Money in the Morgue

by Ngaio Marsh

  ‘Good Lord,’ she said.

  ‘Good man,’ Alleyn said to the panting Bix who drew up short at the sight of Alleyn and Sister Comfort, a torch held tight in each hand.

  Alleyn took the torches from him, he and Bix had a very quick exchange of words, and the sergeant speedily took up sentry on the steps of the Transport Office, while Alleyn ushered Sister Comfort into the Records Office.

  The moment the door was closed behind them, Sister Comfort turned to Alleyn. Her earlier prurience completely gone, ‘It’s less than three hours until dawn, Inspector, it’s a terrible turn out,’ she said.

  ‘For the love of Mike,’ he replied testily, ‘do you think I don’t know? This little lot have delayed and derailed the investigation all damn night, you might almost think some of them have done so on purpose.’

  Alleyn’s reply was surprisingly curt and Sister Comfort allowed herself a brief moment’s satisfaction, so much had already happened this evening, she had found herself wondering if she was going quite mad in trying to remain calm while all around them were losing their heads. She was briefly relieved to realize the detective was also concerned and then even more worried. If the Inspector himself was perturbed, how was she expected to behave as if this were an everyday, an every-night occurrence? And while Matron lay—no, she would not think of it.

  She bit at her lip again and frowned, ‘There’s not enough time.’

  ‘It will have to be enough,’ was Alleyn’s grave reply, ‘I haven’t spent the past week cooped up in that absurd room waiting for this moment to catch our spy or spies in the act, to let it all go now simply because of an absurd chain of events, any one of which would be bad enough individually, but which collectively add up to the kind of farce that wouldn’t even sell in the provinces. So, Sister,’ he said, sitting down and taking out his notebook, ‘Tell me everything I need to know.’

  Whereupon Sister Gertrude Comfort, Chief Detective Inspector Alleyn’s contact at Mount Seager, gave him chapter and verse on the three people she suspected were part of the espionage they were hoping to uncover and stop in its tracks, ideally before the midsummer sun rose across the plains.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘When I was asked to take on this work, I readily agreed, Inspector.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I was proud that the Chair of the Hospital Board had faith in me and considered me trustworthy enough for the role.’

  Alleyn nodded, recalling the Chair’s words, ‘Once the hospital became a military site, we had to make sure there was someone on staff we could trust. I’ve known the Comfort family for years, Inspector. Gertrude’s nosey as hell and starchy with it, but that’s all to the good, I bet there’s nothing goes on out there that escapes her attention.’

  Sister Comfort continued, ‘But when you arrived with the suggestion that someone among the staff or patients was implicated in espionage, I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to. I’ve done my best, provided you with lists and rosters, given you detailed information on everyone I can think of who has anything to do with the hospital—’

  ‘You have been enormously helpful,’ he interjected.

  Sister Comfort’s naturally suspicious nature along with her attention to detail made her an indefatigable inside informant. Alleyn’s unenviable task since his arrival had been to sift through her lists detailing the usual misdemeanours of any workplace, including staff five minutes late, misbehaving convalescent servicemen, unusually inattentive nurses, trying to decipher which were ordinary sins and which were genuine signs of potential espionage. It proved a time-consuming exercise and yet one he had found oddly soothing. He was, at least, certain that she had not missed anything. Or he had been until earlier this evening when he discovered that Sister Comfort had a secret of her own, one that had likely blinded her to the possible malfeasance of one particular suspect.

  ‘Please, do sit down,’ Alleyn offered.

  ‘I’d really rather not, we have very little time and it is quite clear that one, if not all three of those soldiers are our suspects.’

  ‘I agree the soldiers have been up to something,’ he said, ‘however, I’m not as sure as you are that they are all implicated in our current mission.’

  Sister Comfort stared at Alleyn, he looked back plainly, his fine features in direct contrast to her heavy, broad face. After a moment she conceded and, taking a stiff-backed chair as her perch, she pulled her notebook from her pocket, settled her spectacles more firmly on her nose, and rattled through a concise list of patients and staff, military and civilian, and the occasions in the past twenty-four hours when eight different people had behaved in some way out of character. Five of the aberrant behaviours could be explained by illness or sheer foolishness, but she had no such excuses for Brayling, Pawcett and Sanders. Alleyn heard her out impatiently, he needed Sister Comfort on his side and perhaps this chance to demonstrate her surveillance skills would shore her up for what he was about to reveal.

  ‘So you see,’ she said, coming to the end of her oration, ‘those three soldiers know something, I assure you of that.’

  ‘There are other people in the office, Sister.’

  ‘You cannot seriously suspect either of the girls. True, they are both foolish enough to have had their heads and more turned by the same young man—’

  Alleyn raised an eyebrow and Sister Comfort gave him a genuine smile, ‘I’ve been around impressionable young women and charming doctors for many years now, Inspector Alleyn. And as for the rest of them, Dr Hughes has, as we know, had his hands far too full to add espionage skulduggery to his case list, Will Kelly proved again tonight he’s not to be trusted with a bottle and I expect even the Japanese like their spies to be sober, Sydney Brown has hardly been a regular visitor to the hospital, we had to practically force him to come and visit his grandfather, and Father O’Sullivan is—’

  ‘A vicar.’

  ‘Exactly so.’

  Alleyn looked grave, ‘Look here, I don’t enjoy keeping you in the dark and happen to think you’re right, but not wholly, or at least not on every point. I believe we may be looking at interlinked crimes, or attempted crimes, tonight.’

  Sister Comfort sighed in exasperation, ‘I wish you’d be plain in your speech, Inspector.’

  ‘Forgive me, but I have a violent loathing for the kind of mistakes all too often made when method and routine, however tedious, are undermined by the demands of haste. There is, however, one matter I’d like you to clear up for me.’ He paused and said quietly, ‘It is delicate, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Delicate?’ Sister Comfort glared at Alleyn as if he had over-stepped a particularly well-defended boundary, ‘I am a nurse, Inspector, dedicated to my responsibilities for over forty years. I’m well aware that my junior charges see me as a fusty old maid, likely to curl up in mortal shame were I to imagine any of the goings-on of which they are so confusingly proud, but I’m no blushing violet. My vocation means I’ve seen a great deal of life, death, and everything else in between. Please don’t insult me by suggesting anything is too delicate for my sensibilities.’

  ‘That’s exactly the attitude I’d hoped for. In which case, I’m sure you won’t mind explaining the contents of this letter to me?’

  Inspector Alleyn reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter he had been keeping there for several hours. He unfolded the paper and handed it to Sister Comfort.

  As she took the page she said, ‘Oh, but it’s Matron’s handwriting.’

  Looking more closely she realized it was addressed to her. She looked around, unsure, seeming to tense as if to run. Alleyn had a sense that she wanted to get out of the office, be anywhere but in that confined space with him. He looked on in quiet admiration as she steeled herself and he studied her curiously.

  ‘I appreciate that it must be very hard to read Matron’s writing at this time, but please,’ Alleyn indicated the paper, ‘I’d very much like to understand what I have read.’

  She looked up and
her broad face was ashen, ‘You’ve read this? It’s addressed to me.’

  ‘My work requires that I must. Please, will you read it now?’

  Alleyn watched as the ungainly, heavy-set woman turned her eyes to the page in her lap. He saw her half-smile and then frown as she read on. When, at length, she came to the post-script on the second page he observed as first the tip of her nose, then her wide cheeks, and then her very ears became suffused with a deep crimson, he was not yet sure whether it was the red of shame or of rage. When she steeled herself to look up at him, he saw from her eyes that it was the former.

  ‘I have nothing to say,’ she said at last, regaining her self-control and holding the letter out to him as if it were a particularly distasteful medical specimen.

  ‘I don’t understand?’ he said as he took back the letter.

  Alleyn had expected one of several reactions given the contents, the most likely was grief, a viable alternative would have been fury, with perhaps bitterness or despair as other options. He had not counted on deep shame followed almost immediately by a cool and deliberate shutting down. The woman now looking up him was remarkably sure and very distant. She took off her spectacles, seemed to peer into a middle distance and then, with a small nod, put them firmly back on her nose.

  ‘I have nothing to say, Inspector. The first part of the letter reads as if Matron knew she were to die this evening, which is absurd, giving me instructions as to the hospital routine and bills, when she was in perfect health as far as I knew. Indeed, as far as she knew. That it has today’s—yesterday’s—date is even more confusing.’

  ‘And the post-script?’

  ‘The post-script makes no sense whatsoever. I have never experienced, let alone acted upon the emotions she attributes to me. The final note reads more like the foolish ramblings of a young girl, someone more like Miss Farquharson than the woman I worked alongside and trusted as a colleague and a friend,’ she hesitated, there was a moment when he thought she might break, but she drew a sharp breath and went on, ‘a dear friend, for many years.’

  With that Sister Comfort stood up, turned her back and left the office, closing the door quietly behind her. Alleyn had wanted to say more, but she was in too much pain and he let her go. He trusted that she would not leave the care of her hospital and her patients for long, and he rather suspected she desperately needed a quiet corner and a moment of still, dark privacy. Let her have it.

  ‘Poor woman,’ he heard himself say and then swore under his breath, there really was no time to be feeling sorry for people, no time at all. He waited a minute to give her time to get away across the yard and then he opened the office door and called quietly across to the steadfast Bix.

  ‘Hi there, Sergeant. I think we’ll need those torches now.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Back in the Transport Office, Alleyn noticed a palpable sense of distress beneath the semblance of calm. Rosamund was still curled up on the divan, one arm pillowing her head, but despite her relaxed pose, her eyes were dark and watchful. Sarah Warne had successfully gathered the papers that had been knocked aside and her desk once more appeared the model of efficiency, and Dr Hughes was sitting noticeably closer to her than he had been earlier, although it was obvious that they were not easy alongside each other. Sarah was working industriously and Alleyn thought she was doing so with the kind of concentration that threatened explosive fury at the slightest interruption. Mr Glossop and Father O’Sullivan sat bolt upright on the two wooden chairs. They neither spoke nor slept, both men apparently fixated by the steadily ticking clock on the office wall, hypnotized by the passing minutes. Alleyn glanced at the clock himself and the pang of anxiety it induced made him wish he hadn’t. Private Sanders and young Sydney Brown stood on either side of the window, staring through the glass out into the hospital yard. Alleyn noticed that the window also reflected the men back at themselves and wondered if they were searching their hearts or looking out for rosy-fingered dawn. Corporal Brayling stood alongside Rosamund’s divan, a brooding sentinel, and Private Pawcett sat slumped against a wall, his face betraying bitterness as much as frustration.

  ‘I’m going to have to beg your indulgence a little longer, I’m afraid,’ Alleyn said as one by one they turned to look at him, Sarah Warne last of all, tearing herself away from her paperwork with great reluctance. ‘I need you three soldiers immediately.’

  Alleyn watched as the servicemen exchanged a look, something between resignation and concern. Whatever it indicated he felt sure he was about to hear confirmation of at least one secret. He also noticed that, as Sanders stepped away, Sydney Brown stationed himself more directly before the dark glass of the window. Alleyn had readied himself to deflect Glossop’s complaint, Rosamund’s sarcastic quip, the vicar’s grumble, but none came. It seemed they were all as exhausted as they were concerned, perhaps the shock of the earlier fracas had broken through their personal upsets and they were beginning to take in the truth of the events of the night. He had noticed in his years on the force that it often took several hours for the reality of a crime to filter through to those under suspicion, so much energy was expended in asserting their innocence that they rarely felt the weight of the horror immediately, yet when they did, it seemed to hit them all the harder.

  Alleyn asked Brayling and Bix to wait for him a moment, and he took Sanders and Pawcett into the Records Office. They stood opposite each other, Sanders fidgeting, Pawcett frowning, the older man watching, waiting.

  Finally, when Sanders looked fit to explode with nerves, Alleyn spoke. His tone left the soldiers in no doubt of the gravity of the situation, ‘I’ll start with you, Sanders. I have a question to ask of you and I insist on an honest answer.’

  Sanders shrugged uncomfortably, ran a hand through his hair and looked up at Alleyn, his eyes wary, ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘You’ll do a damn sight better than that, you idiotic young pup. You’re on a precipice right now and what happens for the rest of your life depends upon your answer.’

  Sanders looked at Alleyn again, the wariness gone and in its place something much closer to shock. Clearly it was a good while since anyone had called him to account, ‘Precipice? What? I don’t—Sir?’

  Alleyn smiled inwardly, glad to see he’d broken through the younger man’s well-crafted mask of insouciance, ‘I cannot say more, but a great deal rests on you telling me the truth. Unfortunately I don’t have time to get the whole story from you, I shall leave that to Sergeant Bix, but I need you to tell me—and with no fuss, just simple unvarnished facts—what is the content of the messages you have been passing using the tunnel that leads to the Bridge Hotel?’

  If there had been time for Alleyn to be pleased with himself, he would have enjoyed this moment enormously as Sanders turned from the cocksure, good-looking charmer who had captured Rosamund Farquharson’s heart, into a penitent schoolboy, ready to tell all. To his credit, the soldier wasted no time denying the premise of the enquiry, instead he blustered a question about how Alleyn knew.

  The detective smiled, ‘I didn’t know for certain until just this moment when you confirmed my suspicions. It’s an old trick, Private, and you fell for it.’

  Sanders groaned and Pawcett snarled at his mate, ‘You flamin’ idiot, Maurice.’

  Ignoring their interchange, Alleyn went on, ‘I am well aware that the boredom of convalescence or confinement is often alleviated by gambling. Miss Warne mentioned earlier that the VADs all knew Miss Farquharson intended to lay a bet on Lordly Stride, they knew she’d won long before she arrived late for work. Miss Warne also told me that Miss Farquharson was, not to put too fine a point on it, in debt to several of her friends. I wondered if perhaps someone had tipped her off about a good bet for the race meeting yesterday. Further, I understand that you and Miss Farquharson were close, which made me wonder if you weren’t also engaged in some betting exploits of your own. You already admitted running a racket. What I don’t know is how you came to have access to the
tunnel?’

  ‘I’ll answer this, big-mouth,’ Pawcett said to Sanders, who shrugged his agreement and Pawcett went on, ‘No great secret. There used to be a few old sheds and a workshop at the other end of the yard, before they built the army set-up. The pub shared the stables with the hospital and some bright spark had the idea of joining it all up underground.’

  Private Sanders couldn’t help himself, ‘Great little system they had—’

  ‘I’m not interested in their system.’

  ‘No, Sir, fair enough,’ Sanders answered abashed.

  Pawcett continued the story, ‘When they knocked it all down for the new army buildings they left one of the old lean-tos. That’s how we got down to the tunnel, it goes right to the pub cellar.’

  ‘When did this start? Were you still officially in quarantine?’

  Pawcett shook his head, not put off, ‘We’re none of us idiots, whatever you might think, we’d never have gone near the pub while we were really sick.’

  Alleyn shut Pawcett down with a look that suggested that their idiocy was quite plain for all to see and then ordered Bix to get the rest of their story while he headed off with Brayling. It was a sorry-looking Sanders and a confused Pawcett that Corporal Brayling glimpsed when Alleyn opened the door wide and stepped lightly down into the yard. The sight, as Alleyn had no doubt intended, made Brayling all the more aware of his own position and he meekly took on his role as Alleyn’s guide.

  As he followed the Māori soldier towards the north end of the hospital grounds Alleyn wished, not for the first time in his career, that he could be in two places at once. He would very much have enjoyed sitting in the Records Office and winkling out what else Sanders had to tell. He had bigger fish to fry, however, and if he couldn’t have Fox alongside him, Bix would make a fine understudy. By the time he and Brayling returned to the yard, Alleyn hoped it might take one final move to bring it all together. Not before time.

  Bix, thinking it better to get the story from the two men separately, spoke first to Pawcett who refused to give any more details about their gambling efforts, and assured Bix he didn’t care what happened now, he just wanted leave of the whole flamin’ lot of them.