The Nurse's War (26 page)

Grayson looked astounded. ‘He was a mourner?’

‘I doubt it. I think he was watching me.’

‘Then he will have followed you here, or he’ll be on his way. He must think you can identify him. That makes you a threat to whatever he’s planning.’

‘But I’m not.’

‘As long as he believes you are, you’re in danger. You mustn’t go back to Barts,’ Corrigan said with decision.

‘No,’ Grayson echoed, ‘nor back to Charterhouse Square.’

‘But—’

‘No buts.’ Grayson was at his most peremptory.

‘I’ve nowhere else to go.’

‘But I have and that’s where you’ll go.’

‘If you mean your flat, Grayson, I’m not—’

‘I don’t mean my flat,’ he interrupted. ‘Is that likely?’ She flushed at his tone.

‘We’ll take you to a safe house,’ his comrade said quietly.

‘A safe house is what it sounds. Mike here will drive you. Once you’re there, you’ll have a man to guard you. Just until we catch this joker, which shouldn’t be long.’

Daisy felt control sliding out of her hands. ‘My work,’ she exclaimed, trying to wrest back authority. ‘I’m due back at the hospital—now.’

‘You can’t go. It’s too dangerous.’ Grayson was terse. ‘I’ll go to Barts immediately and speak to Matron. Explain the situation. Under the circumstances, I’m sure she’ll grant you indefinite leave.’

Before she could protest further, he’d turned to speak to his colleague. ‘I’ll walk to the hospital from here, Mike. It’s not far. You take the car, but whatever you do, don’t drive straight there.’

‘Don’t worry. I know the drill.’ Corrigan smiled his reassurance.

Without another word, Grayson turned and strode along Ellen Street, heading towards the City. Daisy had never felt more alone.

Grayson’s encounter with the matron of St Barts was
short and sharp. Her expression made it clear she thought it stupid, reprehensible even, to have involved one of her nurses in some ridiculous cloak and dagger enterprise when her staff was already stretched to breaking. At one point, Grayson thought he heard her mutter the words ‘
Boys Own Paper
’, but he could have been wrong. It was how she made him feel, though—an irresponsible schoolboy wallowing in fantasy. He found himself metaphorically pulling up his knee socks.

He left her stately presence with a silent sigh of relief and walked down the staircase to the hospital entrance. Fresh air was what he sought. Instead, a nurse, flying down the stairs behind him, bundled him to the ground and landed on top of him. She was a substantial girl and, for a moment, he was winded. She scrambled up, her face scarlet with embarrassment.

‘I’m so sorry.’ She held out a hand to help him to his feet. ‘I was rushing, I’m afraid. I didn’t see you there.’

‘I’ve obviously shrunk in the last half-hour,’ he said easily. ‘That must be your matron’s doing.’

‘You’ve been to see Matron? Gosh.’

‘Gosh indeed.’

They were both upright now and he found her examining him closely.

‘I suppose …’ she began, ‘I suppose you wouldn’t be … you aren’t by any chance …’

‘Grayson Harte.’ He held out his hand and she shook it vigorously. ‘Daisy was right,’ she said cryptically.

‘And you are?’

‘Connie, Connie Telford. I’m her best friend. I was rushing because she’s gone missing and I was trying to find her. She promised she’d be back, but she hasn’t turned up and Sister is in a steam over it. I wanted to warn her.’

‘I think you’ll find that Daisy’s absence has been accounted for,’ he said, gently.

She looked perplexed. ‘But what’s happened? She said she had something to do, that was all, then she’d be back. So where is she?’

‘I can’t tell you that, Miss Telford,’ he said regretfully. ‘But you can be sure that Daisy is safe. She won’t be returning to work for a short while, that’s all.’

‘But why ever not?’

He took her by the arm and led her down the remaining stairs. The entrance hall was buzzing: doctors dashing in and out of doors, orderlies wheeling patients, visitors delivering gifts at the porter’s desk. He guided her towards a small alcove where they could speak without being overheard.

‘I can’t say much but you can trust what I say. If Daisy were to return, either here or to Charterhouse Square, she would be in danger.’

Connie’s mouth fell open, and Grayson kept silent while she thought over what he’d said. At length, she asked, ‘When will she be coming back?’ She sounded unhappy.

‘That’s something else I can’t say. She’ll be back when we’re confident the danger is over.’

‘And who is this “we”?’

‘That’s—’

‘Something you can’t say,’ she finished for him. She took a few agitated paces back and forth. ‘You will look after her?’

‘We’ll return her safely, I promise.’

‘But you, you, Mr Harte,’ she insisted. ‘
You’ll
make sure she’s okay?’

It was evident that Connie had no idea her friend had decided against him. ‘I’ll do all I can,’ he said a trifle grimly, ‘but you should know that Daisy and I are not on the best of terms.’

The girl gave him a startled look. ‘But how come? Last time I spoke to her she was so happy, over the moon. And that was because of you.’

‘I wish she was still over the moon. But something happened to change her mind, though I’ve no idea what.’

Connie stopped her pacing and looked thoughtful. ‘Willa happened,’ she said flatly.

‘What or who is Willa?’ It was his turn to look puzzled.

‘She isn’t—not any more, I’m afraid. She died last week and today was her funeral.’

‘Daisy said she’d been to a funeral.’ He was still puzzled. ‘But how does that affect anything?’

‘She thought it was her fault—that Willa died,’ Connie said in the quietest of voices. ‘You see, Willa committed suicide and Daisy hasn’t forgiven herself for that.’

He felt he was grappling through a dark fog. ‘But why? I don’t understand.’

‘Neither do I, Grayson. I hope you don’t mind me calling you Grayson. That’s how I always think of you. I don’t understand it at all, but Daisy seems to have got it into her head that if she’d paid Willa more attention, the girl would never have hung herself.’

‘And what has that to do with me, with us?’ The fog had just become impenetrable.

‘You were the reason she didn’t look after Willa. You distracted her.’ His expression was one of bewilderment, and Connie grasped his hand. ‘I know, it sounds utterly crazy, but I think Daisy
has
been slightly crazy these last few weeks. First of all, that husband of hers—that Gerald—and then the man who was following her. Then seeing you again and … well, you know.’

He did know or he was beginning to. It was crazy, as her friend had said, but he could see how the suicide might have pushed Daisy that little bit too far. Her resources were exhausted and their future together had become the payment. He held out his hand again. ‘You’ve been a great help, Connie. Thank you.’

‘I’m not sure how,’ she confessed, ‘but bring her back safely, please.’

C
HAPTER
15

S
weetman had slept surprisingly well and woken that morning newly energised. Just as well, he’d thought, he’d be sleeping rough tonight. In a few hours’ time the hateful room in the hateful house would be no more. He stuffed his few possessions into a small suitcase—nothing of his must be found in the debris—and set the timer for several hours ahead. That would ensure he was miles away when the bomb went off. He would take the suitcase to Charing Cross and leave it in the Left Luggage. If by any chance he survived tomorrow’s bloodbath, he would collect it and make his way to the Kent coast within the hour. A French fishing boat under German orders would be waiting for him. There was just one more thing he had to do. Find the nurse. She couldn’t know what had happened, since her fellow spy had had no time to alert her before he died. But Sweetman couldn’t be sure just how much she did know, and it was possible that the two of them had an arrangement to contact each other daily, and when Minns stayed silent, she would decide to raise the alarm. He should have dealt with her before, that much was clear.
He’d allowed things to run on too long, allowed her and her confederate upstairs a freedom they didn’t deserve. And look what had happened. He would sort out this mess, but he couldn’t afford another botch. He had to have a clear run for tomorrow’s meeting and she was the only obstacle left. She was an uncertain commodity and that was what he hated.

Early morning had promised well, but when he stole out of the front door of Ellen Street for the last time, the sun had disappeared and the wind was raw. He turned up his coat collar and pulled down the black trilby that worked so well to disguise his features. He would walk to Barts and wait for her to finish her shift. Hopefully, she would leave the hospital alone. But when he’d waited on the pavement opposite for some time, his quarry appeared with a gaggle of fellow nurses. All were in uniform, their deep blue capes a sombre gathering beneath the dark sky. He followed them road by road, keeping a careful distance, until finally they entered a church. St Anne’s, he noticed. Lingering in the porch, he heard the beginnings of a funeral service and retreated to the graveyard. A short distance away, another party of mourners was gathered beside an open grave, and he sauntered casually towards them and took up a position at the edge of the group. No one spoke to him, no one even noticed him. That was the good thing about English funerals, he thought. The people who attended came from all locations and all walks of life. Many were complete strangers to each other and hardly anyone ever spoke.

His satisfaction was short-lived. He realised too late that he’d made a mistake in staying in the cemetery. He was far too conspicuous. The church service had been briefer than he’d expected, the committal proceedings even briefer, and, quite suddenly, the bustle of nurses were following on the heels of the group he’d adopted. He’d been caught out. He should have hung back, pretended to tie his shoelace or something equally commonplace, but instead had found himself walking past the woman he was hunting. She’d looked at him hard. He’d pulled the trilby over his face as far as he dared, but she’d known him, he was sure. That was an added reason, if he needed one, to eliminate the threat she posed. There were still twenty-four hours to go before Patel’s meeting and she was a danger. He hadn’t much hope of surviving tomorrow, but he was determined that his plan would endure, determined he’d scupper any possibility that India would enter the war on Britain’s side.

He had to get to her before she had the chance to speak. She’d recognised him, possibly as the man who’d been following her, maybe even the man who’d pushed her at Baker Street. Neither possibility would make him lose sleep. But if she realised he’d been the man driving the kidnap car, that could sink him. She would tell the SIS and they would be on to him in a flash. They must already be highly suspicious, but so far all they had was an unknown threat to Patel and no idea where the threat came from. But she could furnish them with a detailed description,
and in hours he would be the object of a manhunt. If he knew anything about the SIS, they would find him. The evidence against him was flimsy. It was only her word, her description, that implicated him in the kidnapping, but once they started digging, they would trace him back to Ellen Street and find what was left of the dead men. He would be detained for murder. The bomb might confuse the police, but not the SIS. He would be locked up and his plan wrecked, his mission failed.

He needed to get her alone. He would walk back to the hospital, keeping well to the rear of the group, and hope for a chance to separate her from her friends. But he lost sight of the girls as he negotiated a series of twists and turns in the road and, when he caught up with them again, he could see at once that she was no longer with them. Had she for some reason run ahead to the hospital? He veered off the main route and turned into a back street, then into the next, racing through one road after another, trying to get ahead. If she’d returned before her friends, someone at the hospital would notice. He’d spent time familiarising himself with Barts, and early on had discovered the main ward she worked on. At the front entrance, a postman was delivering packages and the duty porter was temporarily distracted while he signed for them. Sweetman skulked past and dashed for the stairs. At the door of Daisy’s ward, he collided with a nurse and her trolley.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, sweeping off his hat in an extravagant gesture.

She looked at him distrustfully. ‘Can I help you? You do know that visiting time isn’t until four this afternoon.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again. ‘I hadn’t realised. I’ll come back later. But I wonder, nurse—a personal matter only—do you happen to know if any of your colleagues are back from the funeral?’

She looked even more distrustful. ‘No, they’re not, Mr …?’

‘So sorry to have bothered you,’ he said, stuffing his hat back on his head and jumping down the stairs two at a time. He felt the nurse’s disapproving eyes watching him, but even if she were to raise the alarm, he would be long gone.

If the girl was not at the hospital, then maybe she’d returned to the Nurses’ Home. It would be unusual, he thought, but then his knowledge of hospital routine was sparse. He hurried towards Charterhouse Square and was fortunate to meet one of its inmates coming down the front steps. Another nurse and another potential source of information.

‘Is Nurse Blenkinsop in?’ he asked, startling himself with the stupid English name that had come out of nowhere. He must be in a higher state of tension than he’d realised.

She looked bewildered. ‘I don’t believe we have a Blenkinsop.’

‘I’m sure she lives here,’ he persisted. ‘Could you go and see?’ He intended to creep in behind her and scour the building for himself.

But she closed the door with a firm thud. ‘You must be mistaken. In any case, the only nurses here are sleeping and after twelve hours of night duty, I think they deserve to, don’t you?’ And, with a saucy smile, she walked off down the road.