Finally there was a reaction from the staff. “Miss N-n-n-ightingale,” Charlie said, his hat off and being ceaselessly worried in his hands. “I t-t-told you I would never be d-d-disrespectful of ladies.”
I stared at him. “Yes, you did, Charlie. But I have heard tales regarding you and Nurse Harris, too. Many people have told me a variety of stories, and I have had to work my way through to the truth.” I walked over to the secret room to check on John Wesley from the wall opening. He was still sleeping tranquilly, so I stepped back out into the kitchen.
Charlie Lewis’s eyes were as big as one of Polly Roper’s tea saucers by now. I noticed that Harris wasn’t standing anywhere near him and was in fact standing apart from the rest of the group.
I returned mentally to the scene of the murder. “The killer choked Nurse Bellamy with a rope, but then, I believe, realized that it looked too obviously like a murder. The hanging and the slashed wrists were clumsy attempts to make it look like suicide. Nurse Bellamy wore only one boot, which suggested to me that perhaps she had been dragged into the library. That meant she was either dead or unconscious at the time. Given that her wrists were cut after death, my guess is that she was already dead. However, it is no simple thing to haul dead weight into the air to make it appear to be a suicide.
“But none of this provided clues as to who had killed her, and I had to know more. In my search of the dead nurse’s room, I found two very interesting items. Three, really. The first was a new jar of Crème Céleste, a product entirely too expensive for someone like Bellamy to have purchased. It was most likely a gift from her lover. Next were a stack of bills for finely made gowns, none of which were in her armoire. Why not? I’m fairly certain I know who is hiding them. The final item was a letter, written in a poor hand, accusing her of committing a sin. That sin was, of course, adultery. That letter was stolen from me—how our killer enjoys a good theft—likely thinking I wouldn’t remember what that handwriting looked like.
“I interviewed my staff and ended up far more confused than before. However, a common thread I was able to document, thanks to the assistance of Mary Clarke, was that two or more nurses were involved in some sort of monetary scheme here. There were plenty of cross-accusations about it, but I finally realized that the simplest answer was the correct one. Nurse Frye was the organizer of the plan, I suspect, given her experience at Allen and Hanbury and the extraordinary amount of pharmaceuticals she had stashed here. I think the plot went something like this…”
I looked upward, imagining it all as if it were imprinted on the smoke-stained ceiling above me. “Nurse Frye concocted an idea whereby she could convince inmates not only to hand over whatever valuables they might have in their rooms but also to rewrite their wills to leave her all their worldly goods, such as they were. Such schemes are hard to accomplish alone, I imagine, and you enlisted Nurse Wilmot, whom you recognized as being as unscrupulous as you are.”
“Unscrupulous!” Frye exclaimed, hotly defensive. “I’ve been a good nurse here. Never hurt anyone.”
“That is debatable. By introducing substances into food and drink, you could decide whether a patient was sleepy enough to make a theft possible, or perhaps the inmate would be pliable enough to convince her to visit her lawyer for a little will change. Is that not correct, Nurse Wilmot? Is that not what you were doing a couple of days ago when you took Alice Drayton out for a supposed walk? No doubt your Madame LaMotte and the other attendees at the fortune-teller’s were most helpful in convincing Miss Drayton to do as you wished.”
Wilmot said nothing, but her face was flushed—whether from anger or mortification, I could not say.
“In fact, Alice Drayton believed that Nurse Bellamy had been poisoning her. I suspect her mind was too foggy to really know what was going on, and you convinced her that it was Bellamy—not you—putting substances in her tea. I can’t imagine that you were collecting much from the inmates here, but perhaps you hoped that one day we might have a well-off merchant’s wife. Or maybe you figured that, as long as you were collecting from everyone, it all added up. Somehow Mrs. Roper caught wind of what you were doing. Maybe she threatened to reveal the scheme—I like to hope that’s what it was—or perhaps she saw a way to earn more than she did burning herself on hot pans in a dark kitchen all day. But Miss Jarrett overheard you chattering about your scheme. Surely it was impossible for you to believe you could keep it secret. It’s a shame because, Mrs. Roper, you really are an excellent cook. Greed does spoil the stew, though, does it not?”
Roper glowered murderously at Miss Jarrett, her mouth turned downward as she spat invective. “I should wring your little bird neck. You eat all day, have me make you special dishes, and then you do this.”
“Shut up, you idiot,” Frye shot back at Roper as Jarrett stood there stoically. “She doesn’t know anything; she’s just guessing.”
That wasn’t entirely true; I just hadn’t been sure until that moment whether all three of them were involved together.
“No doubt you have sold inmates’ items on the street so they will never be recovered. I can only imagine that you took the money and spent it foolishly. Particularly on gin, correct, Nurse Frye?” I realized I should stop calling her and Wilmot “Nurse,” for they were going to be in jail before nightfall.
“What I found curious, though, is that Bellamy seemed to also be part of your little scheme. Several people attested to her talking about a method of becoming wealthy. Yet, was there a reason why she had to die for it? Had she betrayed you? Had she—”
Now Frye couldn’t help herself. “Bellamy had nothing to do with us! She wasn’t part of our plan at all! We aren’t murderesses.”
I smiled grimly. “No, Bellamy had another plan for improving her lot in life, but thank you for admitting your wrongdoing.”
To my surprise, Lady Canning marched over to Frye, drew her hand back as far as she could, and slapped Frye. She used enough strength that the sound of her hand against the woman’s face echoed off the walls and created an angry red blotch on Frye’s cheek.
“Charlotte!” Alban exclaimed. “Striking a servant is so crass.”
Lady Canning glared at him but did not attempt to give Wilmot and Roper the same punishment. She returned to her place next to him.
I was not yet finished with Roderick Alban, though. “The money scheme aside, there was still the problem of who murdered Caroline Bellamy. Clearly the killer was nervous about being found out, because first I was pushed down the servants’ staircase into this room, then John Wesley fell down the rear outside staircase, and then Miss Jarrett was attacked, all in the space of a few days. Most shockingly of all, Cyril Matthews, a member of the men’s committee for the Establishment, died of arsenic poisoning as a result of spending too much time in Roderick Alban’s newly redecorated offices. What did the four of us have in common? Had I discovered something without realizing it was crucial to ferreting out the murderer?
“I have to suppose that once a person gets the taste for killing, it is a drug far more powerful than morphine. It is inconceivable to me that someone associated with a hospital should have this taste, but mankind is nothing if not full of rage and hate. The attack on Miss Jarrett resembled that of the original one on Nurse Bellamy, except that only one of her wrists was cut, and of course it wasn’t postmortem. However, John Wesley and I were pushed down stairs, and Cyril Matthews died of arsenic poisoning. Why so many methods? Was I dealing with more than one murderer?
“Although he claimed otherwise, I wondered if perhaps Mr. Alban had had the rooms redone in the poison-laced wallpaper and fabrics himself, knowing that he was receiving a new tenant he greatly disliked—”
“How dare you,” Alban sputtered, inflamed with sudden anger. “I’ll see you ousted from decent society. I’ll—”
I held up a hand to quiet his righteous indignation. Roderick Alban was in no position to lecture me. “But I discarded the idea, because I couldn’t see that your crimes extended to murder.”
“My crimes!” Alban was outraged again. “What crime can you possibly accuse me of, Miss Nightingale? Charlotte, we were correct to come here today to dismiss her. We should—”
I cut him off once more. “I suppose your crimes are of a nature that would not see you imprisoned or hanged, sir. But you are the reason for everything. Let me ask, how did you know that Nurse Bellamy had been murdered prior to coming to the Establishment and dressing me down?”
“I—” He looked around and had the good grace to redden. “Someone came to visit me and let me know.”
I nodded. “Yes, indeed. That same someone also tried to kill you, but because you turned your offices over to Mr. Matthews, well, we know the result. He died in your stead, as he was probably more sensitive to the arsenic than you were. I found a note next to the man’s body that read, in poorly spelled wording, ‘Dead as promised.’ It took me time to realize that he had opened a note intended for you. It was a bold message to let you know that you were going to die as well. Our killer didn’t know that you had largely stopped using your rooms at the Exchange.”
Alban looked at me in shock. “But … if that is true, how am I guilty of a crime?”
“An excellent question,” I replied. “Only today did I realize that John Wesley was in danger for having found the secret room. He’s a boy, and it wouldn’t have occurred to him not to talk about it. The floor layout—which no doubt contained the whereabouts of the room—had been stolen, so there was no physical evidence, and the murderer had no idea that I knew about the room. But John Wesley would surely lead someone to it, and then the lovers’ nest would be discovered. Correct, Mr. Alban?”
“What lovers’ nest?” Alban said, aghast. “I have never killed anyone in my life, although you have sorely tried me, Miss Nightingale, and you might be the first were I so inclined.”
I nodded again. “No doubt that is true. But you were fully aware of the room, weren’t you? Since it is where you and Nurse Bellamy used to meet. Nurse Wilmot told me she had witnessed Bellamy slipping out through the kitchens, but in reality Bellamy was merely entering the secret room. To wait for you. You were her mysterious visitor.”
The room was as silent as a graveyard for several moments. Then Lady Canning cleared her throat. “Excuse me, are you saying that Roderick Alban, a member of the men’s committee and an esteemed member of the community, was having a tawdry affair with one of the nurses here?” She sniffed in disgust. “What you suggest is preposterous.”
I smiled sadly at her. “Nevertheless, it is true. Mr. Alban is not as discreet as he believes himself to be, though. I can assure you, sir, that your wife is fully aware of your activities, given how careless you are with your clothing. You left a note in your jacket about an assignation, and it took quite a bit of talking for me to convince Mrs. Alban that I was not your inamorata.”
Now Lady Canning’s face was ablaze with fury. “Sir, we are supposed to be above reproach. How can we build a reputable hospital if the very people who are supposed to—”
“Leave it, Charlotte,” Alban demanded, cutting her off. “Not in front of servants.”
Lady Canning snapped her mouth shut, but I was sure he would hear about it later. His wife would also be dressing him down once she knew the entire truth.
“But the assignation was not with Caroline Bellamy, was it? It was with someone else. The same someone who informed you of Bellamy’s death.”
Alban refused to respond.
“Does this sound familiar, Mr. Alban?” I withdrew Bellamy’s locket from within my dress, pulled out the tiny piece of paper, and read the poem aloud. Finished, I looked up at Alban and saw him standing nearly immobile except for the opening and clenching fists by his side.
“You gave this locket to Nurse Bellamy as a present, and our killer yanked it from her neck in anger. Do you know where I found it? Around John Wesley’s neck. Do you know where he found it? Why, right inside the secret room.”
“But why—oh,” he said, understanding finally dawning in his eyes. “Surely not…”
“Yes. Our killer was quite unhappy about your affair with Bellamy. The note in your jacket was from the killer, not your ladylove, and it was a warning: ‘Tonight at the usual place.’ You probably considered it an invitation, and you ignored it. But it wasn’t an invitation to you, it was an announcement that Bellamy would be killed in the place where you used to meet her, which was the secret room that John Wesley now occupies. I suspect the murderer hoped you would accept the invitation and then Bellamy would be killed right before your very eyes.
“How do I know that was the location of the murder? Because I found a dead rat under Nurse Frye’s bed, and later realized that it had probably made its way into the secret room and eaten arsenic from one of the jars in there, then crept around and coincidentally died in Frye’s room. After all, Jasmine had proved that both she and rodents could find their way into the room. A little arsenic to make Bellamy sick and therefore pliable, then an elaborate and painful strangulation with a rope. That way Bellamy would understand how angry the killer was. It is a testament to our killer’s deep and malicious evil that a relatively quick poisoning was simply not enough.”
There was eerie silence in the room as everyone seemed to be collectively holding their breath over my accusation while waiting to see what Roderick Alban would do. Men like Alban were not usually called out for their peccadilloes at all, and certainly not ever in front of an audience of lowly hospital staff.
Finally, he confessed. “Yes, I did love the girl; does that surprise you, Miss Nightingale?” It didn’t, but what did surprise me was Roderick Alban passing a hand over his face as he drew in one great sob. Remembering himself, though, he quickly drew upright. “It was not an acceptable relationship, of course, and I knew it could not last forever, although I did for her what I could. I even paid for her funeral. I couldn’t attend and I couldn’t grieve, yet it didn’t seem right that she would have a pauper’s burial.”
I could never approve of Alban’s adultery, but I could at least bring him the comfort of unmasking Bellamy’s killer.
CHAPTER 20
“Sir, I am sorry that Caroline Bellamy can never be brought back, but today you may at least stand before the one who put her in her grave.”
Alban’s expression was bleak. I don’t think he quite believed me.
“Miss Jarrett,” I began, turning away from Alban and toward the librarian. “You have long been in love with Roderick Alban, have you not? And you had some idea that he was in love with you.”
The woman had been so calm and unruffled since we had all tumbled down into the kitchens that I assumed she would continue as such and placidly deny her infatuation. But apparently she was tired of hiding herself.
“He was in love with me! He found excuses to come to the Establishment regularly and didn’t stop even when we moved to this location. He was ever so nice to me, even bringing me pastries at times. He loved me,” she insisted, “until Caroline came along and stole him from me.”
Alban’s jaw dropped. “Are you suggesting that because I was pleasant to you, and brought leftovers to the Establishment from the baker and personally offered you one, that I was in love with you?”
Jarrett seemed confused, but only for a moment. “No, you showed you loved me by your constant attentions. An important man like you has no need to come to the hospital, but you did, and you always sought me out for a greeting. That’s why you took me up on my offer to redecorate your offices, because you loved me. I knew that one day you would set me up as your mistress and I would have nice lodgings and dresses and food.”
“What?” Alban exclaimed, his countenance full of disgust. “You pestered me with magazines and drawings about the current fashion for deep colors in interior design, and I invited you to try your hand at my offices because you seemed so enthusiastic on the topic. You said the previous superintendent wouldn’t hear of the old building being redone when there was a move in the offing, an
d I completely agreed with her. It would have been a waste of raised funds to do such a thing. All the while your intent was to kill me?” Alban’s disbelief was something to behold.
Jarrett’s chilling nonchalance was even more frightening to behold. “You had wandered away from me.”
Alban put a hand to his chest, and I thought perhaps his heart was ailing him. He said slowly, “Are you saying … you little ninny … that you killed Caro … because you believed that once you did … I would take up with you?”
“No, of course not. I knew she was simply a distraction in the way of our being together. But you became too enamored of her and seemed to forget me. I don’t know what witch’s brew she must have given you, for she wasn’t as pretty as me and certainly not as smart.” Jarrett crossed her arms, her expression petulant.
“She also wasn’t an icy-hearted murderess,” I said, but neither of them was listening to me.
“When I saw you had lost all interest in me, I was angry. I couldn’t allow her to have you. I also couldn’t allow you to leave me.”
His breathing was ragged. “I should kill you … myself.”
We didn’t need another murder in the building. “Lady Canning,” I said. “Perhaps you should escort Mr. Alban home and…”
But Lady Canning was shaking her head, almost in wonder. “You’ve made quite a remarkable accusation, Miss Nightingale. How did you know it was your librarian?”
I considered this briefly before replying. “Sidney Herbert made a comment to me about Mr. Matthews being killed in an undetectable fashion via arsenic. It made me think of who might have been doing things in an undetectable way here at the Establishment. It occurred to me that Persimmon Jarrett was the only one who had had the opportunity to deceive me continuously in unprovable ways. She presented a floor layout of the building to me intentionally so that I would think she was helping me; then that layout was ‘stolen’ from her desk. She offered me information about a money scheme being conducted. That was indeed true, again lulling me into her confidence. She even placed her victim in the library, her own space. Who would suspect her of putting the body in the place most associated with her? Her greatest trick, though, was making me think she had been attacked in the rear gardens by the killer. She even slashed her own wrist—but not too deeply—to echo Bellamy’s postmortem slashing and bashed herself in the head with a brick. Very clever, that.”
No Cure for the Dead Page 24
