The Nursing Home Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

maniac. He ought to be certified. There is insanity in his blood. Everybody knows his father was dotty. That’s what I think of your Derek O’Callaghan with a title bought with blood-money,” said Banks, making a great clatter with sterilised bowls.
    “Then perhaps”—Sister Marigold’s voice was ominously quiet—“perhaps you’ll explain what you’re doing working for Sir John Phillips. Perhaps his title was bought with blood-money too.”
    “As long as this rotten system stands, we’ve got to live,” declared Banks ambiguously, “but it won’t be for ever and I’ll be the first to declare myself when the time comes. O’Callaghan will have to go and all his bloodsucking bourgeoisie party with him. It would be a fine thing for the people if he went now. There, matron!”
    “It would be a better thing if you went yourself, Nurse Banks, and if I had another theatre nurse free, go you would. I’m ashamed of you. To talk about a patient like that — what are you thinking of?”
    “I can’t help it if my blood boils.”
    “There’s a great deal too much blood, boiling or not, in your conversation.”
    With the air of one silenced but not defeated, Banks set out a table with hypodermic appliances and wheeled it into the theatre.
    “Really, Nurse Harden,” said Sister Marigold, “I’m ashamed of that woman. The vindictiveness! She ought not to be here. One might almost think she would— ”
    Matron paused, unable to articulate the enormity of her thought.
    “No such — thing,” said Jane. “I’d be more likely to do him harm than she.”
    “And that’s an outside chance,” declared matron more genially. “I must say, Nurse Harden, you’re the best theatre nurse I’ve had for a long time. A real compliment, my dear, because I’m very particular. Are we ready? Yes. And here come the doctors.”
    Jane put her hands behind her back and stood to attention. Sister Marigold assumed an air of efficient repose. Nurse Banks appeared for a moment in the doorway, seemed to recollect something, and returned to the theatre.
    Sir John Phillips came in followed by Thoms, his assistant, and the anæsthetist. Thoms was fat, scarlet-faced and industriously facetious. Dr. Roberts was a thin, sandy-haired man, with a deprecating manner. He took off his spectacles and polished them.
    “Ready, matron?” asked Phillips.
    “Quite ready, Sir John.”
    “Dr. Roberts will give the anæsthetic. Dr. Grey is engaged. We were lucky to get you. Roberts, at such short notice.”
    “I’m delighted to come,” said Roberts. “I’ve been doing a good deal of Grey’s work lately. It is always an honour, and an interesting experience, to work under you, Sir John.”
    He spoke with a curious formality as if he considered each sentence carefully and then offered it to the person he addressed.
    “If I may I’ll just take a look at the anæsthetising-room before we begin.”
    “Certainly.”
    The truculent Banks reappeared.
    “Nurse Banks,” said the matron, “go with Dr. Roberts to the anæsthetising-room, please.”
    Dr. Roberts blinked at Banks, and followed her out.
    Sir John went into the theatre and crossed to a small table, enamelled white, on which were various appliances concerned with the business of giving hypodermic injections. There were three syringes, each in a little dish of sterile water. Two were of the usual size known to the layman. The third was so large as to suggest it was intended for veterinary rather than human needs. The small syringes held twenty-five minims each, the larger at least six times as much. An ampoule, a bottle, a small bowl and a measure-glass also stood on the table. The bottle was marked: “
Hyoscine solution
. 0.25
per cent. Five minims contains
1/100
of a grain
.” The ampoule was marked: “
Gas-Gangrene Antitoxin (concentrated)
.” The bowl contained sterile water.
    Phillips produced from his pocket a small hypodermic case from which he took a tiny tube labelled: