Unnatural death
questions, and I’ve no real excuse, I’m afraid, for butting in on you—do
you ever read the _News of the World_?”
Nurse Philliter decided that she was to be asked to go to a mental case,
and that the patient had come to fetch her in person.
“Sometimes,” she said, guardedly.
“Oh—well, you may have noticed my name croppin’ up in a few murders and
things lately. I sleuth, you know. For a hobby. Harmless outlet for
natural inquisitiveness, don’t you see, which might otherwise strike
inward and produce introspection an’ suicide. Very natural, healthy
pursuit—not too strenuous, not too sedentary; trains and invigorates the
mind.”
“I know who you are now,” said Nurse Philliter, slowly. “You—you gave
evidence against Sir Julian Freke. In fact, you traced the murder to
him, didn’t you?”
“I did—it was rather unpleasant,” said Lord Peter, simply, “and I’ve got
another little job of the same kind in hand now, and I want your help.”
“Won’t you sit down?” said Nurse Philliter, setting the example. “How am
I concerned in the matter?”
“You know Dr. Edward Carr, I think—late of Leahampton—conscientious but
a little lackin’ in worldly wisdom—not serpentine at all, as the Bible
advises, but far otherwise.”
“What!” she cried, “do _you_ believe it was murder, then?”
Lord Peter looked at her for a few seconds. Her face was eager, her eyes
gleaming curiously under her thick, level brows. She had expressive
hands, rather large and with strong, flat joints. He noticed how they
gripped the arms of her chair.
“Haven’t the faintest,” he replied, nonchalantly, “but I wanted your
opinion.”
“Mine?”—she checked herself. “You know, I am not supposed to give
opinions about my cases.”
“You have given it to me already,” said his lordship, grinning. “Though
possibly I ought to allow for a little prejudice in favour of Dr. Carr’s
diagnosis.”
“Well, yes—but it’s not merely personal. I mean, my being engaged to Dr.
Carr wouldn’t affect my judgment of a cancer case. I have worked with
him on a great many of them, and I know that his opinion is really
trustworthy—just as I know that, as a motorist, he’s exactly the
opposite.”
“Right. I take it that if he says the death was inexplicable, it really
was so. That’s one point gained. Now about the old lady herself. I
gather she was a little queer towards the end—a bit mental, I think you
people call it?”
“I don’t know that I’d say that either. Of course, when she was under
morphia, she would be unconscious, or only semi-conscious, for hours
together. But up to the time when I left, I should say she was
quite—well, quite all there. She was obstinate, you know, and what they
call a character, at the best of times.”
“But Dr. Carr told me she got odd fancies—about people poisoning her?”
The red-haired nurse rubbed her fingers slowly along the arm of the
chair, and hesitated.
“If it will make you feel any less unprofessional,” said Lord Peter,
guessing what was in her mind, “I may say that my friend
Detective-Inspector Parker is looking into this matter with me, which
gives me a sort of right to ask questions.”
“In that case—yes—in that case I think I can speak freely. I never
understood about that poisoning idea. I never saw anything of it—no
aversion, I mean, or fear of me. As a rule, a patient will show it, if
she’s got any queer ideas about the nurse. Poor Miss Dawson was always
most kind and affectionate. She kissed me when I went away and gave me a
little present, and said she was sorry to lose me.”
“She didn’t show any sort of nervousness about taking food from you?”
“Well, I wasn’t allowed to give her any food that last week. Miss
Whittaker said her aunt had taken this funny notion, and gave her all
her meals herself.”
“Oh! that’s very interestin’. Was it Miss Whittaker, then, who first
mentioned this little eccentricity to you?”
“Yes. And she begged me not to say anything about it to Miss Dawson, for
fear of agitating her.”
“And did you?”
“I did not. I wouldn’t mention it in any case to a patient. It does no
good.”
“Did Miss Dawson ever speak about it to anyone else? Dr. Carr, for
instance?”
“No. According to Miss Whittaker, her aunt was frightened of the doctor
too, because she imagined he was in league with me. Of course, that
story rather lent colour to the unkind things that were said afterwards.
I suppose it’s just possible that she saw us glancing at one another or
speaking aside, and got the idea that we were plotting something.”
“How about the maids?”
“There were new maids about that time. She probably wouldn’t talk about
it to them, and anyhow, I wouldn’t be discussing my patient with her
servants.”
“Of course not. Why did the other maids leave? How many were there? Did
they all go at once?”
“Two of them went. They were sisters. One was a terrible
crockery-smasher, and Miss Whittaker gave her notice, so the other left
with her.”
“Ah, well! one can have too much of seeing the Crown Derby rollin’ round
the floor. Quite. Then it had nothing to do with—it wasn’t on account of
any little—”
“It wasn’t because they couldn’t get along with the nurse, if you mean
that,” said Nurse Philliter, with a smile. “They were very obliging
girls, but not very bright.”
“Quite. Well, now, is there any little odd, out-of-the-way incident you
can think of that might throw light on the thing. There was a visit from
a lawyer, I believe, that agitated your patient quite a lot. Was that in
your time?”
“No. I only heard about it from Dr. Carr. And he never heard the name of
the lawyer, what he came about, or anything.”
“A pity,” said his lordship. “I have been hoping great things of the
lawyer. There’s such a sinister charm, don’t you think, about lawyers
who appear unexpectedly with little bags, and alarm people with
mysterious conferences, and then go away leaving urgent messages that if
anything happens they are to be sent for. If it hadn’t been for the
lawyer, I probably shouldn’t have treated Dr. Carr’s medical problem
with the respect it deserves. He never came again, or wrote, I suppose?”
“I don’t know. Wait a minute. I do remember one thing. I remember Miss
Dawson having another hysterical attack of the same sort, and saying
just what she said then—‘that they were trying to kill her before her
time.’”
“When was that?”
“Oh, a couple of weeks before I left. Miss Whittaker had been up to her
with the post, I think, and there were some papers of some kind to sign,
and it seems to have upset her. I came in from my walk and found her in
a dreadful state. The maids could have told you more about it than I
could, really, for they were doing some dusting on the landing at the
time and heard her going on, and they ran down and fetched me up to her.
I didn’t ask them about what happened myself, naturally—it doesn’t do
for nurses to gossip with the maids behind their employers’ backs. Miss
Whittaker said that her aunt had had an annoying communication from a
solicitor.”
“Yes, it sounds as though there might be something there. Do you
remember what the maids were called?”
“What was the name now? A funny one, or I shouldn’t remember it—Gotobed,
that was it—Bertha and Evelyn Gotobed. I don’t know where they went, but
I daresay you could find out.”
“Now one last question, and I want you to forget all about Christian
kindliness and the law of slander when you answer it. What is Miss
Whittaker like?”
An indefinable expression crossed the nurse’s face.
“Tall, handsome, very decided in manner,” she said, with an air of doing
strict justice against her will, “an extremely competent nurse—she was
at the Royal Free, you know, till she went to live with her aunt. I
think she would have made a perfectly wonderful theatre nurse. She did
not like me, nor I her, you know, Lord Peter—and it’s better I should be
telling you so at once, that way you can take everything I say about her
with a grain of charity added—but we both knew good hospital work when
we saw it, and respected one another.”
“Why in the world didn’t she like you, Miss Philliter? I really don’t
know when I’ve seen a more likeable kind of person, if you’ll ’scuse my
mentionin’ it.”
“I don’t know.” The nurse seemed a little embarrassed. “The dislike
seemed to grow on her. You—perhaps you heard the kind of things people
said in the town? when I left?—that Dr. Carr and I—Oh! it really was
damnable, and I had the most dreadful interview with Matron when I got
back here. She _must_ have spread those stories. Who else could have
done it?”
“Well—you _did_ become engaged to Dr. Carr, didn’t you?” said his
lordship, gently. “Mind you, I’m not sayin’ it wasn’t a very agreeable
occurrence and all that, but—”
“But she said I neglected the patient. I _never_ did. I wouldn’t think
of such a thing.”
“Of course not. No. But, do you suppose that possibly getting engaged
was an offence in itself? Is Miss Whittaker engaged to anyone, by the
way?”
“No. You mean, was she jealous? I’m sure Dr. Carr never gave the
slightest, not the _slightest_—”
“Oh, _please_,” cried Lord Peter, “please don’t be ruffled. Such a nice
word, ruffled—like a kitten, I always think—so furry and nice. But even
without the least what-d’ye-call-it on Dr. Carr’s side, he’s a very
prepossessin’ person and all that. Don’t you think there _might_ be
something in it?”
“I did think so once,” admitted Miss Philliter, “but afterwards, when
she got him into such awful trouble over the post-mortem, I gave up the
idea.”
“But she didn’t object to the post-mortem?”
“She did not. But there’s such a thing as putting yourself in the right
in the eyes of your neighbours, Lord Peter, and then going off to tell
people all about it at Vicarage tea-parties. I wasn’t there, but you ask
someone who was. I know those tea-parties.”
“Well, it’s not impossible. People can be very spiteful if they think
they’ve been slighted.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Nurse Philliter, thoughtfully. “But,” she
added suddenly, “that’s no motive for murdering a perfectly innocent old
lady.”
“That’s the second time you’ve used that word,” said Wimsey, gravely.
“There’s no proof yet that it was murder.”
“I know that.”
“But you think it was?”
“I do.”
“And you think she did it?”
“Yes.”
Lord Peter walked across to the aspidistra in the bow-window and stroked
its leaves thoughtfully. The silence was broken by a buxom nurse who,
entering precipitately first and knocking afterwards, announced with a
giggle:
“Excuse me, I’m sure, but you’re in request this afternoon, Philliter.
Here’s Dr. Carr come for you.”
Dr. Carr followed hard upon his name. The sight of Wimsey struck him
speechless.
“I told you I’d be turnin’ up again before long,” said Lord Peter,
cheerfully. “Sherlock is my name and Holmes is my nature. I’m delighted
to see you, Dr. Carr. Your little matter is well in hand, and seein’ I’m
not required any longer I’ll make a noise like a bee and buzz off.”
“How did _he_ get here?” demanded Dr. Carr, not altogether pleased.
“Didn’t you send him? I think he’s very nice,” said Nurse Philliter.
“He’s mad,” said Dr. Carr.
“He’s clever,” said the red-haired nurse.
CHAPTER V
Gossip
“_With vollies of eternal babble._”
Butler, _Hudibras_
“So you are thinking of coming to live in Leahampton,” said Miss
Murgatroyd. “How _very nice_. I do hope you will be settling down in the
parish. We are _not_ too well off for week-day congregations—there is so
much indifference and so much _Protestantism_ about. There! I have
dropped a stitch. Provoking! Perhaps it was meant as a little reminder
to me not to think uncharitably about Protestants. All is well—I have