‘Let me see them.’
He gave her the bundle of letters and returned to the pigeonholes.
‘Here are his notes,’ he said presently. She did not answer, and he glanced up and was astonished to surprise in her face an expression of some sort of an emotion. She looked venomous.
‘Here is the letter I spoke of,’ she said. ‘You will see that they threaten to poison him.’
‘Yes. I see.’
‘You still do not believe me, Mr Jameson?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘I shall insist upon an inquiry.’
‘An inquiry? Oh Lord!’ said Ronald involuntarily. ‘I mean—I wouldn’t, really, Lady O’Callaghan. It’s—we’ve no grounds for it.’
‘Are you taking these notes to the Prime Minister today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you tell him, if you please, what I propose to do? You may discuss it with him. In the meantime I shall go through the private letters. Have you the keys of those drawers?’
Ronald took a bunch of keys from the desk, and with an air of reluctance put them in her hand.
‘When is your appointment?’
‘For three o’clock.’
‘It is now only half-past two. Please come and see me before you leave.’
As he left her she was fitting a key to the bottom drawer.
To anybody who had the curiosity to watch him—Nash, the butler, for instance—Ronald Jameson would have appeared to be very much upset. He went up to his bedroom, wandered aimlessly about, smoked three cigarettes, and finally sat on the bed, staring in a sort of trance at a wood-engraving that hung above his dressing-table. At last he looked at his watch, went downstairs, got his hat and umbrella and returned to the study.
He found Lady O’Callaghan seated at the desk with a neatly arranged pile of letters in front of her. She did not turn her head when he came in. She simply stared very fixedly at a paper she held in her hand. It struck him that she had sat like that for some time—while he himself had done much the same thing upstairs in his room. Her face was always pale—she did not use rouge—but he thought now that it was deadly white. There was a thin ridge, like a taut thread, linking her nostrils with the corners of her mouth.
‘Come here,’ she said quietly.
He went and stood by the desk.
‘You told me that night, a week ago, I think, that my husband had received a letter that seemed to upset him. Was this the letter?’
He glanced at it and then looked away.
‘I did not see the letter,’ he stammered. ‘Only the envelope.’
‘Is that the envelope?’
‘I—I think so. I can’t be sure.’
‘Read it.’
With an expression of extreme distaste he read the letter. It was Jane Harden’s.
‘If an opportunity presented itself,’ Jane had written, ‘I would not hesitate to kill you.’
Ronald put it down on the desk.
‘Now read this.’
The second letter was from Sir John Phillips. Phillips had written it at fever-heat on the night he got home from his interview with O’Callaghan, and had posted it before he had time to cool down.
I gather you’re going to cut your losses and evade what, to any decent man, would be a responsibility. You talked of sending Jane a cheque. She will, of course, either tear it up or return it. I cannot force your hand, for that would do still more harm to a lady who is already deeply wronged. I warn you, however, to keep clear of me. I’ve a certain devil in me that I thought was scotched, but you have brought it to life again, and I think I could very easily kill you. This may sound like hyperbole; as a matter of fact it is meiosis.
JOHN PHILLIPS
‘Have you seen that before?’ asked Lady O’Callaghan.
‘Never,’ said Ronald.
‘You notice the signature? It was written by the man who operated on my husband.’
‘Yes.’
‘Who is this woman—Jane Harden?’
‘Honestly, I have no idea, Lady O’Callaghan.’
‘No? A nurse, evidently. Look at the address, Mr Jameson.’
‘Good God,’ said Ronald. ‘It’s—it’s the nursing-home.’
‘Yes. We sent him to a strange place for his operation.’
‘But—’
‘Will you please take these letters with you?’
‘But, Lady O’Callaghan, I can’t possibly show them to the P.M.—the Prime Minister—really!’
‘Then I shall have to do so myself. Of course, there must be an inquest.’
‘Forgive me, but in the shock of reading these letters and—and realising their inferences, have you considered the effect any publicity would have on yourself?’
‘What do you mean? What shock? Do you suppose I did not know he had mistresses?’
‘I’ve no idea, I’m sure,’ said poor Ronald unhappily.
‘Of course I knew,’ she said composedly. ‘That seems to me to have nothing to do with the point we are discussing. I knew he had been murdered. I thought at first that these other people—’ She made a slight gesture towards the neat little pile on the desk. ‘Now I find he had bitter enemies nearer to him than that.’ Her hand closed over the letters on her knee. ‘He has been murdered. Probably by this nurse or by Sir John Phillips; possibly by both of them in collaboration. I shall demand an inquest.’
‘An inquest! You know, I doubt very much if you would be given permission.’
‘To whom does one apply?’
‘One can’t just order an inquest,’ Ronald said evasively.
‘Who can do so, Mr Jameson?’
‘The—well, the coroner for the district, I imagine.’
‘Or the police?’
Ronald winced.
‘I suppose so—yes.’
‘Yes. Thank you, Mr Jameson.’
Ronald, in a panic, took himself off to the House.
Lady O’Callaghan put a jade paper-weight on the little heap of letters and opened the telephone directory. The number she wanted was printed in large letters on a front page. She dialled it, and was answered immediately.
‘Is that New Scotland Yard?’ she asked, pitching her voice in a sort of serene falsetto. ‘It is Lady O’Callaghan speaking. My husband was Sir Derek O’Callaghan, the late Home Secretary. I want to speak to someone in authority, in reference to the death of my husband. No, not on the telephone. Perhaps someone would call? Immediately, if possible. Thank you.’
She hung up the receiver and leant back in her chair. Then she rang for Nash, who came in looking like a Stilton in mourning.
‘Nash,’ she said, ‘an officer from Scotland Yard is calling in ten minutes. It is in reference to the funeral. I wish