“And for the whole of that time you were together?”
“I think Dr. Etherege went out for a minute or so to verify a reference.”
“Why should you be uncertain, Mrs. Bostock? Either he did or he didn’t.”
“Naturally, Superintendent. As you say, either he did or he didn’t. But there is no reason why I should particularly remember. This evening was in no way remarkable. My impression is that he did go out for a short time but I really couldn’t recall exactly when. I expect he may be able to help you.”
Suddenly Dalgliesh changed the course of questioning. He paused for a full half-minute and then asked quietly: “Did you like Miss Bolam, Mrs. Bostock?” It was not a welcome question. Under the patina of makeup he saw a flush of anger or embarrassment die along her neck.
“She wasn’t an easy person to like. I tried to be loyal to her.”
“By loyal you mean, no doubt, that you tried to smooth down rather than exacerbate her difficulties with the medical staff and refrained from any overt criticism of her as an administrator?”
The tinge of sarcasm in his voice awoke, as was intended, all her latent hostility. Behind the mask of hauteur and detachment he glimpsed the insecure schoolgirl. He knew that she would have to justify herself even against an implied criticism. She did not like him but she could not bear to be underrated or ignored.
“Miss Bolam wasn’t really a suitable administrator for a psychiatric unit. She hadn’t any sympathy with what we’re trying to do here.”
“In what way was she unsympathetic?”
“Well, for one thing, she didn’t like neurotics.” Neither do I, God help me, thought Dalgliesh. Neither do I. But he said nothing and Mrs. Bostock went on: “She was difficult, for example, about paying out some of the patients’ travelling expenses. They only get them if they’re on National Assistance, but we help other cases from the Samaritan fund. We have one girl, a most intelligent person, who comes here twice a week from Surrey to work in the art therapy department. Miss Bolam thought she ought to get treatment nearer home—or go without. Actually she made it pretty plain that, in her view, the patient ought to be discharged to do a job of work, as she put it.”
“She didn’t say this sort of thing to the patient.”
“Oh, no! She was careful enough what she actually said. But I could see that the sensitive ones weren’t at ease with her. Then she was very critical of intensive psychotherapy. It’s a time-consuming procedure. It has to be. Miss Bolam tended to judge a psychiatrist’s worth by the number of patients he saw in a session. But that was less important than her attitude to the patients. There was a reason for it, of course. Her mother was mentally ill and in analysis for years before she died. I understand that she killed herself. Miss Bolam can’t have had an easy time. Naturally she couldn’t allow herself to hate her mother, so she projected her resentment onto the patients here.
“She was subconsciously afraid of her own neurosis, too. That was pretty obvious.”
Dalgliesh did not feel qualified to comment on these theories. He was prepared to believe that there was truth in them but not that Mrs. Bostock had thought them out for herself. Miss Bolam may have irritated the psychiatrists by her lack of sympathy but here, at least, they had a believer.
“Do you know who treated Mrs. Bolam?” he asked. Mrs. Bostock uncrossed her elegant legs and settled herself more comfortably in the chair before deigning to reply.
“I do, as a matter of fact. But I hardly see its relevance to this inquiry.”
“Shall we leave that to me to decide? I can find out quite easily. If you don’t know or aren’t sure, it would save time if you said so.”
“It was Dr. Etherege.”
“And who do you think will be appointed to succeed Miss Bolam?”
“As administrative officer? Really,” said Mrs. Bostock coolly, “I’ve no idea.”
At last the main work of the evening was over for Dalgliesh and Martin. The body had been taken away and the record room sealed. All the clinic staff had been questioned and most of them had left for their homes. Dr. Etherege had been the last doctor to leave and had hung around uneasily for some time after Dalgliesh had said he might go. Mr. Lauder and Peter Nagle were still in the clinic and were waiting together in the hall where two uniformed policemen were on duty. The group secretary had said with quiet determination that he preferred to be on the premises while the police were still there and Nagle could not leave until the front door had been locked and the key handed over since it was his job to open the clinic at eight o’clock on Monday morning.
Dalgliesh and Martin made their last round of the premises together. Watching them at work, a casual observer might have been misled into the facile assumption that Martin was merely a foil for the younger, more successful man. Those at the Yard who knew them both judged differently. In appearance they were certainly unalike. Martin was a big man, nearly six feet and broad-shouldered, and looking, with his open ruddy face, more like a successful farmer than a detective. Dalgliesh was even taller, dark, lean and easy moving. Beside him Martin seemed ponderous. No one watching Dalgliesh at work could fail to recognize his intelligence. With Martin one was less sure. He was ten years older than his chief and it was unlikely now that he would gain further promotion. But he had qualities that made him an admirable detective. He was never tormented by doubt of his own motives. Right and wrong stood for him as immutable as the two poles. He had never wandered in that twilight country where the nuances of evil and good cast their perplexing shadows. He had great determination and infinite patience. He was kind without being sentimental and meticulous for detail without losing sight of the whole. Looking at his career, no one could have called him brilliant. But if he was incapable of high intelligence, he was equally incapable of stupidity. Most police work consists of the boring, repetitive and meticulous checking of detail. Most murders are sordid little crimes bred out of ignorance and despair. It was Martin’s job to help solve them and, patiently and uncensoriously, that is what he did. Faced with the murder at the Steen Clinic with its frightening undertones of a trained intelligence at work, he remained unimpressed. Methodical attention to detail had solved other murders and would solve this one. And murderers, intelligent or subnormal, devious or impulsive, had to be caught. He walked, as was usual, a pace or two behind Dalgliesh and said little. But when he spoke, it was usually to the point.
They went through the building for the last time that evening, starting on the third floor. Here the eighteenth-century rooms had been divided to provide accommodation for psychiatric social workers, psychologists and lay therapists, together with two larger treatment rooms for the use of psychiatrists. There was one pleasant and unconverted room at the front of the building furnished comfortably with easy chairs and a number of small tables. This, apparently, was the rendezvous of the marital-problem group who could enjoy an agreeable view over the square in the intervals of analysing their domestic and sexual incompatibilities. Dalgliesh could understand the chagrin of the absent Mrs. Baumgarten. The room was admirably suited for the art-therapy department.
The more important rooms were on the floor below and here there had been little alteration or adaptation so that ceilings, doors and windows could contribute their own graciousness to the atmosphere of elegance and calm. The Modigliani was out of place in the boardroom but not aggressively so. The smaller medical library next door with its antique bookcases, each bearing the name of the donor, could have been an eighteenth-century gentleman’s library until one looked at the titles on the books. There were low bowls of flowers set on the bookcases and a number of armchairs which looked right together although they had obviously come originally from half a dozen different houses.