The following morning, Friday, Falkland set out in his car for Oasthampstead. He had given up pretending that the matter of Mr. Anderby’s death was of no interest to him, and that the possibility of “Nurse Pewsey’s” being involved was ridiculous.
Curiously enough, Elsa Barry’s information about the legacy left to her nurse by Aunt Mary Falkland had stiffened Robert’s suspicion of the widow in a perhaps unjustifiable way. If Nurse Pewsey had been operating at the expense of his family, so to speak, it was time somebody “did something.” As to what he intended to do, he was a bit vague. “Collect further data,” he said to himself.
There were quite a number of cases to consider. First, the anonymous friend of nurse’s. (Query, did she die of heart failure?) Next on the list (so far as Falkland knew) came Aunt Mary, who had left nurse a mere £200, then Dr. William Chenner, who had provided a larger legacy, finally Mr. Anderby, who had probably left “money for jam,” to use Major Grendon’s phrase.
At one stage on his drive, Falkland pulled up by the roadside and told himself he was being an idiot. Given an elderly nurse, who specialized in cases of elderly patients, it was only natural to find in her record a number of deaths—and deaths from heart failure at that. Was he being an idiot—a meddlesome busybody and mischief-maker? Then he recollected Brook’s words. “I see no reason why he should have dropped dead of heart failure.” The osteopath was not given to careless statements, and it seemed clear to Falkland that Brook suspected foul play. He let in his clutch and drove on. After all, a few cautious inquiries could not do any harm.
After racking his brains, Falkland had remembered the name of one of Aunt Mary’s friends who had lived in Oasthampstead. This was a Mrs. Dellaton, whom Falkland had met once or twice in his youth. She was a woman of about his own age and had married a solicitor who had practised in Bedford. The telephone book had supplied the information that Mrs. Dellaton still lived in Oasthampstead, and Falkland had decided to renew his acquaintance with her.
Oasthampstead was not much larger than a village, though various large modern houses had been built on the outskirts; a stream with a comely old bridge crossed the main street, and a fine old church added to the charm of the village. Falkland managed to stop a postman and ask him the way to Mrs. Dellaton’s house. He also contrived to learn that the lady was now a widow—a fact which did not displease him, as he knew the cautiousness of a legal mind. It would be easier to talk to Mrs. Dellaton without a husband in the offing, wondering what was the reason of the inquiries.
“Glebelands,” the house in which Mrs. Dellaton lived, was a pleasant building of warm hued brick. At first sight it looked genuine Tudor for the architect had used old bricks and old tiles—even the beams were old, so that the roof-tree sagged irregularly in a most convincing manner. A well-kept garden surrounded it, and the front door (a good old door of weather-beaten oak) was opened by a charmingly uniformed parlour maid. The room into which Falkland was shown was a pretty, sunshiny drawing room, whose glazed chintz, old china and bowls of roses made a most attractive picture. When Mrs. Dellaton entered the room, Falkland remembered her well enough to sound convincingly natural in his greeting.
“I’m afraid it’s almost too much to expect you to remember me after all these years, Mrs. Dellaton,” he began, but she replied,
“Of course I remember you. You’re old Mary Falkland’s nephew. My dear man, how many years ago is it?—but don’t answer that. I’ve given up enumerating the years long ago. How nice to see you again! Come and sit down and tell me how it happens that you’re in Oasthampstead.”
Falkland sat down, meditating that he was in luck. Mrs. Dellaton was an alert, lively looking, well-preserved woman, with a good figure and youthful carriage. At first glance she looked years younger than her age, and Falkland was shrewd enough to know that a modish widow of fifty was not likely to be averse from renewing acquaintance with a man of his own type. Sitting down on the roomy chesterfield, he talked easily enough, telling her about the accident to his knee, and his good fortune in discovering Brook’s skill to set him right. Mrs. Dellaton nodded.
“Oh, yes. He’s very clever. Too clever, some people say. Now while you’re here, do stay to lunch. Pot-luck, of course, but I shall be delighted to have you if you’ll stay.”
Falkland was a well-bred fellow, and he felt a little guilty; his present errand seemed an abuse of hospitality.
“That’s extraordinarily nice of you,” he replied, “but honestly I didn’t come with the intention of burdening you with an uninvited guest to lunch.”
“Oh, nonsense,” she retorted. “It’s a genuine pleasure to see you. It isn’t every day that a friend of my girlhood comes in. I should be really hurt if you refused to stay. Just have a cigarette while I go and put cook on her mettle.”
A few minutes later Mrs. Dellaton reappeared, followed by the parlour maid, with a tray bearing a good variety of drinks, and Falkland found himself raising his glass to a smiling hostess, obviously pleased with her unexpected caller.
“Happy days,” she said with a smile and half a sigh. “You bring back so many memories. Those were good days, nearly thirty years ago. How peaceful and prosperous the world was then. . . . Oh, dear. I do hate growing old.”
Falkland would have made the inevitable and foolish rejoinder, but she cut him short.
“My dear man, don’t bother. We both know exactly how old the other is. We’ve both worn well and I’m not disputing it. Incidentally, I’ve seen some of your work—Lord Hayes’s place in Surrey, and that church at Wallby, and I was proud to think I’d known the architect. Now do tell me, what do you make of Max Brook—apart from his skill as an osteopath?”
“Brook? Oh, I like him. He’s intelligent and well-informed and I’ve enjoyed talking to him.”
“Some people loathe him. I’m told he can be quite the world’s rudest when he likes—and I’ve always been a bit intrigued about him since I stayed in Belfort—you know, the spa in Derbyshire where one takes those ghastly waters for rheumatism. It was in Belfort that that story happened.”
“Was there a story?” inquired Falkland, and she nodded vigorously.
“Goodness, yes. Didn’t you know? A doctor was murdered there—a perfectly ghastly business. He was strangled in his own consulting room, without a sound being heard in the rest of the house. There’s nothing indiscreet in my saying that Max Brook was suspected because the police actually detained him. Personally, I’ve always believed that Brook did it.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Falkland, and Mrs. Dellaton went on.
“Brook had had an awful row with the doctor—Glaxton was the latter’s name; Brook had treated one of Glaxton’s patients and the doctor was livid. You know how all the qualified men hate these osteopaths. Anyway Glaxton threatened to bring an action against Brook, and it was known that the two men had had a howling row in Brook’s consulting rooms.”
“Yet since Brook was only detained, and not arrested or charged, it was obvious that the police did not believe him guilty,” rejoined Falkland, and Mrs. Dellaton replied airily,
“Oh, he proved an alibi. I always suspect an alibi. Any really clever man would organize a good convincing alibi before committing a murder.”
Falkland laughed aloud; the airiness of his companion’s statements had its humorous side, and she joined in his laughter quite good-humouredly.
“Jimmy—my husband—always said that I should end up in prison for making irresponsible accusations. I haven’t been run in yet, although I don’t think I’ve grown markedly more discreet with years. Max Brook was dismissed without a stain on his character, and the police arrested a drug addict and put him in Broadmoor, and everyone was satisfied. All the same, I’ve never wavered in my conviction that Brook really did the job—although I’m careful not to say so in a general way, because if Brook got to hear of it he’d bring an action as sure as God made little fishes.”
“I’m quite sure he would,” rejoined Falkland, “though incidentally he made no bones about telling me that he’d once been suspected of murder. I must get him to talk about it sometime. It’d be interesting.” He paused for a moment, while Mrs. Dellaton watched him with bright, amused eyes, and then he went on,
“I saw Elsa Barry yesterday. Do you remember her by any chance?”
“Of course I do. You don’t credit me with much of a memory for old friends. I always liked Elsa. She was a real good sort. How unkind of her not to come in and see me if she was in Oasthampstead.”
“I think her time was limited. She’d got two calls to make, one on me, and one on Mrs. Anderby. I expect you’ve heard——”
“I should say I did hear. Poor old vicar! He was incumbent here in Oasthampstead, you know, for years. In fact, it was here that Nurse Pewsey originally met him. She was always given to good works—Waifs and Strays, and Infant Clinics, and Mothers’ Meetings, and all the rest. She really worked very hard—though I admit in her case, virtue hasn’t gone entirely unrewarded, as is so often the case.”
Falkland allowed himself a chuckle. “It seems to me that there’s a touch of cynicism in your estimate of Nurse Pewsey,” he murmured, and Mrs. Dellaton laughed as she settled herself comfortably back in her deep armchair.
“One of the advantages of increasing years is that one can say what one likes, without caring a hoot what other people think of one,” she replied. “My youth was spent in an anxious desire to please my amiable but ambitious parents. My best years were spent in a desire to please a cautious and reticent husband, myself straining after discretion as it were. Jimmy—God bless him—was one of the most cautious souls ever made. ‘But you mustn’t say so, my dear,’ was his constant cry. Well, now I’m fifty. I’m independent and at times a bit lonely, but I’ve only myself to please. I was born a gossip. I’m going to lighten my old age by gossiping as much as I like.”
“You raise my hopes sky-high,” replied Falkland blithely. “I also am a gossip. I have an unregenerate delight in probing the weaknesses of my neighbours and hearing them pointed out. Indulge your foible. I am the perfect listener.”
“Really, you know, this sounds almost too good to be true,” murmured Mrs. Dellaton. “Where were we before we started these dissertations on character?”
She smiled across at Falkland. “Nurse Pewsey,” she murmured. “Now surely you don’t want to gossip about Nurse Pewsey?”
Falkland studied her face for a moment before replying, and then he fenced a little, saying,
“I couldn’t help being interested when Elsa Barry reminded me that I had once known Nurse Pewsey when she was nursing Aunt Mary. I had barely met Mr. Anderby, though one of my fellow patients at the clinic told me about his death. Major Grendon happened to be lunching at White Gables with the Anderby’s, and he was considerably upset, as you may imagine, being quite an old buffer himself. It was rather a nasty shock for him.”
“Of course, it must have been,” replied Mrs. Dellaton, “but do tell me. What was his opinion about it?”
Again Falkland fenced. “I don’t think there was any room for two opinions,” he answered. “Mr. Anderby fell dead from heart failure. He was in the middle of the lawn when he fell and, incidentally, he had been perfectly well previously.”
“Perfectly well? I was told that he had had a lot of heart trouble recently.”
“Oh, yes, quite. What I meant was he had seemed quite well at lunch—no preliminary symptoms immediately before his death.”
Mrs. Dellaton took a cigarette, and Falkland got up and lighted it for her. She smoked a moment or two in silence, then challenged him with a glance.
“And so what?” she inquired, and Falkland laughed a little.
“Well—and so the one-time Nurse Pewsey is presumably left in comfortable security—and Mrs. Anderby loses a husband with quite tragic suddenness.”
“Very nicely put.” Mrs. Dellaton sat up and looked at Falkland pensively. “Do tell me, what are people saying in Penharden? Don’t tell me they aren’t saying anything—because I shan’t believe it.”
Falkland chuckled. “I’m not up in Penharden gossip because I don’t know anyone in the place, outside the clinic: Elsa Barry said, ‘Poor nurse. How dreadful for her’—and variations on the theme. Major Grendon, who disliked Mrs. Anderby rather unreasonably, was less sympathetic in his attitude, and Mr. Lee Gordon, the tenant of White Gables, is considerably put about.”
“How discreet you are.” Mrs. Dellaton studied him thoughtfully. “It’s no use pretending that you’re not interested because you have obviously discussed ‘this sad fatality’ at first hand with those who witnessed it. Come, Robert Falkland! Play fair. If I indulge my passion for gossip, I do expect a sporting return. If you insist on emulating the oyster, I shall fall back on the international situation.”
“That’d be just too bad,” replied Falkland. “If there’s one thing I hate more than another, it’s the international situation. I’ll play fair, but I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. I have absolutely nothing sensational to report.”
“That doesn’t matter. Provided you’ve an open mind and don’t just say, ‘but it’s very dangerous to make such allegations,’ like my poor Jimmy, we shall get on beautifully. Now you listen to me. I’ve known Nurse Pewsey—or known of her—for years, and quite a lot of interesting things have happened in that period. When I first knew her, she was a maternity nurse, very competent, always booked-up, and a great success at her work generally. She was about thirty-five then, but an old thirty-five if you know what I mean. I believe there had been a bit of a romance, as is so often the case, but the man didn’t come up to scratch, and I think the experience left her rather embittered. She nursed Mrs. Copley when the Copley twins arrived, and I remember she unburdened her heart to me one day, saying how hard she worked, and how difficult it was for a nurse to make enough money to put by for her old age, and so forth. Then, a little later—about 1925, it’d have been, Mrs. Copley’s mother got ill; there was a shortage of nurses, owing to a flu epidemic, and Mrs. Copley persuaded ‘old Pewsey’ to take the job on, and nurse looked after her ‘right up to the end’ as she put it. The old lady got very fond of nurse and left her £50, having made a codicil to her will shortly before she died.”
“Cause of death being——?” murmured Falkland softly.
“Oh, heart failure, of course,” replied Mrs. Dellaton. “After that I lost sight of Nurse Pewsey for a bit. I was told that she went abroad for a really good holiday on the proceeds of her legacy, and when she came back she decided to give up her maternity work, as she really wasn’t strong enough for it any longer, and devote herself to general nursing—particularly among the aged, for whom she felt particular sympathy. She was with old Mrs. Gladman for a year—or perhaps longer—and she was left a really good legacy, but the will wasn’t properly witnessed, and the family disputed it, and nurse only got £10 out of that. Then came your Aunt Mary—you know all about that. I remember Mr. Anderby was so much touched because nurse presented a banner to his church in memory of Miss Mary Falkland. She paid for it out of the legacy and the vicar said it was so noble of her. . . . Of course, I don’t know all nurse’s cases, but when Dr. Chenner died and left her £1,000 there was a lot of gossip. He died in his sleep—she had settled him for the night—he was getting stronger and no longer needed a night nurse, and he was found dead in the morning. . . . Heart failure, of course. When the will was read, one of the family, Roderick Chenner, a real irascible old customer, was really nasty about nurse’s legacy and said he was going to dispute the will, but the other members of the family told him he ought to be ashamed of himself and he was persuaded to do nothing. All the same, there was a lot of talk—I know that Nurse Pewsey heard about it and went to Mr. Anderby and told a sorrowful story. He was so angry about it—he thought the world of her.”
“You know, it’s an amazing story,” said Falkland. “It depends entirely which way you look at it. On the one hand, you can say, ‘Here is a hard-working, good-hearted nurse wrapped up in her work, being a comfort to the old and helpless, and doing a great deal of tiresome irritating work out of sheer love of service’.”
“Quite,” responded Mrs. Dellaton. “You can also say, ‘Here is a very disappointed woman, sick of hard work and the prospect of a hard-up old age, who sees that there is an opportunity of making money by just helping the aged a little faster along the inevitable road.’ The story simply fascinates me because it’s impossible to know which is the right interpretation. You see, Nurse Pewsey is one of those people whom you either like very much or dislike very much. There doesn’t seem to be any happy medium. Personally, I couldn’t stand her. She’s one of those pious women whose conversation is all clichés and texts, like ‘Count your blessings,’ and ‘the world is so full of a number of things,’ and ‘guidance is there for those who seek it. . . .’ She once said that to me and I upped and said, ‘One thing about you, nurse, you do practise what you preach.’ She gave me the oddest look—I’d have given worlds to know what she was really thinking.”
Falkland chuckled. “She might well have given you an odd look—if her ‘guidance’ led her along the path you suspect.”
“Well, you may tell me that I’m a morbid, suspicious, malicious hag, but I can’t see how anybody with a grain of worldly common sense could help seeing that there was something a bit apropos in the manner of the deaths of Nurse Pewsey’s patients. She was a good nurse, of course—knew her stuff, and all that. Curiously enough the elderly patients who took a dislike to her all got better. It was the doting ones who left the legacies who died.”
At that moment the gong sounded and Mrs. Dellaton got up saying,
“Come and see what cook’s contrived for us—and a truce to local crimes for the moment.”
Falkland was given a very good lunch, with some excellent claret, and his hostess entertained him with cheerful chatter about their one-time acquaintances. It was not until they were having coffee, and the maid had left them, that she returned to the topic of Nurse Pewsey.
“You know, there was some official inquiry made when old Dr. Chenner died. Jimmy nearly bit my head off when I tried to talk about it. He was always horrified at what he called my indiscretions and he really frightened me into avoiding the subject at the time, but I was awfully intrigued about it. There was an old servant of Dr. Chenner’s, named Ellen Jones. She’d been with him for years and she hated Nurse Pewsey, incidentally. She was jealous of her really, in the way old servants are jealous of trained nurses. Ellen told me that a gentleman connected with the police had called to see Dr. Chenner and asked Ellen a lot of questions about Nurse Pewsey. He had cautioned Ellen not to tell anybody about his questions, and I only got it out of her because she said to me, ‘You’ll see that there’ll be something done about it. . . . She’s not going to get off scot-free this time’.”
“Do you think Ellen invented it?” inquired Falkland, but Mrs. Dellaton shook her head.
“No. I’m quite sure she didn’t; her account was much too circumstantial. She wouldn’t have had the wits to make it up.”
“Then in that case, if the police really made inquiries, I think you can be pretty certain that there was nothing suspicious about Dr. Chenner’s death,” replied Falkland. “If there had been, an autopsy would have been ordered, and then the fat would have been in the fire.”
“I don’t know about that,” replied Mrs. Dellaton.
“There are lots of cases when the police have suspicions but are unable to prove anything which would make a case. Personally, I think that they were suspicious then, but they couldn’t find anything to act upon and decided to leave it alone. It was rather queer because old Ellen said that the first inquiries were made before the doctor’s death. Ellen hoped that nurse was going to be run in for theft, or something like that. Ellen would have believed anything about her. It’s so sickening—old Ellen’s dead now, so we can never really find out exactly what did happen about those inquiries. Satisfactory for nurse, of course.”
“Very,” replied Falkland, “but I still feel disposed to maintain my point—that if the police did make inquiries and took no subsequent action, you can be pretty sure that there was no ground for suspicion. What often happens is this—some member of the public lays information, or sends an anonymous letter to the police, and such communications are nearly always investigated—though generally there’s nothing in it.”
Mrs. Dellaton looked at her visitor pensively.
“And are you going to tell me . . . honestly, hand on heart, thumbs crossed, that you don’t think there was something fishy about Mr. Anderby’s death?”
Falkland rumpled his hair thoughtfully.
“It’s awfully difficult for me to produce an unbiased answer,” he replied. “You see, you’ve admitted that Mrs. Anderby is the type of woman to whom some people take a strong dislike. . . . You dislike her: so does Major Grendon, and I think your personal aversion colours your judgment. It’s bound to. I don’t remember much about Nurse Pewsey personally. She was just a trained nurse in immaculate cap and apron, who had a tired, patient expression but spoke with the usual professional brightness, and always disclaimed weariness in a martyred sort of way.”
“That expresses her beautifully,” said Mrs. Dellaton. “I can remember her saying, ‘I’m never tired when it’s a question of my duty.’ Silly ass. She’d much better have said, ‘I’m dog-tired and fed up, and I wish one of you would take my duty while I have a good nap’.”
“But to go back to your main question,” said Falkland. “Do I believe that there was anything fishy about Mr. Anderby’s death? Judging from the evidence put before me, I don’t see how there could have been. I can’t think of any agent which would have brought about his death in exactly the way it happened. Of course, my opinion is not that of an expert, in any sense. I am just relying on common sense and very general information, in hazarding an opinion at all—but I just don’t see that there’s any room for foul play over that particular incident.”
“No—but then you’re not as clever as Nurse Pewsey when it comes to criminology, or whatever you call it,” replied Mrs. Dellaton, and Falkland chuckled.
“Look here—you’ll be accusing me of being supercautious like your husband, but I do beg you to be careful what you say—and whom you say it to—about Mrs. Anderby. It’s really very dangerous to risk categorical accusations in a case of this kind.”
“Then I can assure you that half the women in Oasthampstead are in very real danger,” she retorted laughingly. “What I’ve said is mild in comparison to what a lot of people are saying. They’re not asking, ‘Could she have done it?’ but ‘How did she do it?’ ”
“Then I can only advise them to be more careful,” rejoined Falkland, and Mrs. Dellaton laughed.
“She can’t take out an indefinite number of writs for slander—and if she did, I fancy she would end up the sorriest. The number of things which will be quoted will make her famous the world over. Now haven’t we had a perfectly lovely gossip?”
Falkland shouted with laughter. “We’ve taken away at least two characters and invented all sorts of blood-curdling possibilities. Also I’ve had a delicious lunch, which I greatly enjoyed, and fear I’ve considerably outstayed my welcome.”
“Rubbish. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed having you—and do come in again before you leave Penharden. Take a sporting bet. I’ll bet you a pound sterling, to be paid to any charity that you like to name, that we shall hear more about Mr. Anderby’s death before the week is out.”
“I won’t bet on the topic,” replied Falkland soberly, “but I’ve a hunch that you’re probably right—although I admit quite frankly that I hope you’re quite wrong.”
“Time will show—to use one of those clichés beloved by Nurse Pewsey,” replied Mrs. Dellaton, with her whimsical smile.