In contrast, Dr. James Baguley was six feet tall, nearly as tall as Dalgliesh, and the immediate impression he gave was of intense weariness. He was wearing a long white coat which hung loosely from his bowed shoulders. Although he was much the younger man, he had none of the medical director’s vitality. His hair was straight and turning iron-grey. From time to time he swept it out of his eyes with long, nicotine-stained fingers. His was a handsome, bony face but the skin and eyes were dulled as if with permanent tiredness.
The medical director said: “You will, of course, want to see the body straight away. I’ll ask Peter Nagle, our second porter, to come down with us if you’ve no objection. His chisel was one of the weapons used—not that he could help that, poor fellow—and no doubt you will want to ask him questions.”
“I shall want to question everyone here in due course,” replied Dalgliesh.
It was apparent that the medical director had taken charge. Dr. Baguley, who had not yet spoken, seemed glad to accept that position. Lauder had apparently decided to adopt a watching brief. As they moved towards the basement stairs at the back of the hall, he caught Dalgliesh’s eye. The momentary glance was hard to analyse, but Dalgliesh thought he detected an amused gleam and a certain wry detachment.
They stood in silence as Dalgliesh knelt by the body. He did not touch it except to part the cardigan and blouse, both of which were unbuttoned, and expose the handle of the chisel. It had been driven in up to the hilt. There was very little bruising of the tissues and no blood. The woman’s vest had been rolled up above her breasts to expose the flesh for that vicious, calculated thrust. Such deliberation suggested that the killer had a confident knowledge of anatomy. There were easier ways of killing than to pierce the heart with one thrust. But for those with the knowledge and the strength, there were few ways so sure.
He got to his feet and turned to Peter Nagle. “Is that your chisel?”
“Apparently. It looks like it and mine isn’t in the box.” Despite the omission of the usual “sir,” the voice, educated and unemphatic, held no trace of insolence or resentment.
Dalgliesh asked: “Any idea how it got here?”
“None at all. But I’d hardly be likely to say if I had, would I?”
The medical director gave Nagle a quick frown of warning or admonition and placed his hand briefly on the porter’s shoulder. Without consulting Dalgliesh he said gently: “That will be all for the present, Nagle. Just wait outside, will you?”
Dalgliesh made no demur as the porter quietly detached himself from the group and left without another word.
“Poor boy! The use of his chisel has naturally shocked him. It looks unpleasantly like an attempt to implicate him. But you will find, Superintendent, that Nagle is one of the few members of the staff with a complete alibi for the presumed time of death.” Dalgliesh did not point out that this was, in itself, highly suspicious.
“Did you make any estimate of the time of death?” he asked.
Dr. Etherege replied: “I thought that it must have been very recent. That is Dr. Baguley’s view too. The clinic is very warm today—we’ve just started our central heating—so that the body would cool very slowly. I didn’t try for rigor. I am, of course, little more than a layman in such matters. Subsequently I knew that she must have died within the hour. Naturally we have been talking among ourselves while waiting for you and it appears that Sister Ambrose was the last person to see Miss Bolam alive. That was at twenty past six. Cully, our senior porter, tells me that Miss Bolam rang him on the internal phone at about six-fifteen to say that she was going down to the basement and that Mr. Lauder should be directed to her office if he arrived. A few minutes later, as far as she can judge, Sister came out of the ECT room on the ground floor and crossed the hall to the patients’ waiting room to let a husband know that his wife was ready to be taken home. Sister saw Miss Bolam going down the hall towards the basement stairs. No one saw her alive again after that.”
“Except her murderer,” said Dalgliesh. Dr. Etherege looked surprised.
“Yes, that would be so, of course. I mean that none of us saw her alive again. I have asked Sister Ambrose about the time and Sister is quite sure …”
“I shall be seeing Sister Ambrose and the other porter.”
“Of course. Naturally you will want to see everybody. We expect that. While waiting we telephoned our homes to say that we would be delayed tonight but gave no explanation. We had already searched the building and ascertained that the basement door and the ground-floor rear entrance were both bolted. Nothing has been touched in here naturally. I arranged for the staff to stay together in the front consulting room except for Sister and Nurse Bolam who were with the remaining patients in the waiting room. No one but Mr. Lauder and you have been allowed in.”
“You seem to have thought of everything, Doctor,” said Dalgliesh. He got up from his knees and stood looking down at the body.
“Who found her?” he asked.
“One of our medical secretaries, Jennifer Priddy. Cully, the senior porter, has been complaining of stomach ache most of the day and Miss Priddy went to find Miss Bolam to ask if he could go home early. Miss Priddy is very upset but she was able to tell me …”
“I think it would be better if I heard it from her direct. Was this door kept locked?”
His tone was perfectly courteous but he felt their surprise. The medical director’s tone did not change as he replied: “Usually it is. The key is kept on a board with other clinic keys in the porters’ duty room here in the basement. The chisel was kept there, too.”
“And this fetish?”
“Taken from the basement art-therapy room across the passage. It was carved by one of our patients.”
It was still the medical director who replied. So far Dr. Baguley hadn’t spoken a word. Suddenly he said: “She was knocked out with the fetish and then stabbed through the heart by someone who was either knowledgeable or damned lucky. That much is obvious. What isn’t obvious is why they had this free-for-all with the medical records. She’s lying on them so it must have happened before the murder.”
“The result of a struggle, perhaps,” suggested Dr. Etherege.
“It doesn’t look like it. They were pulled out of the shelves and deliberately chucked about. There must have been a reason. There wasn’t anything impulsive about this murder.”
It was then that Peter Nagle, who had apparently been standing outside the door, came into the room.
“There’s been a ring at the door, sir. Would that be the rest of the police?”
Dalgliesh noted that the record room was almost soundproof. The front-door bell was strident but he had not heard it.
“Right,” he said. “We’ll go up.” As they moved together towards the stairs, Dr. Etherege said: “I wonder, Superintendent, if you could see the patients fairly soon. We have only two still with us, a male psychotherapy patient of my colleague Dr. Steiner, and a woman who has been receiving lysergic-acid treatment down here in the basement front treatment room. Dr. Baguley will be able to explain the treatment to you—she is his patient—but you can be assured that she wasn’t capable of leaving her bed until a few minutes ago and certainly wouldn’t know anything about the murder. These patients become quite disorientated during treatment. Nurse Bolam was with her all the evening.”
“Nurse Bolam? She is a relation of the dead woman?”
“Her cousin,” said Dr. Baguley briefly.
“And your disorientated patient, Doctor. Would she know if Nurse Bolam left her alone during treatment?”
Dr. Baguley said curtly: “Nurse Bolam would not have left her.” They mounted the stairs together to meet the murmur of voices in the hall.