The Nursing Home Murder - Ngaio Marsh

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you.’

      ‘Look here,’ said Jane suddenly. ‘I’ll try and be an honest woman with you. I mean I’ll try and explain what’s inexplicable and pretty humiliating. I told him I wanted to live my own life, experience everything, all that sort of chat. I deceived myself as well as him. In the back of my mind I knew I was simply a fool who had lost her head as well as her heart. Then, when it happened, I realized just how little it meant to him and just how much it meant to me. I knew I ought to keep up the game, shake hands and part friends, and all that. Well—I couldn’t. My pride wanted to, but—I couldn’t. It’s all too grimly commonplace. I “loved and hated” him at the same time. I wanted to keep him, knew I hadn’t a chance, and longed to hurt him. I wrote to him and told him so. It’s a nightmare and it’s still going on. There! Don’t ask me to talk about it again. Leave me alone to get over it as best I may.’

      ‘Couldn’t I help?’

      ‘No. Someone’s coming—be careful.’

      Thoms and Roberts returned and washed up. Roberts went away to give the anæsthetic. Phillips stood and watched his assistant.

      ‘How did your play end?’ he asked suddenly.

      ‘What? Oh. Back to the conversation we first thought of. It ended in doubt. You were left to wonder if the patient died under the anæsthetic, or if the surgeon did him in. As a matter of fact, under the circumstances, no one could have found out. Are you thinking of trying it out on the Home Secretary, sir? I thought you were a pal of his?’

      The mask over Phillips’s face creased as though he were smiling. ‘Given the circumstances,’ he said, ‘I suppose it might be a temptation.’

      He heard a movement behind him and turned to see Nurse Banks regarding him fixedly from the door into the theatre. Sister Marigold appeared behind her, said: ‘If you please, Nurse,’ in a frigid voice, and came through the door.

      ‘Oh, Matron,’ said Phillips abruptly, ‘I have given an injection of hyoscine, as usual. If we find peritonitis, as I think we shall, I shall also inject serum.’

      ‘I remembered the hyoscine, of course, Sir John. The stock solution had been put out, but I saw you had prepared your own injection.’

      ‘Yes, we won’t need the stock solution. Always use my own tablets—like to be sure of the correct dosage. Are we all ready?’

      He went into the theatre.

      ‘Well,’ said Sister Marigold, ‘I’m sure the stock solution is good enough for most people.’

      ‘You can’t be too careful, Matron,’ Thoms assured her genially. ‘Hyoscine’s a ticklish drug, you know.’

      The sickly reek of ether began to drift into the room.

      ‘I must say I don’t quite understand why Sir John is so keen on giving hyoscine.’

      ‘It saves anæsthetic and it has a soothing effect after the operation. I give it myself,’ added Thoms importantly.

      ‘What is the usual dose, sir?’ asked Nurse Banks abruptly.

      ‘From a hundredth to a two-hundredth of a grain, Nurse.’

      ‘As little as that!’

      ‘Oh, yes. I can’t tell you the minimum lethal dose—varies with different cases. A quarter-grain would do anyone in.’

      ‘A quarter of a grain,’ said Nurse Banks thoughtfully. ‘Fancy!’

       CHAPTER 4 Post-operative

       Thursday, the eleventh. Late afternoon.

      Sir John waited in the theatre for his patient.

      The matron, Jane and Nurse Banks came in with Thoms. They stood near the table, a group of robed and expressionless automata. They were silent. The sound of wheels. A trolley appeared with Dr Roberts and the special nurse walking behind it. Dr Roberts held the anæsthetic mask over the patient’s face. On the trolley lay the figure of the Home Secretary. As they lifted it on the table the head spoke suddenly and inconsequently.

      ‘Not today, not today, not today, damn’ the bloody thing,’ it said very rapidly.

      The special nurse went away.

      The reek of ether rose up like incense round the table. Dr Roberts wheeled forward his anæsthetising apparatus, an object that, with its cylinders of compressed gases carried in an iron framework, resembled a gigantic cruet. A low screen was fixed across the patient’s chest to shut off the anæsthetist. Thoms looked at the patient curiously.

      ‘He’s a striking-looking chap, isn’t he?’ he remarked lightly. ‘Curious head. What do you make of it, Roberts? You’re a bit of a dog at that sort of thing, aren’t you? Read your book the other day. There’s insanity somewhere in the racial make-up here, isn’t there? Wasn’t his old man bats?’

      Roberts looked scandalized.

      ‘That is so,’ he said stiffly, ‘but one would hardly expect to find evidence of racial insanity clearly defined in the facial structure, Mr Thoms.’

      The sister arranged the sterile coverings over the abdomen. With the head screened, the patient was no longer an individual. A subject for operation lay on the table—that was all.

      Sir John took up a scalpel and made the first incision.

      ‘Peritonitis, all right,’ said Thoms presently.

      ‘Hal-lo!’ he added a little later. ‘Ruptured abscess. He’s made a job of it.’

      ‘Accounts for the attacks of pain,’ Phillips grunted.

      ‘Of course, sir. Wonder he kept going so long—look there.’

      ‘Nasty mess,’ said Phillips. ‘Good God, Matron, are you deaf? I said forceps.’

      Sister Marigold bridled slightly and gave a genteel cough. There was silence for some time. Sir John’s fingers worked, nervously, inquisitively, and with a kind of delicate assurance.

      ‘The pulse is weak, Sir John,’ said Roberts suddenly.

      ‘Oh? Look at this, Thoms.’

      ‘I don’t like this pulse.’

      ‘What’s the matter, Roberts? Pulse?’

      ‘Yes. It’s rather weak. I don’t like his looks. Get me an injection of camphor, will you, Nurse?’

      Nurse Banks filled the second small hypodermic syringe and brought it to him.

      ‘Give it, Nurse, at once, please.’

      She did so.

      ‘Serum,’ grunted Phillips.

      ‘Serum, Nurse Harden,’ murmured the sister.

      Jane crossed to the table of apparatus. There was a little delay.

      ‘Well—well, where is it?’ asked Phillips impatiently.

      ‘Nurse!’ called Thoms angrily. ‘What are you doing?’

      ‘I’m sorry—but—’

      ‘It’s the large syringe,’ said Nurse Banks.

      ‘Very well,’ said Jane faintly.

      She bent over the table.

      Phillips finished sewing up the incision.

      ‘Nurse,’ repeated Thoms, ‘will you bring me that syringe? What’s the matter with you?’

      An agitated drop appeared on the end of his nose. Sister Marigold cast an expert glance at it and wiped it off with a piece of gauze.

      Jane

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