Suddenly she was shaking in his arms and he felt the warm wetness of her tears stinging his face.
“I thought you meant to go without me. The days went by and you never said anything. Of course, I want to come. I don’t care what happens as long as we’re together. But we can’t get married. I never told you because I was afraid you’d be angry and you’ve never asked me anything about myself. I can’t get married because I’m married already.”
The car had turned into Vauxhall Bridge Road but traffic was heavy and they were making poor time. Dalgliesh sat back in his seat, as if all day were before him, but inwardly he was fidgeting with anxiety. He could discover no rational cause for this impatience. The call at the Steen was merely speculative. The chances were that Nagle, if indeed he had called at the clinic, would have left before they arrived. Probably he was even now putting down his evening pint in some Pimlico pub. At the next corner the traffic lights were against them and the car slowed to a halt for the third time in a hundred yards.
Suddenly Martin said: “He couldn’t have got away with it for long, even by killing Bolam. Sooner or later Mrs. Fenton—or another victim maybe—would have turned up at the Steen.”
Dalgliesh replied: “But he might well have got away with it for long enough to take up the Bollinger. And even if the blackmailing came to light before he got away—what could we prove? What can we prove now, come to that? With Bolam dead what jury could be sure beyond reasonable doubt that she wasn’t the blackmailer? Nagle’s only got to say that he remembers seeing the odd envelope addressed in green ink and that he placed it with the AO’s post. Fenton will confirm that he thought the telephone calls came from a woman. And blackmailers do occasionally come to a violent end. Nagle wouldn’t go on with it after Mrs. Fenton’s call. Even that would help his case. Bolam dies and the blackmailing stops. Oh, I know all the arguments against it! But what can anyone prove?”
Martin said stolidly: “He’ll try to be too clever. They always do. The girl’s under his thumb, of course, poor little devil. If she sticks to her story that he wasn’t alone long enough to make that call …”
“She’ll stick all right, Sergeant.”
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know about the husband. If she looks dangerous, he probably thinks that he can stop her tongue by marrying her.”
Dalgliesh said quietly: “What we’ve got to do is to pull him in before he finds out that he can’t.”
In the porters’ room at the Steen, Nagle was writing a letter. He wrote easily. The glib and lying phrases flowed with unexpected ease. He would have died rather than send such a letter. It would have been unbearable to think that any eyes could see this spate of emotional claptrap and recognize it as his. But the letter never would be read except by Jenny. Within thirty minutes it would be thrust into the boiler, its purpose served and the oily phrases only an uncomfortable memory. In the meantime he might as well make it convincing. It was easy enough to guess what Jenny would want him to say. He turned over the paper and wrote:
By the time you read this we shall be in France together. I know that this will cause you very great unhappiness, but please believe me when I say that we can’t live without each other. I know that one day we shall be free to marry. Until then Jenny will be safe with me and I shall spend my life trying to make her happy. Please try to understand and to forgive.
It was a good ending, he thought. It would appeal to Jenny, anyway, and no one else was going to see it. He called to her and pushed the paper across the table.
“Will this do?”
She read it in silence. “I suppose so.”
“Damn it all, kid, what’s wrong with it?” He felt a surge of anger that his careful effort should be found inadequate. He had expected, and had braced himself to meet, her astonished gratitude.
She said quietly: “Nothing’s wrong with it.”
“You’d better write your bit then. Not on the end. Take a fresh sheet.”
He slid the paper across the table at her, not meeting her eyes. This was taking time and he could not be sure how much time there was.
“Better make it short,” he said. She took up the pen but made no effort to write.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“There isn’t much you need say. I’ve said it all.”
“Yes,” she said with great sadness. “You’ve said it all.”
He kept the rising irritation from his voice and told her: “Just write that you’re sorry to cause them unhappiness but you can’t help yourself. Something like that. Damn it all, you’re not going to the end of the world. It’s up to them. If they want to see you, I shan’t stop them. Don’t pile the agony on too much. I’m going upstairs to mend that lock in Miss Saxon’s room. When I come down, we’re going to celebrate. There’s only beer, but tonight you’ll drink beer, my darling, and like it.”
He took a screwdriver from the tool box and went out quickly before she had time to protest. His last glimpse was of her frightened face staring after him. But she didn’t call him back.
Upstairs it was a moment’s work only to slip on a pair of rubber gloves and prise open the door of the dangerous-drugs cupboard. It gave with a terrifyingly loud crack so that he stood rooted for a moment half expecting to hear her call. But there was no sound. He remembered clearly that scene some six months ago when one of Dr. Baguley’s patients had become violent and disorientated. Nagle had helped to control him while Baguley had called to Sister for paraldehyde. Nagle recalled the words.
“We’ll give it in beer. It’s pretty filthy stuff but they can hardly taste it in beer. Odd that. Two drams, Sister, to 2 cc.”
And Jenny, who disliked beer, would taste it even less. Quickly he put the screwdriver and the small blue bottle of paraldehyde in his jacket pocket and slipped out, lighting his way with the torch. All the clinic curtains were drawn, but it was important to show as little light as possible. He needed at least another undisturbed half-hour.
She looked up in surprise at his quick reappearance. He went over to her and kissed the back of her neck.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, I shouldn’t have left you. I’d forgotten that you might be nervous. The lock can wait, anyway. How’s the letter going?”
She pushed it over to him. He turned his back on her to read the few carefully penned lines deliberately, taking his time. But his luck had held. It was as neat and convincing a suicide note as was ever read in a coroner’s court. He couldn’t have dictated anything better. He felt a surge of confidence and excitement as he did when a painting was going well. Nothing could spoil it now. Jenny had written:
I can’t say I’m sorry for what I’ve done. I haven’t any choice. I feel so happy and it would all be perfect if I didn’t know that I’m making you miserable. But it’s the only and best thing for me. Please try to understand. I love you very much. Jenny.
He put the letter back on the table and went to pour out the beer, his actions hidden by the open door of the cupboard. God, the stuff did stink! Quickly he added the foaming light ale and called to her.
“Are you happy?”
“You know I am.”
“Then let’s drink to it. To us, darling.”
“To us.”