A Mind to Murder (12 page)

She was followed by a very different witness. Miss Ruth Kettle had apparently decided that the murder was none of her affair and, although she was willing to answer Dalgliesh’s questions, it was with a vague lack of interest which suggested that her thoughts were on higher things. There is only a limited number of words to express horror and surprise and the clinic staff had used most of them during the evening. Miss Kettle’s reaction was less orthodox. She gave her opinion that the murder was peculiar… really very odd indeed, and sat blinking at Dalgliesh through her thick spectacles in gentle bewilderment as if she did indeed find it odd, but hardly sufficiently odd to be worth discussing at length. But at least two pieces of information which she was able to give were interesting. Dalgliesh could only hope that they were reliable.

She had been vague about her own movements during the evening, but Dalgliesh’s persistence elicited that she had been interviewing the wife of one of the E.C.T. patients until about twenty to six when Sister had telephoned to say that the patient was ready to be taken home. Miss Kettle had walked downstairs with her client, said “good night” in the hall, and had then gone straight down to the record-room to fetch a file. She had found the room in perfect order and had locked it after her. Despite her gentle incertitude about most of the evening’s activities she was positive about the time. In any case, thought Dalgliesh, it could probably be verified by Sister Ambrose. The second clue was more nebulous and Miss Kettle mentioned it with apparent indifference to its importance. Some half-hour after returning to her room on the second floor she had heard the unmistakable sound of the service lift thumping to a stop.

Dalgliesh was tired now. Despite the central heating he felt spasms of cold and recognized the familiar malaise that preceded an attack of neuralgia. The right side of his face already felt stiff and heavy, and the needling pain was beginning to stab spasmodically behind his eyeball. But his last witness was here.

Mrs. Bostock, the senior medical stenographer, had none of the doctors’ tolerant acceptance of a long wait. She was angry and her anger came into the room with her like a chill wind. She seated herself without speaking, crossed a pair of long and remarkably shapely legs, and looked at Dalgliesh with frank dislike in her pale eyes. She had a striking and unusual head. Her long hair, golden as a guinea, was coiled in intricate folds above a pale, arrogant, sharp-nosed face. With her long neck, poised, colourful head and slightly protuberant eyes, she looked like some exotic bird. Dalgliesh had difficulty in concealing his shock when he saw her hands. They were as huge, red and raw-boned as the hands of a butcher and looked as if they had been incongruously grafted on to the slim wrists by some malignant fate. It was almost a deformity. She made no attempt to conceal them, but her nails were short and she wore no polish. She had a beautiful figure and was well and expensively dressed, an object lesson in the art of minimizing one’s defects and emphasizing one’s advantages. She probably lived her life, thought Dalgliesh, on much the same principle.

She gave details of her movements since six o’clock that evening briefly and with no apparent reluctance. She had last seen Miss Bolam at six o’clock when, as was usual, she had taken in the post for the administrative officer to sign. There were only five letters. Most of the post consisted of medical reports and letters to general practitioners from the psychiatrists and Miss Bolam was not, of course, concerned with these. All the outgoing mail was registered in the post book either by Mrs. Bostock or Miss Priddy, and was then taken across the road by Nagle to catch the six-thirty from the pillar-box. Miss Bolam had seemed her usual self at six o’clock. She had signed her own letters and Mrs. Bostock had returned to the general office, handed them with the doctors’ post to Miss Priddy, and had then gone upstairs to take dictation from Dr. Etherege for the last hour of the day. It was an understood thing that she helped Dr. Etherege on Friday evenings for one hour with his research project. She and the medical director had been together except for a few short periods. Sister rang at about seven o’clock with the news of Miss Bolam’s death. As she and Dr. Etherege left the consulting-room they met Miss Saxon who was just leaving. She went down to the basement with the medical directors. Mrs. Bostock, at Dr. Etherege’s request, had gone to join Cully at the front door to ensure that the instructions were followed about no one leaving the building. She had stayed with Cully until the party from the basement appeared and they had then all collected in the waiting-room to await the arrival of the police, except for the two porters who remained on duty in the hall.

“You said that you were with Dr. Etherege from just after six onwards except for short periods. What were you both doing?”

“We were both working, naturally.” Mrs. Bostock managed to suggest that the question had been both stupid and a little vulgar. “Dr. Etherege is writing a paper on the treatment of twin schizophrenic women by psycho-analysis. As I said, it has been agreed that I shall assist him for one hour on Friday evenings. That is quite inadequate for his needs, but Miss Bolam took the view that the work wasn’t strictly a clinic concern and that Dr. Etherege should do it in his own consulting-room with the help of his private secretary. Naturally that’s impossible. All the material, including some on tape, is here. My part of the job is varied. For some of the time I take dictation. Sometimes I work in the little office typing directly from the tape. Sometimes I look up references in the staff library.”

“And what did you do this evening?”

“I took dictation for about thirty minutes. Then I went into the adjoining office and worked from the tape. Dr. Etherege rang for me to come in at about ten to seven. We were working together when the phone rang.”

“That would mean that you were with Dr. Etherege taking dictation until about six-thirty-five.”

“Presumably.”

“And for the whole of that time you were together?”

“I think Dr. Etherege went out for a minute or so to verify a reference.”

“Why should you be uncertain, Mrs. Bostock? Either he did or he didn’t.”

“Naturally, Inspector. As you say, either he did or he didn’t. But there is no reason why I should particularly remember. This evening was in no way remarkable. My impression is that he did go out for a short time but I really couldn’t recall exactly when. I expect he may be able to help you.”

Suddenly Dalgliesh changed the course of questioning. He paused for a full half-minute and then asked quietly:

“Did you like Miss Bolam, Mrs. Bostock?”

It was not a welcome question. Under the patina of makeup he saw a flush of anger or embarrassment die along her neck.

“She wan’t an easy person to like. I tried to be loyal to her.”

“By loyal you mean, no doubt, that you tried to smooth down rather than exacerbate her difficulties with the medical staff and refrained from any overt criticism of her as an administrator?”

The tinge of sarcasm in his voice awoke, as was intended, all her latent hostility. Behind the mask of hauteur and detachment he glimpsed the insecure schoolgirl. He knew that she would have to justify herself even against an implied criticism. She did not like him but she could not bear to be underrated or ignored.

“Miss Bolam wasn’t really a suitable administrator for a psychiatric unit. She hadn’t any sympathy with what we’re trying to do here.”

“In what way was she unsympathetic?”

“Well, for one thing, she didn’t like neurotics.”

“Neither do I, God help me,” thought Dalgliesh. “Neither do I.” But he said nothing and Mrs. Bostock went on:

“She was difficult, for example, about paying out some of the patients’ travelling expenses. They only get them if they’re on National Assistance, but we help other cases from the Samaritan Fund. We have one girl, a most intelligent person, who comes here twice a week from Surrey to work in the art therapy department. Miss Bolam thought she ought to get treatment nearer home—or go without. Actually she made it pretty plain that, in her view, the patient ought to be discharged to do a job of work, as she put it.”

“She didn’t say this sort of thing to the patient.”

“Oh, no! She was careful enough what she actually said. But I could see that the sensitive ones weren’t at ease with her. Then she was very critical of intensive psychotherapy. It’s a time-consuming procedure. It has to be. Miss Bolam tended to judge a psychiatrist’s worth by the number of patients he saw in a session. But that was less important than her attitude to the patients. There was a reason for it, of course. Her mother was mentally ill and in analysis for years before she died. I understand that she killed herself. Miss Bolam can’t have had an easy time. Naturally she couldn’t allow herself to hate her mother, so she projected her resentment on to the patients here. She was subconsciously afraid of her own neurosis too. That was pretty obvious.”

Dalgliesh did not feel qualified to comment on these theories. He was prepared to believe that there was truth in them but not that Mrs. Bostock had thought them out for herself. Miss Bolam may have irritated the psychiatrists by her lack of sympathy, but here at least, they had a believer.

“Do you know who treated Mrs. Bolam?” he asked.

Mrs. Bostock uncrossed her elegant legs and settled herself more comfortably in the chair before deigning to reply.

“I do, as a matter of fact. But I hardly see its relevance to this inquiry.”

“Shall we leave that to me to decide? I can find out quite easily. If you don’t know or aren’t sure it would save time if you said so.”

“It was Dr. Etherege.”

“And who do you thing will be appointed to succeed Miss Bolam?”

“As administrative officer? Really,” said Mrs. Bostock coolly, “I’ve no idea.”

At last the main work of the evening was over for Dalgliesh and Martin. The body had been taken away and the record-room sealed. All the clinic staff had been questioned and most of them had left for their homes. Dr. Etherege had been the last doctor to leave and had hung around uneasily for some time after Dalgliesh had said he might go. Mr. Lauder and Peter Nagle were still in the clinic and were waiting together in the hall where two uniformed policemen were on duty. The group secretary had said with quiet determination that he preferred to be on the premises while the police were still there, and Nagle could not leave until the front door had been locked and the key handed over since it was his job to open the clinic at eight o’clock on Monday morning.

Dalgliesh and Martin made their last round of the premises together. Watching them at work a casual observer might have been misled into the facile assumption that Martin was merely a foil for the younger, more successful man. Those at the Yard who knew them both judged differently. In appearance they were certainly unalike. Martin was a big man, nearly six feet and broad-shouldered and looking, with his open ruddy face, more like a successful farmer than a detective. Dalgliesh was even taller, dark, lean and easy moving. Beside him Martin seemed ponderous. No one watching Dalgliesh at work could fail to recognize his intelligence. With Martin one was less sure. He was ten years older than his chief and it was unlikely now that he would gain further promotion. But he had qualities that made him an admirable detective. He was never tormented by doubt of his own motives. Right and wrong stood for him as immutable as the two poles. He had never wandered in that twilight country where the nuances of evil and good cast their perplexing shadows. He had great determination and infinite patience. He was kind without being sentimental and meticulous for detail without losing sight of the whole. Looking at his career, no one could have called him brilliant. But if he was incapable of high intelligence he was equally incapable of stupidity. Most police work consists of the boring, repetitive and meticulous checking of detail. Most murders are sordid little crimes bred out of ignorance and despair. It was Martin’s job to help solve them and, patiently and uncensoriously, that is what he did. Faced with the murder at the Steen Clinic with its frightening undertones of a trained intelligence at work, he remained unimpressed. Methodical attention to detail had solved other murders and would solve this one. And murderers, intelligent or subnormal, devious or impulsive had to be caught. He walked, as was usual, a pace or two behind Dalgliesh and said little. But when he spoke it was usually to the point.

They went through the building for the last time that evening, starting on the third floor. Here the eighteenth-century rooms had been divided to provide accommodation for psychiatric social workers, psychologists and lay therapists, together with two larger treatment-rooms for the use of psychiatrists. There was one pleasant and unconverted room at the front of the building furnished comfortably with easy chairs and a number of small tables. This, apparently, was the rendezvous of the marital problem group who could enjoy an agreeable view over the square in the intervals of analysing their domestic and sexual incompatibilities. Dalgliesh could understand the chagrin of the absent Mrs. Baumgarden. The room was admirably suited for the art therapy department.

The more important rooms were on the floor below and here there had been little alteration or adaptation so that ceilings, doors and windows could contribute their own graciousness to the atmosphere of elegance and calm. The Modigliani was out of place in the boardroom but not aggressively so. The smaller medical library next door with its antique bookcases, each bearing the name of the donor, could have been an eighteenth-century gentleman’s library until one looked at the titles on the books. There were low bowls of flowers set on the bookcases and a number of armchairs which looked right together although they had obviously come originally from half a dozen different houses.

On this floor, too, the medical director had his consulting-room and it was one of the most elegant in the clinic. The treatment couch, which stood against the far wall, was the same pattern as that in each of the other psychiatrists’ rooms, a low single divan, covered in chintz and with a red blanket folded at its foot and one pillow. But no H.M.C. had provided the rest of the furniture. The eighteenth-century desk was uncluttered by cardboard calendars or stationery office diaries and held merely a leather-bound blotter, a silver inkstand and a tray for papers. There were two leather armchairs and a mahogany corner cupboard. It appeared that the medical director collected old prints and was particularly interested in mezzotints and eighteenth-century engravings. Dalgliesh inspected a collection of works by James McArdell and Valentine Green, arranged on each side of the chimney-piece, and noted that Dr. Etherege’s patients unburdened their subconscious beneath a couple of fine lithographs by Hullmandel. He reflected that the unknown clinic thief might have been a gentleman if Cully’s opinion was to be trusted, but he was certainly no connoisseur. It was more typical of the small-time professional to neglect two Hullmandels for fifteen pounds in cash. It was certainly a pleasant room, proclaiming its owner as a man with taste and the money to indulge it, the room of a man who sees no reason why his working life should be spent in less agreeable surroundings than his leisure. And yet it was not wholly successful. Somewhere there was a lack. The elegance was a little too contrived, the good taste a little too orthodox. Dalgliesh felt that a patient might well be happier in the warm, untidy, oddly-shaped cell upstairs where Fredrica Saxon worked in a litter of papers, pot-plants and the paraphernalia of tea-brewing. Despite the engravings the room lacked the nuances of personality. In that it was somehow typical of its owner. Dalgliesh was reminded of a recent conference which he had attended on mental illness and the law at which Dr. Etherege had been one of the speakers. At the time his paper had seemed a model of felicitous wisdom; afterwards Dalgliesh was unable accurately to recall a single word.