Silent Nights (11 page)

“I'm thinking of your children,” said Reggie, and she was the more amazed. “Not a nice murder, you know, not at all a nice murder.”

And then he took Miss Amber home. She found him taciturn, which is his habit when he is angry. But she had never seen him angry before. She is a wise woman. When he was leaving her: “Do you know what it is about you, sir?” she said. “You're always just right.”

When the Hon. Sidney Lomas came to his room in Scotland Yard the next morning, Reggie Fortune was waiting for him. “My dear fellow!” he protested. “What is this? You're not really up, are you? It's not eleven. You're an hallucination.”

“Zeal, all zeal, Lomas. The orphanage murder is my trouble.”

“Have you come to give yourself up? I suspected you from the first, Fortune. Where is it?” He took a copy of the “Daily Wire” from the rack. “Yes. ‘Dr Reginald Fortune, the eminent surgeon, was attending the function and was able to give the police a first-hand account of the crime. Dr Fortune states that the weapon used was a surgical knife.' My dear fellow, the case looks black indeed.”

Reggie was not amused. “Yes. I also was present. And several others,” he said. “Do you know anything about any of us?”

Lomas put up his eyeglass. “There's a certain bitterness about you, Fortune. This is unusual. What's the matter?”

“I don't like this murder,” said Reggie. “It spoilt the children's party.”

“That would be a by-product,” Lomas agreed. “You're getting very domestic in your emotions. Oh, I like it, my dear fellow. But it makes you a little irrelevant.”

“Domestic be damned. I'm highly relevant. It spoilt the children's party. Why did it happen at the children's party? Lots of other nice days to kill the resident medical officer.”

“You're suggesting it was one of the visitors?”

“No, no. It isn't the only day visitors visit. I'm suggesting life is real, life is earnest—and rather diabolical sometimes.”

“I'll call for the reports,” Lomas said, and did so. “Good Gad! Reams! Barton's put in some heavy work.”

“I thought he would,” said Reggie, and went to read over Lomas' shoulder.

At the end Lomas lay back and looked up at him. “Well? Barton's put his money on this young nurse, Edith Baker.”

“Yes. That's the matron's tip. I saw the matron. One of the world's organizers, Lomas. A place for everything and everything in its place. And if you don't fit, God help you. Edith Baker didn't fit. Edith Baker has emotions. Therefore she does murders. Q.E.D.”

“Well, the matron ought to know the girl.”

“She ought,” Reggie agreed. “And our case is, gentlemen, that the matron who ought to know girls says Edith Baker isn't a nice young person. Lomas dear, why do policemen always believe what they're told? What the matron don't like isn't evidence.”

“There is some evidence. The girl had one of these hysterical affections for the dead woman, passionately devoted and passionately jealous and so forth. The girl had access to the hospital instruments. All her time in the afternoon can't be accounted for, and she was the first to know of the murder.”

“It's not good enough, Lomas. Why did she give the alarm?”

Lomas shrugged. “A murderer does now and then. Cunning or fright.”

“And why did she wait for the children's party to do the murder?”

“Something may have happened there to rouse her jealousy.”

“Something with one of the visitors?” Reggie suggested. “I wonder.” And then he laughed. “A party of the visitors went round the hospital, Lomas. They had access to the surgical instruments.”

“And were suddenly seized with a desire for homicide? They also went to the gymnasium and the kitchen. Did any of them start boiling potatoes? My dear Fortune, you are not as plausible as usual.”

“It isn't plausible,” Reggie said. “I know that. It's too dam' wicked.”

“Abnormal,” Lomas nodded. “Of course the essence of the thing is that it's abnormal. Every once in a while we have these murders in an orphanage or school or some place where women and children are herded together. Nine times out of ten they are cases of hysteria. Your young friend Miss Baker seems to be a highly hysterical subject.”

“You know more than I do.”

“Why, that's in the evidence. And you saw her yourself half crazy with emotion after the murder.”

“Good Lord!” said Reggie. “Lomas, old thing, you do run on. Pantin' time toils after you in vain. That girl wasn't crazy. She was the most natural of us all. You send a girl in her teens into the room where the woman she is keen on is sitting with her throat cut. She won't talk to you like a little lady. The evidence! Why do you believe what people tell you about people? They're always lying—by accident if not on purpose. This matron don't like the girl because she worshipped the lady doctor. Therefore the girl is called abnormal and jealous. Did you never hear of a girl in her teens worshipping a teacher? It's common form. Did you never hear of another teacher being vicious about it? That's just as common.”

“Do you mean the matron was jealous of them both?”

Reggie shrugged. “It hits you in the eye.”

“Good Gad!” said Lomas. “Do you suspect the matron?”

“I suspect the devil,” said Reggie gravely. “Lomas, my child, whoever did that murder cut the woman's throat and then sat down in her easy chair and watched her die. I call that devilish.” And he told of the bloodstains and the turned cushions.

“Good Gad,” said Lomas once more, “there's some hate in that.”

“Not a nice murder. Also it stopped the children's party.”

“You harp on that.” Lomas looked at him curiously. “Are you thinking of the visitors?”

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “I wonder.”

“Here's the list,” Lomas said, and Reggie came slowly to look. “Sir George and Lady Bean, Lady Chantry, Mrs Carroway”—he ran his pencil down—“all well-known, blameless busybodies, full of good works. Nothing doing.”

“Crab Warnham,” said Reggie.

“Oh, Warnham: his wife took him, I suppose. She's a saint, and he eats out of her hand, they say. Well, he was a loose fish, of course, but murder! I don't see Warnham at that.”

“He has an eye for a woman.”

“Still? I dare say. But good Gad, he can't have known this lady doctor. Was she pretty?” Reggie nodded. “Well, we might look for a link between them. Not likely, is it?”

“We're catching at straws,” said Reggie sombrely.

Lomas pushed the papers away. “Confound it, it's another case without evidence. I suppose it can't be suicide like that Bigod affair?”

Reggie, who was lighting a cigar, looked up and let the match burn his fingers. “Not suicide. No,” he said. “Was Bigod's?”

“Well, it was a deuced queer death by misadventure.”

“As you say.” Reggie nodded and wandered dreamily out.

This seems to have been the first time that anyone thought of comparing the Bigod case to the orphanage murder. When the inquest on the lady doctor was held the police had no more evidence to produce than you have heard, and the jury returned a verdict of murder by some person or persons unknown. Newspapers strove to enliven the dull calm of the holiday season by declaiming against the inefficiency of a police force which allowed murderers to remain anonymous, and hashed up the Bigod case again to prove that the fall of Sir Humphrey Bigod into his chalkpit, though called accidental, was just as mysterious as the cut throat of Dr Hall. And the Hon. Sidney Lomas cursed the man who invented printing.

These assaults certainly did not disturb Reggie Fortune, who has never cared what people say of him. With the help of Joan Amber he found a quiet remote place for the unhappy girl suspected of the murder (Lady Chantry was prettily angry with Miss Amber about that, protesting that she wanted to look after Edith herself), and said he was only in the case as a philanthropist. After which he gave all his time to preparing his house and Miss Amber for married life. But the lady found him dreamy.

It was in fact while he was showing her how the new colours in the drawing-room looked under the new lighting that Dr Eden called him up. Dr Eden has a general practice in Kensington. Dr Eden wanted to consult him about a case: most urgent: 3 King William's Walk.

“May I take the car?” said Reggie to Joan. “He sounds rattled. You can go on home afterwards. It's not far from you either. I wonder who lives at 3 King William's Walk.”

“But it's Mrs Warnham!” she cried.

“Oh, my aunt!” said Reggie Fortune; and said no more.

And Joan Amber did not call him out of his thoughts. She was as grave as he. Only when he was getting out of the car, “Be good to her, dear,” she said gently. He kissed the hand on his arm.

The door was opened by a woman in evening-dress. “It is Mr Fortune, isn't it? Please come in. It's so kind of you to come.” She turned to the maid in the background. “Tell Dr Eden, Maggie. It's my little boy—and we are so anxious.”

“I'm very sorry, Mrs Warnham.” Reggie took her hand and found it cold. The face he remembered for its gentle calm was sternly set. “What is the trouble?”

“Gerald went to a party this afternoon. He came home gloriously happy and went to bed. He didn't go to sleep at once, he was rather excited, but he was quite well. Then he woke up crying with pain and was very sick. I sent for Dr Eden. It isn't like Gerald to cry, Mr Fortune. And—”

A hoarse voice said “Catherine, you oughtn't to be out there in the cold.” Reggie saw the gaunt face of Captain Warnham looking round a door at them.

“What does it matter?” she cried. “Dr Eden doesn't want me to be with him, Mr Fortune. He is still in pain. And I don't think Dr Eden knows.”

Dr Eden came down in time to hear that. A large young man, he stood over them looking very awkward and uncomfortable.

“I'm sure Dr Eden has done everything that can be done,” said Reggie gently. “I'll go up, please.” And they left the mother to her husband, that flushed, gaunt face peering round the corner as they kept step on the stairs.

“The child's seven years old,” said Eden. “There's no history of any gastric trouble. Rather a good digestion. And then this—out of the blue!”

Reggie went into a nursery where a small boy lay huddled and restless with all the apparatus of sickness by his bed. He raised a pale face on which beads of sweat stood.

“Hallo, Gerald,” Reggie said quietly. “Mother sent me up to make you all right again.” He took the child's hand and felt for the pulse. “I'm Mr Fortune, your fortune, good fortune.” The child tried to smile and Reggie's hands moved over the uneasy body and all the while he murmured softly nonsense talk.…

The child did not want him to go, but at last he went off with Eden into a corner of the room. “Quite right to send for me,” he said gravely, and Eden put his hand to his head. “I know. I know. It's horrible when it's a child. One of the irritant poisons. Probably arsenic. Have you given an emetic?”

“He's been very sick. And he's so weak.”

“I know. Have you got anything with you?”

“I sent home. But I didn't care to—”

“I'll do it. Sulphate of zinc. You go and send for a nurse. And find some safe milk. I wouldn't use the household stuff.”

“My God, Fortune! Surely it was at the party?”

“Not the household stuff,” Reggie repeated, and he went back to the child…

It was many hours afterwards that he came softly downstairs. In the hall husband and wife met him. It seemed to him that it was the man who had been crying. “Are you going away?” Mrs Warnham said.

“There's no more pain. He is asleep.”

Her eyes darkened. “You mean he's—dead?” the man gasped.

“I hope he'll live longer than any of us, Captain Warnham. But no one must disturb him. The nurse will be watching, you know. And I'm sure we all want to sleep sound—don't we?” He was gone. But he stayed a moment on the doorstep. He heard emotions within.

On the next afternoon Dr Eden came into his laboratory at St Saviour's. “One moment. One moment.” Reggie was bent over a notebook. “When I go to hell they'll set me doing sums.” He frowned at his figures. “The third time is lucky. That's plausible if it isn't right. Well, how's our large patient?”

“He's doing well. Quite easy and cheerful.”

Reggie stood up. “I think we might say, Thank God.”

“Yes, rather. I thought he was gone last night, Fortune. He would have been without you. It was wonderful how he bucked up in your hands. You ought to have been a children's specialist.”

“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! I'm the kind of fellow who would always ought to have been something else. And so I'm doing sums in a laboratory which God knows I'm not fit for.”

“Have you found out what it was?”

“Oh, arsenic, of course. Quite a fair dose he must have had. It's queer how they always will use arsenic.”

Eden stared at him. “What are we to do?” he said in a low voice. “Fortune, I suppose it couldn't have been accidental?”

“What is a child likely to eat in which he would find grains of accidental arsenic?”

“Yes, but then—I mean, who could want to kill that child?”

“That is the unknown quantity in the equation. But people do want to murder children, quite nice children.”

Eden grew pale. “What do you mean? You know he's not Warnham's child. Warnham's his step-father.”

“Yes. Yes. Have you ever seen the two together?”

Eden hesitated. “He—well he didn't seem to take to Warnham. But I'd have sworn Warnham was fond of him.”

“And that's all quite natural, isn't it? Well, well. I hope he's in.”