Authors: Laura Wilson
An Empty Death (22 page)
‘I see,’ said Reg. ‘Well, in that case, I really don’t think there’s anything more to be said. So, if you’ll excuse me . . .’
‘Now we’re for it,’ said Donald, as they watched him go. ‘Doris’ll kill me.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Stratton. ‘Not when she hears the whole story. And I’m sure Jenny would think the same. Anyway, you said yourself that Lilian’s not been visiting, so . . .’
‘You don’t think . . . What Reg was saying about mental cases . . . You don’t think he could be right, do you? I mean, that she is actually, you know, mad ?’
There was an uncomfortable pause while both men considered the possibility, and then Stratton said, ‘Don’t talk cock. Reg has never been right about anything in his life. He’s Reg, for Christ’s sake. Mind you,’ he added, ‘it has to be more likely than Jenny and Doris thinking the bloke wasn’t her husband at all . . . Look, I don’t know about you, but I could do with another drink, and it’s my shout. And then,’ he added, ‘for Christ’s sake let’s talk about something else.’
Twenty-Five
T
he Men’s Surgical Ward was in chaos. Orderlies and nurses were hauling temporary bed frames down the length of the room and putting them together, and those patients who were well enough to be moved were being chivvied, pushed and carried to them as soon as they were made. Stratton, feeling sprucer than he had for weeks, thanks to his new razor blade, stood in the doorway and surveyed the scene. They were obviously clearing the beds nearest the door to make room for a new batch of casualties. There were screens around three of the beds, and the pungent stench of burnt flesh and sweat cut through the odour of carbolic. The patients who could sit up were staring, goggle-eyed, as a stream of nurses rushed up and down carrying hot water bottles, blankets, and small trays bearing hypodermic syringes.
he Men’s Surgical Ward was in chaos. Orderlies and nurses were hauling temporary bed frames down the length of the room and putting them together, and those patients who were well enough to be moved were being chivvied, pushed and carried to them as soon as they were made. Stratton, feeling sprucer than he had for weeks, thanks to his new razor blade, stood in the doorway and surveyed the scene. They were obviously clearing the beds nearest the door to make room for a new batch of casualties. There were screens around three of the beds, and the pungent stench of burnt flesh and sweat cut through the odour of carbolic. The patients who could sit up were staring, goggle-eyed, as a stream of nurses rushed up and down carrying hot water bottles, blankets, and small trays bearing hypodermic syringes.
Nobody took the slightest notice of Stratton until he put a hand out to stop a small and obviously very junior nurse who was scuttling past with a bucket of dirty swabs. She whirled round at his touch, a blur of stripes, looking so terrified and overwrought that, for a second, Stratton thought she might scream. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘Explosion,’ she gabbled. ‘Burns cases, all at once. You’ll have to leave. Sister Bateman won’t—’
‘It’s Sister Bateman I’ve come to see,’ said Stratton. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s not . . .’ The girl, who looked hardly more than a child, shook her head wildly.
‘May I ask what is going on here?’ The sister, a tall, dark-blue column, appeared so smoothly and silently that, if Stratton hadn’t been able to see her legs (no ankles to speak of) he would have thought she moved on casters. The small nurse uttered a shrill squeak and shot off in the direction of the sluice room. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, Inspector,’ said the sister. ‘As you can see, we’re very busy.’
‘Yes,’ said Stratton, feeling about two inches high, ‘and I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to speak to Nurse Marchant again.’
The sister gave him a look that could have stopped a clock. ‘Is it really necessary to do it now?’
‘Yes,’ said Stratton, with all the firmness he could muster. ‘I’m afraid—’
The sister grabbed his arm to move him aside as a man on a trolley was wheeled past, his face, arms and torso glazed with what looked like an ill-fitting skin of dark purple, and two bright white pads over his eyes. Stratton stared, appalled, unable to help himself. ‘Gentian violet,’ the sister told him. ‘Most of the others are worse. Clothes burnt into their skin.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Stratton, again, ‘but I do have to—’
‘Oh, very well.’ She said this with more bitterness and disgust than he would have thought possible for just three words - not that he could blame her, but what choice did he have, with Lamb breathing down his neck? ‘Wait here,’ she ordered, and disappeared behind one of the sets of screens.
After a moment, Fay Marchant emerged, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She gave Stratton a wan smile, and he could see that, although she still looked disturbingly lovely, there were blue smudges of exhaustion under her beautiful eyes. ‘You wanted to see me, Inspector?’
‘Yes, Miss Marchant.’ Stratton moved towards the door. ‘If we could just—’
‘Nurse Marchant!’ The sister reappeared - apparently at the speed of light - beside them. ‘Where do you think you are going?’
‘With the inspector, Sister.’
‘You are about to leave the ward, Nurse. Where are your cuffs?’
Fay’s pale ivory complexion turned a dull red. ‘Sorry, Sister.’
Sister Bateman gave Fay a look that suggested the poor girl was entirely lacking in human decency. ‘There is no excuse, Nurse Marchant. Ever. Put them on at once and do not leave here until you are correctly dressed. Whatever you are doing, you do not leave the ward without cuffs. How do you expect the public to have confidence in you if you don’t look the part?’
Honestly, thought Stratton, as he waited for Fay to fetch and don her cuffs, anyone would think the girl was wearing a negligee or something. Momentarily distracted by the image of Fay in such a garment, he was recalled to his surroundings by a bellow of agony, and felt sheepish.
Fay returned, received a curt nod of approval from Sister, and they left the ward. As they walked down the corridor, Stratton glanced sideways at Fay, who seemed on the point of tears. Bad enough, he thought, to be chewed up by the sister, but worse that he’d witnessed the whole thing. In an attempt to clear the air and establish a friendly atmosphere, he said, ‘Phew! Quite a tartar, isn’t she?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Fay, loyally. ‘She was right. I should have remembered, it’s just . . . well, I’ve only had a few hours’ sleep. We were meant to come back on duty at eight, but they called us last night when the casualties were brought in.’
‘Then I expect you’d like to take the weight off your feet. You’ll be able to, in a minute.’
They reached the office, which Stratton had managed to re-requisition for a couple of hours, and settled themselves on either side of the desk. Fay looked very relieved to be sitting down, and Stratton guessed that she was simply too shattered to be perturbed at the thought of anything he might have to ask her. He produced the folded scrap of paper from his pocket and slid it across the desk towards her. ‘Did you write that?’
Fay unfolded the note and stared at it for a moment. Then, in a defeated tone, she said simply, ‘Yes.’ Pushing the paper back to Stratton, she said, ‘Where did you find it?’
‘Mrs Reynolds gave it to me. She found it in one of Dr Reynolds’s jackets.’
‘Oh, no . . .’ Fay leant forward and, elbows on the table, held her head in her hands. ‘Does she know . . . who . . . ?’
‘No. At least, not yet.’
‘Look,’ she said, wearily, raising her head, ‘it’s not what you think.’
‘Isn’t it? There was a bit more than a “mental affinity” between you and Dr Reynolds, wasn’t there?’
Fay nodded miserably. ‘It was just . . . Oh, dear. Whatever I say it’s going to sound pretty sordid, but it wasn’t like that.’
‘No? Then what was it like?’
‘I was lonely, Inspector. After Ronnie - my fiancé - was killed, I just sort of . . . closed down inside. But after a while, I started to feel that my whole world had narrowed down to being Nurse Marchant, as if I didn’t have a name any more, because nobody ever said it, and there was nothing else but the hospital, and all I ever did was empty bedpans and scrub things. Look, I’m not trying to make excuses, but that’s all there was . . .’
‘Until Dr Reynolds came along?’
‘Yes. But I’d broken it off, Inspector, before . . .’
‘Before he died?’
‘About a month before.’
‘That’s rather vague. Do you remember the date? When did it start?’
‘Last Christmas. We give this concert for the patients, you see.’ With sudden animation, Fay rolled her eyes.
Stratton, encouraged by this, said, ‘As if they weren’t suffering enough?’
Fay smiled. ‘They certainly suffered when they heard Sister Bateman sing “Goodnight Sweetheart”, I can tell you.’
‘And what was your part in this entertainment?’
‘I was in the back row. We did the “Lambeth Walk” and “Run, Rabbit”.’ Fay shook her head. ‘Dreadful.’
‘And Dr Reynolds?’
‘He wasn’t in it. Some of the doctors were, but he just came along to watch. We started talking afterwards. Some people had to get straight back on duty, but there’s this tradition of having a Christmas dinner where the doctors serve the nurses, and we both went to that, and I said something about being desperate to put some normal clothes on and get away from the hospital, and he invited me to have a drink with him in the new year - said we’d go somewhere right away from it all. I thought he was just being kind, but he remembered. He took me out to dinner, and then we went dancing. It was wonderful - like being alive again - and it sort of went on from there. I did have qualms about it, really, but . . .’
‘One thing led to another . . . ?’
‘Yes, but it’s not what it sounds like. The note, I mean. About arranging something. I know how it must seem, but . . .’
‘How must it seem?’
‘As if I was in trouble. I thought I might be, but it turned out I wasn’t.’
‘You thought you were pregnant?’
Fay nodded, miserably. ‘Yes.’
‘So when you wrote “arrange something”, what did you mean, exactly?’
‘Just . . . talk about what I - we - were going to do.’
‘Which was?’
‘We didn’t . . . We talked about it, and Duncan told me to wait a few days to be sure, so I did, and . . .’ Fay flushed. ‘It was fine.’
‘Did you discuss an illegal operation?’
Fay hesitated.
‘Dr Reynolds is dead,’ said Stratton. ‘He can’t be prosecuted. Neither can you, if you didn’t do anything.’
‘I didn’t! I didn’t need to. Honestly, Inspector.’
‘But you talked about it.’
Fay nodded. ‘He said, if I was pregnant he could arrange for me to go away somewhere . . . a nursing home . . . and they would, you know . . .’
‘Had he done this before, do you think?’
‘You mean, other girls?’
‘I meant procuring abortions. But yes, that too.’
‘I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know that he hadn’t - girls, or . . . the other thing - but I never heard any rumours.’
‘Do you know the name of the nursing home?’
‘I don’t even know if it was a nursing home. He just said he could make arrangements.’
‘When did you write the note?’
Fay thought for a moment. ‘I don’t remember the exact date, but I know it was quite soon after Easter, because I’d had two days’ leave and I’d gone to see my parents. They live in Cheltenham.’
Stratton did a quick mental calculation: April, May, June, July . . . three and a half months. Had Jenny begun to show by then? He couldn’t remember. Fay was shapely, but she was slim as a reed, so . . .
Fay, who seemed to guess what he was thinking, said sharply, ‘I’m not going to have a baby, Inspector.’
Stratton was covering his embarrassment by scribbling something totally unnecessary in his notebook when she added, in a pleading tone, ‘Inspector, I know you have to ask about all this, but surely you can’t think I had anything to do with Duncan’s death?’
This, Stratton remembered, was pretty much what Mrs Reynolds had said. ‘I don’t know what to think,’ he answered, truthfully. ‘But,’ he held up his pencil for emphasis, ‘I shall get to the bottom of it one way or another. Now,’ he added, briskly, ‘if there’s nothing else you’d like to tell me . . .’
When Fay had gone, Stratton reflected that he still had no real idea if she was telling the truth. Some of the truth, certainly, but all of it? Had she been pregnant? Was Reynolds not only incompetent, but an abortionist as well?
After a moment spent staring into space, considering this possibility but reaching no conclusion, Stratton pocketed his notebook and left for the station.
Twenty-Six
D
r Dacre, now of the Middlesex Casualty Department, stood inside his self-appointed bolt-hole and mopped his face with his handkerchief. The room had been one of the hospital’s linen stores, several floors up and unused for this purpose since its window frame was torn out by a bomb blast and the sheets, coarse and patched but irreplaceable, had been turned to sandpaper by splinters of glass. Now, it was a repository for crutches and prosthetic limbs. Hanging slackly from a hook on the back of the door was a life-sized articulated human model, used by the student nurses for practising splints and bandaging, and Dacre sat - in half-darkness, thanks to a loose board he’d managed to shove to one side - surrounded by the wooden hands and feet that protruded from the edges of the shelves.
r Dacre, now of the Middlesex Casualty Department, stood inside his self-appointed bolt-hole and mopped his face with his handkerchief. The room had been one of the hospital’s linen stores, several floors up and unused for this purpose since its window frame was torn out by a bomb blast and the sheets, coarse and patched but irreplaceable, had been turned to sandpaper by splinters of glass. Now, it was a repository for crutches and prosthetic limbs. Hanging slackly from a hook on the back of the door was a life-sized articulated human model, used by the student nurses for practising splints and bandaging, and Dacre sat - in half-darkness, thanks to a loose board he’d managed to shove to one side - surrounded by the wooden hands and feet that protruded from the edges of the shelves.
Three days into his new job, Dacre had appropriated the key from the head matron’s office. Here, secreted in the corner of a cupboard full of callipers, he kept a medical dictionary, which he consulted by torchlight whenever a patient with a tricky set of symptoms presented himself and couldn’t be palmed off on his elderly colleague, Dr Ransome. Absenting himself to hare up four flights of stairs wasn’t always easy, but the hospital was so busy that, so long as he looked purposeful, no-one, thus far, had asked where he was going. Besides, it gave him the opportunity to look out for Fay. He’d seen her twice, but on both occasions she was with a group of other nurses, and he needed to get her on her own. A chance meeting, or an engineered chance meeting, was what was needed, and, as the days passed, the more frustrated he felt. He didn’t want to make his intentions known by asking one of the other doctors about her - that would invite interest, and ribaldry as well, and he wasn’t having that: Fay was not to be shared with anyone, even in jest.
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