Shroud for a Nightingale

by P. D. James

  “She was thirty-one. No, we don’t know yet how she died. No one knows. We are awaiting the post-mortem report. Yes, Chief Superintendent Dalgliesh. He’s here now but he’s too busy to talk. I hope to issue a Press statement this evening. We ought to have the autopsy report by then. No, there’s no reason to suspect murder. The Chief Constable has called in the Yard as a precautionary measure. No, as far as we’re aware, the two deaths aren’t connected in any way. Very sad. Yes, very. If you care to telephone about six I may have some more information. All we know at present is that Nurse Fallon was found dead in her bed this morning shortly after seven. It could very well have been a heart attack. She was just recovering from flu. No, there wasn’t a note. Nothing like that.”

  He listened for a moment then again placed his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Grout.

  “They’re asking about relatives. What do we know about them?”

  “She hadn’t any. Fallon was an orphan.” Again it was Mr. Courtney-Briggs who replied.

  Alderman Kealey passed on this information and replaced the receiver. Smiling grimly he gave Dalgliesh a look of mingled self-satisfaction and warning. Dalgliesh was interested to hear that the Yard had been called in as a precautionary measure. It was a new conception of the flying squad’s responsibilities and one which he felt was unlikely to deceive the local Press boys, still less the London reporters who would soon be on the scent. He wondered how the hospital was going to cope with the publicity. Alderman Kealey was going to need some advice if the inquiry were not to be hampered. But there was plenty of time for that. Now all he wanted was to get rid of them, to get started with the investigation. These social preliminaries were always a time-consuming nuisance. And soon there would be a Matron to propitiate, to consult, possibly even to antagonize. From the Group Secretary’s unwillingness to move a step without her consent, it looked as if she were a strong personality. He didn’t relish the prospect of making it clear to her, tactfully, that there would be room for only one strong personality in this investigation.

  Mr. Courtney-Briggs, who had been standing at the window, staring out at the storm-wrecked garden, turned, shook himself free of his preoccupations and said: “I’m afraid I can’t spare any more time now. I have a patient to see in the private wing and then a ward round. I was due to lecture to the students here later this morning but that’ll have to be cancelled now. You’ll let me know, Kealey, if there’s anything I can do.”

  He ignored Dalgliesh. The impression given, and no doubt intended, was that he was a busy man who had already wasted too much time on a triviality. Dalgliesh resisted the temptation to delay him. Agreeable as it would be to tame Mr. Courtney-Briggs’s arrogance, it was an indulgence which he couldn’t afford at present. There were more pressing matters.

  It was then they heard the sound of a car. Mr. Courtney-Briggs returned to the window and looked out, but did not speak. The rest of the little group stiffened and turned as if pulled by a common force to face the door. A car door slammed. Then there was silence for a few seconds followed by the clip of hurried footsteps on a tessellated floor. The door opened and the Matron came in.

  Dalgliesh’s first impression was of a highly individual yet casual elegance and a confidence that was almost palpable. He saw a tall slender woman, hatless, with pale honey-gold skin and hair of almost the same colour, drawn back from a high forehead and swathed into an intricate coil at the nape of her neck. She was wearing a grey tweed coat with a bright green scarf knotted at her neck and carrying a black handbag and a small travelling case. She came into the room quietly and, placing her case on the table, drew off her gloves and surveyed the little party silently. Almost instinctively, as if watching a witness, Dalgliesh noticed her hands. The fingers were very white, long and tapering but with unusually bony joints. The nails were clipped short. On the third finger of the right hand an immense sapphire ring in an ornate setting gleamed against the knuckle. He wondered irrelevantly whether she took it off when she was on duty and, if so, how she forced it over these nodular joints.

  Mr. Courtney-Briggs, after a brief, “Good morning, Matron,” made his way to the door and stood there like a bored guest, demonstrating his anxiety to make a quick getaway. But the others crowded around her. There was an immediate sense of relief. Muttered introductions were made.

  “Good morning, Superintendent.” Her voice was deep, a little husky, a voice as individual as herself. She seemed hardly aware of him, yet he was conscious of a swift appraisal from green exophthalmic eyes. Her handshake was firm and cool, but so momentary that it seemed a fleeting meeting of palms, nothing more.

  The Vice-Chairman said: “The police will want a room. We thought perhaps Miss Rolfe’s office?”

  “Too small, I think, and not private enough, so close to the main hall. It would be better if Mr. Dalgliesh had the use of the visitors’ sitting-room on the first floor and the cloakroom next door to it. The room has a key. There’s a desk with lockable drawers in the general office and that can be moved up. That way the police will get some privacy and there’ll be a minimum of interference with the work of the school.”

  There was a murmur of assent. The men looked relieved. The Matron said to Dalgliesh: “Will you need a bedroom? Do you want to sleep in the hospital?”

  “That won’t be necessary. We shall be staying in the town. But I would prefer to work from here. We shall probably be here late every night so that it would be helpful if we could have keys.”

  “For how long?” asked the Vice-Chairman suddenly. It was on the face of it, a stupid question, but Dalgliesh noticed that all their faces turned to him as if it were one he could be expected to answer. He knew his reputation for speed. Did they perhaps know it too?

  “About a week,” he said. Even if the case dragged on for longer, he would learn all he needed from Nightingale House and its occupants within seven days. If Nurse Fallon had been murdered—and he believed she had—the circle of suspects would be small. If the case didn’t break within a week it might never break. He thought there was a small sigh of relief.

  The Matron said: “Where is she?”

  “They took the body to the mortuary, Matron.”

  “I didn’t mean Fallon. Where is Nurse Dakers? I understood it was she who found the body.”

  Alderman Kealey replied. “She’s being nursed in the private ward. She was pretty shaken up so we asked Dr. Snelling to take a look at her. He’s given her a sedative and Sister Brumfett’s looking after her.”

  He added: “Sister Brumfett was a little concerned about her. On top of that she’s got rather a sick ward. Otherwise she would have met you at the airport. We all felt rather badly about your arriving with no one to meet you, but the best thing seemed to be to telephone a message for you, asking you to ring us here as soon as you landed. Sister Brumfett thought that the shock would be less if you learnt it in that way. On the other hand it seemed wrong not to have someone there. I wanted to send Grout but …”

  The husky voice broke in with its quiet reproof: “I should have thought that sparing me shock was the least of your worries.” She turned to Dalgliesh: “I shall be in my sitting-room here on the third floor in about forty-five minutes’ time. If it’s convenient for you, I should be glad to have a word with you then.”

  Dalgliesh, resisting the impulse to reply with a docile, “Yes, Matron,” said that it would. Miss Taylor turned to Alderman Kealey.

  “I’m going to see Nurse Dakers now. Afterwards the Superintendent will want to interview me and then I shall be in my main office in the hospital if you or Mr. Grout want me. I shall, of course, be available all day.”

  Without a further word or look she gathered up her travelling case and handbag and went out of the room. Mr. Courtney-Briggs perfunctorily opened the door for her, then prepared to follow. Standing in the open doorway, he said with jovial belligerence: “Well, now that Matron’s back and the important matter of accommodation for the police has been settled, perhaps the wor
k of the hospital can be permitted to continue. I shouldn’t be late for your interview if I were you, Dalgliesh. Miss Taylor isn’t accustomed to insubordination.”

  He shut the door behind him. Alderman Kealey looked for a moment perplexed, then he said: “He’s upset, of course. Well, naturally. Wasn’t there some kind of rumour …”

  Then his eyes lit on Dalgliesh. He checked himself suddenly, and turned to Paul Hudson: “Well, Mr. Hudson, you heard what Matron said. The police are to use the visitors’ sitting-room on this floor. Get on with it, my dear fellow. Get on with it!”

  5

  Miss Taylor changed into uniform before she went over to the private ward. At the time it seemed an instinctive thing to do, but, wrapping her cloak tightly around her as she walked briskly along the small footpath leading from Nightingale House to the hospital, she realized that the instinct had been prompted by reason. It was important to the hospital that Matron was back, and important that she should be seen to be back.

  The quickest way to the private wing was through the outpatients’ hall. The department was already buzzing with activity. The circles of comfortable chairs, carefully disposed to give an illusion of informality and relaxed comfort, were filling quickly. Volunteers from the ladies’ committee of the League of Friends were already presiding at the steaming urn, serving tea to those regular patients who preferred to attend an hour before their appointments for the pleasure of sitting in the warmth, reading the magazines and chatting to their fellow habitués. As Matron passed she was aware of heads turning to watch her. There was a brief silence, followed by the customary murmur of deferential greeting. She was conscious of the white-coated junior medical staff standing briefly to one side as she passed, of the student nurses pressing themselves back against the wall.

  The private ward was on the second floor of what still was called the new building, although it had been completed in 1945. Miss Taylor went up by the lift, sharing it with two radiographers and a young houseman. They murmured their formal, “Good morning, Matron,” and stood in unnatural silence until the lift stopped, then stood back while she went out before them.

  The private ward consisted of a suite of twenty single rooms, opening each side of a wide central corridor. The Sister’s office, the kitchen and the utility room were just inside the door. As Miss Taylor entered, a young first-year student nurse appeared from the kitchen. She flushed when she saw Matron and muttered something about fetching Sister.

  “Where is Sister, Nurse?”

  “In room 7 with Mr. Courtney-Briggs, Matron. His patient isn’t too well.”

  “Don’t disturb them. Just tell Sister when she appears that I’ve come to see Nurse Dakers. Where is she?”

  “In room 3, Matron.” She hesitated.

  “It’s all right, Nurse, I’ll find my own way. Get on with what you are doing.”

  Room 3 was at the far end of the corridor, one of six single rooms usually reserved for sick nurses. Only when these rooms were all occupied were the staff nursed in the side rooms of the wards. It was not, Miss Taylor noted, the room in which Josephine Fallon had been nursed. Room 3 was the sunniest and most pleasant of the six rooms reserved for nurses. A week ago it had been occupied by a nurse with pneumonia, a complication of influenza. Miss Taylor, who visited every ward in the hospital once a day and who received daily reports on every sick nurse, thought it unlikely that Nurse Wilkins was fit enough yet to be discharged. Sister Brumfett must have moved her to make room 3 available for Nurse Dakers. Miss Taylor could guess why. The one window gave a view of the lawns and smoothly forked flower beds at the front of the hospital; from this side of the ward it was impossible to glimpse Nightingale House even through the bare tracery of the winter trees. Dear old Brumfett! So unprepossessingly rigid in her views, but so imaginative when it came to the welfare and comfort of her patients. Brumfett, who talked embarrassingly of duty, obedience, loyalty, but who knew exactly what she meant by those unpopular terms and lived by what she knew. She was one of the best ward sisters that the John Carpendar had, or ever would have. But Miss Taylor was glad that devotion to duty had kept Sister Brumfett from meeting the plane at Heathrow. It was bad enough to come home to this further tragedy without the added burden of Brumfett’s doglike devotion and concern.

  She drew the stool from under the bed and seated herself beside the girl. Despite Dr. Snelling’s sedative, Nurse Dakers was not asleep. She was lying very still on her back gazing at the ceiling. Now her eyes turned to look at the Matron. They were blank with misery. On the bedside locker there was a copy of a textbook, Materia Medica for Nurses. The Matron picked it up.

  “This is very conscientious of you, Nurse, but just for the short time you are in here, why not have a novel from the Red Cross trolley or a frivolous magazine? Shall I bring one in for you?”

  She was answered by a flood of tears. The slim figure twisted convulsively in the bed, buried her head in the pillow and clasped it with shaking hands. The bed shook with the paroxysm of grief. The Matron got up, moved over to the door and clicked across the board which covered the nurses’ peephole. She returned quickly to her seat and waited without speaking, making no move except to place her hand on the girl’s head. After a few minutes the dreadful shaking ceased and Nurse Dakers grew calmer. She began to mutter, her voice hiccuping with sobs, half muffled by the pillow: “I’m so miserable, so ashamed.”

  The Matron bent her head to catch the words. A chill of horror swept over her. Surely she couldn’t be listening to a confession of murder? She found herself praying under her breath.

  “Dear God, please not. Not this child! Surely not this child?”

  She waited, not daring to question. Nurse Dakers twisted herself round and gazed up at her, her eyes reddened and swollen into two amorphous moons in a face blotched and formless with misery.

  “I’m wicked, Matron, wicked. I was glad when she died.”

  “Nurse Fallon.”

  “Oh no, not Fallon! I was sorry about Fallon. Nurse Pearce.”

  The Matron placed her hands on each of the girl’s shoulders, pressing her back against the bed. She held the trembling body firmly and looked down into the drowned eyes.

  “I want you to tell me the truth, Nurse. Did you kill Nurse Pearce?”

  “No, Matron.”

  “Nor Nurse Fallon?”

  “No, Matron.”

  “Or have anything at all to do with their deaths?”

  “No, Matron.”

  Miss Taylor let out her breath. She relaxed her hold on the girl and sat back.

  “I think you’d better tell me all about it.”

  So, calmly now, the pathetic story came out. It hadn’t seemed like stealing at the time. It had seemed like a miracle. Mummy had so needed a warm winter coat and Nurse Dakers had been saving thirty shillings from her monthly salary cheque. Only the money had taken so long to save and the weather was getting colder; and Mummy, who never complained, and never asked her for anything, had to wait nearly fifteen minutes for the bus some mornings and caught cold so easily. And if she did catch cold she couldn’t stay away from work because Miss Arkwright, the buyer in the department store, was only waiting for an opportunity to get her sacked. Serving in a store wasn’t really the right job for Mummy, but it wasn’t easy to find a job when you were over fifty and unqualified, and the young assistants in the department weren’t very kind. They kept hinting that Mummy wasn’t pulling her weight, which wasn’t true. Mummy might not be as quick as they were but she really took trouble with the customers.

  Then Nurse Harper had dropped the two crisp new £5 notes almost at her feet. Nurse Harper who had so much pocket money from her father that she could lose £10 without really worrying about it. It had happened about four weeks ago. Nurse Harper had been walking with Nurse Pearce from the Nurses’ Home to the hospital dining-room for breakfast, and Nurse Dakers had been following a few feet behind. The two notes had fallen out of Nurse Harper’s cape pocket and had lain there flutterin
g gently. Her first instinct had been to call after the other two students, but something about the sight of the money had stopped her. The notes had been so unexpected, so unbelievable, so beautiful in their pristine crispness. She had just stood looking at them for a second, and then she had realized that she was really looking at Mummy’s new coat. And, by then, the other two students had passed almost out of sight, the notes were folded in her hand, and it was too late.

  The Matron asked: “How did Nurse Pearce know that you had the notes?”

  “She said that she’d seen me. She just happened to glance round when I was bending to pick up the notes. It meant nothing to her at the time, but when Nurse Harper told everyone that she’d lost the money and that the notes must have fallen out of her cape pocket on the way over to breakfast, Nurse Pearce guessed what had happened. She and the twins went with Nurse Harper to search the path to see if they could find the money. I expect that was when she remembered about my stooping down.”

  “When did she first talk to you about it?”

  “A week later, Matron, a fortnight before our set came into block. I expect she couldn’t bring herself to believe it before then. She must have been trying to make up her mind to speak to me.”

  So Nurse Pearce had waited. The Matron wondered why. It couldn’t have taken her a whole week to clarify her suspicions. She must have recalled seeing Dakers stoop to pick up the notes as soon as she heard that they were missing. So why hadn’t she tackled the girl at once? Had it perhaps been more satisfying to her twisted ego to wait until the money was spent and the culprit safely in her power?

  “Was she blackmailing you?” she demanded.

  “Oh no, Matron!” The girl was shocked. “She only took back five shillings a week, and that wasn’t blackmail. She sent the money every week to a society for discharged prisoners. She showed me the receipts.”

  “And did she, incidentally, explain why she wasn’t repaying it to Nurse Harper?”