P James - Shroud for a Nightingale

Next to her, her cloak folded neatly at the back of her chair and the shapeless tapestry bag which accompanied her everywhere dumped at her feet, Sister Brumfett was eating steamed cod and parsley sauce with belligerent intensity as if she resented the need to eat and was venting her irritation on the food. Sister Brumfett invariably chose steamed fish; and Sister Rolfe felt suddenly that she couldn’t face another lunch hour of watching Brumfett eat cod.

She reminded herself that there was no reason why she should. There was nothing to prevent her sitting someplace else, nothing except this petrification of the will which made the simple act of carrying her tray three feet to a different table seem impossibly cataclysmic and irrevocable. On her left, Sister Gearing toyed with her braised beef, and chopped her wedge of cabbage into neat squares. When she actually began to eat she would shove the feed in avidly like a greedy schoolgirl. But always there were these finicky and salivatory preliminaries. Sister Rolfe wondered how many times she had resisted the urge to say, “For God’s sake Gearing, stop messing about and eat it!” One day, no doubt, she would say it And another middle-aged and unlikeable Sister would be pronounced “getting very difficult It’s probably her age”.

She had considered living out of the hospital. It was permissible and she could afford it The purchase of a flat or a small house would be the best investment for her retirement But Julia Pardoe had disposed of that idea in a few half-interested, destructive comments dropped like cold pebbles into the deep pool of her hopes and plans. Sister Rolfe could still hear that high, childish voice.

“Live out Why should you want to do that? We shouldn’t see so much of each other.”

“But we should, Julia. And in much greater privacy and without all this risk and deceit It would be a comfortable and agreeable little house. You’d like it.”

“It wouldn’t be as easy as slipping upstairs to see you when I feel like it.”

When she felt like it? Felt like what? Sister Rolfe had desperately fought off the question she never dared to let herself ask.

She knew the nature of her dilemma. It wasn’t, after all, peculiar to herself. In any relationship there was one who loved and one who permitted himself or herself to be loved. This was merely to state the brutal economics of desire; from each according to his ability, to each according to his need. But was it selfish or presumptuous to hope that the one who took knew the value of the gift; that she wasn’t wasting love on a promiscuous and perfidious little cheat who took her pleasure wherever she chose to find it? She had said:

“You could probably come twice or three times a week, perhaps more often. I wouldn’t move far.”

“Oh, I don’t see how I could manage that. I don’t see why you want the work and bother of a house. You’re all right here.”

Sister Rolfe thought: “But I’m not all right here. This place is souring me. It isn’t only the long-stay patients who become institutionalized. It’s happening to me. I dislike and despise most of the people I’m required to work with. Even the job is losing its hold. The students get more stupid and worse educated with every intake. I’m not even sure any more of the value of what I’m supposed to be doing.”

There was a crash near the counter. One of the maids had dropped a tray of used crockery. Looking instinctively across, Sister Rolfe saw that the detective had just come in and taken up his tray at the end of the line. She watched the tall figure, disregarded by the chattering queue of nurses, as he began to move slowly down the line between a white-coated houseman and a pupil midwife, helping himself to roll and butter, waiting for the girl to hand out his choice of main course. She was surprised to see him there. It had never occurred to her that he would eat in the hospital dining-hall or that he would be on his own. Her eyes followed him as he reached the end of the line, handed over his meal ticket and turned to look for a vacant seat He seemed utterly at ease and almost oblivious of the alien world around him. She thought that he was probably a man who could never imagine himself at a disadvantage in any company since he was secure in his private world, possessed of that core of inner self-esteem which is the basis of happiness. She wondered what kind of a world his was, then bent her head to her plate irritated at this unusual interest he aroused in her. Probably he would be thought handsome by most women, with that lean bony face, at once arrogant and sensitive. It was probably one of his professional assets, and being a man he would make the most of it. No doubt it was one of the reasons why he had been given this case. If dull Bill Bailey could make nothing of it, let the Yard’s wonder boy take over. With a house full of women and three middle-aged spinsters as his chief suspects, no doubt he fancied his chances. Well, good luck to him!

But she was not the only one at the table to notice his arrival. She felt rather than saw Sister Gearing stiffen and a second later heard her say:

“Well, well. The handsome sleuth! He’d better feed with us or he may find himself in a gaggle of students. Someone should have told the poor man how the system works.”

And now, thought Sister Rolfe, she’ll give him one of her street corner come-hither looks and we shall be burdened with him for the rest of the meal. The look was given and the invitation not refused. Dalgliesh, carrying his tray nonchalantly and apparently completely at ease, threaded his way across the room and came up to their table. Sister Gearing said:

“What have you done with that handsome sergeant of yours? I thought policemen went about in pairs like nuns.”

“My handsome sergeant is studying reports and lunching on sandwiches and beer in the office while I enjoy the fruits of seniority with you. Is this chair taken?”

Sister Gearing moved her own chair closer to Sister Brumfett and smiled up at him:

“It is now.”

Dalgliesh sat down, well aware that Sister Gearing wanted him, that Sister Rolfe didn’t, and that Sister Brumfett, who had acknowledged his arrival with a brief nod, didn’t care whether he joined them or not Sister Rolf e looked across at him unsmilingly and said to Sister Gearing:

“Don’t imagine Mr. Dalgliesh is sharing our table for the sake of your beaux yeux. The Superintendent plans to take in information with his braised beef.”

Sister Gearing giggled: “My dear, it’s no use warning me! I couldn’t keep a thing to myself if a really attractive man set his mind to wangle it out of me. It would be quite useless for me to commit a murder. I haven’t the brain for it Not that I think for one moment that anyone has-committed murder I mean. Anyway, let’s leave the grisly subject during lunch. I’ve had my grilling, haven’t I, Superintendent?”

Dalgliesh disposed his cutlery around the plate of braised beef and tilting back his chair to save himself the trouble of rising, added his used tray to the stack on the nearby stand. He said:

“People here seem to be taking Nurse Fallon’s death calmly enough.”

Sister Rolfe shrugged: “Did you expect them to be wearing black arm bands, talking in whispers, and refusing their lunch? The job goes on. Anyway, only a few will have known her personally, and still fewer knew Pearce.” “Or liked her apparently,” said Dalgliesh. “No, I don’t think they did on the whole. She was too self-righteous, too religious.” “If you can call it religious,” said Sister Gearing. “It wasn’t my idea of religion. Nil nisi and all that but the girl was just a prig. She always seemed to be a damn sight more concerned with other people’s shortcomings than she was with her own. That’s why the other kids didn’t like her. They respect genuine religious conviction. Most people do, I find. But they didn’t like being spied on.” “Did she spy on them?” asked Dalgliesh. Sister Gearing seemed half to regret what she had said. “Perhaps that’s putting it a bit strongly. But if anything went wrong in the set you can bet Nurse Pearce knew all about it And she usually managed to bring it to the notice of authority. Always with the best motives, no doubt” Sister Rolfe said drily: “She had an unfortunate habit of interfering with other people for their own good. It doesn’t make for popularity.”