Shadows of the Workhouse (24 page)
Read Shadows of the Workhouse Online
Authors: Jennifer Worth
Sister Julienne rose, both arms outstretched. “Oh my dear, say no more about that dreadful business. Not another word. It was all a misunderstanding and we have put it behind us. But come in and join our happy circle. I see you have your knitting bag with you.”
Sister Monica Joan graciously consented to be led into the room. Sister Evangelina rose from her seat. “Have this chair, my dear; it is the most comfortable.” Sister Monica Joan sat down.
The jewels! They flashed and glistened into my mind. They had to be disposed of and now was the perfect time. Sister Monica Joan was knitting quietly and everyone else was sewing and chatting. There might never be such an opportunity again.
I excused myself and left the room. At the bottom of the stairs I removed my shoes, so that no one would hear footsteps. It was the work of a moment to reach Sister Monica Joan’s room. Quietly I entered and wedged a chair under the handle, in case anyone tried to enter. The search started. I scrutinised every inch of that room, every drawer, every shelf, every cupboard; I felt all over the mattress, the pillows, the cushions; the tops and the hems of the curtains. I rummaged through her underwear and her habits – it wasn’t seemly to pry into a nun’s private things, but it had to be done. Nothing! Nowhere! My earlier thought about the lavatory cistern returned, and I raced along the corridor to the bathroom. Still nothing. I began to feel panic grip me; recreation hour must surely be drawing to a close. If one of the Sisters found me on their private landing or in their bathroom, there would be a lot of explaining to do. Running downstairs and replacing my shoes took only a few seconds, and I was back in the sitting room just as the ladies began to fold up their sewing and talk about the evening visits.
I muttered my excuses: “I’m sorry, Sister, I don’t seem to have got on very well with the tea cosy. I don’t think I’m much good at sewing.”
Sister Julienne smiled. “That’s perfectly all right, we can’t all be good at the same things.”
She turned to Sister Monica Joan. “Can I help you, dear? That is a lovely baby’s shawl you are knitting. Can I help you put it away?”
She took the handle of the knitting bag. Sister Monica Joan grabbed the bag back. “Don’t touch it, leave it to me.” She pulled the side nearest to her, but the handle on the other side was caught over Sister Julienne’s wrist. The seam burst and a shower of rings, watches, gold chains and bracelets was flung across the floor.
THE TRIAL
Total silence followed. The two halves of the torn knitting bag were held by Sister Julienne and Sister Monica Joan, who looked at each other for what seemed an eternity.
Sister Monica Joan was the first to speak. “Inanimate objects have a life of their own, independent of the creature, have you not noticed?” She glanced at each of us in turn. “And whenever an atom gets excited it creates magnetic fields.”
“Are you suggesting, Sister, that these inanimate objects were somehow magnetised into your knitting bag, independent of human activity?” Sister Julienne’s voice was sarcastic.
“Most certainly. ‘There are stranger things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio.’”
“Don’t call me Horatio.”
“Poof, hoity-toity.” Sister Monica Joan was aloof. “The difficulty of comparative study is the incomprehension of lesser minds. But keep the trinkets. Use them well. In the latter days they will be interpreted in a mystery play, a drama, an allegory. Use them well, I say; they have their own life, their own force, their own destiny.” And with that she floated out of the room.
Trixie’s suppressed giggles exploded. She turned to me. “I believe you now. I thought your fevered imagination was working overtime. The cunning old . . . Sorry, Sister.”
Sister Julienne looked at me. “How long have you known about this?”
“About two weeks.” I was feeling very uncomfortable.
“And you said nothing to me?”
I could only mutter a feeble: “I’m sorry, Sister.”
“Come to my office after supper and before Compline. We must gather up these things.” She bent down and started picking up the jewels. We all helped in silence.
It was difficult to concentrate on my evening round, and babies that would not feed seemed perverse and irritating. Part of me was glad that the secret, which had oppressed me for days, was at last out in the open. On the other hand I was furious with myself for not having managed to dispose of the jewels before Sister Julienne found them. The knowledge that she required me in her office later gave me an uneasy feeling, and my legs turned the pedals reluctantly as I cycled back to Nonnatus House.
As soon as I entered the clinical room I knew, from the atmosphere, that the police were in the house. Usually, after a day’s work, a group of young girls would make quite a lot of noise, chattering and giggling as they packed their bags and cleared up; but not on this occasion.
Novice Ruth looked up. Her eyes were red and her voice seemed subdued. “You are to go to Sister Julienne’s office at once,” she said.
A sick feeling grabbed at my stomach. Cynthia said: “I’ll do your bag. Leave it here, and don’t worry.”
I knocked on the office door and entered. The same sergeant and constable who had been assigned to the case earlier were present. The jewels were spread out on the desk.
Sister Julienne spoke. “Here is the nurse who has known of the existence of this -” She hesitated – “this . . . little haul, for more than fortnight.”
My face was burning and I felt like a criminal.
The sergeant spoke to me, the constable taking notes all the while. They required my name, my age, home address, next of kin, father’s occupation and many more details besides.
“When did you first see these jewels?”
“On a Monday afternoon, two weeks ago.”
“Can you identify them?”
“Not really, I did not look closely enough.”
“But are they substantially the same?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you find them?”
“In the third drawer down of the bedside cabinet.”
The constable looked back through his notebook. “We looked in the bedside cabinet, sir, and there was nothing there. They must have been placed there after our search.”
“Just what I was thinking. And what did you do, nurse?”
“Nothing.”
“Were you aware that these jewels are of considerable value?”
“I guessed they might be, but I didn’t know.”
Sister Julienne intervened. “Why did you not tell me?”
“I promised I wouldn’t.”
Sister Julienne was about to speak, but the sergeant silenced her.
“Who did you promise?”
“Sister Monica Joan.”
“So she knew you had seen them?”
“Yes.”
“And she made you promise not to tell?”
“Yes – no. She didn’t make me promise. I just did.”
“Why?”
“Because she was so upset.”
“What was she upset about?”
“The jewels.”
“Upset that you had found them?”
“I suppose so.”
“Upset that she had been found out?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was she upset before you found them?”
“No. She was happy.”
“And she was happy when you left her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I didn’t want to answer. But he repeated: “Why?”
“I suppose she was happy because I had promised not to tell.”
The sergeant looked at the constable. “Sister Monica Joan obviously knows what she has been doing. First she moves the jewels around to avoid detection and then when they are found, she is clearly relieved when a promise of secrecy is made.”
He turned to me again. “At the time of finding the jewels, nurse, did you know that the police were investigating a charge of shoplifting brought by local costers?”
“Yes.”
“And did it not occur to you that the jewels might be relevant to police investigations?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nurse, I won’t insult you by suggesting you are stupid!”
“Well, yes, I did think they were relevant.”
“Were you aware that withholding evidence during a police investigation is a criminal offence?”
My mouth went dry and my head began to spin. It is one thing to engage in underhand behaviour, but quite another to be told by a police sergeant that you have been guilty of a criminal offence. My voice was barely audible.
“I didn’t know until a few days ago that it was a criminal offence.”
“And what happened a few days ago?”
“I told the girls.”
Sister Julienne exploded. “You told the girls and you didn’t tell me. This is outrageous!”
“Why did you tell the girls and not the Sister-in-Charge?”
“Because I knew that Sister Julienne would have to tell the police, but the girls wouldn’t.”
“And what did the girls say?”
“I can’t quite remember. We had a couple of bottles of sherry and I’m not sure what we said. It all got a bit confused.”
The constable taking notes gave a chortle, that was quickly smothered when the sergeant stared at him.
Sister Julienne’s blood pressure was rising fast. “This gets worse and worse. You girls had a couple of bottles of sherry when you were on duty! We will talk about this later.”
I groaned in despair. Now I had got my friends into trouble too.
The sergeant interrupted. “Let’s get back to the jewels. You decided to conceal the information from the police, but what did you intend to do?”
“I thought I could take the jewels from Sister Monica Joan’s room and just leave them somewhere, in Hatton Garden, or outside a police station.”
The sergeant and the constable exchanged glances.
“But I couldn’t find them, so I couldn’t do it.”
“She had moved them from the bedside cabinet?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a very good thing for you, nurse, that you could not find the jewels. If you had done as you have suggested and been apprehended with the jewels on your person, you would have been in serious trouble.”
I went cold. Theft, prison. The end of my nursing career. The end of everything.
The sergeant was watching me carefully. Then he spoke. “We are not going to take any further action, nurse. This is a caution, and will be recorded as such. You have been very foolish. I hesitate to call you a silly young girl, but that is what you are, and I hope this will be a lesson to you. You can go now.”
I crept out of Sister’s office numb with shock. To be called a “silly young girl” by a police sergeant when you think you are so mature and responsible is not a pleasant experience.
The girls pressed me for information. We sat round the kitchen table eating cheese-and-pickle sandwiches and home-made cake and I told them all about it. Narrowly missing prison was foremost in my mind.
“Not a chance, old scout. We’d have stood by you,” said Chummy staunchly. Her loyalty reminded me of my own disloyalty – I had let the cat out of the bag about the sherry party. I was contrite in my apologies. Cynthia, as always, was soothing, pointing out that we were all in it together and no harm had come of it. She advised cocoa all round and an early night.
The jewels were taken by the police for identification and Hatton Garden jewellers who had reported losses over several years were asked to examine them. One man, Samuelson by name, positively identified a rope of antique pearls and a diamond ring as having been stolen from his stock a few years previously. He produced record books verifying his statement.
The testimony of costers who had seen Sister Monica Joan take small items from their stalls was also required. With their evidence, combined with that of Mr Samuelson, the police decided that, on a variety of counts, there was now a case against Sister Monica Joan. However, her mental fitness was in doubt, so a medical assessment was required.
The general practitioner who had known Sister Monica Joan for many years and who had attended her through her recent bout of pneumonia was consulted. He said that he was baffled and quite unable to decide whether or not she was senile, and advised obtaining the report of a psychiatrist.
The psychiatrist was a lady, a senior consultant in psychiatry at the London Hospital, who examined Sister Monica Joan twice at Nonnatus House. Her report stated that, in spite of her age, Sister’s mind was remarkably clear. All her responses were swift and accurate; she was astute, observant and cryptic in her conversation; her understanding of past and present events was impressive; and she had a clear understanding of the difference between right and wrong. No evidence of mental deterioration could be found and the psychiatrist considered that Sister Monica Joan could be held responsible for her actions.
Other books
Fast and Loaded: A Bad Boy Sports Romance by Roxy Sinclaire
Deadly Kisses by Cuevas, Kerri
CyberpunkErotica by Ora le Brocq
Survivors by Sophie Littlefield
The Memory of Blood by Christopher Fowler
His Illegal Self by Peter Carey
Once an Eagle by Anton Myrer
The Leper of Saint Giles by Ellis Peters
Ink Inspired-epub by Carrie Ann Ryan
Snakepit by Moses Isegawa
