LITMIR.BIZ

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then went to the room where her husband lay, awaiting his last journey down Whitehall. She was an Anglo-Catholic, so candles burned, small golden plumes, at the head and foot of the coffin. The room, a large one, was massed heavily with flowers. It smelt like a tropical island, but was very cold. A nun from the church that the O’Callaghans attended knelt at a little distance from the coffin. She did not look up when Lady O’Callaghan came in.

      The wife knelt beside her for a moment, crossed herself with a thin vague movement of her hand, and then rose and contemplated her husband.

      Derek O’Callaghan looked impressive. The heavy eyebrows, black hair, jutting nose and thin wide mouth were striking accents in the absolute pallor of his face. His hands, stiffly crossed, obediently fixed a crucifix to the hard curve of his breast. His wife, only a little less pale than he, stared at him. It would have been impossible to guess her thoughts. She simply looked in the direction of the dead face. In the distance a door opened and shut. She turned away from the bier, and walked out of the room.

      In the hall Nash waited gloomily, while a tall, thickly built man handed him hat and umbrella.

      ‘Inspector Fox, my lady.’

      ‘Will you come in here?’

      She took the inspector into the study. Nash had lit the fire, and she held her thin hands towards it.

      ‘Please sit down,’ she murmured. They sat facing each other. Inspector Fox regarded her with respectful attention.

      ‘I asked you to come and see me,’ she began very quietly, ‘because I believe my husband to have been murdered.’

      Fox did not speak for a moment. He sat stockily, very still, looking gravely before him.

      ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Lady O’Callaghan,’ he said at last. ‘It sounds rather serious.’

      Apparently she had met her match in understatement.

      ‘Of course, I should not have called you in unless I had material evidence to put before you. I believe the police are aware of the activities of those persons against whom my husband’s Anarchy Bill was directed?’

      ‘We know a good deal about them.’

      ‘Yes. My husband had received many threatening letters which were believed to come from these people. I wished him to let the police see the letters, but he refused.’

      ‘We were informed of the matter from another source,’ said Fox.

      ‘The Prime Minister, perhaps?’

      Fox regarded her placidly, but did not reply.

      ‘I have the letters here,’ she continued, after a moment, ‘and would like you to read them.’ She took them from the desk and gave them to him.

      Fox took a spectacle case from an inner pocket and put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He looked extremely respectable.

      He read the letters through stolidly, laying them down neatly one on top of the other. When the last was finished, he clasped his enormous hands together and said:

      ‘Yes. That’s the sort of things these people write.’

      ‘Now, will you read these?’

      She gave him the letters from Sir John Phillips and Jane Harden. He read them carefully, in exactly the same way.

      ‘Sir John Phillips is the surgeon who operated upon my husband. I understand the other letter is from a nurse in the hospital.’

      ‘Is that so, Lady O’Callaghan?’ said Fox politely.

      ‘My husband had peritonitis but I believe he died of poisoning. I believe he was poisoned.’

      ‘In view of these letters? These two, or the others?’

      ‘I do not know. I am inclined to regard the personal ones as being more important. They definitely threaten his life.’

      ‘Yes. Very vindictive, they seem to be.’

      ‘I wish to have an inquest.’

      ‘I see,’ said Fox. ‘Now that’s quite a serious matter, Lady O’Callaghan.’

      A faint redness appeared in her cheeks. Another woman would possibly have screamed in his face.

      ‘Of course it is serious,’ she said.

      ‘I mean, if you understand me, that before an order is made for an inquest, the coroner who makes it has to be certain of one or two points. What about the death certificate, for instance?’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Well, was one signed?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘By Sir John Phillips?’

      ‘I don’t know. Possibly. Mr Thoms, the assistant surgeon, may have signed it.’

      ‘Yes. Well, now, Mr Thoms is a well-known surgeon. Sir Derek was a distinguished patient. He would take every care before he signed. I think that would be considered sufficiently conclusive by the coroner.’

      ‘But these threats! I am convinced he was murdered. I shall demand an inquest.’

      Fox stared gravely into the fire.

      ‘Perhaps,’ he said, rather ponderously, ‘perhaps you would like me to ring up the coroner and put the case before him.’

      ‘Certainly, if you will.’

      ‘It would be better if you could tell him, definitely, who signed the certificate.’

      ‘Mr Jameson, my husband’s secretary, may know. He had an appointment with the Prime Minister at three.’

      ‘It’s fifteen minutes to four.’

      ‘I shall ring up the House,’ she said, and did.

      She got Ronald at last and asked her question.

      ‘It was Mr Thoms?’ she said into the telephone. Ronald’s voice quacked audibly in the room. ‘Yes. Thank you. Have you discussed the matter? I see. No, I think not, Mr Jameson; I am communicating directly with the police.’

      She hung up the receiver and informed Fox that Thoms had signed the certificate.

      Inspector Fox then rang up the coroner. He held a long and muffled conversation. The coroner talked a great deal and appeared to be agitated. Lady O’Callaghan listened. Her fingers drummed bonily on the arm of her chair. For her, it was a terrific gesture. At last Fox rang off.

      ‘It’s as I thought,’ he said. ‘He says he cannot interfere.’

      ‘Then I shall go direct to the Prime Minister.’

      He got rather ponderously to his feet.

      ‘I don’t think I’d do that, Lady O’Callaghan—at least not yet. If you’ll allow me to I’d like to talk it over with my superior, Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.’

      ‘Alleyn? I think I’ve heard of him. Isn’t he—’ She paused. Cicely O’Callaghan had nearly dropped a brick. She had been about to say ‘Isn’t he a gentleman?’ She must have been really very much perturbed to come within hail of such a gaffe. Inspector Fox answered her very simply.

      ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he’s rather well known. He’s a very highly educated man. Quite a different type from me, you might say.’

      Again a faint pink tinged her cheeks.

      ‘I’m grateful to you for the trouble you are taking,’ she told him.

      ‘It’s all in the day’s work,’ said Fox. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Lady O’Callaghan, I’ll get along. I’ll speak to the chief at once. If you’re agreeable, I’ll show him the correspondence.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Thank

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