“Right. I take it that if he says the death was inexplicable, it really was so. That’s one point gained. Now about the old lady herself. I gather she was a little queer towards the end—a bit mental, I think you people call it?”
“I don’t know that I’d say that either. Of course, when she was under morphia, she would be unconscious, or only semiconscious, for hours together. But up to the time when I left, I should say she was quite—well, quite all there. She was obstinate, you know, and what they call a character, at the best of times.”
“But Dr. Carr told me she got odd fancies—about people poisoning her?”
The red-haired nurse rubbed her fingers slowly along the arm of the chair, and hesitated.
“If it will make you feel any less unprofessional,” said Lord Peter, guessing what was in her mind, “I may say that my friend Detective-Inspector Parker is looking into this matter with me, which gives me a sort of right to ask questions.”
“In that case—yes—in that case I think I can speak freely. I never understood about that poisoning idea. I never saw anything of it—no aversion, I mean, or fear of me. As a rule, a patient will show it, if she’s got any queer ideas about the nurse. Poor Miss Dawson was always most kind and affectionate. She kissed me when I went away and gave me a little present, and said she was sorry to lose me.”
“She didn’t show any sort of nervousness about taking food from you?”
“Well, I wasn’t allowed to give her any food that last week. Miss Whittaker said her aunt had taken this funny notion, and gave her all her meals herself.”
“Oh! that’s very interestin’. Was it Miss Whittaker, then, who first mentioned this little eccentricity to you?”
“Yes. And she begged me not to say anything about it to Miss Dawson, for fear of agitating her.”
“And did you?”
“I did not. I wouldn’t mention it in any case to a patient. It does no good.”
“Did Miss Dawson ever speak about it to anyone else? Dr. Carr, for instance?”
“No. According to Miss Whittaker, her aunt was frightened of the doctor too, because she imagined he was in league with me. Of course, that story rather lent colour to the unkind things that were said afterwards. I suppose it’s just possible that she saw us glancing at one another or speaking aside, and got the idea that we were plotting something.”
“How about the maids?”
“There were new maids about that time. She probably wouldn’t talk about it to them, and anyhow, I wouldn’t be discussing my patient with her servants.”
“Of course not. Why did the other maids leave? How many were there? Did they all go at once?”
“Two of them went. They were sisters. One was a terrible crockery-smasher, and Miss Whittaker gave her notice, so the other left with her.”
“Ah, well! one can have too much of seeing the Crown Derby rollin’ round the floor. Quite. Then it had nothing to do with—it wasn’t on account of any little—”
“It wasn’t because they couldn’t get along with the nurse, if you mean that,” said Nurse Philliter, with a smile. “They were very obliging girls, but not very bright.”
“Quite. Well, now, is there any little odd, out-of-the-way incident you can think of that might throw light on the thing. There was a visit from a lawyer, I believe, that agitated your patient quite a lot. Was that in your time?”
“No. I only heard about it from Dr. Carr. And he never heard the name of the lawyer, what he came about, or anything.”
“A pity,” said his lordship. “I have been hoping great things of the lawyer. There’s such a sinister charm, don’t you think, about lawyers who appear unexpectedly with little bags, and alarm people with mysterious conferences, and then go away leaving urgent messages that if anything happens they are to be sent for. If it hadn’t been for the lawyer, I probably shouldn’t have treated Dr. Carr’s medical problem with the respect it deserves. He never came again, or wrote, I suppose?”
“I don’t know. Wait a minute. I do remember one thing. I remember Miss Dawson having another hysterical attack of the same sort, and saying just what she said then—‘that they were trying to kill her before her time.’ ”
“When was that?”
“Oh, a couple of weeks before I left. Miss Whittaker had been up to her with the post, I think, and there were some papers of some kind to sign, and it seems to have upset her. I came in from my walk and found her in a dreadful state. The maids could have told you more about it than I could, really, for they were doing some dusting on the landing at the time and heard her going on, and they ran down and fetched me up to her. I didn’t ask them about what happened myself, naturally—it doesn’t do for nurses to gossip with the maids behind their employers’ backs. Miss Whittaker said that her aunt had had an annoying communication from a solicitor.”
“Yes, it sounds as though there might be something there. Do you remember what the maids were called?”
“What was the name now? A funny one, or I shouldn’t remember it—Gotobed, that was it—Bertha and Evelyn Gotobed. I don’t know where they went, but I daresay you could find out.”
“Now one last question, and I want you to forget all about Christian kindliness and the law of slander when you answer it. What is Miss Whittaker like?”
An indefinable expression crossed the nurse’s face.
“Tall, handsome, very decided in manner,” she said, with an air of doing strict justice against her will, “an extremely competent nurse—she was at the Royal Free, you know, till she went to live with her aunt. I think she would have made a perfectly wonderful theatre nurse. She did not like me, nor I her, you know, Lord Peter—and it’s better I should
