duty-room, probably wore one of the rubber aprons from the art therapy room as a protection, certainly had medical knowledge. Above all, of course, the murderer couldn’t have left the clinic after the crime. The basement door was bolted and so was the ground floor back door. Cully was watching the front door.”
“Cully had a belly-ache. He could have missed someone.”
“Do you really believe that’s possible?” asked Dalgliesh. And the group secretary did not reply.
At first sight Marion Bolam could be thought beautiful. She had the fair, classical good looks which, enhanced by her nurse’s uniform, gave an immediate impression of serene loveliness. Her blonde hair, parted above a broad forehead and twisted into a high roll at the back of her head, was bound by the simple white cap. It was only at second glance that the illusion faded and beauty gave way to prettiness. The features, individually analysed, were unremarkable, the nose a little too long, the hips a little too thin. In ordinary clothes, hurrying home perhaps at the end of the day, she would be undistinguished. It was the combination of the starched formal linen with that fair skin and yellow hair which dazzled the eye. Only in the broad forehead and the sharpness of the nose could Dalgliesh detect any likeness to her dead cousin. But there was nothing ordinary about the large grey eyes which met his fully for a brief second before she lowered her glance and gazed fixedly at the clasped hands in her lap.
“I understand that you are Miss Bolam’s next of kin. This must be a terrible shock for you.”
“Yes. Oh, yes, it is! Enid was my cousin.”
“You have the same name. Your fathers were brothers?”
“Yes, they were. Our mothers were sisters, too. Two brothers married two sisters so that we were doubly related.”
“Had she no other relations living?”
“Only Mummy and me.”
“I shall have to see Miss Bolam’s solicitor, I expect,” said Dalgliesh, “but it would be helpful if you would tell me as much as you know about her affairs. I’m afraid I have to ask these personal questions. Usually they have no bearing on the crime, but one must know as much as possible about everyone concerned. Had your cousin any income apart from her salary?”
“Oh, yes. Enid was quite well off. Uncle Sydney left her mother about £25,000 and it all came to Enid. I don’t know how much was left, but I think she had about £1,000 a year coming in apart from her salary here. She kept on auntie’s flat in Ballantyne Mansions and she… she was always very good to us.”
“In what way, Miss Bolam? Did she make you an allowance?”
“Oh, no! Enid wouldn’t want to do that. She gave us presents. Thirty pounds at Christmas and fifty in July for our summer holiday. Mummy has disseminated sclerosis and we couldn’t go away to an ordinary hotel.”
“And what happens to Miss Bolam’s money now?”
The grey eyes lifted to meet his with no trace of embarrassment. She answered simply:
“It will come to Mummy and me. There wasn’t anyone else to leave it to, was there? Enid always said it would come to us if she died first. But, of course, it wasn’t likely that she would die first; not while Mummy was alive anyway.”
It was indeed unlikely, in the ordinary course of events, that Mrs. Bolam would ever have benefited from that £20,000 or what was left of it, thought Dalgliesh. Here was the obvious motive, so understandable, so universal, so dear to any prosecuting counsel. Every juryman understood the lure of money. Could Nurse Bolam really be unaware of the significance of the information which she was handing him with such unembarrassed candour? Could innocence be so naïve or guilt so confident? He said suddenly:
“Was your cousin popular, Miss Bolam?”
“She hadn’t many friends. I don’t think she would have called herself popular. She wouldn’t want that. She had her church activities and the Guides. She was a very quiet person
“Cully had a belly-ache. He could have missed someone.”
“Do you really believe that’s possible?” asked Dalgliesh. And the group secretary did not reply.
At first sight Marion Bolam could be thought beautiful. She had the fair, classical good looks which, enhanced by her nurse’s uniform, gave an immediate impression of serene loveliness. Her blonde hair, parted above a broad forehead and twisted into a high roll at the back of her head, was bound by the simple white cap. It was only at second glance that the illusion faded and beauty gave way to prettiness. The features, individually analysed, were unremarkable, the nose a little too long, the hips a little too thin. In ordinary clothes, hurrying home perhaps at the end of the day, she would be undistinguished. It was the combination of the starched formal linen with that fair skin and yellow hair which dazzled the eye. Only in the broad forehead and the sharpness of the nose could Dalgliesh detect any likeness to her dead cousin. But there was nothing ordinary about the large grey eyes which met his fully for a brief second before she lowered her glance and gazed fixedly at the clasped hands in her lap.
“I understand that you are Miss Bolam’s next of kin. This must be a terrible shock for you.”
“Yes. Oh, yes, it is! Enid was my cousin.”
“You have the same name. Your fathers were brothers?”
“Yes, they were. Our mothers were sisters, too. Two brothers married two sisters so that we were doubly related.”
“Had she no other relations living?”
“Only Mummy and me.”
“I shall have to see Miss Bolam’s solicitor, I expect,” said Dalgliesh, “but it would be helpful if you would tell me as much as you know about her affairs. I’m afraid I have to ask these personal questions. Usually they have no bearing on the crime, but one must know as much as possible about everyone concerned. Had your cousin any income apart from her salary?”
“Oh, yes. Enid was quite well off. Uncle Sydney left her mother about £25,000 and it all came to Enid. I don’t know how much was left, but I think she had about £1,000 a year coming in apart from her salary here. She kept on auntie’s flat in Ballantyne Mansions and she… she was always very good to us.”
“In what way, Miss Bolam? Did she make you an allowance?”
“Oh, no! Enid wouldn’t want to do that. She gave us presents. Thirty pounds at Christmas and fifty in July for our summer holiday. Mummy has disseminated sclerosis and we couldn’t go away to an ordinary hotel.”
“And what happens to Miss Bolam’s money now?”
The grey eyes lifted to meet his with no trace of embarrassment. She answered simply:
“It will come to Mummy and me. There wasn’t anyone else to leave it to, was there? Enid always said it would come to us if she died first. But, of course, it wasn’t likely that she would die first; not while Mummy was alive anyway.”
It was indeed unlikely, in the ordinary course of events, that Mrs. Bolam would ever have benefited from that £20,000 or what was left of it, thought Dalgliesh. Here was the obvious motive, so understandable, so universal, so dear to any prosecuting counsel. Every juryman understood the lure of money. Could Nurse Bolam really be unaware of the significance of the information which she was handing him with such unembarrassed candour? Could innocence be so naïve or guilt so confident? He said suddenly:
“Was your cousin popular, Miss Bolam?”
“She hadn’t many friends. I don’t think she would have called herself popular. She wouldn’t want that. She had her church activities and the Guides. She was a very quiet person
Similar Books
