Shroud for a Nightingale (26 page)

Sister Rolfe gave Dalgliesh one sharp look, then ignoring him, moved over to her colleague and said with unexpected gentleness:

Took Gearing, I’m sorry. Of course I’m not accusing Leonard Morris or you. But the fact that he was here would have come out anyway. Don’t let the police fluster you. It’s how they work. I don’t suppose the Superintendent cares a damn whether you or I or Brumfett killed Pearce and Fallon so long as he can prove someone did. Well, let him get on with it Just answer his questions and keep calm. Why not get on with your job and let the police get on with theirs?“

Mavis Gearing wailed like a child seeking reassurance:

“But it’s all so awful!”

“Of course it is! But it won’t last for ever. And in the meantime, if you must confide in a man, find yourself a solicitor, a psychiatrist or a priest. At least you can be reasonably sure they’ll be on your side.”

Mavis Gearing’s worried eyes moved from Dalgliesh to Rolfe. She looked like a child hesitating to decide where her allegiance lay. Then the two women moved imperceptibly together and gazed at Dalgliesh, Sister Gearing in puzzled reproach and Sister Rolfe with the tight satisfied smile of a woman who has just brought off a successful piece of mischief.

II

At that moment Dalgliesh caught the sound of approaching footsteps. Someone was moving across the dining-room. He turned to the door, expecting to find that Sister Brumfett had at last come to be interviewed. The conservatory door opened but, instead of her squat figure, he saw a tall bare-headed man wearing a belted raincoat and with a gauze patch taped across his left eye. A peevish voice spoke from the doorway:

“What’s happened to everyone? This place is like a morgue.”

Before anyone could reply, Miss Gearing had darted forward and seized his arm. Dalgliesh saw with interest his frown and twitch of involuntary recoil.

“Len, what is it? You’re hurt! You never told me! I thought it was your ulcer. You never said anything about hurting your head!”

“It was my ulcer. But this didn’t help it”

He spoke directly to Dalgliesh:

“You must be Chief Superintendent Dalgliesh of New Scotland Yard. Miss Gearing told me that you wanted to see me. I’m on my way to my general practitioner’s surgery but I’m at your disposal for half an hour.”

But Sister Gearing was not to be diverted from her concern.

“But you never said anything about an accident! How did it happen? Why didn’t you tell me about it when I rang?”

“Because we had other things to discuss and because I didn’t want you to fuss.”

He shook off her detaining arm and sat himself down in a wicker chair. The two women and Dalgliesh moved in close to him. There was a silence. Dalgliesh revised his unreasonably preconceived notions of Miss Gearing’s lover. He should have looked ridiculous, sitting there in his cheap raincoat with his patched eye and bruised face and speaking in that grating sarcastic voice. But he was curiously impressive. Sister Rolfe had somehow conveyed the impression of a little man, nervous, ineffectual and easily intimidated. This man had force. It might be only the manifestation of pent-up nervous energy; it might be the obsessive resentment born of failure or unpopularity. But his was certainly not a comfortable or negligible personality.

Dalgliesh asked: “When did you learn that Josephine Fallon was dead?”

“When I rang my pharmacy office just after nine thirty this morning to say that I wouldn’t be in. My assistant told me. I suppose the news was all over the hospital by then.”

“How did you react to the news?”

“React? I didn’t react. I hardly knew the girl. I was surprised, I suppose. Two deaths in the same house and so close together in time; well, it’s unusual to say the least of it It’s shocking really. You could say I was shocked.”

He spoke like a successful politician condescending to express an attributable opinion to a cub reporter.

“But you didn’t connect the two deaths?”

“Not at the time. My assistant just said that another Nightingale—we call the students Nightingales when they are in block—that another Nightingale student, Jo Fallon, had been found dead. I asked how and he said something about a heart attack following influenza. I thought it was a natural death. I suppose that’s what everyone thought at first”

“When did you think otherwise?”

“I suppose when Miss Gearing rang me about an hour later to say that you were here.”

So Sister Gearing had telephoned Morris at his home. She must have wanted to reach him urgently to have risked that Was it perhaps to warn him, to agree their story? While Dalgliesh was wondering what excuse, if any, she had given to Mrs. Morris, the pharmacist answered the unspoken question.

“Miss Gearing doesn’t usually ring me at home. She knows that I like to keep my professional and my private life absolutely separate. But she was naturally anxious about my health when she rang the laboratory after breakfast and was told that I wasn’t in. I suffer from a duodenal ulcer.”

“Your wife, no doubt was able to reassure her.”

He replied calmly but with a sharp glance at Sister Rolf e, who had moved to the periphery of the group:

“My wife takes the children to her mother’s all day on Fridays.”

As Mavis Gearing would no doubt have known. So they had, after all, had a chance to consult each other, to decide on their story. But if they were concocting an alibi, why fix it for midnight? Because they knew for the best or worse of reasons that Fallon had died at that hour? Or because, knowing her habits, they judged that midnight was the most likely time? Only the killer, and perhaps not even he, could know precisely when Fallon had died. It could have been before midnight. It could have been as late as two thirty. Even Miles Honeyman with his thirty years’ experience couldn’t time the death precisely from clinical signs alone. The only certain thing was that Fallon was dead and that she had died almost immediately after drinking her whisky. But when exactly had that been? It was her usual habit to prepare her late night drink as soon as she went upstairs to bed. But no one admitted to having seen her after she left the nurses’ sitting-room. Fallon could, just possibly, have been alive when Sister Brumfett and the Burt twins saw her light shining through the keyhole just after two a.m. And if she had been alive then what had she been doing between midnight and two o’clock? Dalgliesh had been concentrating on those people who had access to the school. But suppose Fallon had left Nightingale House that night, perhaps to keep an assignation. Or suppose she had deferred making her nightly drink of whisky and lemon because she was expecting a visitor. The front and back doors of Nightingale House had been found bolted in the morning, but Fallon could have let her visitor out any time during the night and bolted the door behind him.

But Mavis Gearing was still preoccupied with her lover’s damaged head and bruised face.

“What happened to you, Len? You’ve got to tell me. Did you come off your bicycle?”

Sister Rolfe laughed unkindly. Leonard Morris bestowed on her a measured glance of intimidating contempt, then turned to Sister Gearing.

“If you must know Mavis, yes I did. It happened after I left you last night There was one of the big elms down across the path and I cycled right into it.” Sister Rolfe spoke for the first time. “Surely you could see it in the light of your bicycle lamp?” “My bicycle lamp, Sister, not unreasonably, is fixed to shine on the road. I saw the tree trunk. What I didn’t see in time was one of the high jutting boughs. I was lucky not to lose an eye.” Sister Gearing, predictably, gave an anguished yelp. Dalgliesh asked: “What time did this happen?” “I’ve just told you. Last night after I had left Nightingale House. Oh, I see! You’re asking what time precisely? As it happens I can answer that I came off my bicycle under the impact and was afraid that my watch had been broken. Fortunately it hadn’t The hands stood at twelve seventeen a.m. precisely.”

“Wasn’t there some warning—a white scarf—tied to the branch?”

“Of course not, Superintendent. If there had been I should hardly have ridden straight into it.”

“If it were tied high up on a bough you might not have noticed it”

“It wasn’t there to notice. After I’d picked up my bicycle and recovered a little from the shock I inspected the tree carefully. My first thought was that I might be able to shift it at least slightly and leave part of the road clear. That was obviously impossible. The job was going to need a tractor and tackle. But there was no scarf on any part of that tree at twelve seventeen a.m.”

“Mr. Morris,”‘ said Dalgliesh, “I think it’s time you and I had a little talk.”

But Sister Brumfett was waiting for him outside the interview room. Before Dalgliesh could speak she said accusingly:

“I was summoned to see you in this room. I came promptly at some inconvenience to my ward. When I arrive I’m told that you’re not in your room and will I please go down to the conservatory. I don’t propose to chase around Nightingale House for you. If you want to see me I can spare you half an hour now.”

“Miss Brumfett,” said Dalgliesh, “you seem determined by your behavior to give me the impression that you killed these girls. It’s possible you did. I shall come to a conclusion about that as soon as I reasonably can. In the meantime, please curb your enthusiasm for antagonizing the police and wait until I can see you. That will be when I’ve finished talking to Mr. Morris. You can wait here outside the office or go to your own room, whichever suits you. But I shall want you in about thirty minutes and I, too, have no intention of chasing over the house to find you.”

He had no idea how she would take this rebuke. Her reaction was surprising. The eyes behind the thick spectacles softened and twinkled. Her face broke into a momentary grin and she gave a satisfied little nod as if she had at least succeeded in provoking a particularly docile student into showing a flash of spirit.

“I’ll wait here.” She plonked herself down on the chair outside the office door then, nodded towards Morris.

“And I shouldn’t let him do all the talking or you’ll be lucky to be through in half an hour.”

III

But the interview took less than thirty minutes. The first couple were spent by Morris making himself comfortable. He took off his shabby raincoat, shaking it and smoothing down the folds as if it had somehow become contaminated in Nightingale House, then folded it with fussy precision over the back of his chair. Then he seated himself opposite Dalgliesh and took the initiative.

“Please don’t fire questions at me, Superintendent I don’t like being interrogated. I prefer to tell my story in my own way. You needn’t worry about it being accurate. I’d hardly be chief pharmacist of an important hospital if I hadn’t the head for detail and a good memory for facts.”

Dalgliesh said mildly: “Then could I have some facts please, starting perhaps with your movements last night”

Morris continued as if he hadn’t heard this eminently reasonable request.

“Miss Gearing has given me the privilege of her friendship for the past six years. I’ve no doubt that certain people here, certain women Irving in Nightingale House, have placed their own interpretation on that friendship. That is to be expected. When you get a community of middle-aged spinsters living together you’re bound to get sexual jealousy.”

“Mr. Morris,” said Dalgliesh gently. “I’m not here to investigate your relationship with Miss Gearing or hers with her colleagues. If those relationships have anything to do with the deaths of these two girls, then tell me about them. Otherwise let’s leave out the amateur psychology and get down to the material facts.”

“My relationship with Miss Gearing is germane to your inquiry in that it has brought me into this house at about the time Nurse Pearce and Nurse Fallon died.”

“All right. Then tell me about those two occasions.”

“The first was the morning when Nurse Pearce died. You are, no doubt aware of the details. Naturally I reported my visit to Inspector Bailey since he caused a notice to be appended to all the hospital notice-boards inquiring the names of people who had visited Nightingale House on the morning on which Nurse Pearce died. But I have no objection to repeating the information. I called in here on my way to the pharmacy to leave Miss Gearing a note. It was in fact a card, one of those ‘good luck’ cards which it is customary to send friends before some important event I knew that Miss Gearing would have to take the first demonstration of the day, indeed the first demonstration of this school, as Sister Manning, who is Miss Rolfe’s first assistant, is sick with flu. Miss Gearing was naturally nervous, particularly as the General Nursing Council Inspector was to be present. Unfortunately I missed the previous evening’s post. I was anxious for her to get my card before she went into the demonstration so I decided to slip it into her cubby hole myself. I came to work especially early, arrived at Nightingale House shortly after eight, and left almost immediately. I saw no one. Presumably the staff and students were at breakfast. I certainly didn’t enter the demonstration room. I wasn’t particularly keen to draw attention to myself. I merely inserted the card in its envelope into Miss Gearing’s cubby hole and withdrew. It was rather an amusing card. It showed two robins, the male bird forming the words ‘good luck’ in worms at the feet of the female. Miss Gearing may well have kept the card; she has a fancy for such trifles. No doubt she would show it to you on request. It would corroborate my story of what I was doing in Nightingale House.”

Dalgliesh said gravely: “I have already seen the card. Did you know what the demonstration would be about?”

“I knew that it was on intra-gastric feeding but I didn’t know that Nurse Fallon had been taken ill in the night or who was to act the part of the patient.”

“Have you any idea at all how the corrosive poison got into the drip?”

“If you would just let me take my own time. I was about to tell you. I have none. The most likely explanation is that someone was playing a stupid joke and didn’t realize that the result would be fatal. That, or an accident. There are precedents. A new-born baby was killed in the maternity wing of a hospital—not happily one of ours—only three years ago when a bottle of disinfectant was mistaken for milk. I can’t explain how the accident here could have occurred or who in Nightingale House could have been so ignorant and stupid as to think that the result of putting a corrosive poison in the milk feed would entertain anyone.”