The Nursing Home Murder

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Friday, the fifth. Afternoon.

The Home Secretary, with an air of finality, laid down the papers from which he had been reading and glanced round the table. He was struck, not for the first time, by the owlish solemnity of the other members of the Cabinet. “Really,” he thought, “we look for all the world like a Cabinet Meeting in a cinema. We are too good to be true.” As if to, confirm this impression, the Prime Minister flung himself back in his chair, laid the palms of his hands on the table, and cleared his throat.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said portentously, “there we have it.”

“Strong!” said the Foreign Secretary. He folded his arms and stared at the ceiling.

“Drastic!” added the Lord Chancellor. “I venture to think — drastic.”

“But in my opinion,” the Postmaster-General said, “neither too strong nor too drastic.” He fidgeted with his tie and became almost human. “Damn it all,” he said irritably, “we’ve got to do something.”

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