P James - Shroud for a Nightingale

“Can you remember when you last saw it?”

“Not really. But I went to the cupboard for my gloves last Saturday morning. We had a special service at the chapel on Sunday and I wanted to do the flowers. I thought I might be able to find some interesting boughs, bits of autumn foliage or seed pods in the garden to help the decoration. I don’t remember seeing the tin there on Saturday but I think I might have noticed if it were actually missing. But I’m not sure. I haven’t used it for months.”

“Who else knew that it was there?”

“Well, anyone could have known. I mean, the cupboard isn’t locked and there was nothing to stop people looking inside. I suppose I ought to have locked it but one doesn’t expect… I mean if people are going to kill themselves they’ll find a way somehow. I feel-absolutely awful but I wont be made to feel responsible. I won’t! It isn’t fair! She could have used anything. Anything!”

“Who could?”

“Well, Fallon. If Fallon did kill herself. Oh, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Did Nurse Fallon know about the nicotine?”

“Not unless she looked in the cupboard and found it. The only people I can say for certain who did know are Brumfett and Rolfe. I remember that they were sitting in the conservatory when I put the tin into the cupboard. I held it up and said something daft about having enough poison there to kill the lot of them, and Brumfett told me that I ought to lock it up.”

“But you didn’t?”

“Well, I put it straight away in the cupboard. There isn’t a lock so I couldn’t do anything about it Anyway, the tin’s labeled clearly enough. Anyone can see that it’s poison. And one doesn’t expect people to kill themselves. Besides, why the nicotine? Nurses have plenty of opportunity to get hold of drugs. It’s not fair to blame me. After all, the disinfectant which killed Pearce was just as lethal. No one complained because that was left in the lavatory. You can’t run a nurse training school like a psychiatric unit. I’m not going to be blamed. People here are supposed to be sane, not homicidal maniacs. I won’t be made to feel guilty. I won’t!”

“If you didn’t use the stuff on Nurse Fallon there’s no reason why you should feel guilty. Did Sister Rolfe say anything when you brought in the tin?”

“I don’t think so. Just looked up from her book. But I cant really remember. I can’t even tell you exactly when it was. But it was a warm sunny day. I do remember that I think it was probably in late May or early June. Rolfe may remember, and Brumfett certainly will.”

“We’ll ask them. In the meantime I’d better have a look at this cupboard.”

He left the tin of nicotine for Masterson to pack for dispatch to the laboratory, told him to send Sister Brumfett and Sister Rolfe to the conservatory, and followed Sister Gearing out of the room. She led him down to the ground floor, still muttering her indignant protests. They passed into the empty dining-room. The discovery that the door into the conservatory was locked shook Sister Gearing from her mood of frightened resentment.

“Damn! I’d forgotten. Matron thought we’d better keep it locked after dark because some of the glass isn’t too secure. You remember that a pane fell out during the storm? She’s afraid someone could get in this way. Usually we don’t bother to lock it until we do the final locking up last thing at night The key will be on the board in Rolfe’s office. Wait here. I won’t be a jiffy.”

She returned almost immediately and fitted the large old-fashioned key into the lock. They passed into the warm fungoid smell of the conservatory. Sister Gearing unerringly reached for the switch, and the two long tubes of fluorescent light, suspended from the high concave ceiling, flickered erratically, then burst into brilliance, revealing the arboreal jungle in all its rashness. The conservatory was a remarkable sight. Dalgliesh had thought so on his first tour of the house, but now, dazzled by the fierce glare on leaves and glass, he blinked in wonder. Around him a minor forest of greenery twined, sprouted, crept and burst in menacing profusion while, outside, its pale reflection hung in the evening air and stretched, motionless and insubstantial, into a green infinity.

Some of the plants looked as if they had flourished in the conservatory since the day it was built They sprang like mature if miniature palm trees from ornate urns, spreading a canopy of glistening leaves under the glass. Others, more exotic, sprouted bursts of foliage from their scarred and dentate stalks or, like giant cacti, lifted rubber lips, spongy and obscene, to suck the humid air. Between them the ferns sprayed a green shadow, their fragile fronds moving in the draught from the door. Around the sides of the great room were white shelves on which stood pots of the more domestic and agreeable plants which were Sister Gearing’s care-red, pink and white chrysanthemums, and African violets. The conservatory should have evoked a tender scene of Victorian domesticity, of fluttering fans and whispered confidences behind the palms. But for Dalgliesh, no corner of Nightingale House was free of the oppressive atmosphere of evil; the very plants seemed to be sucking their manna from a tainted air.

Mavis Gearing went straight over to a low, four-foot-long cupboard in white-painted wood, fitted underneath the wall shelf to the left of the door and hardly visible behind the curtain of waving ferns. It had one inadequate door fitted with a small knob and no lock. Together they crouched to look in it Although the overhead fluorescent lights were unpleasantly garish, the recesses of the cupboard were dim and their view obstructed by the shadow of their heads. Dalgliesh switched on his torch. Its beam revealed the usual paraphernalia of the indoor gardener. He made a mental inventory. There were balls of green twine, a couple of watering cans, a small spray, packets of seed, some opened and half-used with their tops pressed back, a small plastic bag of potting compost and one of fertilizer, about two dozen flower pots of varying sizes, a small stack of seed trays, pruning shears, a trowel and small fork, a disorderly pile of seedmen’s catalogues, three clothbound books on gardening, their covers stained and dirty, an assortment of flower vases, and bundles of tangled wire.

Mavis Gearing pointed to a space in the far corner.

“That’s where it was. I put it well back. It couldn’t have been a temptation to anyone. You wouldn’t even notice it, just opening the door. It was quite hidden really. Look, that’s the space-you can see where it was.”

She spoke with urgent self-justification, as if the empty space acquitted her‘ of all responsibility. Then her voice changed. It dropped a tone and became huskily pleading like an amateur actress playing a seduction scene.

“I know it looks bad. First, I was in charge of the demonstration when Pearce died. And now this. But I haven’t touched the stuff since I used it last summer. I swear I haven’t! I know some of them won’t believe me. They’ll be glad-yes glad-and relieved if suspicion falls on me and Len. It’ll let them out Besides they’re jealous. They’ve always been jealous. It’s because I’ve got a man and they haven’t but you believe me don’t you? You’ve got to believe me!”

It was pathetic and humiliating. She pressed her shoulder against his, as they knelt huddled together in a ridiculous parody of prayer. He could feel her breath against his cheek. Her right hand, the fingers twitching nervously, crept across the floor towards his hand.

Then her mood broke. They heard Sister Rolfe’s cold voice from the door.

The Sergeant told me to meet you here. Am I interrupting anything?“

Dalgliesh felt the pressure on his shoulder immediately released, and Sister Gearing scrambled gracelessly to her feet He got up more slowly. He neither felt nor looked embarrassed, but he was not sorry that Miss Rolfe had chosen that moment to appear.