P James - Shroud for a Nightingale

“Do you come here often?”

“Only when I’m upset” Her tone suggested that this was an eventuality for which any reasonable woman would make provision.

“It’s private ‘ere.” She added defensively: “It used to be private, anyway.”

Dalgliesh felt rebuked.

“I’m sorry. I won’t come here again.”

“Oh, I don’t mind you. You can come again if you like.”

The voice might be-ungracious but the compliment was unmistakable. They sat for a moment in curiously companionable silence.

The stout walls of the hut enclosed them, insulating them in an unnatural silence from the moaning of the wind. Inside, the air was cold but musty, smelling pungently of wood, paraffin and humus. Dalgliesh looked around him. The place was not uncomfortable. There was a bale of straw in the corner, a second old cane chair similar to that in which Morag was curled, and an upturned packing-case covered with oilcloth which served as a table. On it he could just make out the shape of a Primus oil stove. One of the wall shelves held a white aluminum teapot and a couple of mugs. He guessed that the gardener had once used the place as a comfortable retreat from the ardors of work as well as a potting and storage shed. In spring and summer, isolated in the quiet of the trees and surrounded by bird song, it must, Dalgliesh thought, be an agreeable hiding place. But this was mid-winter. He said:

“Forgive my asking, but wouldn’t it be more comfortable to be upset in your own room? And more private?”

“It isn’t cozy over in Nightingale House. And it isn’t cozy in the resident staff ‘ostel either. I like it ”ere. It smells like my dad’s shed on the allotment And nobody comes after dark. They’re all afraid of the ghost.“

“And you aren’t?”

“I don’t believe in ”em.“

It was, thought Dalgliesh, the ultimate vindication of sturdy skepticism. You didn’t believe in a thing, therefore it didn’t exist. Untortured by imagination, you could enjoy the reward of your own certainty even if it were only the undisputed possession of a garden shed when you were feeling upset. He found this admirable. He wondered whether he ought to inquire the cause of her grief, suggest perhaps that she should confide in Matron. Had that wild crying really been caused by nothing more than Bill Bailey’s passionately resented attentions? Bailey was a good detective, but not particularly subtle with people. One couldn’t afford to be critical. Every detective, however competent knew what it was unwittingly to antagonize a witness. Once this happened it was the devil to get anything useful out of her- and it usually was a woman-even if the antipathy were partly subconscious. Success in a murder investigation depended largely on making people want to help you, getting them to talk. Bill Bailey had singularly failed with Morag Smith. Adam Dalgliesh, too, had failed in his time.

He remembered what Inspector Bailey, in that brief hour’s colloquy when the case had been handed over, had told him about the two maids.

They’re out of it. The old one. Miss Martha Collins, hat been at the hospital for forty years and if she had homicidal tendencies would have shown them before now. She’s mainly concerned about the theft of the lavatory disinfectant. Seems to regard it as a personal affront. Probably takes the view that the lavatory is her responsibility and the murder isn’t The young girl, Morag Smith, is half dotty if you ask me, and as obstinate as an army mule. She might have done it, I suppose, but I can’t for the life of me see why. Heather Pearce hadn’t done anything to upset her as far as I know. And in any case she hardly had the time. Morag was only transferred from the doctors’ residence to Nightingale House on the day before Pearce died. I gather that she wasn’t too pleased about the change, but that’s scarcely a motive for starting to kill off the student nurses. Besides, the girl isn’t frightened. Obstinate, but not frightened. If she did it, I doubt whether you’ll ever prove it.“

They sat on in silence. He wasn’t anxious to probe into her grief and suspected that she had been indulging an irrational need for a good cry. She had chosen her secret place for it and was entitled to emotional privacy even if her physical privacy had been invaded. He was too reticent himself to have any stomach for the emotional prying which gives so many people the comforting illusion that they care. He seldom did care. Human beings were perpetually interesting to him, and nothing about them surprised him any more. But he didn’t involve himself. He wasn’t surprised that she should like the shed, smelling as it did of home.

He became aware of a confused background mumbling. She had returned to a recital of her grievance.

“Kept looking at me all the time ‘e did. And asking the same old thing over and over again. Stuck up too. You could see that he fancied himself.”

Suddenly she turned to Dalgliesh.

“You feeling sexy?”

Dalgliesh gave the question serious attention.

“No. I’m too old to feel sexy when I’m cold and tired. At my age you need the creature comforts if you’re to perform with any pleasure to your partner or credit to yourself.”

She gave him a look in which disbelief struggled with commiseration.

“You’re not that old. Thanks for the ‘anky anyway.”

She gave one last convulsive blow before handing it back. Dalgliesh slipped it quickly into his pocket, resisting the temptation to drop it unobtrusively behind the bench. Stretching his legs ready to move, he only half heard her next words.

“What did you say?” he asked, careful to keep his voice level, uninquisitorial.

She answered sulkily.

“I said that ‘e never found out about me drinking the milk anyway, bugger ’im. I never told ”im.“

“Was that the milk used for the demonstration feed? When did you drink it?”

He tried to sound conversational, only mildly interested. But he was aware of the silence in the hut and the two sharp eyes staring at him. Could she really be unaware of what she was telling him?

“It was at eight o’clock, maybe a minute before. I went into the demo room to see if I’d left my tin of polish there. And there was this bottle of milk on the trolley and I drank some of it Just a bit off the top.”

“Just out of the bottle?”

“Well, there wasn’t any cup ”andy was there? I was thirsty and I saw the milk and I just fancied a bit. So I took a swig.“

He asked the crucial question.

“You just had the cream off the top?”

“There wasn’t no cream. It wasn’t that kind of milk.”

His heart leapt.

“And what did you do then?”

“I didn’t do nothing.”

“But weren’t you afraid that Sister Tutor would notice that the bottle wasn’t full?”

“The bottle was full. I filled it up with water from the tap. Anyway, I only took a couple of gulps.”

“And replaced the seal on top of the bottle?”

“That’s right. Careful like so as they wouldn’t notice.”

“And you never told anyone?”

“No one asked me. That Inspector asked me if I’d been in the demo room and I said only before seven o’clock when I did a bit of cleaning. I wasn’t going to tell ‘im nothing. It wasn’t ’is bloody milk anyway; ‘e never paid for it”

“Morag, are you quite, quite sure of the time?”

“Eight o’clock. The demo clock said eight anyway. I looked at it because I was supposed to help serve the breakfasts, the dining-room maids being off with flu. Some people think you can be in three places at once. Anyway, I went into the dining-room where the Sisters and the students had all started eating. Then Miss Collins gave me one of ‘er looks. Late again Morag! So it must ’ave been eight The students always start breakfast at eight.”