They closed the treatment door behind them and went upstairs. Dalgliesh began to be conscious of his tiredness and the stabbing pain behind his eye was now almost continuous. It had not been an easy week and the sherry party, which promised an agreeable, relaxing finish to a busy day, had proved an unsettling preliminary to an even busier night. He wondered briefly where Deborah Riscoe had dined, and with whom. Their meeting now seemed part of a different world. Perhaps because he was tired, he felt none of the confidence with which he usually began a case. He did not seriously believe that the crime would defeat him. Professionally he had never yet known the taste of failure. It was all the more irritating, therefore, to be visited by this vague sensation of inadequacy and unrest. For the first time he felt unsure of his own mastery, as if he were opposed by an intelligence actively working against him and equal to his own. And he did not think that Nurse Bolam had that intelligence.
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.
4
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?”