That ring at the door brought into the Steen Clinic the paraphernalia and skills of an alien world. Quietly and without fuss the experts in violent death got busy. Dalgliesh disappeared into the record room with the police surgeon and photographer. The print man, small and plump-cheeked as a hamster, with tiny delicate hands, gave his attention to door handles, locks, the tool case and Tippett’s fetish. Plain clothes men, looking disconcertingly like television actors playing plain-clothes men, made their methodical search of every room and cupboard in the clinic, verifying that there was indeed no unauthorized person on the premises and that the back doors both of the ground floor and the basement were securely locked from the inside. The clinic staff, excluded from these activities and congregated in the front ground-floor consulting room, which had been hastily furnished with additional easy chairs from the patients’ waiting room, felt that their familiar ground had been taken over by strangers and that they were caught up in the inexorable machinery of justice and being ground forward to God knew what embarrassments and disasters. Only the group secretary appeared unperturbed. He had stationed himself in the hall like a watchdog and sat there patient and alone until his turn came to be interviewed.
Dalgliesh took Miss Bolam’s office for his use. It was a small room on the ground floor situated between the large general office at the front of the building and the ECT treatment room and recovery room at the rear. Opposite it was a suite of two consulting rooms and the patients’ waiting room. The office had been formed by partitioning the end of a larger room so that it was oddly proportioned and unattractively narrow for its height. It was sparsely furnished and lacked all evidence of personal taste except for a large bowl of chrysanthemums set on one of the filing cabinets. There was an old-fashioned safe against one wall and the other was lined with green metal filing cabinets. The desk was unostentatious and held nothing but a stationery office desk calendar, a jotting pad and a small stack of manilla folders. Dalgliesh looked through them and said, “This is odd. These are staff dossiers apparently, but only of the female staff. Her own isn’t here, incidentally. I wonder why she got these out?”
“Checking on people’s annual leave entitlement or something like that, perhaps,” suggested Sergeant Martin.
“Could be, I suppose. But why only the women? Oh well, it’s hardly of immediate importance. Let’s have a look at that jotter.”
Miss Bolam was apparently one of those administrators who prefer not to trust to memory. The top leaf of the jotter, headed with the date, was well filled with notes in a sloping, rather childish handwriting.
Medical Committee-speak MD re proposed Adolescent Dept.
Speak Nagle-broken sash cord Miss Kallinski’s room. Mrs. Shorthouse-? leave.
These notes were at least self-explanatory but the jottings below them—written it appeared in some hurry—were less explicit.
Woman. Here eight years. To arrive 1st Monday.
Dalgliesh said: “These look like the jottings of a telephone call. It could have been a private call, of course, and nothing to do with the clinic. It could have been a doctor trying to trace a patient, or vice versa. Something, or someone, is apparently expected to arrive on the first Monday or on Monday the first. There are a dozen possible interpretations and none of them relevant to the murder. Still, someone phoned recently about a woman and Miss Bolam was obviously examining the dossiers of every woman on the staff except herself. Why? To check which of them were here eight years ago? It’s all pretty farfetched. We’ll leave the pleasures of conjecture for the moment and get down to seeing these people. I’d like that typist in first, the girl who found the body. Etherege said she was upset. Let’s hope she’s calmed down by now or we’ll be here half the night.”
But Jennifer Priddy was perfectly calm. She had obviously been drinking and her grief was overlaid with a barely suppressed excitement. Her face, still swollen from crying, was blotched with high colour and her eyes were unnaturally bright. But the drink had not fuddled her and she told her story well. She had been busy in the ground-floor general office for most of the evening and had last seen Miss Bolam at about five-forty-five when she had gone into the AO’s office with a query about a patient’s appointment. Miss Bolam had seemed the same as usual to her. She had returned to the general office and had been joined by Peter Nagle at about six-ten. He was wearing his coat and had come to collect the outgoing post. Miss Priddy had registered the last few letters in the post book and handed them to him. At about quarter or twenty past six, Mrs. Shorthouse had joined them. Mrs. Shorthouse had mentioned that she had just come from Miss Bolam’s office where she had been settling a query about her annual leave entitlement. Peter Nagle had gone out with the post and she and Mrs. Shorthouse had stayed together until his return some ten minutes later. Nagle had then gone down to the basement porters’ room to hang up his coat and feed Tigger, the office cat, and she had followed him down almost immediately. She had helped him feed Tigger and they had returned to the general office together. At about seven the senior porter, Cully, complained again about his stomach ache which had been troubling him all day. Miss Priddy, Mrs. Bostock, the other medical secretary, and Peter Nagle had all had to take Cully’s place at the switchboard from time to time because of his stomach ache, but he had refused to go home. Now he was willing to go and Miss Priddy had gone to the AO’s office to ask Miss Bolam if he could leave early. Miss Bolam wasn’t in her office so she had looked in the nurses’ duty room on the ground floor. Sister Ambrose told her that she had seen the AO passing down the hall towards the basement stairs about thirty minutes or so earlier, so Miss Priddy had looked in the basement. The record room was usually kept locked but the key was in the lock and the door just ajar, so she had looked inside. The light was on. She had found the body—here Miss Priddy’s voice faltered—and had rushed upstairs at once to get help. No, she hadn’t touched anything. She didn’t know why the medical records were strewn around. She didn’t know how she had known that Miss Bolam was ead. It was just that Miss Bolam had looked so very dead. She didn’t know why she had been so sure it was murder. She thought she had seen a bruise on Miss Bolam’s head. And then there had been Tippett’s fetish lying on the body. She was afraid that Tippett was hiding among the record racks and would jump out at her. Everyone said that he wasn’t dangerous—at least everyone except Dr. Steiner—but he had been in a mental hospital and, after all, you couldn’t be really sure, could you? No, she hadn’t known that Tippett wasn’t in the clinic. Peter Nagle had taken the call from the hospital and had told Miss Bolam but he hadn’t told her. She hadn’t seen the chisel in Miss Bolam’s chest but Dr. Etherege had told the staff about the stabbing when they were gathered together in the front consulting room waiting for the police. She thought that most of the staff knew where Peter Nagle kept his tools and also which key opened the door of the basement record room. It hung on hook number 12 and was shinier than the other keys but it wasn’t labelled.
Dalgliesh said: “I want you to think very hard and very carefully. When you went downstairs to help Mr. Nagle feed the cat, was the record-room door ajar and the light on as it was when you went down later and found Miss Bolam?”
The girl pushed back her dank blonde hair and said with sudden weariness: “I … I can’t remember. I didn’t go past that door, you see. I went straight into the porters’ room at the bottom of the stairs. Peter was there clearing up Tigger’s plate. He hadn’t eaten all of his last meal so we scraped it off his plate and washed it at the sink. We didn’t go near the record room.”