P James - Shroud for a Nightingale

The door opened and Madeleine Goodale returned. Without a word she went back to her desk, took up her pen and resumed work.

Sister Gearing whispered: “Goodale seems calm enough. Odd, considering she was supposed to be Fallon’s best friend.”

Sister Rolfe did not raise her eyes. She said drily:

“She didn’t really care about Fallon. Goodale has only a limited emotional capital and I imagine she expends it all on that extraordinarily dull person she’s decided to marry.”

“He’s good-looking, though. Goodale’s lucky to get him, if you ask me.”

But the subject was of a secondary interest to Sister Gearing and she didn’t pursue it. After a minute she said peevishly:

“Why haven’t the police sent for someone else?”

“They will.” Sister Rolfe added another exercise book, liberally embellished in green, to a completed pile by her side. “They’re probably still discussing Goodale’s contribution.”

“They ought to have seen us first After all, we’re Sisters. Matron should have explained. And why isn’t Brumfett here7 I don’t see why she should be treated any differently from us.”

Sister Rolfe said: Too busy. Apparently a couple of the second-year students on. the ward have now gone down with flu. She sent over some sort of note to Mr. Dalgliesh by a porter, presumably giving information about her movements last night I met him bringing it in. He asked me where he could find the gentlemen from Scotland Yard.“

Sister Gearing’s voice became petulant:

“That’s all very well, but she ought to be here. God knows, we’re busy too! Brumfett lives in Nightingale House; she had as much opportunity to kill Fallon as anyone.”

Sister Rolfe said quietly: “She had more chance.”

“What do you mean, more chance?”

Sister Gearing’s sharp voice cut into the silence and one of the Burt twins lifted her head.

“She’s had Fallon in her power in the sick bay for the last ten days.”

“But surely you don’t mean…? Brumfett wouldn’t!”“

“Precisely,” said Sister Rolfe coldly. “So why make stupid and irresponsible remarks?”

There was a silence broken only by the rustle of paper and the hiss of the gas fire. Sister Gearing fidgeted.

“I suppose if Brumfett’s lost another two nurses with flu she’ll be pressing Matron to recall some of this block. She’s got her eyes on the Burt twins, I know.”

“Then she’ll be unlucky. This set have had their training disrupted enough already. After all, it’s their last block before their finals. Matron won’t let it be cut short”

“I shouldn’t be too sure. It’s Brumfett, remember. Matron doesn’t usually say no to her. Funny though, I did hear a rumor that they aren’t going on holiday together this year. One of the pharmacists’ assistants had it from Matron’s secretary that Matron plans to motor in Ireland on her own.”

My God, thought Sister Rolfe. Isn’t there any privacy in this place? But she said nothing, only shifting a few inches from the restless figure at her side.

It was then that the wall telephone rang. Sister Gearing leapt up and went across to answer it She turned to the rest of the group, her face creased with disappointment.

“That was Sergeant Masterson. Superintendent Dalgliesh would like to see the Burt twins next please. He’s moved to the visitors’ sitting-room on this floor.”

Without a word and with no signs of nervousness, the Burt twins closed their books and made for the door.

It was half an hour later and Sergeant Masterson was making coffee. The visitors’ sitting-room had been provided with a miniature kitchen, a large recess fitted with a sink and Formica covered cupboard, on which stood a double gas-ring. The cupboard had been cleared of all its paraphernalia except for four large beakers, a canister of sugar and one of tea, a tin of biscuits, a large earthenware jug and strainer, and three transparent air-tight packets of fresh-ground coffee. By the side of the sink were two bottles of milk. The cream-line was easily discernible, but Sergeant Masterson prised the cap away from one of the bottles and sniffed at the milk suspiciously before heating a quantity in a saucepan. He warmed the earthenware jug with hot water from the tap, dried it carefully in the tea towel which hung by the side of the sink, spooned in a generous quantity of coffee and stood waiting for the kettle’s first burst of steam. He approved of the arrangements that had been made. If the police had to work in Nightingale House this room was as convenient and comfortable as any and the coffee was an unexpected bonus which mentally, he credited to Paul Hudson. The Hospital Secretary had struck him as an efficient and imaginative man. His couldn’t be an easy job. The poor devil probably had one hell of a life, sandwiched between those two old fools, Kealey and Grout, and that high-handed bitch of a Matron.

He strained the coffee with meticulous care and carried a beaker over to his chief. They sat and drank companionably together, eyes straying to the storm-wrecked garden. Both of them had a strong dislike of badly cooked food or synthetic coffee and Masterson thought that they never got closer to liking each other than when they were eating and drinking together, deploring the inadequacies of the meals at the inn, or as now, rejoicing in good coffee. Dalgliesh comforted his hands around the beaker and thought that it was typical of Mary Taylor’s efficiency and imagination to ensure that they had real coffee available. Hers couldn’t be an easy job. That ineffectual couple, Kealey and Grout, wouldn’t be much help to anyone, and Paul Hudson was too young to give much support.

After a moment of appreciative sipping, Masterson said:

That was a disappointing interview, sir.“

“The Burt twins? Yes, I must say I had hoped for something more interesting. After all, they were at the center of the mystery; they administered the fatal drip; they glimpsed the mysterious Nurse Fallon on her way out of Nightingale House; they met Sister Brumfett on her perambulations in the early hours. But we knew all that already. And we don’t know any more now.”

Dalgliesh thought about the two girls. Masterson had drawn up a second chair on their entrance and they had sat there side by side, freckled hands ritualistically disposed in their laps, legs modestly crossed, each girl a mirror image of her twin. Their polite antiphonal answers to his questions, spoken in a West Country burr, were as agreeable to the ear as their shining good health to the eye. He had rather taken to the Burt twins. He might, of course, have been facing a couple of experienced accomplices in evil. Anything was possible. Certainly they had had the best opportunity to poison the drip and as good a chance as anyone in Nightingale House to doctor Fallon’s nightcap. Yet they had seemed perfectly at ease with him, a little bored perhaps at having to repeat much of their story, but neither frightened nor particularly worried. From time to time they had gazed at him with a gentle speculative concern rather as if he were a difficult patient whose condition was beginning to give rise to some anxiety. He had noticed this intent and compassionate regard on the faces of the other nurses during their first encounter in the demonstration room and had found it disconcerting.

“And you noticed nothing odd about the milk?”

They had answered almost in unison, rebuking him in the calm voice of common sense.

“Oh no! Well, we wouldn’t have gone ahead with the drip if we had, would we?”

“Can you remember taking the cap off the bottle; was it looser?”

Two pairs of blue eyes looked at each other, almost as if in signal. Then Maureen replied: