“I’m sorry. I must seem obtuse. I know it’s foolish to feel such relief at not being under suspicion when one knows anyway that one is innocent Perhaps it’s because none of us is innocent in any real sense. A psychologist could explain it, I’m sure. But ought you to be so confident? Couldn’t the poison- if it were poison-have been put into Fallon’s whisky bottle any time after she bought it or another and poisoned bottle substituted for the one she purchased? That could have been done before I left for Amsterdam on Tuesday evening.”
“I’m afraid you must resign yourself to innocence. Miss Fallon bought this particular bottle of whisky from Scunthorpe’s wine shop in the High Street yesterday afternoon, and took her first and only drink from it on the night she died. The bottle is still almost full, the whisky remaining is perfectly good whisky as far as we know, and the only prints on the bottle are Miss Fallon’s own.”
“You’ve worked very fast So the poison was put either into the glass after she’d poured her hot drink or into the sugar?”
“If she were poisoned. We cant be sure of anything all we get the P.M. report and perhaps not even then. The sugar is being tested but that is really only a formality. Most of the students helped themselves from that bowl when they had their early morning tea and at least two of the girls drank theirs. So that leaves us with the beaker of whisky and hot lemon. Miss Fallon made it very easy for a murderer. Apparently the whole of Nightingale House knew that if she didn’t go out in the evening, she watched the television until the program closed down. She was a poor sleeper and never went to bed early. When the television ended she would go to her room and undress. Then in her bedroom slippers and dressing-gown she would go to the little pantry on the second floor and make her nightcap. She kept the whisky in her room but she couldn’t make the drink there because there’s no water laid on and no means of heating it. So it was her habit to take the insulated tumbler with the whisky poured out ready and add the hot lemon in the pantry. A supply of lemons was kept there in the cupboard with the cocoa, coffee, chocolate and other items with which the nurses used to make their late night drinks. Then she would take the tumbler back to her room and leave it on the bedside locker while she had her bath. She always bathed quickly and she liked to get into bed immediately afterwards while she was still warm. I expect that’s why she made her drink before she went into the bathroom. By the time she got back to her room and into bed, the drink was precisely the right temperature. And apparently the routine never varied.”
The Matron said: “It’s rather frightening how much people get to know about each other’s habits in a small closed community like this. But, of course, it’s inevitable. There’s no real privacy. How can there be? I knew about the whisky, of course, but it hardly seemed my business. The girl certainly wasn’t an incipient alcoholic and she wasn’t handing it out to the younger students. At her age she was entitled to her own choice of nightcap.”
Dalgliesh asked how the Matron had learned about the whisky.
“Nurse Pearce told me. She asked to see me and gave me the information in a spirit of I don’t want to tell tales but I think you ought to know‘. Drink and the devil were one and the same to Nurse Pearce. But I don’t think Fallon made any secret of the whisky drinking. How could she? As I said, we know about each other’s little habits. But there are some things, of course, that we don’t know. Josephine Fallon Was a very private person. I can’t give you any information about her life outside the hospital and I doubt whether anyone here can.”
“Who was her friend here? She must have had someone she confided in, surely? Isn’t that necessary for any woman in this kind of closed community?”
She looked at him a little strangely.
“Yes. We all need someone. But I think Fallon needed a friend less than most She was remarkably self-sufficient If she confided in anyone it would be Madeleine Goodale.”
The plain one with the round face and large spectacles?“
Dalgliesh recalled her. It was not an unattractive face, mainly because of the good skin and the intelligence of those large gray eyes behind the thick horn rims. But Nurse Goodale could never be other than plain. He thought he could picture her future; the years of training willingly endured, the success in examinations; the gradually increasing responsibility until, at last, she too was a Matron. It was not unusual for such a girl to be friendly with a more attractive woman. It was one way of gaining at least a vicarious share in a more romantic, less dedicated life. As if reading his thoughts, Miss Taylor said:
“Nurse Goodale is one of our most efficient nurses. I was hoping that she would stay on after her training to take a post as staff nurse. But that is hardly likely. She’s engaged to our local vicar and they want to marry next Easter.”
She glanced across at Dalgliesh a little maliciously.
“He is considered a most eligible young man. You seem surprised. Superintendent”
Dalgliesh laughed: “After over twenty years as a policeman I should have learnt not to make superficial judgments. I think I had better see Nurse Goodale first I understand the room you’re making available isn’t ready yet I suppose we could go on using the demonstration room. Or are you likely to be needing it?”
“I would prefer you to see the girls somewhere else if yon would. That room has very unhappy and dramatic memories for them. We’re not even using it yet for teaching demonstrations. Until the small visitors’ room on the first floor is ready I’d be happy for you to interview the students here.”
Dalgliesh thanked her. He replaced his coffee cup on the table. She hesitated, then said:
“Mr. Dalgliesh, there’s one thing I want to say. I feel-I am-in loco parentis to my students. If ever any question… if you should begin to suspect that any one of them is involved, I can rely on you to let me know? They would then need protection. There would surely be the question of getting a solicitor.” She hesitated again:
“Please forgive me if I’m being offensive. One has so little experience in these matters. It’s just that I shouldn’t like them…”
To be trapped?“
To be rushed into saying things which might quite wrongly incriminate them or other members of the staff.“
Dalgliesh found himself unreasonably irritated.
“There are rules laid down, you know,” he said.
“Oh, rules! I know there are rules. But I’m sure you are both too experienced and too intelligent to let them hinder you over much. I’m just reminding you that these girls are less intelligent and in such matters not experienced at all.”
Fighting his irritation, Dalgliesh said formally:
“I can only tell you that the rules are there and that it’s in our interests to keep them. Can’t you imagine what a gift to the defending counsel any infringement would be? A young unprotected girl, a student nurse, bullied by a senior police officer with years of experience in trapping the unwary. Enough difficulties are placed in the path of the police in this country; we don’t voluntarily add to them.”
She flushed and he was interested to see the wave of color sweep from her neck over the pale honey glowing skin making her look momentarily as if the veins ran with fire. Then, instantaneously, it passed. The change was so sudden that he couldn’t be sure that he had actually seen that tell-tale metamorphosis. She said composedly:
“We both have our responsibilities. We must hope that they don’t conflict In the meantime you must expect me to be as concerned with mine as you are with yours. And that brings me to some information which I have to give you. It concerns Christine Dakers, the student who discovered Nurse Fallon’s body.”