by P. D. James
As if reading his thoughts Maureen said: “It wasn’t as if we could smell the carbolic. The whole demo room stinks of disinfectant. Miss Collins throws the stuff around as if we’re all lepers.”
Shirley laughed: “Carbolic isn’t effective against leprosy!”
They looked at each other, smiling in happy complicity.
And so the interview had gone on. They had no theories to propound, no suggestions to offer. They knew no one who could wish Pearce or Fallon dead, and yet both deaths—since they had occurred—seemed to cause them no particular surprise. They could recall every word of the conversation between Sister Brumfett and themselves in the small hours of that morning, yet the encounter apparently had made little impression on them. When Dalgliesh asked if the Sister had seemed unusually worried or distressed, they gazed at him simultaneously, brows creased in perplexity, before replying that Sister had seemed just the same as usual.
As if following his chief’s thought, Masterson said: “Short of asking them outright if Sister Brumfett looked as if she’d come straight from murdering Fallon you couldn’t have put it much plainer. They’re an odd uncommunicative couple.”
“At least they’re sure of the time. They took that milk shortly after seven o’clock and went straight into the demonstration room with it. They stood the bottle unopened on the instrument trolley while they made preliminary preparations for the demonstration. They left the demonstration room at seven twenty-five for breakfast and the bottle was still on the trolley when they returned at about twenty to nine to complete their preparations. They then stood it, still unopened, in a jug of hot water to bring it to blood heat and it remained there until they poured the milk from the bottle into a measuring jug about two minutes before Miss Beale and Matron’s party arrived. Most of the suspects were at breakfast together from eight until eight twenty-five, so that the mischief was either done between seven twenty-five and eight o’clock or in the short period between the end of breakfast and the twins’ return to the demonstration room.”
Masterson said: “I still find it strange that they noticed nothing odd about that milk.”
“They may have noticed more than they realize at present. After all, this is the umpteenth time they’ve told their story. During the weeks since Pearce’s death, their first statements have become fixed in their minds as the immutable truth. That’s why I haven’t asked them the crucial question about the milk bottle. If they gave me the wrong answer now they’d never change it. They need to be shocked into total recall. They’re not seeing anything that happened with fresh eyes. I dislike reconstructions of the crime; they always make me feel like a fictional detective. But I think there may be a case for reconstruction here. I shall have to be in London early tomorrow, but you and Greeson can see to it. Greeson will probably enjoy himself.”
He told Masterson briefly what he proposed and ended: “You needn’t bother to include the Sisters. I expect you can get a supply of the disinfectant from Miss Collins. But for God’s sake keep an eye on the stuff and chuck it away afterwards. We don’t want another tragedy.”
Sergeant Masterson took up the two beakers and carried them to the sink. He said: “Nightingale House does seem to be touched with ill-luck, but I can’t see the killer having another go while we’re around.”
It was to prove a singularly unprophetic remark.
5
Since her encounter with Dalgliesh in the nurses’ utility room earlier that morning Sister Rolfe had had time to recover from shock and to consider her position. As Dalgliesh had expected she was now far less forthcoming. She had already given to Inspector Bailey a clear and unambiguous statement about the arrangements for the demonstration and the intra-gastric feeding and about her own movements on the morning that Nurse Pearce died. She confirmed the statement accurately and without fuss. She agreed that she had known that Nurse Pearce was to act the part of the patient and pointed out sarcastically that there would be little point in denying the knowledge since it was she whom Madeleine Goodale had called when Fallon was taken ill.
Dalgliesh asked: “Did you have any doubt of the genuineness of her illness?”
“At the time?”
“Then or now.”
“I suppose you’re suggesting that Fallon could have feigned influenza to ensure that Pearce took her place, and then sneaked back to Nightingale House before breakfast to doctor the drip? I don’t know why she did come back, but you can put any idea that she was pretending to be ill out of your head. Even Fallon couldn’t simulate a temperature of 103.8, a minor rigor and a racing pulse. She was a very sick girl that night, and she remained sick for nearly ten days.”
Dalgliesh pointed out that it was all the more odd that she should have been well enough to make her way back to Nightingale House next morning. Sister Rolfe replied that it was so odd that she could only assume that Fallon had had an imperative need to return. Invited to speculate on what that need could have been she replied that it wasn’t her job to propound theories. Then, as if under a compulsion, she added: “But it wasn’t to murder Pearce. Fallon was highly intelligent, easily the most intelligent of her year. If Fallon came back to put the corrosive in the feed she would know perfectly well there was a considerable risk of her being seen in Nightingale House even if she weren’t missed on the ward, and she’d have taken good care to have a story ready. It wouldn’t have been difficult to think of something. As it is, I gather she merely declined to give Inspector Bailey any explanation.”
“Perhaps she was clever enough to realize that this extraordinary reticence would strike another intelligent woman in exactly that way.”
“A kind of double bluff? I don’t think so. It would be banking too heavily on the intelligence of the police.”
She admitted calmly that she had no alibi for any of the time from seven o’clock when the twins had collected the bottle of milk from the kitchen until ten minutes to nine when she had joined the Matron and Mr. Courtney-Briggs in Miss Taylor’s sitting-room to await the arrival of Miss Beale, except for the period from eight to eight twenty-five when she had breakfasted at the same table as Sister Brumfett and Sister Gearing. Sister Brumfett had left the table first and she had followed at about eight twenty-five. She had gone first to her office next door to the demonstration room, but finding Mr. Courtney-Briggs in occupation, had made her way at once to her bed-sitting-room on the third floor.
When Dalgliesh asked whether Sister Gearing and Sister Brumfett had appeared their usual selves at breakfast she replied drily that they exhibited no signs of impending homicidal mania if that was what he meant. Gearing had read the Daily Mirror and Brumfett the Nursing Times, if that were of any significance, and the conversation had been minimal. She regretted she could offer no witness to her own movements before or after the meal but that was surely understandable; for some years now she had preferred to wash and go to the lavatory in private. Apart from that, she valued the free time before the day’s work and preferred to spend it alone.
Dalgliesh asked: “Were you surprised to find Mr. Courtney-Briggs in your office when you went there after breakfast?”
“Not particularly. I took it for granted that he had spent the night in the medical officers’ quarters and had come over early to Nightingale House to meet the G.N.C. Inspector. He probably wanted somewhere to write a letter. Mr. Courtney-Briggs assumes the right to use any room in the John Carpendar as his private office if the fancy takes him.”
Dalgliesh asked her about her movements the previous night. She repeated that she had been to the cinema alone but added this time that she had met Julia Pardoe on the way out and that they had walked back to the hospital together. They had come in through the Winchester Road gate to which she had a key and had got back to Nightingale House shortly after eleven. She had gone immediately to her room and had seen no one. Nurse Pardoe, she assumed, had either gone straight to bed or had joined the rest of the set in the student nurses’ sitting-room.
“So you have n
othing to tell me, Sister? Nothing that can help?”
“Nothing.”
“Not even why, unnecessarily surely, you lied about going to the cinema alone?”
“Nothing. And I shouldn’t have thought my private affairs were any concern of yours.”
Dalgliesh said calmly: “Miss Rolfe, two of your students are dead. I’m here to find out how and why they died. If you don’t want to co-operate, say so. You don’t have to answer my questions. But don’t try to tell me what questions I am to ask. I’m in charge of this investigation. I do it my way.”
“I see. You make up the rules as you go along. All we can do is say when we don’t want to play. Yours is a dangerous game, Mr. Dalgliesh.”
“Tell me something about these students. You’re the Principal Nurse Tutor; you must have a good many girls through your hands. I think you’re a good judge of character. We’ll start with Nurse Goodale.”
If she felt surprise or relief at his choice she concealed it.
“Madeleine Goodale is confidently expected to take the Gold Medal as the best nurse of her year. She is less intelligent than Fallon—than Fallon was—but she’s hard-working and extremely conscientious. She’s a local girl. Her father is well known in the town, an extremely successful estate agent who inherited a long-established family business. He’s a member of the Town Council and was on the Hospital Management Committee for a number of years. Madeleine went to the local grammar school and then came to us. I don’t think she ever considered any other nurse training school. The whole family has a strong local loyalty. She is engaged to the young vicar of Holy Trinity and I understand they plan to marry as soon as she completes her training. Another good career lost to the profession, but she knows her own priorities I suppose.”
“The Burt twins?”
“Good sensible kindly girls, with more imagination and sensitivity than they are usually credited with. Their people are farmers near Gloucester. I’m not sure why they chose this hospital. I have an idea a cousin trained here and was happy enough. They are the kind of girls who would choose a training school on that kind of family basis. They aren’t particularly intelligent but they aren’t stupid. We don’t have to take stupid girls here, thank God. Each of them has a steady boyfriend and Maureen is engaged. I don’t think either of them looks on nursing as a permanent job.”
Dalgliesh said: “You’re going to have trouble finding leaders for the profession if this automatic resignation on marriage becomes the rule.”
She said drily: “We’re having trouble now. Who else are you interested in?”
“Nurse Dakers.”
“Poor kid! Another local girl, but with a very different background from Goodale. Father was a minor local government officer who died of cancer when she was twelve. Mother has been struggling on ever since with a small pension. The girl was educated at the same school as Goodale but they were never friendly as far as I know. Dakers is a conscientious hardworking student with a great deal of ambition. She’ll do all right but she won’t do better than all right. She tires easily, isn’t really robust. People think of her as timid and highly strung, whatever that euphemism means. But Dakers is tough enough. She’s a third-year student, remember. A girl doesn’t get this far with her training if she’s fundamentally weak, physically or mentally.”
“Julia Pardoe?” Sister Rolfe had herself well under control now and there was no change in her voice as she went on.
“The only child of divorced parents. Mother is one of those pretty but selfish women who find it impossible to stay long with one husband. She’s on her third now, I believe. I’m not sure that the girl really knows which is her father. She hasn’t been often at home. Mother sent her off to a prep school when she was five. She had a stormy school career and came here straight from the sixth form of one of those independent girls’ boarding-schools, where the girls are taught nothing but manage to learn a great deal. She first applied to one of the London teaching hospitals. She didn’t quite measure up to their standard of acceptance either socially or academically but the Matron referred her here. Schools like ours have this kind of arrangement with the teaching hospitals. They get a dozen applications for every place. It’s mostly snobbery and the hope of catching a husband. We’re quite happy to take a number of their rejects; I suspect that they often make better nurses than the girls they accept. Pardoe was one of them. An intelligent but untrained mind. A gentle and considerate nurse.”
“You know a great deal about your students.”
“I make it my business to. But I take it I’m not expected to give an opinion of my colleagues.”
“Sister Gearing and Sister Brumfett? No. But I’d be glad of your opinion of Nurse Fallon and Nurse Pearce.”
“I can’t tell you much about Fallon. She was a reserved, almost a secretive girl. Intelligent, of course, and more mature than the majority of students. I think I only had one personal conversation with her. That was at the end of her first year when I called her for an interview and asked her for her impressions of nursing. I was interested to know how our methods here struck a girl who was so different from the ordinary run of the straight-from-school student. She said that it wasn’t fair to judge while one was still an apprentice and treated as if one were a sub-normal kitchen maid but that she still thought nursing was her job. I asked her what had attracted her to the profession and she said that she wanted to acquire a skill which would make her independent anywhere in the world, a qualification which would always be in demand. I don’t think she had any particular ambition to get on in the profession. Her training was just a means to an end. But I could be wrong. As I said, I never really knew her.”
“So you can’t say whether she had enemies?”
“I can’t say why anyone should want to kill her, if that’s what you mean. I should have thought that Pearce was a much more likely victim.”
Dalgliesh asked her why.
“I didn’t take to Pearce. I didn’t kill her, but then I’m not given to murdering people merely because I dislike them. But she was a strange girl, a mischief maker and a hypocrite. It’s no use asking me how I know. I haven’t any real evidence and, if I had, I doubt whether I should give it to you.”
“So you didn’t find it surprising that she should have been murdered?”
“I found it astonishing. But I never for one moment thought her death was suicide or an accident.”
“And who do you suppose killed her?”
Sister Rolfe looked at him with a kind of grim satisfaction. “You tell me, Superintendent. You tell me!”
6
“So you went to the cinema last night and on your own?”
“Yes, I told you.”
“To see a revival of L’Avventura. Perhaps you felt that the subtleties of Antonioni could best be experienced without a companion? Or perhaps you couldn’t find anyone willing to go with you?”
She couldn’t, of course, resist that.
“There are plenty of people to take me to the movies if I want them to.”
The movies. It had been the flicks when Dalgliesh was her age. But the generation chasm was deeper than a matter of mere semantics, the alienation more complete. He simply didn’t understand her. He hadn’t the slightest clue to what was going on behind that smooth and childish forehead. The remarkable violet blue eyes, set wide apart under curved brows, gazed at him, wary but unconcerned. The cat’s face with its small rounded chin and wide cheekbones expressed nothing but a vague distaste for the matter in hand. It was difficult, Dalgliesh thought, to imagine finding a prettier or more agreeable figure than Julia Pardoe beside one’s sick bed; unless, of course, one happened to be in real pain or distress when the Burt twins’ sturdy common sense or Madeleine Goodale’s calm efficiency would be a great deal more acceptable. It might be a personal prejudice, but he couldn’t imagine any man willingly exposing his weakness or physical distress to this pert and self-absorbed young woman. And what precisely, he wondered, was she getting out of nur
sing? If the John Carpendar had been a teaching hospital he could have understood it. That trick of widening the eyes when she spoke so that the hearer was treated to a sudden blaze of blue, of slightly parting moist lips above the neat eburnean teeth would go down very well with a gaggle of medical students.
It was not, he noticed, without its effects on Sergeant Masterson.
But what was it that Sister Rolfe had said of her?
“An intelligent but untrained mind; a gentle and considerate nurse.”
Well, it could be. But Hilda Rolfe was prejudiced. And so, in his own way, was Dalgliesh.
He pressed on with this interrogation, resisting the impulse to sarcasm, to the cheap jibes of antipathy.
“Did you enjoy the film?”
“It was all right.”
“And you returned to Nightingale House from this all right film when?”
“I don’t know. Just before eleven, I suppose. I met Sister Rolfe outside the cinema and we walked back together. I expect she’s told you.”
So they must have talked since this morning. This was their story and the girl was repeating it without even the pretence that she cared whether she were believed. It could be checked of course. The girl in the cinema box office might remember whether they had arrived together. But it was hardly worth the trouble of inquiry. Why indeed should it matter, unless they had spent the evening concocting murder as well as imbibing culture? And if they had, here was one partner in iniquity who wasn’t apparently worried.
