It was an unused servant’s bedroom. For a moment Roberta thought Lady Wutherwood was not there but the light from the torches found her. She sat on the floor at the head of the stretcher bed. She turned her head and looked blindly into the light and though her retracted lips at first suggested a snarl it was evident by the noise she made that she was laughing. Her hair hung about her eyes; the white discs at the corners of the mouth glistened; she turned her head gently from side to side. Her throat was bare and in its pale thickness a pulse beat rapidly. She wore a dark gown over her nightdress and her hands moved among its folds.
“Now, my lady,” said Campbell, “nobody’s going to hurt you. Here’s Nurse come to take you back to bed.”
The nurse in a most unnatural voice said: “Come along, dear. We can’t stay in a nasty cold room can we? Come along.” Lady Wutherwood shrank back against the wall. The nurse said; “We’ll just help you up, shall we?” and moved forward.
Lady Wutherwood was on her feet with a swiftness that suggested some violent wrench of pain. She pressed herself against the wall. Her hands were in the pockets of her gown, holding them together, crushed tight against herself.
“That’s better,“ said the nurse. Campbell moved closer to Lady Wutherwood and in answer to this signal Henry followed him.
“Now you come along with Nurse, my lady,” said Campbell. “We’ll just take your arms. Look out!”
Henry’s candle rolled on the floor and went out. The nurse and Roberta pointed their torches at the three struggling figures. Lady Wutherwood struck twice at Campbell with her right hand before he caught her arm. Henry had her left arm. The left hand was still rammed down in the pocket of her dressing-gown but she fought with the violence of an animal. Suddenly the room was flooded by a hard white light. Roberta threw her torch on the bed. “Collar her low, Robin,” said Henry’s voice. Roberta was on the floor. Her arms embraced a pair of soft legs, struggling inside the folds of robe and nightgown. “Disgusting, disgusting,” said her thoughts but she held on. ‘That’s better,“ Campbell said, and abruptly they were all quiet, blinking in the glare. The nurse still pointed the torch at them. She was talking. “It’s a case for a mental attendant. I should never have been asked to take the case,” gabbled the nurse, carefully pointing her torch. “It’s not a case for ordinary duty.” Lady Wutherwood’s left hand doubled inside her pocket, touched the top of Roberta’s head. The hand and arm were rigid, yet they moved with their owner’s violent breathing. A new voice, harsh and broken, sounded and was silent.
“What’s she say?” Campbell demanded. “She said something. What was it?”
“German, I think,” said Henry.
“What’s she got in her pocket? Here, Nurse! Get rid of that torch.” The nurse looked at her hand. “Oh. Silly of me,” she said, and put the torch down.
“Now,” said Campbell, “put your hand in her pocket and see what she’s got hold of. Carefully. It may be a knife.”
“Why a knife?” asked Henry.
Campbell didn’t answer him. The nurse approached her patient and over Roberta’s head gingerly slid her hand down Lady Wutherwood’s arm into the pocket. Roberta, looking up, saw the nurse’s face bleach out abruptly to the colour of parchment.
“What’s the matter!” Campbell demanded.
“She’s — she’s — got — both her hands — in her pocket.”
Henry said violently; “Don’t be an ass, Nurse. What d’you mean?”
The nurse backed away from Lady Wutherwood, pointing at the pocket and nodding her head.
“I’ve got her right hand,” said Campbell impatiently. “What are you talking about?”
“There are two hands in her pocket,” said the nurse, and fainted.
CHAPTER XIX
SEVERED HAND
The taxi pulled up at 24 Brummell Street, discharged its fares and skidded off into the rain.
“Quiet enough,” said Nigel. “You’ve got a jitterbug, Inspector.”
“There’s a light on in the hall,” said Alleyn. “What about the entrance here, Fox? Wasn’t there a man outside?”
“The P.C. on this beat,“ said Fox. ”He was told to stay outside and another chap was put on the beat.”
“Well, where is the P.C.?”
“Taking shelter, most likely,” said Fox. “He’ll hear about this.” Alleyn rang the bell at 24. Immediately they heard inside the click of a lock.
“Hullo,” said Alleyn. “That’s sudden.”
The door opened. Moffatt, very pale, with a rug clutched about him, stared at them.
“Are you from Scotland Yard, sir?”
“Yes. Anything wrong?”
“Yes, sir. Something terrible’s happened. I don’t know what it is, but…” Moffatt followed them up, leaving the door open behind him.
“Where is it?” Alleyn asked. “We’re all here. You’d better shut the door. Where’s the man on duty?”
“Mr. Campbell, sir? He’s upstairs, sir, and there’s a doctor there too, sir.”
“A doctor!” said Alleyn sharply.
“And there’s a policeman outside the room where his lordship’s lying. Something terrible—”
“We’ll go up,” said Alleyn. “How many floors?”
“Three, sir. And his lordship’s lying on the next floor. Her ladyship, sir, has been screaming something frightful to hear and…”
Alleyn was half-way up the first flight. The others followed him, Moffatt bleating in the rear. The fourth-floor landing was brightly lit. On the top stair Alleyn found a group of three. A uniformed nurse, white to the lips, was on the floor, propped against the stairhead. Above her stood Henry Lamprey and Roberta Grey. They, too, were deadly pale. As soon as she saw Alleyn the nurse said: “I’m quite all right and ready for duty. I don’t know what happened to me. It wasn’t natural. I’ve never slept on duty before, never. If the doctor wants me—”
“Where is the doctor?”
“In the fourth room along that passage,” said Henry. “Don’t mistake it for the third room. My aunt is locked in there. Stark mad, with her husband’s hand in her pocket.”
“They took it away,” said the nurse in a high voice.
Alleyn strode down the passage, followed by Fox.
“Henry,” said Nigel, “what in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“Hullo, Nigel,” said Henry. “Follow your boy friends and find out.”
“But—”
“For God’s sake,” said Henry, “leave us alone.”
Nigel followed Alleyn and Fox.
In the fourth room along the passage Alleyn examined the body of William Giggle. He lay in his bed, on his right side, with the clothes drawn up to his mouth. There was a bloodstained dent on his left temple, a horseshoe-shaped mark pointing downwards towards the cheek with the arched end near the brow. When Alleyn drew down the bed-clothes he saw Giggle’s throat. A razor lay on the sheet close to Giggle’s head. Alleyn bent lower.
“Cooling,” he said.
“He’s been dead at least two hours,” said Dr. Curtis.
“Has he, by gum?” said Fox.
The bed was against the left-hand wall of the room. There was a space between the head of the bed and the back wall. Alleyn moved into it and made a gesture over the throat.
“Yes,” Curtis said, “like that. You notice it begins low down on the right near the clavicle, and runs upward almost to the left ear.”
“There’s no blood on any of them, sir,” said Campbell. “Not on her or any of them.”
Alleyn pointed to a slash in the collar of the pyjama jacket and Curtis nodded. “I know. It was done under the bedclothes. Look at them. Yes,” as Alleyn stooped to peer at an object at his feet. “She knocked him out with that boot. There’s blood on the heel.”