‘But that’s preposterous, quite preposterous!’ exploded Rolfe. ‘What is it you’re suggesting? That one of us toddled up to our bedroom then at once slipped out of the house again in the howling snowstorm and took a potshot at the Colonel?’
‘Somebody, Doctor, somebody took a potshot at the Colonel. Surely you would agree it could hardly have been other than the same somebody, the same fiendishly clever somebody, who took a potshot at Raymond Gentry inside a locked attic room?’
Since nobody seemed to have any plausible counter-argument to offer, he took their silence as meaning that they did all agree and continued:
‘Now – to come back to what’s to be done about the Colonel’s present condition. Here we have you, Rolfe, one of the potential suspects – no more, I grant you, but also no less than anybody else in this room – here we have you telling me, cool as you please, that you’d like to have him carried up to his bedroom, where you would then give him an injection. That of course sounds all very right and proper, except that, as you must see, it would scarcely be advisable for me, even under circumstances as extraordinary as these, to let one of the suspects in a murder case inject some unknown fluid into the body of one of the murderer’s victims. Especially as the very first question I shall naturally want to put to the Colonel when he regains consciousness is whether he saw and, more to the point, recognised his assailant.
‘Answer me, Doctor,’ he said imperiously. ‘In your opinion as a professional man, just as I am in my own field, am I being unreasonable?’
Rolfe appeared initially to be on the point of making a protest. But when he did reply, it was in his usual cold, calm voice.
‘No, Trubshawe, you aren’t being unreasonable, save in a single respect.’
‘And what is that?’
‘You yourself have just described the person who murdered Gentry and – we must assume – also tried to murder the Colonel as a fiendishly clever fellow. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘Now, I ask you, how clever would it be of me to announce to all of you here – including a retired Scotland Yard detective – that I was going to give Roger a harmless injection then actually proceed to give him a lethal one? If anything were then to happen to the Colonel, as surely you can see, instead of a nice, juicy array of suspects, there’d be only one – yours truly.’
‘Quite so,’ said Trubshawe, ‘quite so. That’s exactly what I expected you to say. And it’s a line of argumentation I have just one problem with.
‘Not being a medical man myself, I would never be able to prove – to prove, Dr Rolfe, for where the law is concerned suspicion is nothing without proof – that such an injection was in fact responsible for inducing the – well, let’s say the seeming heart attack to which the Colonel might later succumb.
‘If a fatal heart attack were the outcome, it would of course look very bad for you. But, I repeat, I myself don’t know enough about these matters to be sure that such an effect could positively and conclusively be traced back to such a cause. And, frankly, I don’t fancy finding myself in that position, even though I’m here in an informal capacity. My duty hasn’t changed, and I’d be derelict in that duty if I simply said to you, yes, go ahead, give him the shot, do as you think best. I’m sorry, but you must see the position I find myself in.’
Rolfe pondered this for a few minutes, glanced over at the Colonel lying stretched out on the couch, insensible to the argument which was raging about him, then once more addressed the Chief-Inspector.
‘Yes, that all makes sense. But I too find myself in an awkward position. Whatever may be your doubts and misgivings, Trubshawe, I know what’s right for my patient, and Roger is, and has been for many years, my patient, not yours. He must – I repeat, he must – be given morphine at once. If not, I cannot answer for the consequences. There might at the very least be a dangerously prolonged reaction to the physiological and psychological shock he’s already suffered.’
He turned to Mary ffolkes, who had been intently following the debate.
‘Mary, my dear,’ he said, ‘I’m going to have to leave the decision in your hands.’
‘My hands?’
‘The question is – do you trust me?’
‘Trust you? Well, I … well, of course … Of course I trust you, Henry. You know I do.’
‘No,’ said Rolfe unexpectedly.
‘No? But I just said yes.’
‘No, Mary, I’m afraid that, in this case, that kind of hesitantly polite nod of approval isn’t enough.’
‘Oh dear, why must everything be so complicated?’
‘Answer me yes or no, Mary,’ said Rolfe. ‘Do you trust me to give Roger the injection I’m convinced he needs if we hope to prevent an adverse metabolic reaction?’
Even though the look Mary ffolkes afforded him, one born of a long friendship, had already soundlessly answered his question, she also said in a voice designed to dispel any further doubt:
‘Yes, of course I do, Henry. Please give Roger your full attention.’
While Madge Rolfe discreetly squeezed her wrist in thanks, the Colonel’s wife now spoke to Trubshawe.
‘Chief-Inspector, I do understand your caution – indeed, I’m grateful for it – but I’ve known Henry Rolfe for many years both as a doctor and as a friend and I have no hesitation in entrusting my husband to his care. You will please allow him to go ahead.’
The policeman knew when he was beaten.
‘Very well, Mrs ffolkes, I bow to you in this instance. It goes against all my professional instincts, but so be it. Your husband’s health must come first.
‘So,’ he then said to Rolfe, ‘now that that’s settled, what’s to be done?’
‘First thing,’ said Rolfe, ‘is for one of you women to boil water – and plenty of it!’
‘Boil water?’ exclaimed Cora Rutherford. ‘You know, Henry, I’ve often wondered why, whatever the ailment, you doctors always insist on having water boiled. What on earth do you get up to with the stuff?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ cried an exasperated Rolfe. ‘Can’t you just do what you’re told to do and stop asking imbecilic questions!’
He turned to his wife.
‘Madge? You I can rely on, can’t I? Well, hot water – at once.’
Then to Trubshawe:
‘We men, meanwhile, have to get Roger into his bed. Perhaps you and Don could help me carry him up to the bedroom?’
‘Right. Let’s get started, Don.’
Mary ffolkes endeavoured to raise herself to her feet.
‘No, no,’ said Trubshawe, wagging a finger at her, ‘this time, Mrs ffolkes, you’re following my orders. You’ve had a shock, you know, and you need as much rest as the Colonel does. And – and, well, I may as well tell you this now – there’s something else I’m going to have to insist on.’
‘You frighten me, Mr Trubshawe,’ said Mary ffolkes feebly.
‘There’s no cause for that. All I was going to say was that, once your husband is comfortably settled, once he’s had the, er, the knock-out potion, which should put him out for – for how long, Rolfe?’
‘Oh, a good five or six hours.’
‘Once he’s out, I shall have to insist on locking the bedroom door.’
‘I say, Inspector,’ said the Vicar, ‘that seems rather a drastic measure. Is it really necessary?’
‘I think it is,’ replied Trubshawe. ‘After all, everybody’s still a suspect and somebody has tried to kill the Colonel once already and I just don’t believe his room should be left open to all comers.’