Money in the Morgue

by Ngaio Marsh

  Brought back to the room, he looked about himself and took in the peeling paint at the window, a bucket catching heavy drips of rain. He knew the New Zealanders were finding it hard, sending off so many healthy young men to fight had a real effect on the home front. Early in his tenure he’d innocently remarked on the distance from the theatre of war and Matron’s response had been swift.

  ‘We’ve all we need here in New Zealand to look after ourselves and we’re grateful for it, but we’re feeling the pinch as our lads go off and we send the best of us away. We felt it in the first war too. There’s only so long anyone can give and give before they break.’

  Dr Hughes understood that an entire generation of men missing after the first war, the loss of strong young men now, had taken its toll on the nation’s spirit as well as its economy. He’d had money worries of his own and understood how debilitating it could be to scrimp and save. His family were very ordinary and his whole way through medical school he had been on scholarships and bursaries. Even so, his money worries were as nothing to the nightmares he now dealt with on a regular basis. He’d taken on the night shift in order to try to avoid the dreams, but they felt even more brutal when they arrived in the light of day and the one person he had confided in had been most frightened of his fears. When Luke tried to explain to Sarah why he was afraid to sleep, fearful of what might come, he saw worry and perhaps even shock in her eyes as he talked of the walking wounded in his dreams, mumbled in garbled language about his fear. The words she eventually spoke were intended to be comforting and she had tried to understand, but he was sure he had said too much. He was worried that she now thought him a coward and, in response, he had closed himself off from her. Luke knew she must be confused and upset by the way he had been avoiding her. Sarah was a lovely girl and she deserved someone better than him, he would have to tell her that. He groaned inwardly, he knew only too well that some lives could seem hopeful on the outside and yet inside it was all turmoil and upset. Take young Sydney Brown for example. All of twenty-one, about to inherit his grandfather’s farm, lock, stock and barrel, and seemingly no happier about it than had the entire estate gone to a stranger.

  ‘Thing is, I don’t flamin’ well want to be a farmer, that’s the cow of it,’ Sydney had said, whispering across the old man when Luke came in to check on Mr Brown, ‘I want to be an engineer, I want to make things happen. I never wanted the farm at all. I can’t stand being stuck out here in the sticks. I’ll sell it quick as I can and be off.’

  Luke’s reveries on the uncertainties of fate were cut off by the welcome arrival of Will Kelly, the night porter. Kelly was famed at the Bridge Hotel for his ability to drink gallons of lemonade shandy, his drink of choice, with no obvious effect, yet a single tot of whiskey, rum, or brandy—Kelly wasn’t a fussy man—would have him drunk as a lord and twice as foolish in no time at all.

  ‘Ah, it’s himself, is it? The young doctor, and good evening to you too.’

  Kelly clattered into the private room and halted his forward trajectory by the noisy but effective method of clanging his ancient trolley into the hospital bed. He set to work right away, rolling the covers back from old Mr Brown and readying his trolley and body bag to house the deceased.

  As he worked he sang quietly, ‘Full fathom five thy father lies, of his bones are coral made—’

  Kelly broke off to look at Luke’s aghast face, ‘Don’t you worry at all. Not your fault, this old fellow. Time’s the culprit here, nothing you could’ve done to save this one, don’t go blaming yourself.’

  ‘I know that, of course I know it was his time. It was his grandson, he wanted to see Sydney,’ the doctor protested. ‘We all thought he was holding on for the young man.’

  ‘Well, that’s the way with the dying, hang on when you expect them to go, pop their clogs when they’re meant to hang on. Never can tell. Tricky ones, the dying are. The lad was lucky to be here when he went, more often than not the family hang around for hours or days, waiting for the final words, the last breath, then the minute they nip out for a cup of tea, there you go, he shuffles off his mortal coil. I reckon they prefer to be alone when they go. He was a lucky young fellow all right. Come on then, old boy, let’s be having you,’ Kelly said as he manhandled the corpse into the body bag.

  Luke frowned and took a few steps backwards, eager to get away from the sight of Kelly rolling the corpse into the canvas bag.

  ‘I have to go, there are forms, Matron has the papers ready and I need to sign them.’

  ‘Death and taxes, always the way. You hurry along to the office, they’ll have the paperwork ready and want it signing, always want a name to a death, that they do and yours is as good as any other once you’ve your fancy letters after it.’

  With that Will Kelly finally finished struggling with old Mr Brown, fastened the bag, rolled the bagged body onto the trolley and pushed off and out of the room. Luke heard him as he headed along the yard towards the morgue, hidden away at the far end of the row of wards, singing through the rain.

  ‘Those are pearls that were his eyes; Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea change, Into something rich and strange.’

  Luke had to admit that Kelly had a fine baritone, and an apposite choice in his Shakespeare. He turned out the overhead light as he left the room, remarking how especially empty it felt with the dead man removed, as if death really did have a presence of its own. The doctor took a deep breath and forced himself to pay attention to where he was. He was no longer in a field hospital, he was no longer surrounded by heat and dirt and flies. He was here, at Mount Seager and as the ghastly images receded from his mind, he looked across to the Transport Office. The dimmed light was on. Very well. He would sign the paperwork for old Mr Brown and then he would go to Sarah and speak to her. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and walked across the yard.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mr Glossop, uncomfortable on his cot in the anteroom, finally decided he’d had enough. He should have been at home by now in his cosy little cottage, drumming rain outside, his apple trees and the big walnut getting a welcome soaking, a fine night’s sleep ahead knowing his work was done and done well. Not tonight. There was something not right, he was sure. It wasn’t just the rain, nor was it the heat, heavy despite the sheets of water dropping from above. He needed to be sure the money was secure and he’d move this darn cot down to sleep alongside the safe if he had to. No one would say Jonty Glossop was not a conscientious man. He’d just missed the last war, too young by a year, and while he was not officially too old this time round, they’d sent him home when he offered to take up his papers and serve, told him he needed to get into shape, get fit. The nerve of it, in his prime and told he wasn’t forces material. It rankled even now, but he wasn’t one to bear a grudge, not Jonty. He found a valuable job, stuck with it, and proved he could do it well, even with all the trouble from the van, the fuss every week to get the rounds done on time, always some hold-up at one of the destinations, you’d think they didn’t want paying, some of them. Well, he’d make sure they got paid tomorrow and catch his death of cold for his pains no doubt.

  Mr Glossop’s shirt was badly stained with sweat when he finally managed to get the cumbersome cot down to a manoeuvrable size. He made a half-hearted attempt to at least wipe off his face before he left the anteroom, she might be a stickler for propriety, but Matron was surely a lovely woman. She had a few years on him, but he liked that in a woman, always had, none of these flighty young things had any appeal, too clever by half and all too ready to come the madam. All right, he would arrive at Matron’s door bedraggled with rain, but if she happened to be in residence, he’d rather not be dripping sweat as well.

  Standing on the steps to the Surgery, he looked along the yard. The rain was tearing down as expected, but other than the high wind driving the torrent down from the mountains, it was quieter outside than inside. Now that he was not directly beneath the corrugated iron roof the drumming rain seemed less ins
istent and the asphalt it fell upon sent up a damp heat and the cloying smell of warm, wet tar. He was about to step down and out of the shelter of the office door, when he saw a flash of white in the distance, up by Military 2. Glad he had turned out the lamp in the anteroom, he peered ahead. It was hard to judge in the dark and rain, but Glossop thought he could make out the large shape of a starched uniform, white veil blowing in the wind, scurrying up to Matron’s office. She stopped at the door, waited a moment and then scurried back out of the rain into Military 1. A lucky escape, he wouldn’t mind pleading his case to Matron, but he didn’t fancy having to persuade that mis-named harridan Comfort that she wasn’t the only one around here who took her work seriously. He had taken just a few steps into the yard when another blasted light shone out, from Civilian 3 this time, and he ducked back into the doorway of the anteroom. Peering out, he saw a figure, the vicar presumably, judging by the dark coat, heading straight for Matron’s office. There was a brief burst of light and then he was inside. Well then, Matron was definitely in situ. Perhaps she’d leave with the vicar, Mr Glossop thought, there would be formalities to be done if the old fellow had died. Not long afterwards, he saw another figure heading towards Matron’s office, up to the door and then, after a brief pause, away again. It must have been that fool of a porter, Matron was wise not to open the door to him. Glossop frowned, he could either spend the night in the anteroom or wait a little longer on the step and hope the coast cleared. He thought more clearly about the woman in question. Matron was an efficient woman, she wouldn’t be closeted in her office with the vicar for long, she had far too much to do. He now saw another figure heading into the yard from the ward, the young doctor no doubt. All this to-ing and fro-ing in the rain must surely point to the old man popping off, Mr Glossop reasoned. Rain dripping from his bulbous nose, Mr Glossop allowed himself a brief smile as the light fell once more from Matron’s door and the vicar stepped out, no doubt he and Matron were heading off again to deal with the old man. Just at that point there was a huge roll of thunder, a crack of lightning directly above the hospital, and Jonty Glossop—who would not have admitted this to a living soul, and hadn’t even admitted to himself that his fear of thunder and lightning was one of the reasons he was not happy sleeping alone in the anteroom—turned back into the Surgery, put his hands over his ears and screwed up his face with his eyes shut tight. He opened them only after there had been another long rumble of thunder and the lightning had flamed all around, brilliant light shining through his closed eyelids. When he looked along the yard there was no one in sight. The Matron must have made her way back to Civilian 3 with the vicar and presumably the doctor, paperwork for the old bloke, death had its own offices. Good, it would give him time to set himself up in front of the safe, maybe he’d even play possum and pretend he was sleeping when Matron came back in. She could hardly send him back to that awful anteroom, all the way through the rain, once he was soundo, now could she?

  Head down, the rain slicking his greasy curls against his deeply lined forehead, Glossop made his way along the darkened yard. Arriving at the door to Matron’s office, he knocked politely. It was possible they had tried to step out when his back was turned or when his eyes were closed, and thinking better of it had gone back inside. He wouldn’t want Matron to find him lacking in manners. He knocked again and, satisfied there was no one in the office, he tried the handle and was immensely gratified when the unlocked door admitted entrance. Mr Glossop gave a curious shake of his shoulders, with his enormous belly and his wet curls, he looked for all the world like a drenched bulldog who had somehow acquired the coat of a poodle. Then he launched his bulk and the unwieldy cot into the office, closing the door behind him.

  He smiled, talking to himself as he often did on the long drives across the plains between his payroll drops, ‘Right then, Jonty Glossop, let’s get to work. You get this cot up and give her your best Sleeping Beauty impression when she gets back. By the time she’s done with the old man and the vicar and that daft-as-a-brush porter, not to mention the drippy Pommie doctor, she might even wake you with a peck on the cheek, glad to see someone with half a grain of sense in her office.’

  Glossop was still struggling to put the cot back together when, in a brief lull in the rain, he heard a woman’s voice. He stood stock still, terrified it was Matron returning before he had made up his bed. The voice didn’t sound like hers though, it was lighter, younger, and definitely more agitated than he would expect from that august lady. Glossop would not have called himself an eavesdropper, but it was an acknowledged fact that he preferred the company of the ladies to that of his fellow men. It was one of the reasons he had been glad to take on the payroll deliveries, volunteering to be drop-off man when the younger, fitter chaps who might have been a more obvious choice went off to do their bit. Apparently the government that considered him not fit for active service didn’t mind him taking the risk of actual highway robbery. His colleagues in accounts thought him both brave and a little foolhardy to give up the cushy nine-to-five and a desk of his own, but none of them had worked out that the payroll drop took him to four hospitals, three schools and the two factories on hush-hush war work. At all but one of these establishments there was either a young lady with a good head for figures—as if that was the most interesting thing about her—or an older lady with a willing ear for his traveller’s tales. If Glossop could persuade one of them to pour him a cup of tea after a long drive, then he’d not say no to a fresh girdle scone and a chat into the bargain, before he pushed off again on his lonely route. Despite his eagerness to lie down, Glossop couldn’t help leaning closer to the thin weatherboard wall to listen to the woman’s voice. It was hard to make out exact words, what with the wind and rain, but the young lady was clearly upset, her voice raised. He strained to hear what was said and to whom, but the wind in the middle of the yard whipped up and span around the office, so much that he was unsure if the voices were coming from the Transport Office on the far side of Matron’s or the Records Office he’d passed in his run and stumble along the yard. He caught a clipped tone to the ends of her sentences that made her sound as if she were one of those girls who’d been off to London or Paris and come home to New Zealand determined that everyone should know she had travelled, she was not just another country girl looking for a quarter-acre paradise and nothing more. Those girls he could do without. Glossop was attaching the last leg of the cot and he nodded to himself, he might be lonely sometimes, but loneliness had its compensations.

  Whether it was contemplating the compensations of his life, or the lateness of the hour, just past eleven o’clock and he was an early to bed, early to rise man, even on summer nights, Glossop’s fat fingers took on a sudden dexterity and with a snap, click, clunk, the cot was whole. Finally he lay down along the length of old canvas, the damp would not deter him now. Mr Glossop gave in to gravity and the fabric beneath him strained, shuddered, but held. The arguing voices were stilled, even the rain seemed to be lessening a little, or perhaps he was simply so used to it now that he didn’t notice, and he felt himself relax for the first time since that damned flat tyre this afternoon. He knew he might be in the bad books when Matron returned, but with any luck she and the vicar would be some time yet. He could rest here, perfectly stationed between the door and the safe. All he needed was forty winks and he’d be right as rain. Glossop chuckled to himself at the absurd term given the weather and the fact that Matron’s tin bucket was catching fat drips not two feet from his nose. He reached out his hand to the safe, giving it a solid pat to reassure himself that he was the close guard this moment needed. Disconcertingly, the safe rocked a little beneath his hand. He lifted and dropped his hand again, and again the safe rocked. Glossop opened his eyes, the cot groaned as he raised himself up on his elbows, and he stared at the safe. This time he slapped his meaty palm on the side of the heavy iron frame. As if affirming his worst fears, he heard a gentle click and the safe door swung open. It was empty. Horribly, obviously, empty.
Glossop was suddenly very hot and at the same time, utterly chilled. He let out a strangled yelp that turned into a full-throated roar, rolling off the cot and up onto his knees he crawled his way to the office door. He wrenched the door back on its hinges, crying out into the rain and the wind in the yard beyond.

  ‘Thief! Robbers! Safe. Thief. Help! Thief. No!’

  It was a few moments before the lights in both Military 1 and 2 came on, the civilian wards took a little longer, the door to the Transport Office was flung open and Sarah Warne rushed out, quickly followed by Dr Hughes. On the other side of Matron’s office the Records Office door was opened and Rosamund Farquharson stood back, careful not to let the rain ruin her new dress or her beautifully set curls, careful too to ensure that no one noticed Maurice Sanders slip past her to join his fellows from the ward as they came rushing out to stare in bemused amazement at the round, red-faced man bawling highway robbery into the tempest from his place on his knees in Matron’s office doorway.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Mr Glossop!’ Sister Comfort managed the impressive feat of bringing to just four syllables, uttered barely above a whisper, a tone both chilling and imperious.

  Glossop lowered the pitch of his wails of ‘theft’ and ‘robbery’ but he did not desist. Sister Comfort shook her head, walked across the yard impervious to the rain and, to the cheers and applause of the combined ranks of patients, by now all crowding to the verandahs, the windows and the porches leading out from each ward, she hauled Glossop up by the shoulders of his shirt.