A Mind to Murder (4 page)

“Except her murderer,” said Dalgliesh.

Dr. Etherege looked surprised.

“Yes, that would be so, of course. I mean that none of us saw her alive again. I have asked Sister Ambrose about the time and Sister is quite sure…”

“I shall be seeing Sister Ambrose and the other porter.”

“Of course. Naturally you will want to see everybody. We expect that. While waiting we telephoned our homes to say that we would be delayed tonight but gave no explanation. We had already searched the building and ascertained that the basement door and the ground floor rear entrance were both bolted. Nothing has been touched in here naturally. I arranged for the staff to stay together in the front consulting-room except for Sister and Nurse Bolam who are with the remaining patients in the waiting-room. No one but Mr. Lauder and you have been allowed in.”

“You seem to have thought of everything, Doctor,” said Dalgliesh. He got up from his knees and stood looking down at the body.

“Who found her?” he asked.

“One of our medical secretaries, Jennifer Priddy. Cully, the senior porter, has been complaining of stomach-ache most of the day and Miss Priddy went to find Miss Bolam to ask if he could go home early. Miss Priddy is very upset but she was able to tell me…”

“I think it would be better if I heard it from her direct. Was this door kept locked?”

His tone was perfectly courteous but he felt their surprise. The medical director’s tone did not change as he replied:

“Usually it is. The key is kept on a board with other clinic keys in the porters’ duty-room here in the basement. The chisel was kept there, too.”

“And this fetish?”

“Taken from the basement art-therapy-room across the passage. It was carved by one of our patients.”

It was still the medical director who replied. So far Dr. Baguley hadn’t spoken a word. Suddenly he said:

“She was knocked out with the fetish and then stabbed through the heart by someone who was either knowledgeable or damned lucky. That much is obvious. What isn’t obvious is why they had this free-for-all with the medical records. She’s lying on them so it must have happened before the murder.”

“The result of a struggle, perhaps,” suggested Dr. Etherege.

“It doesn’t look like it. They were pulled out of the shelves and deliberately chucked about. There must have been a reason. There wasn’t anything impulsive about this murder.”

It was then that Peter Nagle, who had apparently been standing outside the door, came into the room.

“There’s been a ring at the door, sir. Would that be the rest of the police?”

Dalgliesh noted that the records-room was almost soundproof. The front-door bell was strident but he had not heard it

“Right,” he said. “We’ll go up.”

As they moved together towards the stairs Dr. Etherege said:

“I wonder, Superintendent, if you could see the patients fairly soon. We have only two still with us, a male psychotherapy patient of my colleague Dr. Steiner, and a woman who has been receiving lysergic acid treatment down here in the basement front treatment-room. Dr. Baguley will be able to explain the treatment to you—she is his patient—but you can be assured that she wasn’t capable of leaving her bed until twenty minutes ago and certainly wouldn’t know anything about the murder. These patients become quite disorientated during treatment. Nurse Bolam was with her all the evening.”

“Nurse Bolam? She is a relation of the dead woman?”

“Her cousin,” said Dr. Baguley briefly.

“And your disorientated patient, Doctor. Would she know if Nurse Bolam left her alone during treatment?”

Dr. Baguley said curtly:

“Nurse Bolam would not have left her.”

They mounted the stairs together to meet the murmur of voices in the hall.

That ring at the door brought into the Steen Clinic the paraphernalia and skills of an alien world. Quietly and without fuss the experts in violent death got busy. Dalgliesh disappeared into the record-room with the police surgeon and photographer. The print man, small and plump-cheeked as a hamster, with tiny delicate hands, gave his attention to door handles, locks, the tool case and Tippett’s fetish. Plain-clothes men, looking disconcertingly like television actors playing plain-clothes men, made their methodical search of every room and cupboard in the clinic verifying that there was indeed no unauthorized person on the premises and that the back doors both of the ground floor and the basement were securely locked from the inside. The clinic staff, excluded from these activities and congregated in the front ground-floor consulting-room, which had been hastily furnished with additional easy chairs from the patients’ waiting-room, felt that their familiar ground had been taken over by strangers and that they were caught up in the inexorable machinery of justice and being ground forward to God knew what embarrassments and disasters. Only the group secretary appeared unperturbed. He had stationed himself in the hall like a watchdog and sat there patient and alone until his turn came to be interviewed.

Dalgliesh took Miss Bolan’s office for his use. It was a small room on the ground floor situated between the large general office at the front of the building and the E.C.T. treatment-room and recovery-room at the rear. Opposite it was a suite of two consulting-rooms and the patients’ waiting-room. The office had been formed by partitioning the end of a larger room so that it was oddly proportioned and unattractively narrow for its height. It was sparsely furnished and lacked all evidence of personal taste except for a large bowl of chrysanthemums set on one of the filing cabinets. There was an old-fashioned safe against one wall and the other was lined with green metal filing cabinets. The desk was unostentatious and held nothing but a stationery office desk calendar, a jotting pad, and a small stack of manilla folders. Dalgliesh looked through them and said. “This is odd. These are staff dossiers apparently, but only of the female staff. Her own isn’t here incidentally. I wonder why she got these out?”

“Checking on people’s annual leave entitlement, or something like that perhaps,” suggested Sergeant Martin.

“Could be, I suppose. But why only the women? Oh well, it’s hardly of immediate importance. Let’s have a look at that jotter.”

Miss Bolam was apparently one of those administrators who prefer not to trust to memory. The top leaf of the jotter, headed with the date, was well filled with notes in a sloping, rather childish handwriting.

Medical Committee—speak M.D. re proposed Adolescent Dept.

Speak Nagle—broken sash cord Miss KallinsH’s room.

Mrs. Shorthouse—? leave.

These notes were at least self-explanatory but the jottings below them—written it appeared in some hurry— were less explicit.

Woman. Here eight years. To arrive 1st Monday.

Dalgliesh said: “These look like the jottings of a telephone call. It could have been a private call, of course, and nothing to do with the clinic. It could have been a doctor trying to trace a patient, or vice versa. Something, or someone, is apparently expected to arrive on the first Monday or on Monday the first. There are a dozen possible interpretations and none of them relevant to the murder. Still, someone phoned recently about a woman and Miss Bolam was obviously examining the dossiers of every woman on the staff except herself. Why? To check which of them were here eight years ago? It’s all pretty far-fetched. We’ll leave the pleasures of conjecture for the moment and get down to seeing these people. I’d like that typist in first. The girl who found the body. Etherege said she was upset. Let’s hope she’s calmed down by now or we’ll be here half the night.”

But Jennifer Priddy was perfectly calm. She had obviously been drinking and her grief was overlaid with a barely suppressed excitement. Her face, still swollen from crying, was blotched with high colour and her eyes were unnaturally bright. But the drink had not fuddled her and she told her story well. She had been busy in the ground-floor general office for most of the evening and had last seen Miss Bolam at about five-forty-five when she had gone into the A.O’s office with a query about a patient’s appointment. Miss Bolam had seemed the same as usual to her. She had returned to the general office and had been joined by Peter Nagle at about six-ten. He was wearing his coat and had come to collect the outgoing post. Miss Priddy had registered the last few letters in the post book and handed them to him. At about quarter- or twenty-past six Mrs. Shorthouse had joined them. Mrs. Shorthouse had mentioned that she had just come from Miss Bolam’s office where she had been settling a query about her annual leave entitlement. Peter Nagle had gone out with the post and she and Mrs. Shorthouse had stayed together until his return some ten minutes later. Nagle had then gone down to the basement porters’ room to hang up his coat and feed Tigger, the office cat, and she had followed him down almost immediately. She had helped him feed Tigger and they had returned to the general office together. At about seven the senior porter, Cully, complained again about his stomach-ache which had been troubling him all day. Miss Priddy, Mrs. Bostock, the other medical secretary, and Peter Nagle had all had to take Cully’s place at the switchboard from time to time because of his stomachache, but he had refused to go home. Now he was willing to go and Miss Priddy had gone to the A.O’s office to ask Miss Bolam if he could leave early. Miss Bolam wasn’t in her office so she had looked in the nurses’ duty-room on the ground floor. Sister Ambrose told her that she had seen the A.O. passing down the hall towards the basement stairs about thirty minutes or so earlier, so Miss Priddy had looked in the basement. The record-room was usually kept locked but the key was in the lock and the door just ajar, so she had looked inside. The light was on. She had found the body—here Miss Priddy’s voice faltered—and had rushed upstairs at once to get help. No, she hadn’t touched anything. She didn’t know why the medical records were strewn around. She didn’t know how she had known that Miss Bolam was dead. It was just that Miss Bolam had looked so very dead. She didn’t know why she had been so sure it was murder. She thought she had seen a bruise on Miss Bolam’s head. And, then, there had been Tippett’s fetish laying on the body. She was afraid that Tippett was hiding among the record racks and would jump out at her. Everyone said that he wasn’t dangerous—at least everyone except Dr. Steiner—but he had been in a mental hospital and, after all, you couldn’t be really sure, could you? No, she hadn’t known that Tippett wasn’t in the clinic. Peter Nagle had taken the call from the hospital and had told Miss Bolam but he hadn’t told her. She hadn’t seen the chisel in Miss Bolam’s chest but Dr. Etherege had told the staff about the stabbing when they were gathered together in the front consulting-room waiting for the police. She thought that most of the staff knew where Peter Nagle kept his tools and also which key opened the door of the basement record room. It hung on hook number 12 and was shinier than the other keys, but it wasn’t labelled. Dalgliesh said:

“I want you to think very hard and very carefully. When you went downstairs to help Mr. Nagle feed the cat was the record-room door ajar and the light on as it was when you went down later and found Miss Bolam?”

The girl, pushed back her dank blonde hair and said with sudden weariness:

“I… I can’t remember. I didn’t go past that door you see. I went straight into the porters’ room at the bottom of the stairs. Peter was there clearing up Tigger’s plate. He hadn’t eaten all of his last meal so we scraped it off his plate and washed it at the sink. We didn’t go near the record-room.”

“But you could see the door as you came down the stairs. Would you be likely to notice if the door were ajar? The room isn’t often used, is it?”

“No, but anyone might go there if they wanted a record. I mean, if the door were open I wouldn’t go to see who was there or anything like that. I think I would notice if the door was wide open so I suppose it wasn’t, but I can’t remember, honestly I can’t.”

Dalgliesh ended by asking her about Miss Bolam. It appeared that Miss Priddy knew her outside the clinic, that the Priddy family attended the same church and that Miss Bolam had encouraged her to take the job at the clinic.

“I shouldn’t have got this job if it hadn’t been for Enid. Of course, I never called her that inside the clinic. She wouldn’t have liked it.” Miss Priddy gave the impression that she had only reluctantly brought herself to use the Christian name outside the clinic. She went on: “I don’t mean she actually appointed me. I had to be interviewed by Mr. Lauder and by Dr. Etherege, but I know she spoke up for me. My shorthand and typing weren’t very good then—it was nearly two years ago when I came—and I was lucky to get here. I didn’t see very much of Enid at the clinic but she was always very kind and keen for me to get on. She wanted me to take the Institute of Hospital Administration Diploma so that I needn’t be a shorthand typist all my life.”

This ambition for Miss Priddy’s future career struck Dalgliesh as a little odd. The child gave no impression of being ambitious and she would surely marry in time. It hardly needed the Institute’s diploma, whatever that might be, to save her from being a shorthand typist for life. He felt a little sorry for Miss Bolam who could scarcely have picked a less promising protégée. She was pretty, honest and naïve, but not, he thought, particularly intelligent. He had to remind himself that she had given her age as twenty-two not seventeen. She had a shapely and oddly mature body, but her thin face with its frame of long, straight hair, was the face of a child.

There was little she could tell him about the administrative officer. She hadn’t noticed any change recently in Miss Bolam. She didn’t know that the A.O. had sent for Mr. Lauder and had no idea what could be worrying Miss Bolam at the clinic. Everything was going on very much as usual. Miss Bolam had no enemies as far as she knew, certainly no one who would wish to kill her.

“She was happy here, then, as far as you know? I was wondering whether she had asked for a move. A psychiatric clinic can’t be the easiest unit to administer.”

“Oh, it isn’t! I don’t know how Enid carried on sometimes. But I’m sure she would never ask for a move. Someone must have given you the wrong impression. She was never one to give up. If she thought people wanted her to go she’d dig her toes in. The clinic was a kind of challenge to her.”