The Nursing Home Murder by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online Page B

mouth.
    “Come here,” she said quietly.
    He went and stood by the desk.
    “You told me that night, a week ago, I think, that my husband had received a letter that seemed to upset him. Was this the letter?”
    He glanced at it and then looked away.
    “I did not see the letter,” he stammered. “Only the envelope.”
    “Is that the envelope?”
    “I–I think so. I can’t be sure.”
    “Read it.”
    With an expression of extreme distaste he read the letter. It was Jane Harden’s.
    “If an opportunity presented itself,” Jane had written, “I would not hesitate to kill you.”
    Ronald put it down on the desk.
    “Now read this.”
    The second letter was from Sir John Phillips. Phillips had written it at fever-heat on the night he got home from his interview with O’Callaghan, and had posted it before he had time to cool down.
     
    “I gather you’re going to cut your losses and evade what, to any decent man, would be a responsibility. You talked of sending Jane a cheque. She will, of course, either tear it up or return it. I cannot force your hand, for that would do still more harm to a lady who is already deeply wronged, I warn you, however, to keep clear of me. I’ve a certain devil in me that I thought was scotched, but you have brought it to life again, and I think I could very easily kill you. This may sound like hyperbole; as a matter of fact, it is a meiosis.
    John Phillips.”
     
    “Have you seen that before?” asked Lady O’Callaghan.
    “Never,” said Ronald.
    “You notice the signature? It was written by the man who operated on my husband.”
    “Yes.”
    “Who is this woman — Jane Harden?”
    “Honestly, I have no idea, Lady O’Callaghan.”
    “No? A nurse, evidently. Look at the address, Mr. Jameson.”
    “Good God,” said Ronald. “It’s — it’s the nursing-home.”
    “Yes. We sent him to a strange place for his operation.”
    “But—”
    “Will you please take these letters with you?”
    “But, Lady O’Callaghan, I can’t possibly show them to the P.M. — the Prime Minister — really!”
    “Then I shall have to do so myself. Of course, there must be an inquest.”
    “Forgive me, but in the shock of reading these letters and — realising their inferences, have you considered the effect any publicity would have on yourself?”
    “What do you mean? What shock? Do you suppose I did not know he had mistresses?”
    “I’ve no idea, I’m sure,” said poor Ronald unhappily-
    “Of course I knew,” she said composedly. “That seems to me to have nothing to do with the point we are discussing. I knew he had been murdered. I thought at first that these other people— ” She made a slight gesture towards the neat little pile on the desk. “Now I find he had bitter enemies nearer to him than that.” Her hand closed over the letters on her knee. “He has been murdered. Probably by this nurse or by Sir John Phillips; possibly by both of them in collaboration. I shall demand an inquest.”
    “An inquest! You know, I doubt very much if you would be given permission.”
    “To whom does one apply?”
    “One can’t just order an inquest,” Ronald said evasively.
    “Who can do so, Mr. Jameson?”
    “The — well, the coroner for the district, I imagine.”
    “Or the police?”
    Ronald winced.
    “I suppose so — yes.”
    “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Jameson.”
    Ronald, in a panic, took himself off to the House.
    Lady O’Callaghan put a jade paper-weight on the little heap of letters and opened the telephone directory. The number she wanted was printed in large letters on a front page. She dialed it, and was answered immediately.
    “Is that New Scotland Yard?” she asked, pitching her voice in a sort of serene falsetto. “It is Lady O’Callaghan speaking. My husband was Sir Derek O’Callaghan, the late Home Secretary. I want to speak to someone in authority, in reference to the death of my husband. No, not on the telephone. Perhaps someone would call? Immediately,