A sudden, fearful death (12 page)

"We'll have to go down and see
if we can dislodge it from below," he said after another unsuccessful try.

"Er—" The younger nurse
cleared her throat.

They all turned and looked at her.

"Dr. Beck, sir."

"Yes?"

"Lally, she's one of the
skivvies what does in the operating theater and like. She's only thirteen and
she's made like a nine-penny rabbit. She could slide down there easy, and
there's laundry baskets at the bottom, so she wouldn't hurt herself."

Kristian hesitated only a moment.

"Good idea. Fetch her, will
you?" He turned to Callandra. "We should go down to the laundry room
to make sure there's a soft landing for her."

"Yes sir, I'll go for
her," the younger nurse said, and she went quickly, breaking into a run as
she turned the corner.

Callandra, Kristian, and the other
nurse went the opposite way, to the stairs and down to the basement and the
dark, gas-lit passages to the laundry room where the huge coppers belched
steam and the pipes clanked and rattled and poured out boiling water. Women
with rolled-up sleeves heaved wet linen on the end of wooden poles, muscles
straining, faces flushed, hair dripping. One or two looked around at the
unusual intrusion of a man, then immediately returned to their labor.

Kristian went over to the base of
the laundry chute and peered up, then backed out again and glanced at
Callandra. He shook his head.

She pushed one of the large wicker
baskets closer under the bottom of the chute and picked up a couple of bundles
of dirty sheets to soften the fall.

"It shouldn't have got
stuck," Kristian said, frowning. "Sheets are soft enough to slide,
even if too many are poked down at once. Maybe someone has been putting rubbish
in as well."

"We'll soon know," she
replied, standing beside him and looking up expectantly.

They had not long to wait. There
was a muffled call from above, faint and completely indistinguishable, then a
moment's silence, a shriek, a curious shuffling noise, another shriek. A woman
landed in the laundry basket, her skirts awry, arms and legs awkward. Straight
after came the small, thin form of the skivvy, who shrieked again and scrambled
to her feet, clambering like a monkey to escape the basket and falling onto the
floor, wailing loudly.

Kristian bent forward to help the
other woman up, then his face darkened and he moved his hand to hold Callandra
back. But it was too late. She had already looked down and knew as soon as she
saw her that the woman was dead. There was no mistaking the ashen quality of
her skin, the bluish lips, and above all, the terrible bruises on her throat.

"It's Nurse Barrymore,"
Kristian said huskily, his voice catching in his throat. He did not add that
she was dead; he saw in Callandra's eyes that she knew not only that, but also
that it had been no illness or accident which had caused it. Instinctively he
stretched out his hand as if to touch her, almost as if some compassion could
still reach her.

"No," Callandra said
softly. "Don't ..."

He opened his mouth as though to
remonstrate, then realized its uselessness. He stared down at the dead woman's
body, his eyes rilled with sadness. "Why would anyone want to do this to
her?" he said helplessly. Without thinking, Callandra put her hand on his
arm, gripping it gently.

"We can't know yet. But we
must call the police. It seems to be murder."

One of the laundry women turned
around, perhaps her attention caught by the skivvy, who was beginning to
shriek again, and she saw the arm of the dead woman above the edge of the
laundry basket. She came over and gaped at the corpse, then screamed.

"Murder!" She drew in her
breath and screamed again, piercingly, her voice high and shrill even above the
hiss of steam and clatter of pipes. "Murder! Help! Murder!"

All the other women stopped their
work and crowded around, some wailing, some shrieking, one slithering to the
floor in a faint. No one took any notice of the skivvy.

"Stop it!" Kristian
ordered sharply. "Stop this minute and go back to your work!"

Some power in him, some tone or
manner, caught their innate fear of authority, and one by one they fell silent,
then retreated. But no one returned to the coppers or the piles of steaming
laundry gradually cooling on the slabs and in the tubs.

Kristian turned to Callandra.

"You had better go and inform
Sir Herbert, and have him call the police," he said quietly. "This is
not something we can deal with ourselves. I'll stay here and make sure no one
disturbs her. And you'd better take the skivvy, poor child, and have someone
look after her."

"She'll tell everyone,"
Callandra warned. "No doubt with a great deal added. We'll have half the
hospital thinking there's been a massacre. There'll be hysterics and the
patients will suffer."

He hesitated a moment, weighing
what she had said.

"Then you'd better take her to
the matron and explain why. Then go and see Sir Herbert. I'D keep the
laundry-women here."

She smiled and nodded very slightly.
There was no need for further words. She turned away and went to where the
skivvy was standing, pressed up against the capacious form of one of the silent
laundrywomen. Her thin face was bloodless and her skinny arms were folded
tightly around her body as if hugging herself to keep from shaking so violently
she would fall over.

Callandra held out her hand toward
her.

"Come," she said gently.
"I'll take you upstairs where you can sit down and have a cup of tea
before you go back to work." She did not mention Mrs. Flaherty; she knew
most of the nurses and skivvies were terrified of her, and justly so.

The child stared at her, but there
was nothing awe-inspiring in her mild face and untidy hair and rather comfortable
figure in its stuff gown. She bore no resemblance whatever to the thin fierce
person of Mrs. Flaherty.

"Come on," she said
again, (his time more briskly.

Obediently the child detached
herself and followed a step behind as she was accustomed.

It did not take long to find Mrs.
Flaherty. All the hospital knew where she was. Word ran like a warning whenever
she passed. Bottles were put away, mops were pushed harder, heads bent in
attention to labor.

"Yes, your ladyship, what is
it now?" she said grimly, her eyes going to the skivvy with displeasure.
"Not sick, is she?"

"No, Matron, only badly
frightened," Callandra answered. "I'm afraid we have discovered a
corpse in the laundry chute, and this poor child was the one who found her. I'm
about to go to Sir Herbert and have him fetch the police."

"Whatever for?" Mrs.
Flaherty snapped. "For goodness sake, there's nothing odd about a corpse
in a hospital, although for the life of me, I can't think how it got to be in
the laundry chute." Her face darkened with disapproval. "I hope it is
not one of the young doctors with a puerile sense of what is amusing."

"No one could find this
amusing, Mrs. Flaherty." Callandra was surprised to find her voice so
calm. "It was Nurse Barrymore, and she has not died naturally. I am going
to report the matter to Sir Herbert and I should be obliged if you would see to
this child and make sure she does not unintentionally cause hysteria by
speaking of it to others. It will be known soon enough, but for the meantime it
would be better if we were prepared for it."

Mrs. Flaherty looked startled.
"Not naturally? What do you mean?"

But Callandra was not going to discuss it further. She
smiled bleakly and left without answering, Mrs. Flaherty staring after in
confusion and anger.

Sir Herbert Stanhope was in the
operating theater and apparently due to remain there for some considerable
time. The matter would not wait, so she simply opened the door and went in. It
was not a large room; a side table with instruments laid out took much of the
space and there were already several people inside. Two student doctors
assisted and learned, a third more senior watched the bottles of nitrous oxide
and monitored the patient's breathing. A nurse stood by to pass instruments as
required. The patient lay insensible upon the table, white-faced, her upper
body naked and a bloody wound in the chest half closed. Sir Herbert Stanhope
stood at her side, needle in his hand, blood staining his shirtsleeves and
forearms.

Everyone stared at Callandra.

"What are you doing here,
madam?" Sir Herbert demanded. "You have no business to interrupt an
operation! Will you please leave immediately!"

She had expected a reception of
this nature and she was not perturbed.

"There is a matter which
cannot wait until you are concluded, Sir Herbert," she replied.

"Get some other doctor!"
he snapped, turning away from her and resuming his stitching.

"Please keep your attention
upon what I am doing, gentlemen," he went on, addressing the student
doctors. He obviously assumed that Callandra would accept his dismissal and
leave without further ado.

"There has been a murder in
the hospital, Sir Herbert," Callandra said loudly and distinctly. "Do
you wish me to inform the police, or would you prefer to do that
yourself?"

He froze, his hands in the air with
needle poised. Still he did not look at her. The nurse sucked in her breath
sharply. One of the student doctors made a choking sound and grasped the edge
of the table.

"Don't be absurd!" Sir
Herbert snapped. "If a patient has died unexpectedly I will attend to it
when I'm finished here." He turned slowly to look at Callandra. His face
was pale and there were sharp lines of anger between his brows.

"One of the nurses has been
strangled and stuffed down the laundry chute," Callandra said slowly and
very clearly. "That can hardly be called a misjudgment. It is beyond
question a crime, and if you cannot leave here to summon the police, I will do
so on your behalf. The body will remain where it is. Dr. Beck is seeing that
it is not disturbed."

There was a sharp hiss of breath
between teeth. One of the student doctors let slip a blasphemy.

Sir Herbert lowered his hands,
still holding the bloody needle and its long thread. He faced Callandra, his
eyes bright, his face tight.

"One of the nurses?" he
repeated very slowly. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure,"
Callandra answered. "It is Barrymore."

"Oh." He hesitated.
"That is appalling. Yes, by all means, you'd better call the police. I
shall finish here and be available to meet them by the time they arrive. You
had better take a hansom yourself rather than send a messenger, and for
goodness sake be as discreet as you can. We don't want a panic in the place.
The sick will suffer." His expression darkened. "Who else knows of it
already, apart from Dr. Beckf'

"Mrs. Flaherty, the
laundrywomen, and one skivvy whom I asked Mrs. Flaherty to watch over, for that
reason."

"Good." His expression
relaxed a little. "Then you had better leave immediately. I should be
ready when you return." He did not apologize for not having listened to
her immediately, or for his rudeness, not that she had expected him to.

She took a hansom cab, as he had
suggested, and ordered the driver to take her to Monk's old police station. It
was probably the closest, and it was certainly the one of which she knew the
address and where she was confident of finding a senior officer with a proper
sense of discretion. She used her title to obtain immediate attention.

"Lady Callandra." Runcorn
rose from his seat as soon as she was shown in. He came over to greet her,
extending his hand, then changing his mind and bowing very slightly instead.
He was a tall man with a narrow face bordering on handsome in a certain manner,
but it was belied by lines of temper around his mouth and a lack of assurance
which one would not have expected in an officer of his seniority. One had only
to look at him to know that he and Monk could never be at ease with each other.
Monk was assured, even arrogant, his convictions deeply seated and dominated by
intellect, his ambition boundless. Runcorn held his convictions equally
deeply, but lacked the personal confidence. His emotions were uncertain, his
humor simple. His ambition was also keen but his vulnerability was plain in
his face. He could be swayed and cut by what other people thought of him.

"Good morning, Mr.
Runcom," Callandra replied with a light smile. She accepted the seat he
offered her. "I regret I have a crime to report and it may prove to be a
sensitive matter. I wished to tell you of it in person rather than find a
constable in the street. I'm afraid it is very serious."

"Indeed." Already he
looked in some indefinable way satisfied, as though the fact she had confided
in him were an accolade. "I am sorry to hear it. Is it a matter of robbery?"

"No." She dismissed
robbery as of no consequence. "It is murder."

His complacency disappeared but his
attention quickened. "Who has been killed, ma'am? I will see that my very
best officer is on the case straightaway. Where did this happen?"