No Known Grave

by Maureen Jennings

  “It’s that village idiot you should be arresting. He’s not right in the head. He was so upset when Jock said he had to stop helping with the birds.” She tapped her finger to her temple. “Didn’t connect. Didn’t seem to realize how much he’d frightened our daughter. So Jock said no. No more coming in the house either. Alfie was beside himself. Crying and carrying on. I could see him going completely off the deep end and getting back at Jock.”

  “Mrs. McHattie, I’d like to go and talk to Mrs. Fuller and Alfie. Will you stay here with Constable Mortimer? I’ll have Constable Mady patrol the grounds.”

  She nodded. “I’m just asking one thing from you, Inspector. No kid gloves. I know everybody feels sorry for Alfie Fuller, pathetic sod that he is – pardon my language. Well, I don’t feel a bit sorry for him. He knows what he’s doing. He frightens my Shirley half to death the way he’s been drooling around her. And that poor nun. He exposed himself to a nun, for Lord’s sake! He doesn’t deserve any pity.”

  “If he’s guilty of a criminal act and knew what he was doing, he will be charged, Mrs. McHattie, I promise you.”

  29.

  MRS. FULLER WAS TIDYING UP THE DINING ROOM when Tyler came in. He explained his errand.

  “Of course he wasn’t in the garden,” said Mrs. Fuller with indignation. “He was helping me prepare for tomorrow. You can ask the residents. Them that can see, at least. And the sisters. You’ve got half a dozen people who can vouch for him. That woman has it in for my Alfie is the problem. I told her and told her that he was caught short and he didn’t mean anything. He’s like a kiddie in that way. Her daughter, who is no better than she should be – no ring on that finger, you’ll notice – anyway, she was the one who made a stink. It ripped Alfie apart when Jock said he couldn’t help out with them pigeons. To my mind, they’re dirty things – but he loves them.”

  Alfie came out of the kitchen.

  “All done, Ma. I did a good job. Clean as a whistle.”

  “Good lad,” said his mother. “Let’s just finish those taties, then I’ll set you up in the activity room and you can do a bit of practising on that typewriter.”

  “What?” exclaimed Tyler. “Does your son type?”

  “He does that.” She gave Tyler a conspiratorial wink. “He’s fast, is Alf. He’s just got to work on being accurate now. One of Sister Clarissa’s prize pupils, aren’t you, son?”

  Alfie nodded vigorously. “I am. Only made five mistakes last time.”

  Tyler smiled at him. “How about if we go to the typing room and you show me, Alfie.”

  Mrs. Fuller frowned. “Why? Why’d you want to do that, Inspector? He’s not doing anything wrong. I give him a proper schoolbook to copy from. He only practises when there’s a machine not being used. He enjoys himself. Keeps him occupied.”

  “Let’s just say, it’s part of our general investigation, Mrs. Fuller. You can come along if you want to.”

  Unexpectedly, Alfie spoke up. “No, Ma. You’ve got work to do. I can go by myself with Inspector. I’ll go a bit slower and I won’t make any mistakes.”

  It was clear he wanted to show off his skills and reluctantly his mother nodded.

  “All right. But don’t go blabbing about things you know nothing of, Alfie.”

  “I won’t.” He hesitated. “Can I talk about the pigeons?”

  “He doesn’t want to hear about no bloody birds, Alf.”

  “We won’t be long, Mrs. Fuller,” said Tyler. He thought it extremely unlikely that Alfie could have composed the letter unless he was capable of automatic writing, but he wanted to rule him out completely.

  The so-called activity room was behind a low partition at the rear of the dining room. Three old typewriters sat on school desks along one side. Opposite was a table strewn with various bits of modelling clay, some shaped into recognizable sculptures, some just lumps, not yet born or already destroyed. There was a tray of paint jars, a tin of brushes, and beside them a pile of used sheets of paper. None of the residents were present.

  Alfie went straight to the middle of the three machines. “This is my favourite. The keys go faster.”

  He sat down and rolled a sheet of paper into the carriage. He glanced over his shoulder at Tyler.

  “What shall I type?”

  “How about, ‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs’? Have you done that before?”

  “Lots of times.”

  Alfie began to bang on the typewriter at great speed, not pausing for corrections or strikeovers. He stopped, rolled out the paper at the same brisk pace, and handed it to Tyler.

  “How’d I do?”

  Tyler looked at the sheet. The sentence was incomprehensible, but the typing was even except for where the letter w stuck. This was definitely the machine that had been used to type part of the strange letter, but Alfie was clearly not the typist.

  “Well?” Alfie was staring at him, his face anxious. “Shall I do it again? I might have been going too fast.”

  “No, no, Alfie. You did a good job. You, er, you need to work a bit on your accuracy, that’s all.”

  “I will. I want to get a job in an office when the war’s over, and Ma says I’ve got to practise. I know that story about the fox. Sister said I should work on that a lot because it’s got all the letters of the alphabet in it, so I do.”

  “Good. Tell me, Alfie. When you’ve been practising, have there been any of the residents in here? Maybe some of them want to work in an office.”

  Alfie didn’t hesitate. “Nope. Just me. I usually come when they’re having their dinner. It’s the best time for Ma, see. When I’ve finished serving them I can come here and practise for a bit. After dinner, they all like to sit together in the common room. That means the room which they have in common. They listen to the wireless most of the time.” He giggled. “Last week some of them got up and danced. Miss Stevens was pushing Mr. Bancroft around in his wheelchair in time to the music. Very funny it was.” He looked at Tyler solemnly. “The nuns don’t dance. God won’t allow them to.”

  “So I understand. Did Shirley McHattie dance as well?”

  Alfie ducked his head abruptly and muttered into his chest. “I ain’t allowed to talk about her.”

  “Why not?”

  “She told lies to her pa about me. He was very cross and wouldn’t let me help with the pigeons anymore.”

  Alfie sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve.

  “What lies did Shirley tell?” Tyler asked him softly.

  “She said she saw me showing my wee wee. But I wasn’t. I was caught short and was just taking a leak against a tree when she went by.”

  Again Tyler kept his voice low. “Do you ever feel like showing your wee wee to girls, Alfie?”

  Alfie didn’t look up. “Girls get angry when you show your wee wee so I don’t do that anymore.”

  “Did you used to?”

  The man shrank farther into his own chest, looking like a whipped dog. “No, I never did. I’m just caught short sometimes.”

  The expression had clearly been drilled into him.

  “What about today? Mrs. McHattie thought she saw you outside in the garden. Were you caught short again?”

  “No,” said Alfie emphatically. “I was in the kitchen with my ma since four o’clock. No, siree. I was working the entire time.”

  “So you didn’t leave the kitchen? To get some vegetables, for instance?”

  Alfie wrinkled his forehead. “I might have run out to pick a bit of fresh mint for the taties. I might have done that, but nothing else. You’d better ask Ma, she’d know.”

  “Okay. Thanks for your help, Alfie. Let’s go back and see your mum, shall we?”

  Alfie stayed in his chair. “Don’t you want me to type another story? I’ll go slower this time.”

  Tyler was about to refuse; then he saw what this meant to the man. “All right. You can do the same one if you like.”

  Alfie considered for a moment. “No, I have a better one.�
�� He sat down and inserted a fresh piece of paper into the machine. The tip of his tongue protruded from the side of his mouth as he typed. Much slower this time. “Once upon a time somebody died. It was very, very sad.” He glanced over his shoulder at Tyler. “Do you know this story, Inspector?”

  30.

  TYLER RETURNED TO THE OFFICE AND TELEPHONED Dr. Beck a second time. He explained the interruption.

  “Is Alfie a flasher, Doctor? Or a peeping Tom?”

  “I’d say neither. At least consciously. He’s got the mental age of a child, and we can’t apply the same standards as we would to an adult. It’s likely he didn’t realize he should put his member promptly back in his trousers. By the same token, I could see him hanging around the women if he had a crush on them.”

  “Endearing in a small boy, disturbing in a grown man.”

  “True. I’m not saying he shouldn’t be reined in. I’m just trying to put it in context.”

  “He says he popped out to pick some mint. He might have been out there longer than necessary.”

  “That is quite possible. Martha McHattie must be on the edge of her nerves by now and may have been overreacting.” Beck sighed. “I wish I could come right away, but I’m afraid I have a crisis here as well. A suicidal patient I dare not leave. A delicate matter of trust. But I will try to get to Ludlow by Saturday at the latest.”

  “I think everybody would appreciate that.”

  He was about to end the conversation when Beck said, “Tom, I haven’t had an opportunity to ask you about Mrs. Devereau. How is she? Is she still in Switzerland?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Will she be returning to England anytime soon?”

  Tyler liked Dr. Beck, but he didn’t want to fall into some kind of doctor’s “Here’s my shoulder to cry on” conversation. He was sure Beck had enough of that to deal with in his work.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “My wife is still interned on the Isle of Man,” said Beck. “I don’t know why exactly. She can hardly be considered a threat to national security. I can only get to visit her every couple of months. The time between visits seems endless. I completely sympathize with the wives and girlfriends of the fighting men who have to endure even longer separations.”

  Tyler hadn’t clapped eyes on Clare for two years.

  “I’m with you on that one, Doctor.”

  Both men fell into a silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

  31.

  THE NUNS HAD SET UP ONE OF THE END ROOMS AS THEIR sanctuary when they first arrived. It was barely adequate, but they made do. When Sister Rebecca entered, the other nuns were already kneeling on the old velvet prie-dieux they’d brought with them from the mother house. These were arranged in a semicircle in front of the simple altar. Herb Mullin was in his wheelchair at the edge of the circle. He attended their services regularly even though, as he’d told Rebecca, he was a Baptist “through and through.” At the moment, his body was slumped forward over his clasped hands. Jeremy Bancroft, also in a wheelchair, was on the other end, next to Daisy Stevens. Rebecca could see they were holding hands. Beside Daisy sat Vic Clark. Like Mullin, he was sitting with his hands clasped and his head lowered.

  Rebecca walked straight to the altar, which was elevated on a polished table at the front of the room. She bowed her head, then turned to face the congregants.

  “I apologize for being late. We will use the abbreviated service today.”

  “What a pity,” muttered Sister Clarissa, “at a time like this.”

  She had spoken just loudly enough to be heard. The older nun had perfected the art of sly criticism. Clarissa professed to have no ambition, but ever since they had arrived at St. Anne’s, Rebecca had felt the other woman’s resentment. She knew Clarissa, being the senior nun, had expected to be put in charge.

  Before she could take up the gauntlet, which she was unwisely about to do, the door opened and Nigel Melrose came in. Eddie Prescott was behind him, his hand on Nigel’s shoulder. It was not in the actor’s nature to resist making an entrance. Rebecca thought for a moment he might make a sweeping bow.

  “So sorry, Sisters, everybody. We weren’t going to come at first, but it’s all for one and one for all, as they say. Where rub-a-dubs go, so go we all.”

  Daisy frowned at him. “You’ll have to stand. All the chairs are taken.”

  At this, Vic struggled to his feet and indicated Eddie could take his chair.

  “Thanks, old chap,” said Melrose. “Come on, Prescott, Vic’s sacrificing his seat and you can sit next to Daisy. I know you’d like that.”

  He led the blind man over to the chair, and with Daisy’s help, Eddie sat down. Vic moved to the back of the room.

  “Do carry on, Sister,” said Melrose graciously. “If there’s anything we all need today, it’s a good dose of God-speak.”

  “Oi, show some respect,” called out Herb Mullin. “To all intents and purposes, this is a house of the Lord. Right, Sister?”

  Rebecca nodded. “I can’t say I quite approve of your language, Mr. Melrose, but I do agree this has been a most troubling day and that turning to the words of the scriptures can give us comfort.”

  “Ridiculous,” muttered Clarissa.

  Exactly what she meant by that, Rebecca did not know.

  “Let us start with a reading from Scripture. Psalm 139, verses eight to twelve. Sister Rachel, will you be so kind as to read them for us?”

  The young nun stood up and opened her prayer book.

  If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.

  Sister Rachel closed the book and resumed her seat.

  “Thank you, Sister,” said Rebecca.

  “Good reading for us lot, wouldn’t you say?” chimed in the irrepressible Melrose. “I suppose you could take it to mean you can’t hide from God no matter what you do.”

  “Show some respect,” said Mullin loudly.

  “But we are, old chap,” said Melrose in his best stage voice. “Surely it is our right and prerogative to discuss the scriptures. Otherwise, what is the point?”

  “That sounds sacrilegious to me,” retorted the Australian.

  If she’d had a gavel, Rebecca would have pounded it. “I’m happy you are all taking such an interest in the reading, but this is not the place to discuss it. We can do that later, if you wish. For now, let us bow our heads in prayer.”

  She waited until they all did so. All but Melrose, who just looked at her, a smirk at the corner of his mouth. She felt as if he was daring her to prove there was meaning, that there was a God who knew them all.

  Rebecca had chosen a special collect for the evening, but now she almost regretted it. Perhaps it was too pertinent.

  “Sister Clarissa, will you read us the Collect for Aid against Perils?”

  “Is this a good choice, Sister Rebecca, considering the circumstances?”

  “Perhaps especially given the circumstances.”

  The older nun took a while to leaf through her prayer book. She cleared her throat. “Collect for Aid against Perils.”

  Rebecca didn’t miss the nudge that Melrose gave Eddie Prescott.

  Another cough from Sister Clarissa.

  Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of the night; for the love of thy only son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ.

  Melrose’s “Amen” rang out above the others’.

  Rebecca clasped her hands together. “I shall recite the Phos Hilaron, the prayer to light, and then we will conclude with the Lord’s Prayer. After that we can all go along to the dining room, where I’m sure a welcome pot of tea will be ready for us.”

  “Good,” said Eddie Prescott. “Daisy, will you take me in?”

  “Love to, Eddie, but I promised Jeremy I’d go with him
. You’ll have to use Melly again, or Vic.”

  Rebecca could see the mutinous expression on Prescott’s face and she hurried into the prayer.

  “May the Lord bless us and keep us.”

  “Amen,” chorused the group.

  One by one they began to leave. Daisy was pushing Bancroft in his wheelchair, her head bent towards him in an attentive way.

  Melrose took Prescott by the arm. “Come on, Eddie, I’m almost as good looking as Daisy, if only you could see me. Nothing to choose between us.”

  Prescott actually laughed. “Maybe you need a lesson on the birds and the bees, Melly. I’d say there’s a lot of difference.” And he allowed himself to be led out.

  The nuns filed out, Sister Rachel pushing Herb Mullin.

  “Praise the Lord,” he said to Rebecca as he went. She was about to leave herself when she saw that Sister Ivy was still kneeling at her prie-dieu.

  “I’m going to stay a little longer, Sister Rebecca.”

  Rebecca thought the other woman didn’t look very well. Her eyes were puffy and darkly shadowed.

  “Are you feeling all right, Sister?” Rebecca asked her.

  “Oh, yes, thank you. Right as rain. I’m just a bit tired.”

  “Would you like me to get one of the other sisters to do the night shift?”

  The nun shook her head. “No, no. That’d be too disruptive. I’ll be all right.”

  “I’ll see you in the dining room then.”

  She left and Sister Ivy started to murmur her prayers.

  “Forgive me, Lord, I have done the things I ought not to have done …”

  Rebecca closed the door.

  32.

  BLACKOUT WAS IN HALF AN HOUR AND THE EVENING was drifting into darkness. The new shift of constables had returned from the house-to-house detail but had nothing new to report. The nearby residents all said the same thing. Heard nothing. Saw nothing. Didn’t know the man at all. Although several had expressed sympathy at the plight of the patients, it seemed apparent that they gave the hospital a wide berth.