A Mind to Murder (14 page)

The group secretary and Nagle were still waiting in the hall. Dalgliesh handed over the clinic keys and was promised that an additional set, now held at Group Headquarters, would be delivered to the police next day. Martin and he, with the two constables, waited while Nagle checked that all lights were out. Soon the whole clinic was in darkness and the six men stepped into the foggy chill of the October night and went their separate ways.

Dr. Baguley knew that he couldn’t in decency neglect to offer Miss Kettle a lift home. She lived in Richmond and her house was directly on the route to his Surrey village. Usually he managed to avoid her; her attendance at the clinic was so erratic that they seldom left at the same time and he could usually drive alone without compunction. He enjoyed driving. Even the frustrations of getting through the city in the rush hour were a small price to pay for those few miles of straight road before he reached home when he could feel the power of the car like a physical thrust in his back and the tensions of the day were ripped from him in the singing air. Just before he reached Stalling, it was his custom to stop at a quiet pub for a pint of beer. He never drank more nor less. This nightly ritual, the formal division of day from night, had become necessary to him since he had lost Fredrica. The night brought no relief from the strain of coping with neurosis. He was accustoming himself to a life in which the greatest demands on his patience and professional skill were made in his own home. But it was good to sit alone and in peace,
savouring the brief interlude between two different but essentially similar worlds.

He drove slowly at first since Miss Kettle was known to dislike speed. She sat beside him, close-wrapped in a heavy tweed coat, her grey, cropped head incongruously crowned with a knitted red cap. Like many professional social workers she had little instinctive understanding of people, a lack which had gained her an undeserved reputation for insensitivity. It was, of course, different if they were her clients—and how Baguley hated that word! Once they were securely caged behind the bars of a professional relationship, she gave them a dedicated and meticulous attention which left few of their privacies intact. They were understood whether they liked it or not, their weaknesses exposed and condoned, their efforts applauded and encouraged, their sins forgiven. Apart from her clients the rest of the Steen Clinic hardly existed for Miss Kettle. Baguley did not dislike her. He had long come to the melancholy conclusion that psychiatric social work held a strong attraction for those least suited to it and Miss Kettle was better than most. The reports she provided for him were overlong and spattered with the peculiar jargon of the job but at least she provided them. The Steen Clinic had its share of those PSWs who, driven by their irresistible urge to treat patients, were restless until they had trained as lay psychotherapists and left behind such lesser excitements as the writing of social reports and the arranging of recuperative holidays. No, he did not dislike Ruth Kettle, but tonight, of all nights, he would have been happier to drive alone.

She did not speak until they had reached Knightsbridge, then her high, breathy voice fluted in his ear.

“Such a very complicated murder, wasn’t it? And so oddly timed. What did you think of the superintendent?”

“He’s efficient, I suppose,” replied Dr. Baguley. “My attitude to him is a little ambivalent, probably because I haven’t an alibi. I was alone in the medical-staff cloakroom when Miss Bolam is thought to have died.”

He knew that he was hoping for reassurance, expecting to hear her eager protestations that, naturally, no one could think of suspecting him. Despising himself he added quickly: “It’s a nuisance, of course, but not important. I expect he’ll clear the matter up pretty quickly.”

“Oh, do you think so? I wonder. I thought he seemed rather puzzled by the whole thing. I was alone in my room most of the evening so I probably haven’t an alibi either. But then I don’t know when she’s supposed to have died.”

“Probably at about six-twenty,” said Baguley briefly.

“Is that so? Then I most certainly haven’t an alibi.” Miss Kettle spoke with the liveliest satisfaction. After a moment she said: “I shall be able to arrange a country holiday from Free Money for the Worrikers now—Miss Bolam was always so difficult about spending Free Money on patients. Dr. Steiner and I feel that if the Worrikers can have a quiet fortnight together in some pleasant country hotel, they may be able to sort things out. It may save the marriage.”

Dr. Baguley was tempted to say that the Worriker marriage had been in jeopardy for so many years that its salvation or otherwise was hardly likely to be settled in a fortnight, however pleasant the hotel. Being precariously married was the Worrikers’ main emotional preoccupation and one they were unlikely to relinquish without a struggle. He asked: “Isn’t Mr. Worriker in work then?”

“Oh, yes! He’s in work,” replied Miss Kettle, as if that fact could have no relevance to his ability to pay for a holiday. “But his wife is a poor manager, I’m afraid, although she does her
best. They can’t really afford to go away unless the clinic pays. Miss Bolam wasn’t very sympathetic, I’m sorry to say. There was another matter, too. She would make appointments for me to see patients without telling me. It happened today. When I looked at my diary just before I left, there was a new patient booked for ten on Monday. Mrs. Bostock had written it in, of course, but she added ‘on Miss Bolam’s instructions.’ Mrs. Bostock would never do a thing like that herself. She’s a very pleasant and efficient secretary.”

Dr. Baguley thought that Mrs. Bostock was an ambitious troublemaker but saw no point in saying so. Instead, he asked how Miss Kettle had got on during her interview with Dalgliesh.

“I wasn’t able to help him very much, I’m afraid, but he was interested to hear about the lift.”

“What about the lift, Miss Kettle?”

“Someone was using it this evening. You know how it creaks when someone’s using it and then bangs when it reaches the second floor? Well, I heard it bang. I don’t know exactly when, of course, as it didn’t seem important at the time. It wasn’t very early in the evening. I suppose it could have been at about six-thirty.”

“Surely Dalgliesh isn’t seriously thinking that someone used the lift to get down to the basement. It’s large enough, of course, but it would need two people.”

“Yes, it would, wouldn’t it? No one could hoist himself up in it. It would need an accomplice.” She spoke the word conspiratorially as if it were part of some criminal patois, a naughty expression which she was daring to use. She went on: “I can’t imagine dear Dr. Etherege squatting in the lift like a plump little Buddha while Mrs. Bostock heaved on the ropes with her strong, red hands, can you?”

“No,” said Dr. Baguley curtly. The description had been unexpectedly vivid. To change the image he said: “It would be interesting to know who was last in the medical-record room. Before the murder, I mean. I can’t remember when I last used the place.”

“Oh, can’t you! How strange! It’s such a dusty, claustrophobic room that I can always remember when I have to go down there. I was there at a quarter to six this evening.”

Dr. Baguley nearly stopped the car in his surprise. “At five-forty-five this evening? But that was only thirty-five minutes before the time of death!”

“Yes, it must have been, mustn’t it, if she died at about six-twenty? The superintendent didn’t tell me that. But he was interested to hear that I’d been in the basement. I fetched one of the old Worriker records. It must have been about five-forty-five when I went down and I didn’t stay; I knew just where the record was.”

“And the room was as usual? The records weren’t chucked on the floor?”

“Oh, no, everything was perfectly tidy. The room was locked, of course, so I got the key from the porters’ restroom and locked the room again when I’d finished. I put the key back on the board.”

“And you didn’t see anyone?”

“No, I don’t think so. I could hear your LSD patient, though. She seemed very noisy, I thought. Almost as if she were alone.”

“She wasn’t alone. She never is. As a matter of fact I was with her myself up to about five-forty. If you’d been a few minutes earlier, we should have seen each other.”

“Only if we’d happened to pass on the basement stairs or if you’d come into the record room. But I don’t think I saw anyone.
The superintendent kept asking me. I wonder if he’s a capable man. He seemed very puzzled by the whole thing, I thought.”

They did not speak again about the murder although, to Dr. Baguley, the air of the car was heavy with unspoken questions. Twenty minutes later he drew up outside Miss Kettle’s flat off Richmond Green and leaned over to open the car door for her with a sense of relief. As soon as she had disappeared from view, he got out of the car and, in defiance of the chilly dampness, opened the roof. The next few miles fled in a gold thread of winking cat’s eyes marking the crown of the road, a rush of cold autumnal air. Outside Stalling he turned from the main road to where the dark, uninviting little pub was set well back among its surrounding elms. The bright boys of Stalling Coombe had never discovered it or had rejected it in favour of the smart pubs edging the green belt; their Jaguars were never seen parked against its black brick walls. The saloon bar was empty as usual but there was a murmur of voices across the wooden partition which separated it from the public bar. He took his seat by the fire which burned summer and winter, evidently stocked with malodorous chunks of the publican’s old furniture. It was not a welcoming room. The chimney smoked in an east wind, the stone floor was bare and the wooden benches lining the walls were too hard and narrow for comfort. But the beer was cold and good, the glasses clean, and there was a kind of peace about the place bred out of its bareness and the solitude.

George brought over his pint. “You’re late this evening, Doctor.”

George had called him that since his second visit. Dr. Baguley neither knew nor cared how George had discovered what his job was.

“Yes,” he replied. “I was kept late at the clinic.” He said no more and the man went back to his bar. Then he wondered
whether he had been wise. It would be in all the papers tomorrow. They would probably be talking about it in the public bar. It would be natural for George to say: “The doctor was in as usual on Friday. He didn’t say anything about the murder … Looked upset, though.”

Was it suspicious to say nothing? Wasn’t it more natural for an innocent man to want to talk about a murder case in which he was involved? Suddenly the little room became unbearably stuffy, the peace dissolved in an uprush of anxiety and pain. He had got to tell Helen somehow and the sooner she knew, the better.

But although he drove fast, it was well after ten before he reached home and saw through the tall beech hedge the light in Helen’s bedroom. So she had gone up without waiting for him; that was always a bad sign. Garaging the car he braced himself for whatever lay ahead. Stalling Coombe was very quiet. It was a small, private estate of architect-designed houses, built in the traditional manner and set each in a spacious garden. It had little contact with the neighbouring village of Stalling and was, indeed, an oasis of prosperous suburbia whose inhabitants, bound by ties of common prejudices and snobberies, lived like exiles determinedly preserving the decencies of civilization in the midst of an alien culture. Baguley had bought his house fifteen years ago, soon after his marriage. He had disliked the place then and the past years had taught him the folly of disregarding first impressions. But Helen had liked it; and Helen had been pregnant then so that there was an additional reason for trying to make her happy. To Helen, the house, spacious mock Tudor, had promised much. There was the huge oak in the front lawn (“just the place for the pram on hot days”), the wide entrance hall (“the children will love it for parties later on”), the quiet of the estate (“so peaceful
for you, darling, after London and all those dreadful patients”).

But the pregnancy had ended in a miscarriage and there had never again been the hope of children. Would it have made any difference if there had? Would the house have been any less an expensive repository of lost hopes? Sitting quietly in the car and watching that ominous square of lighted window, Dr. Baguley reflected that all unhappy marriages were fundamentally alike. He and Helen were no different from the Worrikers. They stayed together because they expected to be less miserable together than apart. If the strain and miseries of marriage became greater than the expense, the inconvenience and the trauma of a legal separation, then they would part. No sane person continued to endure the intolerable. For him there had been only one valid and overriding need for a divorce, his hope of marrying Fredrica Saxon. Now that the hope was over forever, he might as well continue to endure a marriage which, for all its strain, at least gave him the comfortable illusion of being needed. He despised his private image, the stock predicament of the psychiatrist unable to manage his own personal relationships. But at least something remained from the marriage; a fugitive surge of tenderness and pity which for most of the time enabled him to be kind.

He locked the garage gates and crossed the wide lawn to the front door. The garden was looking unkempt. It was expensive to maintain and Helen took little interest in it. It would be better in every way if they sold and bought a smaller place. But Helen wouldn’t talk of selling. She was as happy at Stalling Coombe as she could hope to be anywhere. Its narrow and undemanding social life gave her at least a semblance of security. This cocktail-and-canapé existence, the bright chatter of its smart, lean, acquisitive women, the gossip over the iniquities of foreign maids and au pair girls, the lamentations over
school fees and school reports and the boorish ingratitude of the young, were preoccupations which she could sympathize with or share. Baguley had long known with pain that it was in her relationship with him that she was least at home.

He wondered how he could best break the news of Miss Bolam’s murder. Helen had only met her once, that Wednesday at the clinic, and he had never learned what they had said to each other. But that brief, catalytic encounter had established some kind of intimacy between them. Or was it perhaps an offensive alliance directed against himself? But not on Bolam’s part, surely? Her attitude to him had never altered. He could even believe that she approved of him more than of most psychiatrists. He had always found her co-operative, helpful and correct. It was without malice, without vindictiveness, without even disliking him particularly, that she had called Helen into her office that Wednesday afternoon and, in half an hour’s conversation, destroyed the greatest happiness he had ever known. It was then that Helen appeared at the top of the stairs.