The Nursing Home Murder by Ngaio Marsh

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 to speak to him myself. If Miss O’Callaghan calls, will you tell her I am unable to see her? Show the officer in here when he comes.”
    “Very good, m’lady,” breathed Nash and withdrew.
    Cicely O’Callaghan then went to the room where her husband lay, awaiting his last journey down Whitehall. She was an Anglo-Catholic, so candles burned, small golden plumes, at the head and foot of the coffin. The room, a large one, was massed heavily with flowers. It smelt like a tropical island, but was very cold. A nun from the church that the O’Callaghans attended knelt at a little distance from the coffin. She did not look up when Lady O’Callaghan came in.
    The wife knelt beside her for a moment, crossed herself with a thin vague movement of her hand, and then rose and contemplated her husband.
    Derek O’Callaghan looked impressive. The heavy eyebrows, black hair, jutting nose and thin wide mouth were striking accents in the absolute pallor of his face. His hands, stiffly crossed, obediently fixed a crucifix to the hard curve of his breast. His wife, only a little less pale than he, stared at him. It would have been impossible to guess her thoughts. She simply looked in the direction of the dead face. In the distance a door opened and shut. She turned away from the bier, and walked out of the room.
    In the hall Nash waited gloomily, while a tall, thickly built man handed him hat and umbrella.
    “Inspector Fox, my lady.”
    “Will you come in here?”
    She took the inspector into the study. Nash had lit the fire, and she held her thin hands towards it.
    “Please sit down,” she murmured. They sat facing each other. Inspector Fox regarded her with respectful attention.
    “I asked you to come and see me,” she began very quietly, “because I believe my husband to have been murdered.”
    Fox did not speak for a moment. He sat stockily, very still, looking gravely before him.
    “I’m sorry to hear that, Lady O’Callaghan,” he said at last. “It sounds rather serious.”
    Apparently she had met her match in understatement.
    “Of course, I should not have called you in unless I had material evidence to put before you. I believe the police are aware of the activities of those persons against whom my husband’s Anarchy Bill was directed?”
    “We know a good deal about them.”
    “Yes. My husband had received many threatening letters which were believed to come from these people. I wished him to let the police see the letters, but he refused.”
    “We were informed of the matter from another source,” said Fox.
    “The Prime Minister, perhaps?”
    Fox regarded her placidly, but did not reply.
    “I have the letters here,” she continued, after a moment, “and would like you to read them.” She took them from the desk and gave them to him.
    Fox took a spectacle case from an inner pocket and put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He looked extremely respectable. He read the letters through stolidly, laying them down neatly one on top of the other. When the last was finished, he clasped his enormous hands together and said:
    “Yes. That’s the sort of thing these people write.”
    “Now, will you read these?”
    She gave him the letters from Sir John Phillips and Jane Harden. He read them carefully, in exactly the same way.
    “Sir John Phillips is the surgeon who operated upon my husband. I understand the other letter is from a nurse in the hospital.”
    “Is that so, Lady O’Callaghan?” said Fox politely.
    “My husband had peritonitis but I believe he died of poisoning. I believe he was poisoned.”
    “In view of these letters? These two, or the others?”
    “I do not know. I am inclined to regard the personal ones as being more