The Nursing Home Murder

‘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?’

‘We know a good deal about them.’

‘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 things 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.’

‘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.