by Laura Wilson
Stratton rose. ‘I’m very grateful to you, sir.’
‘I’d save your gratitude, if I were you. We’ve not come up with anything yet.’
‘No, sir. But thank you.’ Stratton knew that it was time to leave, but, for a wild moment, his desire to ask after Diana proving stronger than his common sense, he remained where he was.
‘Yes?’ said Forbes-James, with a touch of asperity.
‘Well, sir…I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how is Mrs Calthrop?’
Forbes-James’s smile, which did not reach his eyes, had a masklike quality that was somehow far more of a warning than the menacing bonhomie exhibited by any gangster, and served to remind Stratton that, whatever the man did, his manners would remain impeccable. ‘You were rather taken by her, weren’t you?’
‘Well, sir, I did wonder – I mean, it must have been a dreadful shock, finding that body.’
‘I’m sure it was. But – to the best of my knowledge, at least – she is very well.’
‘She’s not here, then?’ As he spoke, Stratton realised quite how much he had wanted to see Diana, and hoped his disappointment did not show on his face.
Forbes-James shook his head. ‘In Hampshire. Living with her mother-in-law. I believe,’ he added, in careful tones, ‘that she is starting a family.’
‘That’s splendid, sir,’ said Stratton, aware, as he said it, that the words were too loud, too hearty.
As he clattered down the stairs, Stratton reflected that he’d just put himself, irrevocably, into Forbes-James’s debt. He’d just have to hope it was worth it. He cursed himself for asking about Diana, but she’d seemed so close there, in Forbes-James’s office, almost a tangible presence…
And now she was in Hampshire, having a baby. He couldn’t imagine Diana pregnant, it seemed too…too what, Stratton wasn’t sure, but the idea of it made him uncomfortable, somehow. He wanted to remember her as she was. Not that there was anything wrong with being pregnant, of course, as long as she was pleased about it. Stratton wondered if the father was her husband, or Claude Ventriss who – four years ago, at least – had been her lover. None of your business, pal, he told himself. Head down against the spiteful wind that gusted across the river, he began trudging down Grosvenor Road towards Westminster.
What a mess…Todd, Byrne, Reynolds, Nurse Leadbetter, Fay, and thoughts of Diana obscuring any clarity of mind he might hope to achieve…The whole thing was tangled up in his head like a…the idea of something tangled brought back Dr Dacre’s description of torsion of the testicle so suddenly and powerfully that Stratton felt sick. Deciding that he needed somewhere out of the wind to sit down and straighten himself out, he veered down a side street and found a small, sheltered square with a couple of benches facing a battered equestrian statue.
As he lit a cigarette, it crossed his mind that he might write to Diana. It would be easy enough to discover her address – just go into a library and look it up in one of those directories of posh people, Burke’s or Debrett’s or whatever it was. But what would he say? I’ve been thinking about you and I hope you are well…What a stupid idea! She probably doesn’t even remember me, he thought.
He forced his thoughts back to his conversation with Colonel Forbes-James, and he wondered if he – or his department – would be able to turn up anything on Todd. He supposed he ought to feel sorry for Forbes-James, having to go through life trying not to be found out. Eyeing a pretty, slender girl who was sashaying across the other side of the square, Stratton tried to picture himself looking at a man in the same way, but failed. So difficult to imagine things which were entirely outside your experience, especially when they were of an emotional nature.
Sometimes, Stratton thought, it was as if the world around him had turned into a place that – though much like the one he was used to, at least in terms of general appearance – had a different sort of logic from normal, or no logic at all. If only his intuition would point him in a particular direction, instead of just giving him a feeling that things were askew…
He looked again at the pretty girl – back view, now, and very nice, too. She reached the edge of the pavement, and was about to cross the road when, apparently sensing his gaze, she turned and gave him a modest smile that reminded him of Fay. Pregnancy, he thought. What about pregnancy? He smiled back at the girl, then pulled his notebook out of his pocket and thumbed through the pages until he came to the notes he’d made during their second interview. She said she’d written the note – in the belief that she was pregnant – ‘quite soon after Easter’. Stratton read the words FM had 2 days’ leave at or near Easter, went to see parents nr Cheltenham. He had just assumed that this was the truth, and never checked. He ought to, and the sooner the better.
He flicked his cigarette end onto the ground, trod on it, and, sighing heavily, got to his feet and marched off to catch a number 24 bus to Tottenham Court Road. From there, it was a short walk to the hospital.
Fifty-Two
Twelve days late, and she still hadn’t got round to making a doctor’s appointment. He’d only tell her to wait it out, anyway. She’d had morning sickness with both Monica and Pete, but she couldn’t remember when she’d started to feel it. There had been a definite point when she’d felt different – pregnant – but when?
Jenny stared at the pile of socks at her feet, then glanced over at Elsie Ingram, who appeared to be dozing on the sofa. She picked up another pair and sat back in her chair. She was darning over darns, now, so that no matter how careful she was the socks always ended up with lumpy bits on the toes and heels. Ted had always been tough on socks – it was worse when they were first married and he’d been on the beat, but at least then it had been easier to buy new ones. As long as she could make the wool last out…
At least you could listen to the wireless while you were darning. It was music now – jazzy stuff. The kind of thing Ted liked better than she did, but it was company of a sort. She hadn’t got it very loud, but all the same, she thought, if Mrs Ingram can sleep through this, then I’m a Dutchman. She glanced again at her guest and thought she saw an eyelid flicker. It was horrible, being watched, surreptitiously, all the time. Made you feel like you were being spied on in your own home. I’m sure she’s trying to guess what’s in my mind, Jenny thought, she’s reaching out invisible feelers like some sort of insect. And Doris had put up with it for over a month! Jenny didn’t feel as if she could manage another day. She felt guilty about being irritated with the poor woman, but honestly, it was enough to drive you round the twist. The letters to Mr Ingram, sent care of the army – three, so far – had got them nowhere at all. Ted had told them not to bother – said they wouldn’t give them to him if he was being punished for deserting.
Having her here meant it was impossible to talk to Ted properly. It was worse than when the children were small – at least she’d known what to do when they started crying. Mrs Ingram, with her slow, hopeless, endless tears was a different thing altogether. Not to mention the fact that Ted had arrived home late last night smelling strongly of beer, made a great racket in the hall and argued with her when she’d tried to shush him. She’d been surprised – and not a little upset – by how belligerent he was. Being tipsy usually made him happy, then sleepy, not angry.
She sighed, and looked again at Mrs Ingram, whose head was now slightly angled towards her. She was convinced that the moment she looked down at the sock in her hand, the wretched woman would open her eyes and stare at her. Honestly, you couldn’t call your thoughts your own…
She supposed it was her fault for agreeing to have her here in the first place, but what was she supposed to do? Other than talk to Dr Makepeace about the you-know-where…As far as that was concerned, Jenny could feel her resolve weakening already, Auntie Ivy or no Auntie Ivy.
She’d go round and have a word with Doris about speaking to Dr Makepeace. She felt bad about it but Mrs Ingram seemed to be getting worse, not better, and if she pulled a stunt like that gas business here and Ted
found out about it, it would have to be reported. She’d go round there later on – there’d be plenty of time to get the dinner when she got back.
She selected another sock and resumed her darning. Dr Makepeace, having confessed surprise that Mrs Ingram wasn’t ‘pulling out of it’ on several occasions, had started talking about ‘persecution mania’ and how the workings of the mind were not fully understood. Adjusting the heel on the smooth wooden surface of the mushroom, Jenny thought that ‘persecution mania’ wasn’t a very good name for Mrs Ingram’s problem – really, if people who’d had their homes destroyed on top of them weren’t entitled to feel persecuted, then who was?
The term wasn’t in her ‘Home Doctor’ book, although Insanity and Mental Disease were. She’d spent an unhappy half an hour reading about how women could be affected by what they called the ‘crises of life’ – puberty, the change, and pregnancy. Mrs Ingram was too old for the first, two young for the second, and, her husband having been away for months, unlikely to be experiencing the third. There was stuff about syphilis, and drinking too much, and tumours, and physical exhaustion, but ‘brain injury’ was the only one likely to be applicable, and if that had happened, surely they wouldn’t have let her out of hospital? The thing that made most sense was a cross-reference to Monomania. The patient’s whole interest is centred around one delusion or false belief…Nothing about how to cure it, though, and—
‘Ouch!’
Jenny dropped the darning onto her lap. A red bubble of blood had appeared on the pad of her left forefinger where the needle had slipped. She stared at it for a second, and then, deciding that a plaster was unnecessary, sucked it instead. Like Sleeping Beauty, she thought. Right now, falling asleep for 100 years seemed quite a nice idea, if only Ted would wake her with a cup of tea at the end of it. Jenny took her finger out of her mouth, examined it, then resumed sucking. She’d have to get a plaster after all. Time to stop, she thought. Then she’d have plenty of time to give the hens their mash and have a bit of a chat with Doris before she went to do her stint at the Rest Centre, and still be back in time to do Ted’s supper – if she was lucky.
She stood up and began gathering all the unmended socks into her sewing basket. ‘I’m going out for a while, Mrs Ingram,’ she said, brightly. ‘You’ll be all right, won’t you?’
Mrs Ingram, eyes open now, gazed at her fearfully. ‘He’s not coming, is he?’
‘No, dear. He’s far away now, he can’t hurt you. You’ll be quite safe, I promise. Now,’ Jenny looked at her pointedly, ‘you won’t do anything silly, will you? I want you to promise me.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Ingram, slowly. ‘Nothing silly.’
Fifty-Three
Stratton found Savage, the old porter, nailing down the last of the boards in the corridor outside the Men’s Surgical Ward, aided by a slack-jawed, pimply dullard of about sixteen who was wielding his hammer with unnecessary violence.
‘’Ad the whole lot up, both sides,’ Savage said. ‘Sweet FA. You don’t want us to pull up no more, do you? Only I got things to attend to. You can have him if you want him,’ he added, jerking his thumb at the youth, who had now stood up, hands in his pockets, and was occupied in kicking the radiator.
‘I’m sure we can manage by ourselves,’ said Stratton. ‘Where are my men?’
‘In the wards. One in there,’ he indicated Men’s Surgical. ‘One’s in Lister, and the woman’s downstairs in Sophie Jex-Blake.’
‘Right,’ said Stratton. ‘Thank you very much.’
Stratton went downstairs to Matron Hornbeck’s office, where he was assured that all the rest of the morphine in the place was accounted for. ‘I hope your people will conclude their search as soon as possible,’ she added. ‘All this poking about is very unsettling for the patients. And as for the racket upstairs…I hope you have found the missing drugs.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Stratton. The matron’s eyebrows rose above her horn-rimmed glasses. ‘I’m sure there’s an explanation,’ he added.
The eyebrows rose another half inch. ‘I’m sure there is, Inspector. The question is: what is it?’
He found first Watkins, who, on the pretext of examining a stack of bed pans, was chatting animatedly with a couple of the prettier nurses and then Piper, who was prodding listlessly through a pile of sheets in one of the linen cupboards. Harris he fetched from Sophie Jex-Blake, where she was examining the bedside cabinet of a dropsical woman in a tartan bed-jacket. None of them had found anything suspicious. Stratton, having ascertained the extent of the search so far, told them to continue, and went to the Men’s Surgical Ward to speak to Fay Marchant. He’d decided not to mention this to the matron, at least for the moment – Sister Bateman would undoubtedly mention it, and, given the nature of the conversation they were about to have, he didn’t want to get Fay into further trouble if it could be avoided. Nevertheless, the fact remained that, if the morphine wasn’t under the floorboards, then either Fay or Dr Dacre must have taken it. Unless, of course, someone entirely different had chanced upon it beneath a radiator or something, and pocketed it…And that would mean re-interviewing every single person in the bloody place, as well as any mobile patients – Christ.
Sister Bateman, frowning, sent one of the probationers to fetch Fay from the kitchen. On seeing Stratton, she paled and looked fearful in a way that he thought was something more than the normal discomfort and obscure guilt that people – however innocent – tended to feel in the presence of a policeman.
‘Let’s go for a walk, shall we?’ he said.
Fay looked at Sister Bateman, who nodded grimly. ‘Cuffs, Marchant.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
Fay having gone to put on her cuffs, Sister Bateman said to Stratton, ‘This is the fourth time, Inspector. Perhaps you’d care to tell me what Marchant is supposed to have done?’
‘She hasn’t done anything, Sister. I just need to ask a few more questions about the matter of the…accident, when the morphine was lost.’
‘You mean you still haven’t found it?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘But surely you can’t think that she took it, Inspector?’
Stratton was saved from having to answer this by the reappearance of Fay, now clad in a dark blue cloak. They left the ward, and went down to the hospital garden. ‘Would you prefer to walk, or sit?’ Stratton indicated a wooden bench.
Fay looked startled. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘Let’s walk, then. You’ve got a very impressive vegetable garden here. Puts my allotment to shame. Smoke?’
‘Thank you.’ Fay took a cigarette from the proffered packet, and gave Stratton a weak smile. There was a tautness to her movements, as if she were poised to flee at any moment. As he drew closer to her to give her a light, he noticed that her hands were trembling slightly.
‘We haven’t found the morphine,’ he said.
‘But it must be there.’ Fay’s voice was a wail, and her face had a look of uncomprehending panic.
‘Must it?’
‘I didn’t take it, Inspector. You have to believe me.’
‘Someone did,’ said Stratton. ‘And why should I believe you? You haven’t been entirely straight with me about other things.’ He was whistling in the dark, but she – clearly – did not know that.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your relationship with Dr Reynolds.’
‘But I told you.’ The lovely brown eyes were pleading.
‘Everything?’ asked Stratton. ‘I don’t think you did, you know.’ Fay turned away from him and gazed miserably at the rows of brassicas. ‘This is a very serious matter,’ he added, gently. ‘And I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth.’
Fay put her cigarette to her lips. She wasn’t just trembling now, but actually shaking. Praying that he was aiming at the right target, Stratton said, ‘You fell pregnant, didn’t you?’
Fay’s nod was almost imperceptible.
‘What happened?’
> ‘Duncan…’ Fay whispered.
‘Dr Reynolds?’
‘Yes.’ The next words were spoken in a flat, hard voice, through clenched teeth. ‘He took care of it.’
Jesus, thought Stratton, repulsed. What sort of man could abort his own child? Even if he was a doctor and knew how it was done…Stratton was all too aware of the things people would do when they were pushed, but the man could have got her into a nursing home, for God’s sake, and told them it was for her health or something. This, Stratton knew, wasn’t supposed to happen unless it was an exceptional case, but there were ways. He supposed Reynolds must have panicked, or wanted to save money, or…whatever it was, the man was a bastard. Keeping a determinedly neutral expression, he fished out his notebook. ‘Was this in the hospital?’ he asked.
Fay shook her head. ‘Where we used to go, to be together…A flat belonging to a friend of his who’s serving abroad. It’s in Holborn. He took things…instruments…from here.’
That was even worse, thought Stratton. Squalid. Poor, poor Fay…‘And then you went to stay with your parents?’ he asked. ‘At Easter?’
‘Yes. I didn’t want to – my father is a doctor, Inspector. I thought he might realise, but I couldn’t come back here, and I couldn’t stay at the flat on my own, in case something was wrong. So I thought, I mean…of course my father wouldn’t approve, but if I was ill, at least he’d be able to…you know.’
‘When Dr Reynolds performed this…operation, was anyone else there?’
‘No.’
‘Was anyone else involved in any way?’
‘No.’
‘Did anyone else know about it?’
‘No.’
‘Is that the truth?’
‘Yes! I may have lied to you before, Inspector, but that is the truth, and I did not take that morphine.’
‘Did Dr Dacre take it?’
Fay’s eyes widened in shock. ‘No! I’m sure he didn’t, Inspector.’
