “May I?” he asked, and shook out the contents into his hand. There were eighteen tablets.

  “That settles it,” he said cheerfully. “Do you mind if I take these for analysis? Purely a matter of routine, as one says in crime fiction.”

  “Do,” said Phillips, looking rather bored.

  Alleyn took an envelope from his pocket, put the tablets back into the tube, the tube into the envelope, and the envelope into his pocket.

  “Thank you so much,” he said. “You’ve been extremely courteous. You’ve no idea how scared we are of experts at the Yard.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, indeed. This must have been a distressing business for you.”

  “Very.”

  “I believe Sir Derek was a personal friend.”

  “I knew him personally—yes.”

  “Had you seen much of him recently?”

  Phillips did not answer immediately. Then, looking straight in front of him, he said: “What do you call recently?”

  “Well—a fortnight or so.”

  “I called at his house on the Friday evening before the operation.”

  “A professional call?”

  “No.”

  “Did you think he was heading for a serious illness then?”

  “I did not know there was anything the matter with him.”

  “He did not mention a patent medicine?”

  “No,” said Phillips sharply. “What is this about patent medicines?”

  “Merely a point that arises.”

  “If there is any question of his taking a drug,” said Phillips more cordially, “it should be gone into most thoroughly.”

  “That is my view,” Alleyn answered coolly.

  “He may,” Phillips went on, “have had an idiosyncrasy for hyoscine and if he had been taking it—”

  “Exactly.”

  The two men seemed to have changed positions. It was the surgeon who now made the advances. Alleyn was polite and withdrawn.

  “Is there any evidence that O’Callaghan had taken a patent medicine?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Damn’ fool!” ejaculated Phillips.

  “Strange he didn’t tell you he was ill on the Friday.”

  “He—I—we discussed another matter altogether.”

  “Would you care to tell me what it was?”

  “It was purely personal.”

  “Sir John,” said Alleyn mildly, “I think I should let you know at once that I have seen your letter to Sir Derek.”

  Phillips’s head jerked up as though he had come suddenly face to face with a threatening obstacle. He did not speak for perhaps half a minute and then he said very softly:

  “Do you enjoy reading other people’s private correspondence?”

  “About as much as you enjoy glaring into a septic abdomen, I should think,” rejoined Alleyn. “It has a technical interest.”

  “I suppose you’ve spoken to the butler?”

  “Would you like to give me your own explanation of the business?”

  “No,” said Phillips. “No.”

  “Speaking unofficially—a thing I am far too prone to do—I am extremely sorry for you, Sir John.”

  Phillips looked at him.

  “Do you know, I think I believe you,” he said. “Is there anything else?”

  “No, I’ve kept you quite long enough. Would it be an awful bore for everyone if I had a word with the nurses who attended the case?”

  “I don’t think they can tell you very much further.”

  “Probably not, but I think I ought to see them unless they are all heavily engaged in operations.”

  “The theatre is not in use at the moment. The matron and the nurse who assists her—Nurse Banks—will be free.”

  “Splendid. What about Sir Derek’s personal nurse and the other one from the theatre—Nurse Harden, wasn’t it?”

  “I will find out,” said Phillips. “Do you mind waiting?”

  “Not at all,” murmured Alleyn with an involuntary glance at the marble woman. “May I see them one by one—it will be less violently embarrassing for all of us?”

  “You do not impress me,” rejoined Phillips, “as a person who suffers from shyness, but no doubt you would rather sleuth in secret. You shall see them one by one.”

  “Thank you.”

  Alleyn waited only a few minutes after Sir John left him and then the door reopened to admit Sister Marigold, in whose countenance gentility, curiosity and resentment were exquisitely reflected.

  “How do you do, matron?” said Alleyn.

  “Good afternoon,” said Sister Marigold.

  “Won’t you sit down? Here? Or under the statue?”

  “Thank you very much, I’m sure.” She sat with a rustle, and eyed the inspector guardedly.

  “Perhaps Sir John has told you the report on the postmortem?” Alleyn suggested.

  “It’s terrible. Such a loss, as I say, to the country.”

  “Unthinkable. One of the really strong men in the right party,” said Alleyn with low cunning.

  “Just what I said when it happened.”

  “Now look here, matron, will you take mercy on a wretched ignorant pol
iceman and help me out of the awful fog I’m wallowing in? Here’s this man, perhaps the foremost statesman of his time, lying dead with a quarter of a grain of hyoscine inside him, and here am I, an abysmally incompetent layman, with the terrific task before me of finding out how it got there. What the devil am I to do about it, matron?”

  He smiled very charmingly into her competent spectacles. Her very veil seemed to lose starch.

  “Well, really,” said Sister Marigold, “I’m sure it’s all very trying for everybody.”

  “Exactly. You yourself must have had a great shock.”

  “Well, I did. Of course, in the ordinary way we nurses become accustomed to the sad side of things. People think us dreadfully hard-hearted sometimes.”

  “You won’t get me to believe that. Of course, this discovery—”

  “That’s what makes it so dreadful, Mr.—er—I never could have believed it, never. Such a thing has never happened in the whole of my experience. And for it to be after an operation in my own theatre! Nobody could have taken more care. Nothing went wrong.”

  “Now you’ve hit the nail right on the head!” exclaimed Alleyn, gazing at her as if she was a sort of sibyl. “I felt assured of that. You know as well as I do, matron, that Sir Derek was a man with many bitter enemies. I may tell you in confidence that at the Yard we know where to look. We are in close touch with the Secret Service”—he noted with satisfaction the glint of intrigue in her eye—”and we are pretty sure how the land lies. In our midst—in our very midst, matron— are secret agents, secret societies, powers of evil known to the Yard but unsuspected by the general public. Mercifully so.” He stopped short, folded his arms, and wondered how much of this the woman would swallow. Apparently the whole dose.

  “Fancy!” breathed Sister Marigold. “Just fancy!”

  “Well—that’s the position,” said Alleyn grandly, throwing himself back in his chair. “But here’s my difficulty. Before we can fire point-blank we’ve got to clear away the other possibilities. Suppose we made an arrest now—what would be the defense? An attempt would be made to throw suspicion on innocent persons, on the very people who fought to save Sir Derek’s life, on the surgeon who operated, and on his assistants.”

  “But that’s terrible!”

  “Nevertheless it is what would happen. Now to meet that position I must have the actual history of Sir Derek’s operation, in all its details, at my fingers’ ends. That is why I have laid my cards on the table, matron, and that is why I have come to you.”