The Nursing Home Murder by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online

joined in the conversation.
    “Who’s that?” asked the scally.
    “Sounds like Marigold,” said Banks. “God, that woman infuriates me!”
    “Ssh! What’s it all about, I wonder?”
    Sir John Phillips’s voice sounded clearly above the others.
    “I’d better attend to that,” it said.
    “Pips sounds absolutely
rampant
,” breathed the scally.
    “Yes,” said Thoms clearly. “Yes.”
    A sound of footsteps. Then suddenly the door into the theatre opened and O’Callaghan’s special nurse burst into the room.
    “Isn’t it frightful!” she said. “Oh, isn’t it frightful!”
    “What? What’s the matter with you?”
    “He’s dead — Sir Derek O’Callaghan’s dead!”
    “Nurse!” The scally gazed at her speechless.
    “It really is awful,” said Nurse Graham. “Lady O’Callaghan is there now — she wanted to be left alone with him. I felt I simply must tell somebody.”
    There was a dead silence and then, prompted perhaps by some kind of mental telepathy, they both turned and stared at Banks.
    The older woman’s head was tipped back. She held her arms stiffly at her sides. Her eyes shone and her lips worked convulsively.
    “Banks!” said the scally, “Banks! How can you behave like that? I believe you’re glad he’s gone!”
    “If I hadn’t cast off the worn-out shackles of religion,” said Banks, “I should say ‘Praise the Lord for He hath cast down our Enemy.’ ”
    “You disgusting old horror,” said the special, and went out of the theatre.

CHAPTER V
Lady O’Callaghan Insists
    Friday, the twelfth. Afternoon.
    “Lady O’Callaghan, I’m terribly sorry to bother, but may I speak to you for a moment?”
    Ronald Jameson paused and looked apologetically at the widow of his late employer. She was very handsome in black. Her hair-he could never make up his mind whether it was a warm white or a white blonde — looked as though it had been ironed into place. Her hands, thin and elegant, hung relaxed against the matt surface of her dress. Her pale blue eyes under their heavy lids regarded him with a kind of polite detachment.
    “Yes,” she said vaguely. “Come into my room, Mr. Jameson.”
    He followed her into that place of frozen elegance. She sat down leisurely, her back to the light.
    “Yes,” she repeated. “Sit down, Mr. Jameson.”
    Ronald said: “Thank you so much,” nervously, and sat on the most uncomfortable chair.
    “I’ve just come back from the House,” he, began. “The Prime Minister saw me in his room. He is terribly distressed about — about yesterday. He wished me to tell you that — that he is entirely at your service should there be anything— ”
    “So kind of him,” she said.
    “Of course, he is also very much troubled about the Bill — Sir Derek’s Anarchy Bill, you know. The business arising from it has to go forward, you see, and this tragedy has complicated matters.” He paused again.
    “I see — yes.”
    “It’s a question of Sir Derek’s private notes. They can do nothing without them. I said that the matter would have to wait until after the — until after tomorrow; but the Prime Minister thinks the whole business is so urgent that he ought to see them immediately. I believe they are in the desk in the study, but of course, before I could do anything about it, I felt I must have your permission.”
    She took so long to answer that he felt quite alarmed. At last, looking at her hands which lay delicately clasped on her lap, she said: “This Bill. Will it deal with the persons who killed him?”
    He was so completely dumbfounded by this amazing inquiry that he could think of nothing to say. He was a young man with a good deal of
savoir-faire
, but evidently her extraordinary assumption took him unawares.
    “I’m afraid I don’t — do you mean — surely, Lady O’Callaghan, you can’t believe— ” He could get no further with it.
    “Oh, yes,” she said tranquilly, “I’m quite sure they killed him.”
    “But —