“Oh, yes! Their people were neighbours down in Dorset, don’t you know,” aped Banks with what she imagined to be the accent of landed proprietorship.
Sister Marigold’s starch seemed to crackle disapproval.
“Nurse Harden comes of a very nice family,” she said pointedly to the scally.
“Oh, most fraytefully nayce,” jeered Banks. “Yes, she knew O’Callaghan all right. I happened to say, about a month ago it was, that he was probably the most completely unscrupulous of the Tories and she didn’t half flare up. Then she told me.”
“Thank you, Nurse Banks, that will do,” said matron icily. “The theatre is not the place for politics. I think we are ready now. I want a word with the doctor about this case.”
She rustled out of the theatre.
“You’ve got a nerve, Banks,” said the scally. “Fancy talking like that about Sir Derek. I think he looks lovely in his photos.”
“You think because he’s got a face like Conrad Veidt he’s a suitable leader of the people — a man to make laws. Typical bourgeois ignorance and stupidity! However, he’s probably the last of his species and he’ll be the first to go when the Dawn breaks.”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“I know what I’m talking about.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t. What Dawn?”
“The Dawn of the Proletariat Day.”
“What’s that? No, don’t lose your hair, Banks. I’d like to know.”
“You will know,” said Banks. “Very shortly.”
Upon which the throat specialist appeared and inquired if they were all ready for him. In ten minutes’ time the figure of a child was wheeled into the theatre and once again the fumes of anæsthetic rose like incense about the table. In another ten minutes the child was taken away. Nurse Banks and the scally began to clear up again. The throat specialist whistled as he washed up in the anteroom. He thrust his head in at the door, remarked: “No rest for the wicked, nurse,” and took himself off.
The two women worked in silence for a little while. Nurse Banks seemed preoccupied and rather morose.
“Hullo,” said the scally, “there’s Pips growling on the stairs.” (“Pips” was hospital slang for Sir John Phillips.) “And Thomcat. Wonder how he is now. Sir Derek, I mean.”
Nurse Banks did not answer.
“I don’t believe you care.”
“Oh, I’m quite interested.”
The voices grew louder but neither of the two nurses could hear what was said. They stood very still, listening intently.
Presently there seemed to be some kind of movement. A woman’s voice joined in the conversation.
“Who’s that?” asked the scally.
“Sounds like Marigold,” said Banks. “God, that woman infuriates me!”
“Ssh! What’s it all about, I wonder?”
Sir John Phillips’s voice sounded clearly above the others.
“I’d better attend to that,” it said.
“Pips sounds absolutely rampant,” breathed the scally.
“Yes,” said Thoms clearly. “Yes.”
A sound of footsteps. Then suddenly the door into the theatre opened and O’Callaghan’s special nurse burst into the room.
“Isn’t it frightful!” she said. “Oh, isn’t it frightful!”
“What? What’s the matter with you?”
“He’s dead — Sir Derek O’Callaghan’s dead!”
“Nurse!” The scally gazed at her speechless.
“It really is awful,” said Nurse Graham. “Lady O’Callaghan is there now — she wanted to be left alone with him. I felt I simply must tell somebody.”
There was a dead silence and then, prompted perhaps by some kind of mental telepathy, they both turned and stared at Banks.
The older woman’s head was tipped back. She held her arms stiffly at her sides. Her eyes shone and her lips worked convulsively.
“Banks!” said the scally, “Banks! How can you behave like that? I believe you’re glad he’s gone!”
“If I hadn’t cast off the worn-out shackles of religion,” said Banks, “I should say ‘Praise the Lord for He hath cast down our Enemy.’ ”
“You disgusting old horror,” said the special, and went out of the theatre.
CHAPTER V
Lady O’Callaghan Insists
Friday, the twelfth. Afternoon.
“Lady O’Callaghan, I’m terribly sorry to bother, but may I speak to you for a moment?”
Ronald Jameson paused and looked apologetically at the widow of his late employer. She was very handsome in black. Her hair-he could never make up his mind whether it was a warm white or a white blonde — looked as though it had been ironed into place. Her hands, thin and elegant, hung relaxed against the matt surface of her dress. Her pale blue eyes under their heavy lids regarded him with a kind of polite detachment.
“Yes,” she said vaguely. “Come into my room, Mr. Jameson.”
He followed her into that place of frozen elegance. She sat down leisurely, her back to the light.
“Yes,” she repeated. “Sit down, Mr. Jameson.”
Ronald said: “Thank you so much,” nervously, and sat on the most uncomfortable chair.
“I’ve just come back from the House,” he, began. “The Prime Minister saw me in his room. He is terribly distressed about — about yesterday. He wished me to tell you that — that he is entirely at your service should there be anything— ”
“So kind of him,” she said.
“Of course, he is also very much troubled about the Bill — Sir Derek’s Anarchy Bill, you know. The business arising from it has to go forward, you see, and this tragedy has complicated matters.” He paused again.
“I see — yes.”
“It’s a question of Sir Derek’s private notes. They can do nothing without them. I said that the matter would have to wait until after the — until after tomorrow; but the Prime Minister thinks the whole business is so urgent that he ought to see them immediately. I believe they are in the desk in the study, but of course, before I could do anything about it, I felt I must have your permission.”
She took so long to answer that he felt quite alarmed. At last, looking at her hands which lay delicately clasped on her lap, she said: “This Bill. Will it deal with the persons who killed him?”
He was so completely dumbfounded by this amazing inquiry that he could think of nothing to say. He was a young man with a good deal of savoir-faire, but evidently her extraordinary assumption took him unawares.
“I’m afraid I don’t — do you mean — surely, Lady O’Callaghan, you can’t believe— ” He could get no further with it.
“Oh, yes,” she said tranquilly, “I’m quite sure they killed him.”
“But — who?”
“These people. Anarchists, aren’t they? They threatened to kill my husband. I believe they have done so. I understood his Bill was designed to suppress such persons. Please do anything you can to help it to go forward.”
“Thank you,” said Ronald idiotically.
“Yes. Is that all, Mr. Jameson?”
“But, Lady O’Callaghan — please — have you thought — honestly, you have simply amazed me. It’s a terrible idea. Surely the doctors’ report is clear! Sir Derek had acute peritonitis.”
“Sir John Phillips said the operation was successful. He was poisoned.”
“By peritonitis and a ruptured abscess. Really, I can’t think anything else. How could he be deliberately poisoned?”
“One of the letters threatened poison. The one he had last Monday, it was.”
“But many leading politicians get letters of that sort. Nothing ever happens. Forgive me, Lady O’Callaghan, but I’m sure you are utterly wrong. How could they have poisoned him? It’s — it’s impossible. I do beg you not to distress yourself.” He glanced uncomfortably at her placid face. “I’m sure you are quite mistaken,” ended Ronald wildly.