The Nursing Home Murder

‘But you, Sir John, won’t you do it yourself?’

Phillips walked over to the window and stared out.

‘You wish me to operate?’ he said at last.

‘Of course I do. I know that sometimes surgeons dislike operating on their friends, but unless you feel—I do hope—I beg you to do it.’

‘Very well.’

He returned to the patient.

‘Nurse,’ he said, ‘tell them to get Dr Thoms. He’s in the hospital and has been warned that an operation may be necessary. Ring up Dr Grey and arrange for the anæsthetic—I’ll speak to him myself. Tell the theatre sister I’ll operate as soon as they are ready. Now, Lady O’Callaghan, if you don’t mind leaving the patient, Nurse will show you where you can wait.’

The nurse opened the door and the others moved away from the bed. At the threshold they were arrested by a kind of stifled cry. They turned and looked back to the bed. Derek O’Callaghan had opened his eyes and was staring as if hypnotized at Phillips.

‘Don’t—’ he said. ‘Don’t—let—’

His lips moved convulsively. A curious whining sound came from them. For a moment or two he struggled for speech and then suddenly his head fell back.

‘Come along, Lady O’Callaghan,’ said the nurse gently. ‘He doesn’t know what he is saying, you know.’

In the anteroom of the theatre two nurses and a sister prepared for the operation.

‘Now you mustn’t forget,’ said Sister Marigold, who was also the matron of the hospital, ‘that Sir John likes his instruments left on the tray. He does not like them handed to him.’

She covered a tray of instruments and Jane Harden carried it into the theatre.

‘It’s a big responsibility,’ said the sister chattily, ‘for a surgeon, in a case of this sort. It would be a terrible catastrophe for the country if anything happened to Sir Derek O’Callaghan. The only strong man in the Government, in my opinion.’

Nurse Banks, an older woman than her superior, looked up from the sterilising apparatus.

‘The biggest tyrant of the lot,’ she remarked surprisingly.

‘Nurse! What did you say?’

‘My politics are not Sir Derek O’Callaghan’s, Matron, and I don’t care who knows it.’

Jane Harden returned from the theatre. Sister Marigold cast an indignant glance at Nurse Banks and said briefly:

‘Did you look at the hyoscine solution, Nurse, and the anti-gas ampoule?’

‘Yes, Matron.’

‘Gracious, child, you look very white. Are you all right?’

‘Quite, thank you,’ answered Jane. She busied herself with tins of sterilized dressings. After another glance at her, the matron returned to the attack on Nurse Banks.

‘Of course, Nurse, we all know you are a Bolshie. Still, you can’t deny greatness when you see it. Now Sir Derek is my idea of a big—a really big man.’

‘And for that reason he’s the more devilish,’ announced Banks with remarkable venom. ‘He’s done murderous things since he’s been in office. Look at his Casual Labour Bill of last year. He’s directly responsible for every death from undernourishment that has occurred during the last ten months. He’s the enemy of the proletariat. If I had my way he’d be treated as a common murderer or else as a homicidal maniac. He ought to be certified. There is insanity in his blood. Everybody knows his father was dotty. That’s what I think of your Derek O’Callaghan with a title bought with blood-money,’ said Banks, making a great clatter with sterilized bowls.

‘Then perhaps’—Sister Marigold’s voice was ominously quiet—‘perhaps you’ll explain what you’re doing working for Sir John Phillips. Perhaps his title was bought with blood-money too.’

‘As long as this rotten system stands, we’ve got to live,’ declared Banks ambiguously, ‘but it won’t be for ever and I’ll be the first to declare myself when the time comes. O’Callaghan will have to go and all his blood-sucking bourgeois party with him. It would be a fine thing for the people if he went now. There, Matron!’

‘It would be a better thing if you went yourself, Nurse Banks, and if I had another theatre nurse free, go you would. I’m ashamed of you. You talk about a patient like that—what are you thinking of?’

‘I can’t help it if my blood boils.’

‘There’s a great deal too much blood, boiling or not, in your conversation.’

With the air of one silenced but not defeated, Banks set out a table with hypodermic appliances and wheeled it into the theatre.

‘Really, Nurse Harden,’ said Sister Marigold, ‘I’m ashamed of that woman. The vindictiveness! She ought not to be here. One might almost think she would—’ Matron paused, unable to articulate the enormity of her thought.

‘No such—thing,’ said Jane. ‘I’d be more likely to do him harm than she.’

‘And that’s an outside chance,’ declared matron more genially. ‘I must say, Nurse Harden, you’re the best theatre nurse I’ve had for a long time. A real compliment, my dear, because I’m very particular. Are we ready? Yes. And here come the doctors.’

Jane put her hands behind her back and stood to attention. Sister Marigold assumed an air of efficient repose. Nurse Banks appeared for a moment in the doorway, seemed to recollect something, and returned to the theatre.

Sir John Phillips came in followed by Thoms, his assistant, and the anæsthetist. Thoms was fat, scarlet-faced and industriously facetious. Dr Roberts was a thin, sandy-haired man, with a deprecating manner. He took off his spectacles and polished them.

‘Ready, Matron?’ asked Phillips.

‘Quite ready, Sir John.’

‘Dr Roberts will give the anæsthetic. Dr Grey is engaged. We were lucky to get you, Roberts, at such short notice.’

‘I’m delighted to come,’ said Roberts. ‘I’ve been doing a good deal of Grey’s work lately. It is always an honour, and an interesting experience, to work under you, Sir John.’

He spoke with a curious formality as if he considered each sentence and then offered it to the person he addressed.

‘If I may I’ll just take a look at the anæsthetising-room before we begin.’

‘Certainly.’

The truculent Banks reappeared.

‘Nurse Banks,’ said the matron, ‘go with Dr Roberts to the anæsthetising-room, please.’

Dr Roberts blinked at Banks, and followed her out.

Sir John went into the theatre and crossed to a small table, enamelled white, on which were various appliances concerned with the business of giving hypodermic injections. There were three syringes, each in a little dish of sterile water. Two were of the usual size known to the layman. The third was so large as to suggest it was intended for veterinary rather than human needs. The small syringes held twenty-five minims each, the larger at least six times as much. An ampoule, a bottle, a small bowl and a measure-glass also stood on the table. The bottle was marked: “Hyoscine solution 0.25 per cent. Five minims contains 1/100 a grain.” The ampoule was marked: “Gas-Gangrene Antitoxin (concentrated).” The bowl contained sterile water.

Phillips produced from his pocket a small hypodermic case from which he took a tiny tube labelled: “Hyoscine gr. 1/100.” The tube being completely covered by its label, it was difficult to see the contents. He removed the cork, examined the inside closely, laid down the tube and took another, similarly labelled, from his case. His fingers worked uncertainly, as though his mind was on something else. At last he took one of the smaller syringes, filled it with sterile water, and squirted its contents into the measure-glass. Then he dropped in the hyoscine, stirred it with the needle of the syringe, and finally, pulling back the piston, sucked the solution into the syringe.

Thoms came into the theatre.