He spoke without heat, almost unemotionally. It was as if he said, “That’s what happened. Like it or not, it happened that way.” He was too intelligent not to see that he was in some danger. Perhaps he was also intelligent enough to know that the danger was minimal to an innocent man who kept his head and told the truth.
Dalgliesh told him to let the police know at once if he remembered anything fresh and let him go.
Sister Ambrose was seen next. She strutted into the room, armour-plated in white linen, belligerent as a battleship. The bib of her apron, starched rigid as a board, curved against a formidable bosom on which she wore her nursing badges like medals of war. Grey hair spurted from each side of her cap which she wore low on her forehead above a face of uncompromising plainness. Her colour was high; Dalgliesh thought that she was finding it difficult to control her resentment and distrust. He dealt with her gently, but his questions were answered in an atmosphere of rigid disapproval. She confirmed briefly that she had last seen Miss Bolam walking through the hall towards the basement stairs at about twenty past six. They had not spoken and the administrative officer had looked the same as usual. Sister Ambrose was back in the ECT room before Miss Bolam was out of sight and had been there with Dr. Ingram until the body was found. In reply to Dalgliesh’s question whether Dr. Baguley had also been with them for the whole of that time, Sister Ambrose suggested that he should ask the doctor direct. Dalgliesh replied mildly that this was his intention. He knew that the Sister could give him a great deal of useful information about the clinic if she chose but, apart from a few questions about Miss Bolam’s personal relationships from which he gained nothing, he did not press her. He thought that she was probably more shocked by the murder, by the calculated violence of Miss Bolam’s death, than anyone he had yet seen. As sometimes happens with unimaginative and inarticulate people, this shock gave vent to ill temper. She was very cross: with Dalgliesh because his job gave him the right to ask impertinent and embarrassing questions; with herself because she could not conceal her feelings; with the victim, even, who had involved the clinic in this bizarre predicament. It was a reaction Dalgliesh had met before and no good came of trying to force co-operation on such a witness. Later on Sister Ambrose might be induced to talk more freely; at present, it was a waste of time to do more than elicit the facts which she was prepared to give. One fact at least was crucial. Miss Bolam was alive and making her way towards the basement stairs at about twenty past six. At seven o’clock her body was discovered. Those forty minutes were vital and any member of the staff who could produce an alibi covering them could be eliminated from the inquiry. On the face of it the case presented little difficulty. Dalgliesh did not believe that an outsider had somehow gained access to the clinic and lain in wait for Miss Bolam. The killer was almost certainly still in the building. It was now a matter of careful questioning, of the methodical checking of alibis, of the seeking out of a motive. Dalgliesh decided to talk to the one man whose alibi appeared unassailable and who would have the detached outsider’s view of the clinic and its varied personalities. He thanked Sister Ambrose for her valuable cooperation—a flicker of the eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles suggested that the irony was not lost on her—and asked the constable at the door to send in Mr. Lauder.
2
It was the first chance Dalgliesh had had to observe the group secretary closely. He saw a thick-set, chubby-featured man, mild-eyed behind the heavy square spectacles, who looked, in his well-cut tweeds, more like a country doctor or small-town solicitor than a bureaucrat. He was completely at ease and bore himself like a man confident of his powers, unwilling to be hurried, keeping always something in reserve, including, Dalgliesh thought, a keener intelligence than his appearance might suggest.
He seated himself opposite Dalgliesh, drew his chair comfortably forward and, without either apology or excuse, took a pipe from one pocket and sought in the other for his tobacco pouch. Nodding towards Martin and his open notebook he said, in a slow voice with a trace of north-country accent: “Reginald Iven Lauder. Date of birth, 21st April 1905. Address, 42 Makepeace Avenue, Chigwell, Essex. Occupation, Group Secretary, East Central Hospital Management Committee. And now, Superintendent, what do you want to know?”
“A great deal, I’m afraid,” said Dalgliesh. “And firstly, have you any idea at all who could have killed Miss Bolam?” The group secretary established his pipe and, leaning his elbows on the desk, regarded its glowing head with satisfaction.
“I wish I had. I’d have been in here to tell you before now, never fear. But, no. I’ve no help of that kind for you.”
“Miss Bolam had no enemies as far as you were aware?”
“Enemies? Well now, Superintendent, that’s a strong word! She had people who didn’t much like her, the same as I have. You, too, no doubt. But we don’t go in fear of being murdered. No, I wouldn’t have said she had enemies. Mind you, I know nothing of her private life. That’s not my concern.”
“Could you tell me something about the Steen and the position she held? I know something of the clinic’s reputation, of course, but it would be helpful if I could have a clear picture of what goes on here.”
“A clear picture of what goes on?” It might have been imagination but Dalgliesh thought he saw the group secretary’s mouth twitch. “Well, the medical director could tell you more about that than I—on the medical side, that is. But I can give you a gist. The place was founded between the wars by the family of a Mr. Hyman Stein. The story goes that the old man suffered from impotence, got himself some psychotherapy and subsequently fathered five children. So far from impoverishing him they all did well and, when papa died, they put the clinic on a sound financial footing as a memorial to him. After all, they did owe the place something. The sons all changed their name to Steen—for the usual reason I suppose—and the clinic was given the anglicized name. I often wonder what old Hyman would have thought.”
“Is it well endowed?”
“It was. The state got the endowments of course on the Appointed Day following the 1946 Act. A bit has come in since, but not much. People aren’t so keen to will money to institutions run by the government. But the place was quite well off before 1948 as these places go. They did themselves well in the way of equipment and facilities. The Hospital Management Committee’s had quite a job providing for them in the way to which they’d become accustomed.”
“Is the clinic difficult to administer? I imagine there may be personality problems.”
“No more difficult than any other small unit. You get personality problems anywhere. I’d rather deal with a difficult psychiatrist than a difficult surgeon any day. They’re the real prima donnas.”
“Did you consider Miss Bolam a successful administrative officer?”
“Well … she was efficient. I hadn’t really any complaints. She was a bit rigid, I suppose. After all, Ministry circulars haven’t even the force of law, so there’s no sense in treating them as if they are personally dictated by God Almighty. I doubt whether Miss Bolam would have got much further. Mind you, she was a competent, methodical and highly conscientious officer. I don’t think she ever sent in an inaccurate return.”
Poor devil! thought Dalgliesh, stung by the bleak anonymity of that official epitaph. He asked: “Was she popular here? With the medical staff, for example?”