An Empty Death (45 page)
Authors: Laura Wilson
‘Ouch!’
Jenny dropped the darning onto her lap. A red bubble of blood had appeared on the pad of her left forefinger where the needle had slipped. She stared at it for a second, and then, deciding that a plaster was unnecessary, sucked it instead. Like Sleeping Beauty, she thought. Right now, falling asleep for 100 years seemed quite a nice idea, if only Ted would wake her with a cup of tea at the end of it. Jenny took her finger out of her mouth, examined it, then resumed sucking. She’d have to get a plaster after all. Time to stop, she thought. Then she’d have plenty of time to give the hens their mash and have a bit of a chat with Doris before she went to do her stint at the Rest Centre, and still be back in time to do Ted’s supper - if she was lucky.
She stood up and began gathering all the unmended socks into her sewing basket. ‘I’m going out for a while, Mrs Ingram,’ she said, brightly. ‘You’ll be all right, won’t you?’
Mrs Ingram, eyes open now, gazed at her fearfully. ‘He’s not coming, is he?’
‘No, dear. He’s far away now, he can’t hurt you. You’ll be quite safe, I promise. Now,’ Jenny looked at her pointedly, ‘you won’t do anything silly, will you? I want you to promise me.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Ingram, slowly. ‘Nothing silly.’
Fifty-Three
S
tratton found Savage, the old porter, nailing down the last of the boards in the corridor outside the Men’s Surgical Ward, aided by a slack-jawed, pimply dullard of about sixteen who was wielding his hammer with unnecessary violence.
tratton found Savage, the old porter, nailing down the last of the boards in the corridor outside the Men’s Surgical Ward, aided by a slack-jawed, pimply dullard of about sixteen who was wielding his hammer with unnecessary violence.
‘’Ad the whole lot up, both sides,’ Savage said. ‘Sweet FA. You don’t want us to pull up no more, do you? Only I got things to attend to. You can have him if you want him,’ he added, jerking his thumb at the youth, who had now stood up, hands in his pockets, and was occupied in kicking the radiator.
‘I’m sure we can manage by ourselves,’ said Stratton. ‘Where are my men?’
‘In the wards. One in there,’ he indicated Men’s Surgical. ‘One’s in Lister, and the woman’s downstairs in Sophie Jex-Blake.’
‘Right,’ said Stratton. ‘Thank you very much.’
Stratton went downstairs to Matron Hornbeck’s office, where he was assured that all the rest of the morphine in the place was accounted for. ‘I hope your people will conclude their search as soon as possible,’ she added. ‘All this poking about is very unsettling for the patients. And as for the racket upstairs . . . I hope you have found the missing drugs.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Stratton. The matron’s eyebrows rose above her horn-rimmed glasses. ‘I’m sure there’s an explanation,’ he added.
The eyebrows rose another half inch. ‘I’m sure there is, Inspector. The question is: what is it?’
He found first Watkins, who, on the pretext of examining a stack of bed pans, was chatting animatedly with a couple of the prettier nurses and then Piper, who was prodding listlessly through a pile of sheets in one of the linen cupboards. Harris he fetched from Sophie Jex-Blake, where she was examining the bedside cabinet of a dropsical woman in a tartan bed-jacket. None of them had found anything suspicious. Stratton, having ascertained the extent of the search so far, told them to continue, and went to the Men’s Surgical Ward to speak to Fay Marchant. He’d decided not to mention this to the matron, at least for the moment - Sister Bateman would undoubtedly mention it, and, given the nature of the conversation they were about to have, he didn’t want to get Fay into further trouble if it could be avoided. Nevertheless, the fact remained that, if the morphine wasn’t under the floorboards, then either Fay or Dr Dacre must have taken it. Unless, of course, someone entirely different had chanced upon it beneath a radiator or something, and pocketed it . . . And that would mean re-interviewing every single person in the bloody place, as well as any mobile patients - Christ.
Sister Bateman, frowning, sent one of the probationers to fetch Fay from the kitchen. On seeing Stratton, she paled and looked fearful in a way that he thought was something more than the normal discomfort and obscure guilt that people - however innocent - tended to feel in the presence of a policeman.
‘Let’s go for a walk, shall we?’ he said.
Fay looked at Sister Bateman, who nodded grimly. ‘Cuffs, Marchant.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
Fay having gone to put on her cuffs, Sister Bateman said to Stratton, ‘This is the fourth time, Inspector. Perhaps you’d care to tell me what Marchant is supposed to have done?’
‘She hasn’t done anything, Sister. I just need to ask a few more questions about the matter of the . . . accident, when the morphine was lost.’
‘You mean you still haven’t found it?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘But surely you can’t think that she took it, Inspector?’
Stratton was saved from having to answer this by the reappearance of Fay, now clad in a dark blue cloak. They left the ward, and went down to the hospital garden. ‘Would you prefer to walk, or sit?’ Stratton indicated a wooden bench.
Fay looked startled. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘Let’s walk, then. You’ve got a very impressive vegetable garden here. Puts my allotment to shame. Smoke?’
‘Thank you.’ Fay took a cigarette from the proffered packet, and gave Stratton a weak smile. There was a tautness to her movements, as if she were poised to flee at any moment. As he drew closer to her to give her a light, he noticed that her hands were trembling slightly.
‘We haven’t found the morphine,’ he said.
‘But it must be there.’ Fay’s voice was a wail, and her face had a look of uncomprehending panic.
‘Must it?’
‘I didn’t take it, Inspector. You have to believe me.’
‘Someone did,’ said Stratton. ‘And why should I believe you? You haven’t been entirely straight with me about other things.’ He was whistling in the dark, but she - clearly - did not know that.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your relationship with Dr Reynolds.’
‘But I told you.’ The lovely brown eyes were pleading.
‘Everything?’ asked Stratton. ‘I don’t think you did, you know.’ Fay turned away from him and gazed miserably at the rows of brassicas. ‘This is a very serious matter,’ he added, gently. ‘And I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth.’
Fay put her cigarette to her lips. She wasn’t just trembling now, but actually shaking. Praying that he was aiming at the right target, Stratton said, ‘You fell pregnant, didn’t you?’
Fay’s nod was almost imperceptible.
‘What happened?’
‘Duncan . . .’ Fay whispered.
‘Dr Reynolds?’
‘Yes.’ The next words were spoken in a flat, hard voice, through clenched teeth. ‘He took care of it.’
Jesus, thought Stratton, repulsed. What sort of man could abort his own child? Even if he was a doctor and knew how it was done . . . Stratton was all too aware of the things people would do when they were pushed, but the man could have got her into a nursing home, for God’s sake, and told them it was for her health or something. This, Stratton knew, wasn’t supposed to happen unless it was an exceptional case, but there were ways. He supposed Reynolds must have panicked, or wanted to save money, or . . . whatever it was, the man was a bastard. Keeping a determinedly neutral expression, he fished out his notebook. ‘Was this in the hospital?’ he asked.
Fay shook her head. ‘Where we used to go, to be together . . . A flat belonging to a friend of his who’s serving abroad. It’s in Holborn. He took things . . . instruments . . . from here.’
That was even worse, thought Stratton. Squalid. Poor, poor Fay . . . ‘And then you went to stay with your parents?’ he asked. ‘At Easter?’
‘Yes. I didn’t want to - my father is a doctor, Inspector. I thought he might realise, but I couldn’t come back here, and I couldn’t stay at the flat on my own, in case something was wrong. So I thought, I mean . . . of course my father wouldn’t approve, but if I was ill, at least he’d be able to . . . you know.’
‘When Dr Reynolds performed this . . . operation, was anyone else there?’
‘No.’
‘Was anyone else involved in any way?’
‘No.’
‘Did anyone else know about it?’
‘No.’
‘Is that the truth?’
‘Yes! I may have lied to you before, Inspector, but that is the truth, and I did not take that morphine.’
‘Did Dr Dacre take it?’
Fay’s eyes widened in shock. ‘No! I’m sure he didn’t, Inspector.’
‘Sure because you were looking at him all the time and didn’t see him do it, or sure because you’ve been getting to know him rather well and you don’t think it’s the sort of thing he would do?’
Fay flushed. ‘He invited me out to have a drink with him, that was all.’
‘So I gather. Have you seen him since?’
‘Yes. Yesterday evening.’
‘A mental affinity?’ asked Stratton, feeling mean.
‘If you like,’ said Fay, stiffly.
‘So, what’s the answer to my earlier question?’
‘Both.’
‘But you were looking for the phials yourself, weren’t you, so you couldn’t have had your eye on him all the time.’
‘That’s right, but there was no reason for him to take them. If I knew what happened to them,’ she added, in an agitated voice, ‘I’d tell you. Honestly, I would. But I don’t.’
‘I see.’ Stratton stood silent, staring at the vegetable plot, while Fay fidgeted beside him. After about a minute, she said, ‘Are you going to arrest me?’
‘No. I shall have to report what you’ve told me.’ Thinking of Lamb, he added, ‘I can’t imagine, under the circumstances, that action will be taken, but you will need to come down to the station and make a formal statement. Tomorrow will do.’ Looking her in the eyes, he added, ‘If you’re thinking about bolting, I’d advise against it.’
‘I wasn’t, Inspector.’
‘Good. Now then.’ Feeling it best to leave no stone unturned, Stratton put his hand inside his jacket and pulled out his remaining photograph of Todd in the mortuary. ‘I want you to look at this. Do you recognise the people in this picture?’
‘That’s Dr Byrne.’ Fay pointed.
‘What about the other man?’
‘It’s not very good.’ Fay peered at it. ‘But it looks like . . . Well, there’s something familiar about it, I’m sure there is. Does he work in the hospital? I suppose I must have seen him, but I don’t know . . .’ She tailed off, biting her lip. Stratton noticed that two blotches of colour had appeared on her neck. ‘I don’t know the lady, either,’ she added. ‘Who is she?’
‘That’s Miss Lynn. She’s Dr Byrne’s secretary. Are you sure you can’t remember this chap?’ Stratton pointed at Todd’s image. ‘You started to say it looked like someone. Was it someone he reminded you of?’
‘Not really. For a moment perhaps I did know him, but . . .’ She shook her head. ‘He must have reminded me of one of the patients. We do have a lot of people coming and going, and I’m afraid I’ve never been terribly good about remembering faces.’
‘Very well.’ Stratton returned the photograph to his inside pocket. ‘You’d better be getting back to your ward.’
‘Yes . . .’ Seeing that he made no move, Fay said, uncertainly, ‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘No. I think I’ll stay here for a while. Remember what I said about not going anywhere, Nurse Marchant.’
Stratton watched Fay walk across the garden at such a fast pace that he thought she was making a supreme effort to restrain herself from breaking into a run. When she’d disappeared from view, he pulled out his notebook and spent several minutes adding to what he’d already written and turning things over in his mind. There was the matter of Reynolds’s death, which he’d not asked her about, but, more interesting - at least at the moment - was her reaction to the photograph. ‘He looks like . . .’ was what she’d said, then stopped. Had she been about to say a name? What she’d said about him reminding her of a patient was clearly untrue - it was obviously someone she knew. And she wasn’t the only one who thought Todd looked familiar. He’d thought so himself, hadn’t he - but why?
Fifty-Four
R
eaching a decision, Stratton went back inside and made for the Casualty Department, where he found Sister Radford talking to a woman whose hands and arms were covered in a splotchy red rash, raw and bloody from continual scratching.
eaching a decision, Stratton went back inside and made for the Casualty Department, where he found Sister Radford talking to a woman whose hands and arms were covered in a splotchy red rash, raw and bloody from continual scratching.
‘Bad case of scabies,’ said Sister Radford, once they were out of earshot. ‘Highly contagious. Don’t get too close - I’ll have to wash my hands.’
While he was waiting, Stratton extracted the photograph once more, and stood staring at it. Was it simply an association of ideas, like the one that was, at this very moment, making his skin feel appallingly itchy? Judging from Fay’s behaviour when she’d looked at the picture closely, it was more than just that, although she did tend to colour easily - he’d noticed that before. But it didn’t make any sense - and, in any case, as Ballard had remarked, the chap in the picture looked like a lot of people . . .
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