Indian Summer

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for a friend’s address. She lives on Cromwell Road in a bedsit. Sister Taylor?’ Mirabelle enquired.

  The woman squinted into the sunshine. ‘You’re from that debt collection agency, aren’t you? I’m not going to rat on anyone,’ she said. She made to close the door. Mirabelle interposed her foot. ‘Sister Taylor wasn’t in debt,’ she said. ‘I’m not here in a professional capacity.’ She tried to remember where she might have seen this woman before, but she couldn’t place her. ‘Do you know Sister Taylor?’

  ‘She’s a nurse. She works at the TB home – the one for children.’

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What do you want her for?’

  ‘She’s gone missing. The police are looking for her. They asked me not to get involved, but I’m worried about her. I saw her yesterday, you see, and she seemed fine.’

  The old woman weighed this up. Mirabelle pulled back to give her space to do so. Between a policeman and a debt collector, it was clear the old woman would choose the debt collector. Especially if the debt collector was off duty.

  ‘She’s not up this end,’ she said after a pause. ‘I know who you mean. All hoity-toity. Try number forty-three.’

  Before Mirabelle could engage the old lady to ask another question, the door closed. Sister Taylor, Mirabelle realised, must be memorable, but perhaps having a nurse for a neighbour was something people were simply aware of. People who wore uniforms were easily picked out. Debt collectors, too. Bill had got into a fracas in his local pub the year before when a neighbour had objected to Bill collecting a debt. That kind of thing was part of the job, Bill had said, and had taken it in his stride.

  Mirabelle glanced further along Cromwell Road and noted that, at the east end of the street, matters improved. It was only this little pocket near the station where the houses were markedly down at heel. As she walked along, she counted the numbers on the gates as the front doors smartened up. Forty-three was on the other side of the road. Things already looked more respectable. As she passed number thirty-nine, a young woman emerged with a basket over her arm. She was pregnant.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Mirabelle accosted her. ‘I’m looking for Sister Taylor’s house. Well, it’s a flat, really.’

  The woman pointed at forty-three. ‘Rita Taylor lives in that one. First floor. What do you want her for?’

  ‘Do you know Sister Taylor?’

  ‘Everyone knows her,’ the woman raised her eyes. ‘Spends her time leaving notes. Clean the pathway. Take the bins in. Keep the kids quiet. Cheeky cow.’

  There was clearly no love lost along Cromwell Road.

  ‘That must be annoying.’ Mirabelle’s face opened in a grin. Occasionally it had occurred to her that she would prefer her neighbours kept their gardens differently, but she would never have dreamed of saying anything. Two doors along from her flat, the front windows could have used a lick of paint, but a critical neighbour was, she reckoned, probably even more unacceptable than a debt collector. In front of her, the woman’s eyes had narrowed to slits.

  ‘Annoying’s not how I’d put it,’ she spat. ‘That woman has never had her nose out of other people’s business since she moved in. She told Betty Harrison to clean her windows and Betty widowed not two months ago. Someone went over and did them for the poor old soul. But still. A grieving widow – honestly. That woman’s just a busybody. And to think she’s a nurse. A nurse!’

  ‘You didn’t happen to see Sister Taylor yesterday, did you?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Sunday? No. We was down on the beach.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ Mirabelle said, and turned away from the tirade and up the garden path of number forty-three.

  Interestingly, she noted, the house was about middling for the street. Certainly the brasses could have used a polish. At her feet a wire milk rack with a turned wooden handle lay empty. To the side, there were eight bells drilled into the doorframe. Mirabelle rang one after the other but nobody answered. She checked over her shoulder. The woman’s figure receded, her shopping basket swinging on her arm. Apart from that, Cromwell Road was quiet, so Mirabelle slipped inside her bag and brought out her lock picks. The door took only a few seconds to open. Mirabelle had often remarked to Vesta that most people simply didn’t buy good enough locks. ‘Thank goodness,’ she had commented with a grin, and Vesta had laughed.

  Inside number forty-three, the hallway smelled of toast and the doors did not run to name plates. Mirabelle passed upstairs, noting the slightly worn, dark carpet. On the first floor, to the rear, a bottle of milk had been placed on a thin coir mat, right in the middle of the doorway. This, she deduced, was probably Sister Rita Taylor’s home. The milk would have been delivered as usual that morning – there were eight slots in the wire tray at the front door. The delivery before that would have been Saturday and she could see through the glass that the milk was still fresh – it wouldn’t have lasted two days in the heat. No, Mirabelle decided, her hand on the bottle, this milk was delivered only a few hours ago and one of Sister Taylor’s neighbours had brought it in. It was kind of them and there were two likely possibilities – either this was the sister’s flat and they didn’t know she hadn’t come home, or whoever lived in here worked the night shift.

  To be sure, Mirabelle rapped on the door, but there was no reply. Once more, picking the lock was the work of seconds. The coat rack inside immediately confirmed Mirabelle’s suspicion. A nurse’s woollen winter cape hung on the wire next to a dark brown coat and a matching felt hat – for the sister’s days off. Beside the coat rack three certificates in nursing had been framed and hung on the wall. The flat was tiny and it was furnished sparsely. The thin hallway had only two doors – the first opened on to a cramped bathroom and the second on to a larger room with a small fireplace. A bed was made up with the kind of precision only years of training could endow. To one side there was a hotplate and some neatly laid-out tins and jars – tea, sugar, Campbell’s soup and a small butter dish. Though shabby, the place was spotless. The single plate, cup, knife, fork and spoon on the side were arrayed tidily, the handle of the cup at a right angle to the edge of the shelf. It felt austere. Mirabelle could understand how the shabby state of the street outside might annoy somebody who was so exacting. That Inspector Robinson had imagined this place could be some kind of love nest struck her as amusing.

  There were, Mirabelle noticed, no personal papers – no letters or postcards, not even a photograph or a passport. Her own flat was more lavish but, like her, it seemed, the sister didn’t carry much of her past with her. Not among her things, in any case. People were quick to call an older woman a busybody for speaking her mind. It was easy to dismiss a spinster. Mirabelle wondered if the woman had ever not returned to her bedsit at night before. Somehow she doubted it. It was clear Sister Taylor valued order, and people who liked order, liked routine.

  Outside the window, Mirabelle could see the back of the houses on Eaton Road across the cricket ground. She smiled as she realised that Sister Taylor was positioned to keep an eye on her charges at a distance. Mirabelle strained to make out the children, still playing in the garden. Lali was playing patty cake with another girl, while along the terrace a group of boys had chalked lines on to the paving stones for hopscotch. One brave child had even taken to the swing.

  Mirabelle sank on to the bed, feeling guilty for loosening the sheet as she did so. She sensed Sister Taylor would not have liked it. The children’s home, it seemed, was her life. There was nothing else here but the view from the window. Mirabelle wondered what she had come to see Father Grogan about the day before in the vestry. Inspector Robinson had assumed that if the sister had gone missing, it was because she was guilty of murder, but Mirabelle wasn’t so sure. She pondered the sister’s personality. Someone who would pull up a recently widowed neighbour about the cleanliness of her windows did not feel guilt easily. That kind of person thought they were right and stood up for what they
believed in and, now Mirabelle thought on it, the urgency with which the sister had wanted to speak to the priest was the tone of a woman who was righting a wrong. A woman who had uncovered something. ‘Oh dear,’ Mirabelle said under her breath. The sister had seemed a nice, practical kind of person, but scratching the surface of her life had revealed her to be inflexible, and abrasive even, but not someone who would run away. If she was missing, Mirabelle feared the worst.

  From outside, Mirabelle heard the bell sounding at the children’s home for lunch. The children in the garden dropped what they were doing. Abandoned balls of different colours, sizes and shapes peppered the grass as the kids crowded through the French doors. Three nurses wheeled the beds inside. Squinting, she could just make out the book she’d left on top of Pete’s sheet. Someone else would have to read it to him.

  The empty garden seemed too quiet, suddenly – the swing still swaying. Then she leaned forward and peered as the back door opened and Nurse Uma, the Indian nurse, slipped on to the terrace, leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. It must be a difficult day for all of them – losing two people in mysterious circumstances. The nurse inhaled deeply – the cigarette a necessary luxury. Then she half turned as if someone had called her name, stubbed out the cigarette hurriedly and made to go back inside. As she did so, she spotted the cats again – three this time – two the same as the day before and a white, smaller one, barely past the kitten stage. The animals slipped smoothly over the wall and into the empty garden, circling the compost heap. Nurse Uma ran through the trees, waving her arms, and the cats scattered. At the compost heap she picked up a spade that was stuck into the earth and turned over the soil. Then she made her way, with some purpose, back up the garden and through the back door.

  Mirabelle cocked her head. She was about to turn back into the room when Uma appeared through the back door once more, but this time with a bottle of what looked like bleach in her hand. She made her way back to the compost heap and sprinkled it liberally across the mound. Mirabelle wondered if Indians were superstitious about cats. She must look it up.

  Chapter Eight

  Reason is not what decides love

  As Mirabelle closed the main door of Sister Taylor’s building, she put on her sunglasses and decided it was time for lunch. She considered going into town but dismissed the notion – it was too far. In fact, she reasoned, the closest place to get something to eat was to buy it in one of the shops along Church Street and take it home.

  Mirabelle liked to walk. Walking often helped her to think. She set off, back along Eaton Road, past the church and down to the main street. A lunchtime queue had formed outside the bakery and Mirabelle joined it. She chose a small chicken pie from the selection and decided to treat herself to a vanilla custard slice. There was something about the warm weather which lent an almost carnival atmosphere, even to weekdays. The women in the queue chatted to each other about the weather and enquired about each other’s families. Afterwards, as she turned down Fourth Avenue, the breeze off the sea was invigorating. She stuck to the left-hand pavement where there were more trees. The intermittent shade was a relief. Down at the front, being Monday and quite some distance from the pier, the pebbles were more sparsely populated than the day before. A large woman wearing a hat decorated with a silk sunflower was sitting on Lali’s bench, her plump knees shining in the sun’s glare. In readiness, Mirabelle scrambled in her handbag for her key, grabbing the gold sovereign that she had had made into a fob.

  She only looked up as she actually got to her front door, and then there was no avoiding him. Standing on the doorstep, his shirt sleeves rolled up and a black case in his hand, was the dark-haired police doctor from the night before.

  ‘Hello, Miss Bevan,’ he said cheerily, tipping his hat. ‘Superintendent McGregor asked if I would make a house call to check you were all right. We weren’t properly introduced last night. I’m Doctor Williams.’

  Mirabelle removed her sunglasses. It would seem that McGregor had got the message that she didn’t want to see him.

  ‘Were you in the air force?’ the doctor asked cheerily, making conversation.

  ‘The sunglasses were a present. From a friend,’ she explained. The aviators were RAF issue. Just like her lock picks were SOE.

  ‘I wondered if they might have been surplus or if you’d been a flier.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Lots of women were, you know – fliers, I mean. Wonderful day, isn’t it?’

  ‘I feel fine,’ Mirabelle hovered on the doorstep. The doctor waited but she didn’t move. He smiled.

  ‘The thing is, the superintendent is concerned for you, Miss Bevan, and in fairness you took quite a whack. It wouldn’t do any harm to make a quick examination. In my medical opinion.’

  ‘Don’t you normally deal with bodies? Dead people, I mean?’

  ‘Yes. Although sometimes I get called in if one of the boys gets hurt. There are more and more girls these days on the force too. I think McGregor thought because I saw to you last night it would be easier … and it is only bruising.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she repeated.

  ‘Who is your GP?’

  Mirabelle pursed her lips. She didn’t have a GP. She hadn’t needed medical attention for years, except once or twice when she had been admitted to hospital. There had been the time she was shot but that had been a mistake.

  ‘Someone has to look after you,’ the doctor said gently. ‘If you prefer, you can drop into the station or I can recommend a GP. It’s always a good idea to have one. Even if you are in rude good health. It doesn’t cost anything these days. What with the NHS.’

  Mirabelle sighed. She felt defeated. ‘You’d best come in,’ she said.

  Upstairs the doctor gave a low whistle. He seemed in an irrepressibly good mood. He stared at the cornice around the high ceiling and then out of the long windows. ‘What a lovely place. I’ve never been in a flat on the front before. It’s a jolly view.’

  Mirabelle knew she ought to offer him some form of hospitality, but the options were limited. It was early for whisky or gin and she had no milk for tea. She laid the bags from the bakery on the table.

  ‘Would you like a vanilla slice?’ she said.

  ‘No thanks. It’s early for me.’

  She was glad she hadn’t offered him whisky.

  ‘How is the superintendent doing? Is the investigation coming along?’ she asked.

  ‘Poor man.’ The doctor put his bag on the table next to her lunch and drew out a stethoscope.

  ‘He looked well,’ she said, ‘though I expect he was there till late. It’s the young priest I feel most sorry for.’

  ‘Father Turnbull?’

  ‘He had a terrible fright.’

  ‘He certainly gave you a good bashing.’

  Mirabelle smiled weakly as the doctor appraised her face.

  ‘The poor man I was referring to was Grogan, by the way,’ he said. ‘The victim.’

  Mirabelle bit her lip. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘It’s a horrible way to go – poison. Painful. Terrifying, really. He probably didn’t realise what was happening until it was too late or he’d have gone for help. It doesn’t bear thinking about, to die like that. Alone in the dark.’

  ‘And what was it? The poison, I mean?’

  ‘Strychnine. Nothing fancy. The father had a hip flask in his pocket. He hadn’t eaten for hours but he’d had a slug or two. Someone had stuck it in there.’

  ‘With his whisky?’

  ‘Well, he was Irish, wasn’t he?’

  Doctor Williams peered at her bruises. Mirabelle felt sheepish. She wasn’t used to being looked at. She certainly wasn’t used to being seen. ‘These will heal quite quickly. Especially in this weather. I dotted on some arnica cream last night before you came to. I think it’s helped.’

  He took her wrist between his fingers and counted her pulse against the second hand of his watch. He was very focused, Mirabelle thought. His eyes were a startling blue
– the first thing she’d seen the night before when she’d come round – she remembered now. ‘How might one get TB?’ she asked.

  ‘Do you want me to check your chest?’

  ‘I was at the children’s home – the convalescent home on Eaton Place.’

  ‘The slum kids?’

  ‘I just wondered. Is it easy to catch?’

  ‘At the convalescent stage it’s not contagious,’ he said.

  Mirabelle remembered Vesta interposing her body and she felt relieved. The doctor continued. ‘Generally, you need poor conditions – damp and so forth, as well as the exposure. Other factors might be a weakened chest. Poor nutrition. You aren’t at risk, Miss Bevan.’

  ‘I wasn’t asking for myself.’

  ‘Cough?’ He slid his stethoscope on to her skin. She coughed. ‘One hundred per cent, I should say. Well done. And again.’ She did so. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘Well enough. I fell asleep in the chair.’

  ‘Headache?’

  ‘Not now. Perhaps a little muggy.’

  ‘It must have been a shock to come across his body. Quite apart from the assault.’

  ‘I’ve seen a dead man before.’

  The doctor put the stethoscope back in his case but he didn’t make to leave. His eyes were still on her.

  ‘You aren’t wearing a jacket,’ she said.

  ‘It’s hot today. I tend not to stand on formalities.’

  The silence hung between them. Doctor Williams continued to stare at her and she realised she was staring back. Before she could avert her eyes, he leaned inwards and kissed her gently on the lips. Mirabelle felt her heart leap.

  ‘How dare you?’ she said. ‘I’m your patient.’

  ‘You said you don’t have a doctor. But I wouldn’t want to do something that you didn’t want me to. Do you want me to?’ He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close, kissing her again. He was tall and he smelled of shaving foam and tasted of coffee. When he stroked her hair, he pulled it slightly. Mirabelle let him take her weight for a few seconds before she broke away.