“I’ll check how far our people have got with the investigation,” said Dalgliesh. “But I agree that a connection between the crimes seems unlikely on the face of it. Was much taken?”
“Fifteen pounds from a drawer in the psychiatric social worker’s office. The door was locked but he wrenched it open. The money was in an envelope addressed in green ink to the administrative secretary of the clinic and had been received a week earlier. There was no letter with it, only a note to say that the money was from a grateful patient. The other contents of the drawer were torn and scattered but nothing else was stolen. Some attempt had been made to force open the cabinets of records in the general office and Miss Bolam’s desk drawers had been forced but nothing taken.”
Dalgliesh asked whether the fifteen pounds should have been placed in the wall safe.
“Well now, Superintendent, you’re right, of course. It should have been. But there was a little difficulty about using the money. Miss Bolam phoned me about its arrival and said that she thought it should be paid immediately into the clinic’s free money account to be used in due course on the authority of the House Committee. That was a very proper course of action, and so I told her. Shortly afterwards the medical director phoned me to ask if he could have authority to spend the money on some new flower vases for the patients’ waiting room. The vases were certainly needed and it seemed a correct use for non-Exchequer funds, so I rang the chairman of the House Committee and got his approval. Apparently Dr. Etherege wanted Miss Kettle to choose the vases and asked Miss Bolam to hand over the cash. I had already notified Miss Bolam of the decision so she did so, expecting that the vases would be bought at once. Something happened to change Miss Kettle’s plans and, instead of returning the cash to the AO for safe custody, she locked it in her drawer.”
“Do you know how many of the staff knew that it was there?”
“That’s what the police asked. I suppose most people knew that the vases hadn’t been bought or Miss Kettle would have shown them around. They probably guessed that, having been handed the cash, she wouldn’t be likely to return it even temporarily. I don’t know. The arrival of that fifteen pounds was mysterious. It caused nothing but trouble and its disappearance was equally mysterious. Anyway, Superintendent, no one here stole it. Cully only saw the thief for a second but he was certain that he didn’t know the man. He did say, though, that he thought the chap looked like a gentleman. Don’t ask me how he knew or what his criteria are. But that’s what he said.”
Dalgliesh thought that the whole incident was odd and would bear further investigation but he could see no apparent connection between the two crimes. It was not even certain that Miss Bolam’s call to the group secretary for advice was related to her death, but here the presumption was much stronger. It was very important to discover, if possible, what she had suspected. He asked Mr. Lauder once more whether he could help.
“I told you, Superintendent, I haven’t an idea what she meant. If I suspected that anything was wrong, I shouldn’t wait for Miss Bolam to phone me. We’re not quite so remote from the units at group offices as some people think and I usually get to know anything I ought to know. If the murder is connected with that phone message, something pretty serious must be happening here. After all, you don’t kill just to prevent the group secretary knowing that you’ve fiddled your travelling claim or overspent your annual leave. Not that anyone has, as far as I know.”
“Exactly,” said Dalgliesh. He watched the group secretary’s face very closely and said, without emphasis: “It suggests something that might ruin a man professionally. A sexual relationship with a patient perhaps—something as serious as that.” Mr. Lauder’s face did not change.
“I imagine every doctor knows the seriousness of that, particularly pyschiatrists. They must have to be pretty careful with some of the neurotic women they treat. Frankly, I don’t believe it. All the doctors here are eminent men, some of them with worldwide reputations. You don’t get that sort of reputation if you’re a fool, and men of that eminence don’t commit murder.”
“And what about the rest of the staff? They may not be eminent, but presumably you consider them honest?”
Unruffled, the group secretary replied: “Sister Ambrose has been here for nearly twenty years and Nurse Bolam for five. I would trust them both absolutely. All the clerical staff came with good references and so did the two porters, Cully and Nagle.” He added wryly: “Admittedly I didn’t check that they hadn’t committed murder but none of them strike me as homicidal maniacs. Cully drinks a bit and is a pathetic fool with only another four months’ service to complete. I doubt whether he could kill a mouse without making a hash of it. Nagle is a cut above the usual hospital porter. I understand he’s an art student and works here for pocket money. He’s only been with us a couple of years so he wasn’t here before Miss Bolam’s time. Even if he’s been seducing all the female staff, which seems unlikely, the worst that could happen to him would be the sack and that wouldn’t worry him as things are today. Admittedly she was killed with his chisel but anyone could have got their hands on that.”
“I’m afraid this was an inside job, you know,” said Dalgliesh gently. “The murderer knew where Tippett’s fetish and Nagle’s chisel were kept, knew which key opened the old record room, knew where that key was hung on the board in the porters’ duty room, probably wore one of the rubber aprons from the art therapy room as a protection, certainly had medical knowledge. Above all, of course, the murderer couldn’t have left the clinic after the crime. The basement door was bolted and so was the ground-floor back door. Cully was watching the front door.”
“Cully had a bellyache. He could have missed someone.”
“Do you really believe that’s possible?” asked Dalgliesh. And the group secretary did not reply.
At first sight Marion Bolam could be thought beautiful. She had the fair, classical good looks which, enhanced by her nurse’s uniform, gave an immediate impression of serene loveliness. Her blonde hair, parted above a broad forehead and twisted into a high roll at the back of her head, was bound by the simple white cap. It was only at second glance that the illusion faded and beauty gave way to prettiness. The features, individually analysed, were unremarkable, the nose a little too long, the lips a little too thin. In ordinary clothes, hurrying home perhaps at the end of the day, she would be undistinguished. It was the combination of the starched formal linen with that fair skin and yellow hair which dazzled the eye. Only in the broad forehead and the sharpness of the nose could Dalgliesh detect any likeness to her dead cousin. But there was nothing ordinary about the large grey eyes which met his fully for a brief second before she lowered her glance and gazed fixedly at the clasped hands in her lap.
“I understand that you are Miss Bolam’s next of kin. This must be a terrible shock for you.”
“Yes. Oh, yes, it is! Enid was my cousin.”
“You have the same name. Your fathers were brothers?”
“Yes, they were. Our mothers were sisters, too. Two brothers married two sisters so that we were doubly related.”